“He damns slavery,” cried the indignant Wigman.
“He’s sure to go to hell for that,” said Robson; “intercession can’t save him. He has committed the unpardonable sin. The Rev. Dr. Palmer has recently made researches in theology which satisfy himself and me and the rest of the saints, that the sin against the Holy Ghost is in truth nothing less than to be an Abolitionist.”
“What is your private opinion of the Yankees, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Kenrick. “Do you think they’ll fight?”
“No, sir-r-r. Fifty thousand Confederates could walk through the Northern States, and plant their colors on every State capital north of Mason and Dixon’s line. They could whip any army the Yankees could bring against them.”
“Then you think the Yankees are cowards, eh?”
“Compared with the Southerners,—yes!” said Sanderson, holding up his glass for the waiter to refill.
“His opinion is that of an expert. He’s himself a Yankee!” cried Robson.
“I see Mr. Sanderson soars far above the spirit of the old proverb touching the bird that fouls its nest,” said Kenrick.
“Order!” cried Robson. “Mr. Sanderson is a philosopher. He disdains vulgar prejudices. To him the old nest is straw and mud, and the old flag is a bit of bunting. Isn’t it so, Sanderson?”
“Exactly so,” said Sanderson, a little puzzled by Robson’s persiflage, and seeking relief from it in another glass of wine. But, finding the Moselle bottle empty, he applied himself to a decanter labelled Old Monongahela.