they are never satisfied, and, wherever these separatists go, they onsettle others as bad as themselves.  I never look on A DESARTER as any great shakes.  My poor father used to say, “Sam, mind what I tell you, if a man don’t agree in all particulars with his church, and can’t go the whole hog with ’em, he aint justified on that account, no how, to separate from them, for Sam, schism is A sin in the eye of god.”  The whole Christian world, he would say, is divided into two great families, the Catholic and Protestant.  Well, the Catholic is a united family, a happy family, and a strong family, all governed by one head; and Sam, as sure as eggs is eggs, that are family will grub out tother one, stalk, branch and root, it won’t so much as leave the seed of it in the ground, to grow by chance as a nateral curiosity.  Now the Protestant family is like a bundle of refuse shingles, when withed up together, (which it never was and never will be to all etarnity) no great of a bundle arter all, you might take it up under one arm, and walk off with it without winkin.  But, when all lyin loose as it always is, jist look at it, and see what a sight it is, all blowin about by every wind of doctrine, some away up een a most out of sight, others rollin over and over in the dirt, some split to pieces, and others so warped by the weather and cracked by the sun—­no two of ’em will lie so as to make a close jint.  They are all divided into sects, railin, quarrellin, separatin, and agreein in nothin, but hatin each other.  It is awful to think on.  ’Tother family will some day or other gather them all up, put them into a bundle and bind them up tight, and condemn ’em as fit for nothin under the sun, but the fire.  Now he who splits one of these here sects by schism, or he who preaches schism, commits a grievous sin; and Sam, if you valy your own peace of mind, have nothin to do with such folks.

Its pretty much the same in Politics.  I aint quite clear in my conscience, Sam, about our glorious revolution.  If that are blood was shed justly in the rebellion, then it was the Lord’s doin, but if unlawfully, how am I to answer for my share in it.  I was at Bunker’s Hill (the most splendid battle its generally allowed that ever was fought); what effect my shots had, I can’t tell, and I am glad I can’t, all except one, Sam, and that shot—­Here the Old Gentleman became dreadful agitated, he shook like an ague fit, and he walked up and down the room, and wrung his hands, and groaned bitterly.  I have wrestled with the Lord, Sam, and have prayed to him to enlighten me on that pint, and to wash out the stain of that are blood from my hands.  I never told you that are story, nor your mother neither, for she could not stand it, poor critter, she’s kinder narvous.