follow Marston into the room. Marston is rather tall of figure,
robust, and frank of countenance. A florid face, and an extremely
large nose bordering on the red, at times give him an aldermanic
air. He rubs his fingers through the short, sandy-coloured hair that
bristles over a low forehead (Tom, the barber, has just fritted it)
smiles, and introduces us to his friends. He is vain-vanity belongs
to the slave world-is sorry his eyes are grey, but adds an assurance
every now and then that his blood is of the very best stock. Lest a
doubt should hang upon our mind, he asserts, with great confidence,
that grey eyes indicate pure Norman birth. As for phrenology! he
never believed in a single bump, and cites his own contracted
forehead as the very strongest proof against the theory. Indeed,
there is nothing remarkable in our host's countenance, if we except
its floridness; but a blunt nose protruding over a wide mouth and
flat chin gives the contour of his face an expression not the most
prepossessing. He has been heard to say, "A man who didn't love
himself wasn't worth loving:" and, to show his belief in this
principle of nature, he adorns his face with thick red whiskers, not
the most pleasing to those unaccustomed to the hairy follies of a
fashionable southron.

Times are prosperous; the plantation puts forth its bounties, and
Marston withholds nothing that can make time pass pleasantly with
those who honour him with a visit. He is dressed in an elaborately
cut black coat, with sweeping skirts, a white vest, fancy-coloured
pantaloons, and bright boots. About his neck is an enormous shirt
collar, turned carelessly over, and secured with a plain black
ribbon. Elder Praiseworthy is of lean figure, with sharp, craven
features. The people of the parish have a doubtful opinion of him.
Some say he will preach sermons setting forth the divine right of