University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
DENOUEMENT.

Old Father Chrystmasse, in the South, does not confine his favours
to the palace. The wigwam and the cabin, get a fair portion
of his smiles. In other countries, poverty is allowed but a
single privilege—that of labour. The right of one's neighbour to
work, is that which no one questions any where. In all countries
but those in which slavery exists, poverty is supposed to enjoy no
other. But there is little or no poverty in the South. Even the
slave is rich. He is rich in certainty—security;—he is insured
against cold and hunger,—the two terrible powers, that, more than
all others, affright the civilized world. Secure from and against these,
the slave is absolutely free from care. He has to work, that is
true, but work adapted to one's capacity, suited to one's nature,
and not too heavy for one's strength, is perhaps the greatest of all
human blessings, since it is the best security for good health and
good morals. Cuffee and Sambo are thus secure and thus made
happy. But Cuffee and Sambo, like other handsomer and happy
people, would never be content with these; and the good-natured,
benevolent, and accommodating Father Chrystmasse has a tree
bearing good fruits also for them. When, accordingly, the guests
of Major Bulmer had each received his little token of Christian
sympathy and good will, the Christmas cedar was removed to the
overseer's house, and that night the old Druid officiated behind
its branches for the benefit of the negroes. How they crowded
and scrambled about, one over the shoulders of the other, each
in his best garments, for the favours of the kindly wizard! There
were, among the guests at “The Barony,” a learned professor from
one of the Northern Colleges, and a young English gentleman, the
younger son of a noble house. They watched the scene with a
staring curiosity. It enabled them quietly to revise a hundred

erring notions and stupid prejudices. When they beheld ten
or a dozen superannuated negroes, from whose feeble and failing
limbs, sometimes utterly palsied, no labour could be obtained,
and who were yet to be fed, and clad, and nursed, and physicked,
until Death should close the scene,—negroes who had been in this
situation for perhaps a dozen years;—when they beheld fifty more
little urchins, barely able to toddle about and be mischievous, who
must be provided also with food, clothing and shelter, for which
they could give no equivalent in labour for ten or a dozen years at
least;—they began to conceive something of that inevitable charity
which characterizes the institution of Southern slavery. And when
they saw that this charity did not confine itself to the mere necessaries
of life, but bestowed its little precious luxuries also;—leaving
no pang to poverty,—leaving no poverty;—the slave permitted
play and pleasure, and showing at every bound and every breath,
and every look and every word, that he lived in his impulses as well
as in his limbs,—was permitted to gratify impulses and yearnings,
and desires, which the poverty in other lands is only permitted to
dream of;—they began to shift and change the argument, and
gravely to contend that this was another objection to the institution;
that it left the negro in a condition of too much content: in
other words, the condition was so agreeable as to leave him satisfied
with it. But we will not discuss the matter with such bullet-headed
boobies. Enough that Sambo, and Cuffee, and Sibby and
Dinah, Tom and Toney, are all making off with something under
the arm, derived from the bounty of the benevolent Father Chrystmasse,
whom they half believe to be a real personage—a sort of
half Deity, half mortal, coming once a year, to see that they are
and deserve to be happy. Leaving them in groups about the
grounds, we prepare for another display of fire-works, after which
we adjourn to the mansion, obedient to the call of the violin.

Supposing you, dearly beloved reader of either gender, the tender
and the tough, to be in some degree familiar with the laws of art, you
will see that we have this night left only for our denouément. The

artist is a creator, and so—a Fate. He has established his premises,
and the results are inevitable; they bind him just as rigidly
as they do his Dramatis Personæ. What we do, accordingly,
must be done quickly. The “Golden Christmas” ends with this
night, and our parties must be disposed of. Who must be disposed
of? How must they be disposed of? Who are the victims?
What the processes? You, perhaps, can all of you answer
these questions—all except the last. And that is a question
to which I can only help you to an answer, as I proceed, and in
the natural progress of events. You must not be surprised at this.
The artist does not make events; they make themselves. They
belong to the characterization. The author makes the character.
If this be made to act consistently,—and this is the great necessity
in all works of fiction,—events flow from its action necessarily, and
one naturally evolves another, till the whole action is complete.
Here is the whole secret of the novelist. Now, all that I can tell
you of a certainty is this,—that the action must be complete to-night;
and that the persons of the story may be expected to exhibit
just the same sort of conduct which they have shown from
the beginning. More I cannot report. You must judge for yourselves
of what you have to expect. You may ask, Shall the sequel
be a happy one? That, of course, or it would not be the
“Golden Christmas.” Will Ned Bulmer be allowed to marry
pretty Paula Bonneau? Do you suppose, with such characters as
they have shown, they will be happy together? And what of
Dick Cooper and Beatrice Mazyck? The question naturally occurs,
in answer to this,—What will Tabitha say to it, the housekeeper
of that bachelor? But, really, if you thus go on making
these inquiries, we shall never make an end of it. Even now,
Messrs. Walker, Richards & Co., are crying aloud for “copy,”
through the lungs of forty printing office fiends. The readers,
they cry, are becoming impatient. Nothing, but a marriage, or
some other catastrophe, of equal magnitude, will satisfy them. If
so—revenons à nous mouttons! Let us see what our folks are about.

The tea service over, the fire-works displayed, all preliminaries
at an end, the violins in full tune, the dancers are preparing for
their partners. Ned Bulmer, arm in sling, is standing in the floor.
The Major approaches him with a whisper. His eyes turn upon
Beatrice Mazyck.

“Ned, my boy, let me repeat my wishes once more. It is not
too late. Paula Bonneau is no doubt a good girl, a fine girl, a
pretty girl, but there is no such woman in the parish as Beatrice.”

“Father,” answered Ned very solemnly, though in a whisper
also,—“Your taking the reins out of my hand has already broken
my arm: your further attempts at driving me may break my heart.”

“Break the d—l!” burst out from the old man, who turned
away in a huff. He came up to me, muttering,—

“He's as stubborn as Ben Fisher's mule, that always reared
going up hill, and took the studs going down! How to excuse
myself to Mrs. Mazyck!”

I could give him neither advice nor consolation; and he wheeled
out of the room as soon as he saw that Ned, lame as he was, was
taking Paula Bonneau out for the cotillion. I took out Beatrice
at the same time. How we danced, with what glee, what perfect
abandonment to the influences of the season, must be left to conjecture.
Description is impossible. The happiness was not confined
to the dances. The elderly folks had their own and various
modes of recreation. Some, of course, looked on, enjoying the
dancing, just as much as if they themselves had a foot in it.
Others were gathered together in side rooms, in the wings, finding
solace in conversation; others, apart also, were engaged in whist;
and in the hall, or grand passage way, the curtain still being suspended
across it, others were preparing for tableaux. For these,
the characters and scenes were numerous; and a couple of cotillions
and a reel being ended, the little bell summoned the spectators
to the hall, where, in the area outside of the curtain, they
awaited its rising. I was among the actors, and can say nothing
of the exhibition, except that it was apparently quite successful

with the audience. But it led to other scenes, more important to
the event, to which I must hasten. It happened that, among the
arrangements, I was cast for the part of Ferdinand, and Beatrice
for Miranda, the scene taken from “The Tempest.” Beatrice
looked admirably the Miranda. Her fair complexion, calm, innocent
features, the simple dignity in her expression, the artless grace
of her action, all became the presentment wonderfully well. I
flatter myself I made a comely Ferdinand enough. I have never
doubted that. I am a tolerably good looking fellow, as the world
goes. Well—we were together in the library, which we had converted
into a sort of green room. We were preparing for the
moment when we should be called to the stage. Beatrice had just
joined me from the ladies 'tiring room in the rear, and, under the
pretence of surveying her costume, I took her hand, held her a
little off, and allowed my eyes to devour greedily all her beautiful
proportions. There was nobody at that moment in the room. The
hall was again empty, the audience having returned to the parlour
until the bell should again give the signal when the stage should
be occupied. There is a moment in the career of a lover, when
some instinct emotion spurs him to an audacity, from which, at
most other moments, he would be very apt to shrink. The courage
of love wonderfully comes and goes. I was now carried away by
mine. The blood rushed in a torrent about my heart. It mounted
to my brain, as billows of the sea to the shore. I whispered passionate
words;—I breathed passionate assurances;—I uttered
vows and entreaties in the same breath; and the bosom of Beatrice
heaved beneath her bodice; and her eyes rose, large and
dewy, till they met the gaze of mine. She did not speak, but
silently lifted the hand which I clasped, and I beheld the ring
which she had found in the Christmas box, securely circling the
particular finger. Then she spoke, in a tremulous whisper,—

“Was it not your's?”

I carried the hand to my lips; the next moment my arm encircled

her waist; I drew her up to my bosom, and our lips met in
the first most precious kiss of love!

We forgot the world—heard nothing—saw nothing—feared
nothing—in that delicious moment of certain bliss. Little did we
dream, then, that any eye was upon us but that of Heaven. Yet
so it was! It so happened, that the excellent Madame Agnes-Theresa,
looking out for Paula, who had temporarily disappeared,
came to the inner door of the library from the 'tiring room. Her
light footstep was unheard upon the heavy and yielding carpeting.
Our backs were to the door. She beheld us in that first, fond, all-forgetting
embrace—my hand about the waist of Beatrice—her
lips held fast beneath the pressure of mine. Madame Agnes-Theresa
stole away as silently as she came. She was all in a
pleasurable glow of excitement. She had a spice of mischievous
malice in her composition, spite of her Christian benevolence, and
she amiably resolved to make somebody uncomfortable. For me,
she had the best of feelings,—nay, sympathies,—and it really rejoiced
her to see that I was successful with Beatrice. But for Mrs.
Mazyck she had other feelings, equivocal at least, if not unfriendly.
That good lady had a pride equal to her own, and when two proud
planets encounter in the same sky, there is no telling which is most
anxious to put out the light of the other. She suspected the understanding
between Major Bulmer and Mrs. Mazyck, for the union
of their two houses, and it did not greatly displease her to see
the scheme defeated. Such being her temper on the subject, she
hurried back to one of the side rooms, where Mrs. Mazyck was
engaged in chat with a little circle; but, on her way, fortunately
for us, encountered our maiden aunt, good Miss Janet Bulmer.
With a chuckle, she whispered in her ears the discovery which she
had made, and hurried onwards. Miss Bulmer immediately conjectured
the use which she would make of the secret. With a
more amiable spirit, she immediately hastened to us, and found us
upon the sofa, in an attitude not less significant than that in which

Madame Agnes had beheld us. We started up at her entrance.

“What are you children about?” she asked. “You have been
seen by Mrs. Girardin, and she is so full of the merits of her discovery,
that she will surely summon all the world to see it. Here—
to the stage—get out of the way, if you would avoid all sorts of
scandal.”

With these words, she hurried us through the private door, and
upon the stage, she herself going out of the large door into the
part of the hall in front of the curtain, and making her way to
the parlour. We closed the door behind us. I then left Beatrice
upon the stage, and throwing a cloak over my gay costume, I
lifted a corner of the curtain, and made for the parlour also. Our
escape was complete, and not made three minutes too soon. The
amiable Madame Agnes, in the mean time, had found Mrs. Mazyck.
She was so eager of speech, that she momentarily forgot
her dignity. She stooped over the table, and whispered in the
ear of the latter,—

“Come, quickly, if you would see a couple practising in a tableau
which they will hardly show us upon the stage.”

Mrs. Mazyck was not unwilling to see sights. She never dreamed,
however, that the desire of her friend was to show her “the Elephant.”
She got up quickly, and hurried off with her conductor.
Well!—was she gratified? See how events shape themselves
upon one another. It so happened, that, scarcely had we disappeared
from the library, than Paula Bonneau entered it, costumed
for Juliet. She was joined the next moment by Ned Bulmer, in
the character of Romeo, his broken arm being concealed by the
dark cloak, with which he only in part disguised his rich attire.
Their love experience was not so recent and fresh as that of Beatrice
and myself. They had no preliminaries to overcome.

“Why, Paula, my nonpareil, you look a thousand times lovelier
than ever.” And he caught her in his arms, and she lifted
her little mouth, as if she quite well knew what was coming, and—

Mrs. Mazyck stood at the door, with Madame Agnes-Theresa,
utterly confounded, looking over her shoulder! She had come to
witness a very different scene, or with very different parties. She was
dumb—done up—dead—all in an instant. That one glance showed
her all the world in confusion. She began to listen for the
thunder. She took for granted that a world's hurricane, wrecking
every thing, was about to break loose. In the twinkling of an
eye, she thought of all the conflagrations and disasters that had ever
threatened and devoured mankind. She thought of the French
Revolution; the explosion of Mount Vesuvius; the massacre of the
Holy Innocents; the crusades and death of Saint Louis; the great
fire in Charleston, which destroyed St. Philip's Church; the late
snow storm which had demolished her orange trees; the burning
of the Richmond theatre; the killing of the hundred school-children
in New York, and the speeches of Kossuth and Lola Montes. All
these terrible things and thoughts rushed through her brain in the
same moment;—all together, piled up one on top of the other,—
rolled together, one in the wrappings of the other—Mount Vesuvius
head over ears in the snow storm, and Kossuth and Lola
Montes, somehow busy with the guillotine and the Parisians,
in the Reign of Terror. The poor old lady had prepared a
terrible surprise for herself, and was `hoist with her own petard.'
“One stupid moment motionless she stood,” and, all the while, the
lips of Romeo were doing fearful execution, spite of her struggles,
upon those of the lovely little Juliet.

You should have seen the quiet, sly, expressive glance of Mrs.
Mazyck, looking round and upward into the vacant visage of her
companion. It said volumes. It did not need that she should
whisper—“truly, this is a tableau, such as they never would have
given to the public!” That glance restored our venerable grandmother
to speech.

The sounds broke forth in a sort of sobbing shriek.

“Why, Paula,—Paula Bonneau, I say!”

Then the guilty couple started, looking fruitlessly round for the

means of escape, hardly seeming to conjecture where the sounds
came from, and both utterly dumb with consternation. Never was
surprise, on all sides, so complete. Says Mrs. Mazyck satirically,—

“Why, Mrs. Girardin, was this, indeed, the tableau which you
meant me to see.”

The good grandmother gave her a savage look, then pushed by
her, and striding into the room, confronted the young people.

“Paula Bonneau, can I believe my eyes.”

The exigency of the case made the little damsel strong. She
lifted her eyes to the face of the old lady: her voice grew strong;
her heart recovered all its courage.

“Yes, mamma, it is true, I love Mr. Bulmer, and he loves me,
and—”

“Indeed! Do I hear? Can I believe my own ears? Why,
Paula Bonneau, this is the most astonishing boldness. I'm
ashamed for you! Was ever heard such language!”

“It is plain enough!” quoth Mrs. Mazyck, drily, and she seemed
greatly to enjoy the consternation of the grandmother. The latter
gave her another fierce look and proceeded.

“Oh! mamma, you must not be angry!” cried the dear little
girl, now attempting to throw her arms about the old lady, who
resisted the endearment. “It is true, mamma, what I tell you. I
love Edward more than any other person. I will never marry
any man but Edward.”

“Heavens! what a child! You will never marry any other
man! What impiety—what indelicacy! And you will force
yourself into a family which hates and despises your family—
which will always look upon you as an intruder—”

Here Ned Bulmer found an opportunity to interfere. His courage
returned to him at the right moment.

“No, Mrs. Girardin, never! You do us wrong, madam, very
great wrong, I assure you. You and your family—we shall—

He was arrested in his speech. His father, who had entered
the room unseen, now interposed.

“It is proper that I should speak now,” said he. “Mrs. Girardin,
let me plead with you for these young people. I have not
urged or countenanced this proceeding in any way; in fact, I have
hitherto opposed it; not because of any objection or dislike to
you or your family which, now, I honestly respect and honour, but
because I had looked in another quarter for my son. But, since
my choice, is not his, I owe it to him, and to your daughter, to
do all I can to make them happy. Their young hearts refuse to
follow the course which ours would prescribe for them; and, perhaps,
they are the wiser, and will be the happier for it. We would
have perpetuated prejudice and hatred between our families; they
will drive out these evil spirits with Love. Let us not oppose this
better influence. Let me entreat you to forego your frowns. Give
them your blessing, as here, at this blessed season, when all the
influences of life are meant to be auspicious to human happiness,
I freely bestow upon them mine. My son has thwarted some of
my most favourite wishes; but shall I not make my son happy if I
can? Will you be less merciful to your daughter? Take her to
your arms, my dear madam, and let our families, hitherto separated
by evil influences, be now united by blessing ones.”

The voice of Mrs Mazyck sounded immediately in my ears, for
by this time I had joined the circle also.

“Mr. Cooper, will you be pleased to order my carriage.”

Though her words were addressed to me, they were loud
enough to be heard over the whole room. Major Bulmer started
and approached her. She turned away at his approach. But he
was not a man to be baffled.

“Nay, nay, Mrs. Mazyck,” he said gently, taking her hand—
“this must not be. You must not be angry with me, my dear
madam, because I failed to do what I wished, and had believed
myself able to do. I have been disappointed—defeated in my
purpose—and I honestly assure you that I greatly regret it.—
Though compelled to yield now to an arrangement which seems

inevitable, yet I do so with real sorrow. I should greatly have
preferred the arrangement which would have given my son to
your daughter—”

Another voice now arrested that of the Major. It was that of
Beatrice Mazyck. The explosion in the library had brought her
down from the stage where I had left her, as Miranda, and she
had been a silent auditor and spectator of the scene, in which she
now found it necessary to take part. She touched the Major on
his arm, and said, in a whisper—

“I thank you, Major Bulmer, for your good intentions; but
mother and yourself were greatly mistaken in this matter. Let
me say to you, now, and prevent further mistakes, that the proposed
arrangement was quite impossible. Ned Bulmer knew perfectly
well, long ago, that we were not made for each other. We
have been friends quite too long to suffer any misunderstanding
between us on any such subject. So, I beg you to relieve yourself
of all further disquiet in regard to it, and if you will suffer
me to take mamma into the other room, I will soon satisfy her,
that if there be anybody to blame in the business, I am the person.
Mamma—”

And she took the arm of the severe lady, but paused for a moment,
and said in undertones to me—“Don't order the carriage.”
The mother heard her.

“But, why not? I am about to go.”

“You can't go, mamma. I will show you good reasons for it.”

And the two went into the 'tiring room together. They were
gone full half hour, and when I met them again, they were in the
parlour, the mother apparently resigned to her fate. I saw at a
moment that the revelation had been made. The maternal eyes
rested on me with a searching expression, full of meaning,—not exactly
placid, I confess, but not severe. The way was opened for
me, and I had to do the rest.

Meanwhile, the progress in the library, with the other parties,
had reached a similar conclusion. The feud between the rival

houses of Bulmer and Bonneau, was adjusted. An hour later, in
the parlour, standing before the fire, John Bull fashion, the Major
rubbed and clapped his hands together, with as much glee as if
his projects had succeeded just as he had devised them.

“This,” said he, “is, indeed, a Golden Christmas. Two pair
of hearts made happy to-night. Positively, ladies, I could be
tempted to look about me myself, for a consoler in the shape of a
wife. I feel quite as young as at forty. I am not ice. There is
still a warm current about my heart, that almost persuades me to
be in love. Ah! if I could find somebody to smile upon me!”

And he looked, comically fond, now upon Mrs. Mazyck, and
now upon Madame Agnes-Theresa. The former lifted a proud
head, and the latter waved her fan deliberately between her face
and the Major's glances, as if dreading their ardency. The latter
was too wary to continue the subject. He changed it rapidly, and,
being in a free vein of speech, he gave us a most interesting history
of the settlement of “The Barony,” by his great grandfather.
This involved a full account of the ancient feuds of the Bulmer
and Bonneau families, showing how it was begun, and how continued
through successive generations. The episode, had we
space, should be given here. It was full of animation and adventure,
and gave an admirable picture of early life in the colony.—
The subject was a favourite one with the Major, and he handled
it with equal skill, spirit and discretion. We must reserve it for
a future Christmas Chronicle. The reader may look for it some
day hereafter, God willing, under the title of “The Ancient Feud
between the Houses of Bulmer and Bonneau.” They shall form
our York and Lancaster histories in time to come. Enough, that
we succeeded in healing the feud after royal example—blending
our roses, white and red, for the benefit of other hearts that do
not know how to be happy—showing them how to throw down the
barriers of prejudice, hate, self-esteem and superstition, by letting
the heart, under natural impulses, act according to its own nature,
and under those benign laws which are privileges rather than laws.

Well!—what need of further delay?—Does it need that I should
say we went to supper that night, after all our excitements?—Say
what we had for supper, and who ate, and who, with hearts too
full already, had no appetite for meaner food? And that the old
ladies went finally to bed; that the young ones followed them;
that the lads would wind up the night with egg-nog, and that
some did not go to bed at all? We may dispense with all this.

Early in January, at the entreaties of Major Bulmer himself,
Ned led Paula Bonneau to the altar. We had a famous wedding.
Are you curious to know how fares that other couple with
whose affairè du cœur I have somewhat employed your attention?
Ask Tabitha, my present housekeeper. Nay, hear her, what she
says to me, at the moment I am writing.

“Look yer, Mass Dick, wha' dis, I yer?”

“What, Tabitha?”

“Old Sam Bonneau bin to de gate yesterday, and he say you
and Miss Be'trice Mazyck guine to get married in two mont' from
now. You no bin tell me nothing 'bout 'em.”

“No, Tabitha; but now that you have heard it, I may as well
confess the truth. God willing, the thing will happen.”

“Spec' den, Mass Dick, you no want me wid you in de housekeeping.
Don't 'tink I kin 'gree wid young woman that lub see
heap o' people—and keeps much comp'ny, and is always making
fuss ob house cleaning, and brushing up, and confusions among
sarbants.”

“Can't do without you, Tabby. You must try Miss Beatrice.
I think you'll get on very well with her.”

“Bin git on berry well widout 'em,” growled my domestic Hecate
as she flung herself out of the breakfast-room.

Here ends our story. `Story, quotha!' The reader is half inclined
to blaze out at the presumption which dignifies, with the
name of story, a narrative which has neither duel, nor robbery,
nor murder—neither crime nor criminal. Yet, not too fast. It so
happens that there was a criminal that Christmas, and a crime, at
the `Barony.' and I may as well give the affair, as it concerns two
of the persons employed in our chronicle. You remember Jehu,
the coachman of Miss Bulmer? He was the criminal. The
crime committed was theft. The thing stolen was a fine fat shoat,
the property of Zacharias, the gentlemanly body servant of Major
Bulmer. Zacharias made his complaint the day after Christmas.
Jehu was brought up for examination at the home of the
overseer. Zack stated his case in the most gentlemanly style and
language. He was the owner of seven hogs. The shoat stolen
was one of the fattest. He had designed it for his New Year's
dinner. He had invited certain friends to dine with him on that
day—Messrs. Tom, Tony, Peter, Sam, Fergus, &c.,—gentlemen
of colour, belonging to certain planters of the neighbourhood.
His shoat disappeared two days before. Jehu gave a supper on
Christmas night. On that occasion the stolen shoat was served
up to numerous guests.

Here Jehu, shifting his position so as to transfer the weight of
his body from his right to his left leg, and throwing his head
sideways upon his left shoulder, put in snappishly—

“Ax 'em, maussa, ef he no eat some of de pig he se'f.”

The question was accordingly put. Zacharias admitted that, as
the guest of Jehu that night, he had partaken of his own pig. He
was ignorant of that fact. Had he known it while eating, he does
not know what might have been the consequence. He might
have been very angry—he might have been taken ill. He would
have felt deeply the death of the favourite shoat, cut off before its
appointed time.

The case was fully established. But Jehu insisted upon his
merits in making a frank and free confession.

“I won't tell you bit o' lie, maussa. You know, maussa, I always
bin tell you, I can't help it—I must tief pig. I nebber, so long
as I know dis place, bin tief noting else but pig. Maussa, you trus'
me wid heep o' tings—Miss Janet, him trus' me wid heep o' tings—
clothes, hank'chif, money, silber spoon, ebbry ting—nobody kin say
Jehu ebber tief so much as a copper wort'. But maussa, I can't help
it—I must tief pig. Fat pig aint mek for run an grunt jis' where he
please, and nebber gee anybody brile and sassage. I can't le' 'em
pass. I must knock em ober when I see 'em so fat and sassy.—
Der's a someting mek me do it, maussa. Der's a somebody dat's
a saying in my ear all de time—`kill de pig, Jehu!' I kill 'em:
I kill Zach pig—I tell you trute, maussa—da me kill 'em—but wha'
den? Ef Zach had a bin say to me—`Jehu, da's a fat pig o'
mine—I guine kill 'em and hab supper New Year night, Jehu,
and you shall hab taste ob 'em, wid de oder coloured gentlemen
sarbants,'—ef he bin say dat to me, maussa, I nebber bin touch he
pig. But he nebber say de wud, maussa; ax 'em ef he ebber say sich
'ting to me.”

Zacharias admitted that he had been guiltless of the suggested
civility; but he submitted whether he was required to do so, unless
he pleased it; and whether his forbearance to do so, afforded
any justification to Jehu, for slaughtering his innocent porker before
its time. The subject was one of grave discussion, and was
closely argued. Jehu particularly insisted upon it, thinking it a
great point gained to establish the allegation. His next point
was of like character, and he urged it with even more tenacity.

“Zach,” said he, “ent I come to you, cibbil, like a gentleman,
and ax you to my supper?”

Zach admitted the civility. But, by the way, he took care to
insinuate that he thought his acceptance a great condescension, to
which he was influenced simply by the nature of the season—
Christmas inculcating condescension among the other charities.—
He was by no means an admirer of Jehu—did not rank him
among his acquaintance—thought his manners decidedly vulgar—

thought his language particularly low. But was himself of an
indulgent and amiable temper, and frequently condescended,
through mere charity, to the sacrifice of good taste. He now
avowed his resolution never to be caught in such company again.

Jehu eyed him savagely while he made this answer, as a wild
western hunter would eye a Broadway dandy, making a similarly
complacent speech, with the secret determination to `take the
change out of him,' the moment he caught him on the high road.

“Ax um, ef he no eat hearty ob de pig, maussa.”

Zacharias admitted that the pig was well-dressed, in excellent
condition, and his own appetite was not amiss. He was not troubled
much with indigestion. Had on some occasion suffered from
this disease, but not latterly.

The evidence was finished. Jehu was called upon for his defence.
He made it with rare audacity. Admitted that he could
not resist the temptation to steal hog meat. It was a law of his
nature that he should steal it. Denied that he ever felt a disposition
to steal anything else. Thinks that if Zacharias had given
him due notice of his intention to kill the shoat for New Year's
night, and had included him among the invited guests, he might
have withstood the Tempter. Admits that the right of property
in most things is sacred. Doubts, however, whether there can be
any right of property in pigs. Owns pigs himself. Would'nt
be hard upon one who should steal his pigs; but, added slyly, that,
knowing the tempting character of fat pig, he never encouraged
his in becoming so. It did not need; there were always a sufficient
number of fat pigs about for his purposes. To conclude,
Jehu held it to be a justification of his offence, that Zach kept his
pig fat and did not kill him—that, when he resolved to kill, he betrayed
a niggardly (not niggerly—a negro is seldom niggardly, by
the way,) unwillingness to give any portion of the supper to him,
the said Jehu; and that, when the pig was stolen snd slaughtered,
he was honourable enough to invite the owner to partake of the
feast, which was not confined to pig only. There were sundry other

excellent dishes—a fowl, a flitch of rusty bacon, a peck of potatoes,
and no less than fourteen loaves of corn bread. Jehu boldly
threw himself upon the virtue of his case and of the court, and the
spirit of justice prevailing in the land.

They did not suffice for his safety. He was found guilty, and
sentenced to the loss of three of his lean pigs to Zacharias, in
compensation for his fat one. The Major said to him, however—
“If you keep honest till next New Year's, Jehu, and kill no more
fat pigs of other people, I will give you three out of my stock.”

The decision did not seem to give that satisfaction to either
party, which was anticipated from it. Jehu growled between his
teeth unintelligibly, while Zacharias openly suggested his fears
that when he had fattened the three hogs thus assigned him, they
were still in the same danger of being stolen and eaten in consequence
of the reckless voracity of the offender's appetite for hog's
flesh, and his loose ideas on the subject of pig property. Says
the Major quickly—

“If he eats your pigs again, Zach, you shall eat him.”

“Thank you, sir,” quoth the gentlemanly Zacharias, with a look
of sovereign disgust, “but, don't think, sir, such meat would set
easy on my stomach.”

There was a laugh, and Ned Bulmer, with that pernicious propensity
to punning, which was perpetually popping into play, exclaimed—

“Zach would be evidently better satisfied, before such a meal,
that the meat should be well dressed.” And he shook his twig
whip significantly over the shoulders of the criminal. No ways
discomfitted, Jehu, with a dogged reiteration of his moral nature,
growled out as he retired—

“Lick or kill, jes de same—dis nigger can't help tief fat pig in
sassage time.”