University of Virginia Library

MAIZE IN MILK;
A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE SOUTH.

1. CHAPTER I.

THE FULL CORN-CRIB.

Tell me nothing of the crops! Suppose they don't
grow—suppose there is a failure, and the corn falls
short, and the cotton sheds, and the army-worm appears
and the caterpillar, and there is an early frost,
and half the bolls never blow! These things will
happen! We must look to lose our crops now and
then, no matter what we plant. It can't be that we
shall have things always as we wish them. We can't
be always wise or always fortunate. But we can, if
we please, be always good and good-natured, and loving
and cheerful, and thankful for what we do get,
and for the things in which we are prosperous. There's

no reason because of the drought that our hearts should
be dry also. There's no reason because we make
short crops that we should be short to our friends,
and because the winter comes on sooner than usual
that we should be colder than usual to our neighbors
—that our charities should freeze up with the weather,
and our gratitude fail us because the sunshine fails us.
We must only make the hearth-fire brighter; we must
only make sunshine for ourselves, and gather our
friends about the warming, and make merry within
while all is melancholy without; and show to one another
how cheerful everything may be, though the
tempest blows never so angrily against the shutter.
A man may soon learn to make his sunshine wherever
and whenever he pleases, and to carry a happy heart
under a thin jacket. He must be a man without regard
to the seasons. His affections must not alter
with the weather. He mustn't blow hot and cold because
the wind does so. He must keep his soul firm
and his sympathies steadfast, and his charities must
be as quick to warm as his anger is quick to cool.
His log must be kindled at Christmas, though he may
have never another left in his wood-yard. There
must be a fire, you know, at Yule, and why shouldn't
his hands kindle it as well as another's? The log
was cut to burn!

But he is unfortunate, you say. Well, is that any
good reason why he shouldn't warm his fingers in a
cold season? But then he makes blaze enough to
warm a dozen! Exactly so; and this only proves
that even the unfortunate man is never so wholly unfortunate

that he does not possess the happy privilege,
under God, of making others happy. There's no
waste if, when he sets his log ablaze, he calls in his
neighbors to enjoy it. I tell you the log must burn
for some one's comfort in the cold, bleak days of December,
and it is something of a blessing in the poor
man's cup that he is permitted to raise the blaze. But
then, say you, it is his last log! Who shall say that?
Who shall dare to say that God's charity must have
a limit?—that this man, who knew so well how to
warm his hearth for the blessing of his neighbors,
shall be permitted to make no more pleasant fires?
I tell you, short-sighted mortal, that, even beside that
last log, you may yet see some celestial visitant in
fustian habit. It is thus that an unquestioning hospitality
is sometimes permitted to entertain an angel!
With the smoke of that last log, around which the
unlucky man, obedient to a custom which he learned in
his better days, has gathered in his humble neighbors,
there goes up to heaven a rare incense which makes
acceptable, and may make profitable also, that last sacrifice
of wealth. Let the log burn, then! Wouldst thou
throw water on the cheerful gleams which light up all
these ruddy faces? Wouldst thou silence the merry
crackling of that flaming pile? Wouldst thou put out
those pleasant charities which thus, if only once a
year, are kindled to make one's fellow warm? Out
upon thee, for a doubter of God's providence! Get
thee to thy own home, and put thy only stick upon
the fire, and call in him who passes, that thou mayest
not selfishly and sadly sit alone to see it burn! Then
will the Father of those who gladden at the blaze, so
gladden thee as that thou shalt never lack thy log at
Yule.

Now, if thou wilt believe me, brother, there is a
purpose in this long preamble. Just such was the
tenor of that shrill but lively crow which issued from
the capacious lungs of that famous old cock of St.
Matthews, who held in fee the extensive domains of
“Maize-in-milk.”[1] The master of “Maize-in-milk”
was a sovereign in his way, whose power was known
only by its bounty. His was one of the finest plantations
for peas, potatoes, Indian corn, and short cottons,
in Carolina—not a very great one, it is true; not so
large nor so thickly settled as an hundred others in
the same and other districts, but just such a snug,
productive interest as enabled the proprietor to do the
handsome thing by his neighbor, and to entertain his
guest like a gentleman. Colonel Openheart was one
of those generous and frank planters whom men smiled
to name, with pleasant recollections of the warmest
welcome and the finest cheer. And even now, with
his feathers somewhat ruffled by resistance and unexpected
provocation, it was delightful to behold the
bland visage and the good-humored smile which took
all anger from his aspect. Anger, indeed! It was
rare enough to see him angry. We tell you, he was
only ruffled, not roused, and just enough touched by
opposition, to show how animated he could become
even in his benevolence. There he sits at the ample

fireside, in which great logs of oak and hickory are
yielding themselves up in flake and flash, and hiss and
sparkle, his face glowing like the fire, warm, bright,
capacious; cheeks smooth as a woman's, a beard carefully
kept down by a persuasive razor, and his flowing
locks just beginning to whiten at the ends, and slightly
showing their snows against the warmer colors of his
neck and cheek. And how his great blue eyes dilate
under the high, broad forehead, as he looks around
him with a mixed expression of amazement and satisfaction,
taking in at the same glance the gentle and
matron-like lady who presides at the evening board,
from around which the chairs have already been withdrawn;
and the tall and graceful damsel of fifteen,
who, standing at her side, plies deftly the snow-white
napkin over the dripping teacup. I am not sure that
the comprehensive glance of Colonel Openheart fails to
notice the nice little juvenile episode which escapes
the eyes of the ladies, and which presents itself upon
the great and antique sofa gracing the opposite end
of the apartment. There, but scarcely enough in the
foreground to constitute a portion of the picture, you
may see Tom Openheart, a stout lad of nine or ten
years, exhausted by a long day's squrrel hunt, with
his own rifle and on his own pony, drowsing into
gradual obliviousness of life and all its excitements,
his arms thrown above his head, one of his legs secure
on the sofa with his trunk, while the other wanders
off, quietly conducting to a neighboring chair, to the
leg of which Dick Openheart, a mischievous urchin of
seven or eight, busily fastens it by the aid of his sister's
handkerchief. The father's and mother's have
already been disposed of in making secure the other
equally pliant members of Tom Openheart; and anon,
when the fastenings are all complete, you may look
for some cunning explosion by which the Gulliver will
be made to start from his slumbers in terror, only to
be taught the strangeness of his captivity.

I will not pretend to say that our excellent colonel
sees this episode. The pleasant twinkle which lights
the corner of his eye, and which is somewhat at variance
with the words of his mouth, may be due to
other influences; but it must be admitted, for the sake
of history, that even were he to see the practice of
Dick in this transaction, it is still not unlikely that
he would suffer it to pass unchallenged. The good
man would ascribe it to the season—to a natural levity
—to any but a heinous and evil nature, which called
for rebuke and punishment. He had a queer notion
that children were—only children, and that play
was as necessary to their hearts, their growth, nay,
their morals, as birch, logic, and religion—doctrines
which, in this era of juvenile progress, cannot be supposed
likely to diffuse themselves greatly, and of
which we venture, therefore, to speak without emotion.
It is probable that Colonel Openheart's attention
was wholly given to his good lady and his lovely
daughter. They at least were his only listeners.
There was an air of sadness upon the features of the
excellent matron, which, however, were not wholly
unlighted by a smile; while, on the other hand, the
lips of the damsel were parted with an undisguised

expression of merriment—positively on the verge of
open laughter—the pearls of her mouth showing
the white tips through their crimson setting, with a
good-humor and an arch delight that were clearly
quite irresistible. Very sweet and very pretty was
this expression of the face of Bessy Openheart, and
the jade knew it. She was a blonde, and with features
of wondrous regularity. Full of life and vivacity,
there was yet a rich fountain of gushing waters at
her heart, and her large blue eyes had learned how to
fill with tears even before the happy smile could make
its escape from her pretty little mouth. But we must
not speak of her too soon. She is a mere child as
yet—scarcely fifteen—just at that age when girlhood
begins to falter with its own gaze, and when we begin
to look upon it with as much trepidation as delight.
But Colonel Openheart is about to resume.

“Not keep Christmas, Mrs. Openheart—not keep
Christmas? Why, what in the world should I do
with myself, my dear, or with you, or Bessy there, or
Tom, Dick, Harry, and the rest, from Christmas eve
till New Year's? And what should we do with the
neighbors—with Whitfield, and Jones, and Whipple,
and Bond, and poor old Kinsale, and all their wives
and little ones, all of whom have spent Christmas
and New Year's with us for the last hundred years or
more. Some of them certainly did with my grandfather.
Old Kinsale can tell you of the first dinner
he ever took on this estate in the time of Grandfather
Openheart, and that was a Christmas dinner. He
can tell you every dish upon the table. There were

ham and turkey just as now—there was roast and
boiled—there was a round of beef—there were sausages
and pillau—there were sundry pairs of ducks,
cabbage and turnips, and potatoes; and for dessert,
nuts, apples, mince-pies, plum-puddings, and more
preserves than you could shake a stick at. More
than thirty persons sat down to table; and to speak
of the old man's Madeira, brings tears of pleasure
into the eyes of Daddy Kinsale to this moment. I
tell you, old Billy Openheart is venerated to this day
on account of his Christmas cheer. Not keep Christmas!
Why, how would you avoid it, I'd like to
know? They'd be here, all of them, fresh and fasting,
I may say, before you could roll the Christmas
log behind the dogs, and dress up your windows with
the holly and cacina. They'd be here to help you, as
they have been for the last fifty years. Bond and
Whipple always came early for that purpose, and I
think I have heard you say that little Susan Bond
was the cleverest little creature in the world at dressing
up the windows, and glasses, and flower-pots, with
the green leaves and the scarlet-berries. To think
of the windows of “Maize-in-milk” looking bare at
Christmas! Think of “Maize-in-milk” having no
visitors at Christmas—no fun, no frolic, no dancing,
no—! By the pipers, Mrs. Openheart, I don't
know how to understand you. Talk of not keeping
Christmas! Why, what in the name of blazes would
you do with me, with yourself, with Bessy, Clinton
there, and dear little Rose, and Tom, and Dick, and
Harry, and the rest, from Christmas eve till New
Year's?”

“Well, to say the truth, dear husband, I did not
think of spending Christmas at home at all, this
season.”

“Not spend Christmas at home!” cried the colonel,
with renewed amazement. “And where, in Heaven's
name, would you think to spend it?”

“Why, down in the parishes with Uncle Thomas.
He's often asked us, you know—”

“With Uncle Thomas in the parishes! Go from
home to spend Christmas! After that, I should not
be astonished at any of your notions. But, pray,
Mrs. Openheart, when did you know your Uncle
Thomas to spend his Christmas away from home?”

There was a pause, when the good dame, finding
that her husband really waited her answer, meekly
admitted that such an event had certainly never taken
place within her remembrance.

“No—no! You may well say that. Well, only
go to him and talk of spending Christmas away from
home. Try him, Mrs. Openheart, by an affectionate
invitation to come and stay with us Christmas week,
and you'll get an answer that will astonish you. You
will certainly astonish him by the invitation. No—
no; he's too much a gentleman of the old school—
one of the good old Carolina stock, who knows what
his duties are at Christmas—who knows what is
due to his neighbors and to hospitality, and who
knows—”

“But, my dear, considering what our expenses are,

and how greatly they have been increased of late,
Edward in Europe, and the sending of John and William
to college—the purchase of the old Salem tract
—the—”

“Poh! poh! poh! Positively, Emily, I am ashamed
of you. This is only too ridiculous. You are for
letting in at the spigot and letting out at the bung.
As for the Salem tract, it needs but one good crop, at
good prices, and I pay for that; and that I should
give up the acquaintance of my old neighbors, Tom
Whipple, Elias Bond, and Daddy Kinsale, because
my eldest son is frolicking on the continent, and two
others have just had an introduction to those gray-beards,
Cicero and Homer—”

“Now, husband, you know I don't mean that you
should give up the acquaintance of anybody—”

“You do, Emily, if you mean anything. It would
amount to the same thing. Not to have my house
full of my old friends, as usual at Christmas, would
be such a strangeness as would make them all feel
strange. They'd look upon me as a broken man, or
as a changed one, and in either case they'd become
changed also; and then, in place of the cheerful
household and pleasant neighborhood that we have
had all along, there would be doubt, and coldness,
and restraint—and all for what? Really, Emily, I
can't see what you'd be driving at.”

“But you could still see your neighbors.”

“Not as before, Emily. A people so sparsely settled
as our own, so very unsophisticated, and with
that fierce sort of pride which distinguishes a life of

comparative seclusion, are very easily made suspicious.
They are, in particular, exceedingly jealous of any
eccentricities on the part of the wealthy. Change your
habit toward them in any respect—let your demeanor
change in however slight degree, and they resent
it as a something sinister, which is always personal
to themselves. It wouldn't do to go out and see them
at the fence; I must ask them in—and once in, the
horse must be put up. And I can't say, `Well, Bond'
—or Whipple, or Jones, or Daddy Kinsale, as the
case may be—`very glad to see you always, but sorry
I can offer you nothing. Truth is, times are very
hard, and that lark of mine in Europe, and those two
dogs, Jack and Will, they cost me a pretty penny
nowadays. Have to haul in my horns, lest the
sheriff pulls them off.'”

“Now, husband, you know I allude to nothing of
this sort. It's only the usual waste that I'd have you
avoid until you've got out of debt.”

“Debt! Why, Mrs. Openheart, you speak as if I
were over head and ears! What do I owe, that I
can't pay off with a single good crop?”

“You said the same thing last year.”

The brave colonel seemed to wince at this suggestion.

“And as for waste—what waste? Do I waste anything
at Christmas, or any other time? Is not all
consumed that we cook? Is anything thrown away?
Are there not mouths for all? What we and our
guests do not consume, does it not go to the negroes?
What they don't want, does it not go to the dogs and

hogs, and ducks and chickens? I never see anything
wasted. Really, Mrs. Openheart, I can't understand
you. If you mean anything, it is that we are to kill
no beef at Christmas, have no sausages, drink no eggnog,
and, I suppose, for the first time since we've been
married, now going on fifty years —”

“Oh, husband—fifty years!”

“Yes, fifty years, more or less.”

“Less by half—only twenty-six last November.”

“Is it possible! And I said sixty! Well, it's certain
I've counted the years by their pleasures.”

A sweet, comical smile went round the circle. He
continued: “Well, as I was saying, here then, for
the first time since our marriage, some forty-two
years, as you yourself admit, we are to have no
mince-pies—”

“Nay, my dear; I didn't mean that we were to go
without them. As you have bought the raisins, the
citron, and the currants, and as the hogs are already
killed—”

“Oh! your only anxiety, then, is to keep these
things from being wasted; but if that was your prudent
intention, what do you propose to do with these
nice things, after you have made them up, if we are
to spend our Christmas with your Uncle Thomas?”

“Why, I thought of taking them down with us.”

“Indeed! and precious little would Uncle Thomas,
in his abundance, thank you for your pies. But,
pray, in what respect should we be more wasteful in
consuming them at home here, among our own poor
neighbors, than down in the parishes, with the rich

ones of Uncle Thomas? Really, Emily, I thought
you were a better reasoner.”

“Well, Edward, you do, indeed, make out a case
against me, and if the mince-pies were the whole of
our consumption in staying at home, as they will be
in going down to the parishes, then your reproach
would be conclusive; but you know, Edward, that
these would form but a small part of our expense.
They would not be alone; your Madeira, and Sherry,
and Champagne—your beeves, your hogs, your turkies,
and the horses of a dozen idle and worthless
people eating at your corn-crib, and that not the fullest
in the world—”

“It is full, Emily;—but I must stop you before
you go too far. We can't always say who are the
worthless in this world. I am sometimes disposed to
think that the most worthless have their uses, and to
suspect that the most worthy are not always of the
value we put upon them. When I recollect how little
I do myself in the way of work, and of how little real
service I am to myself or to anybody else, in comparison
with what I might be, I feel as if some malicious
devil was jerking at my elbow in mockery, at those
moments when I suffer myself to talk of the little
worth or value of my neighbors. I tell you, Emily,
I can't any longer bring myself to feel contempt for
any human being, though I may sicken at the viciousness
of some, and sorrow over the idleness of others.”

“Now, really, Edward, you shall not speak so
slightingly of yourself. Are you not always busy?
Do you not manage your own plantation?”

“After a fashion; but I'm not sure that my management
is at all creditable to me, or serviceable to
my interests.”

“You are never idle.”

“I make chips enough, I grant you; but I am not
sure that I am always profitably busy.”

“Your negroes improve, increase, become more
honest, sober, industrious, happy, more human every
year.”

“Thank God, I can conscientiously believe all
that.”

“They love you, thank you, and go cheerfully to
their tasks.”

“Ay, ay; so they do, and so far— But what is
that fellow about? As usual, busy in tormenting his
brother. Ho there, you dog; get you to bed, and
wake up Tom, that he may go along with you! What
are you doing with the boy?”

“Only you call him up, papa,” was the sly response
of the dutiful urchin.

“Call him up yourself—push him—rout him up.”

The boy stooped over the elder brother, and, with
a closer eye, the worthy sire might have seen with
what delicate consideration he introduced a feather of
broom-straw into the ears and nostrils of the sleeper.
A scream followed, then a roar and scuffle. The leg
of Tom, as he started from his slumbers, was found
to be inextricably involved with that of the chair, and
both went over with a clatter that startled the good
mother in her chair, and shook the whole house from
its propriety.

“Why, what have you done?”

The victim was not yet sufficiently awake to know
well what was the matter with him, but struggled to
throw out his fettered hands as in the act of swimming.
The father saw his predicament, and as he
and Bessy Clinton stooped to undo the ties with
which the mischievous boy had fettered the lad, the
urchin clapped his hands in exultation, and flew away
to the door.

“To bed, sirrah!” said Colonel Openheart, with a
voice in which authority struggled hard with merriment;
“to bed, before I give you the strap.”

“No, no, papa! Don't I know it's Christmas time
—and what's the use of Christmas if there's to be no
fun, I want to know?”

“The boy has the right on't. What's the use of
Christmas if there's to be no fun? There shall be
fun, sirrah, but your share of it must cease for the
night. To bed, both of you.”

“But to-morrow, papa!” said both of the boys in
a breath.

“You shall have the ponies, and we'll go to the
river; and we'll take the dogs, and see if we can't put
up a wild-cat. There, enough for the night.”

And the boys were kissed and disappeared.

“And these are to lose their Christmas—and the
neighbors, and the negroes, and all, for no better
reason than to save the waste, as if there could be
any waste in making so many persons happy. And
you, Bessy Clinton, that you should side with your

mother for having Christmas away from home. You
deserve a whipping for it Bess.”

“Ah, papa, you never whipped me yet.”

“It's not too late to begin!” and he took the damsel
about the waist, and she turned in his embrace
and lifted her lips to his own, and he kissed her with
delight as he said: “Well, well, we'll put it off till
the New Year. I haven't the heart for whipping just
now. But then—”

“But Bessy Clinton did not join with me, husband.
She was quite opposed to it.”

“Ah, that alters the case. You shall have Christmas
at home. And Bessy Clinton, for your reward,
hear farther—”

“What, papa?”

“You shall have your old friend, Mary Butler,
to spend it with you.”

“Oh! will she come, papa? Can you get her?”

“Ay, will she. And more than that, mamma, I've
bought in all the Butler negroes—bought them in for
her benefit, to save them from that shark of a lawyer
who manages the estate.”

“Surely, Mr. Openheart, you haven't made such a
purchase?” anxiously inquired the mother.

“Ay, but I have.”

“What! bought in all the negroes?”

“All but a single family. Thirty-five workers,
seventy-one negroes in all—and gave a pretty good
price for them, too.”

“How much?” asked the matron, with increasing
concern.

“Two hundred and sixty dollars round.”

“Good heavens! And how are you to pay for
them?”

“I have three years to pay it in, Emily—first instalment
next December of five thousand dollars, and
the balance in equal parts the next two years. The
terms are quite easy.”

“But how are you to pay it, husband?”

“How? Why, surely, you don't suppose that I
shan't make a sufficient crop next season to pay five
thousand dollars!”

“Have you done so this?”

“No! Why do you ask, when you know that this
crop is a failure?”

“Ah—should the next be so?”

“'Pon my honor, Mrs. Openheart, you do contrive
to suggest the prettiest prospects.”

“But why did you buy these negroes, Mr. Openheart?
You have more than you want already, and
more than are profitable.”

“True bill, Emily.”

“You have scarcely any open land more than your
present force can work.”

“Go to clearing on the first of January. Plenty
to clear, thank God.”

“But that is fatal to your woodland; and really,
Mr. Openheart, the question comes up again—why did
you buy a property which you don't want, and which
you know to be so unprofitable? Besides, the Butler
negroes are particularly unserviceable. I don't know
where you will find so many gray-headed people.

Some of them haven't, to my knowledge, done a stitch
of work for ten years; and there's at least a dozen
old negroes, who can barely totter along with the
palsy.”

“To tell you the truth, Emily, it was these very
old negroes that caused me to buy—these, and the
dear child, Mary Butler, who sat weeping in the house
as the sale was going on, with these infirm old people
hanging about her. They had dandled the child on
their knee, and there wasn't one of them, from Daddy
Enoch to Maum Betty, the one-eyed, whom she didn't
regard as a personal relation. They wept and pleaded
with her, and her weeping was so much pleading with
me. Besides, I found that Skinflint, the man who
acts as lawyer for Ingelhart and Cripps, the executors,
was disposed to buy them at his own prices, and
nobody would bid against him. Indeed, there was
nobody willing to buy property just at this season—
you will say they were wiser than your husband.
Perhaps so. But they would have gone to Skinflint
for nothing. His first bid was a hundred all round,
and I at once doubled it. I was indignant at the fellow's
bid, and wasn't to be deceived by the whisper
that went about, intended to discourage others, that
he was bidding in for the heiress. I knew better,
and when he found I was in earnest, he run upon
me.”

“But why did you let him do it? Why not stop
at the two hundred?”

“Ask a man when his blood's up why he isn't cool.
I was a fool—I know it, Emily, and you may reproach

me as you will for it. I knew no more what
I was about than if I had lost my wits. The sight of
the dear, sweet little orphan in her sorrows, totally
unmanned me. I had always seen her so happy and
so bright before—and I could not help remembering
what a pet she was of the dear angel mother. And
poor Ben Butler was such a sterling fellow. Nobody
wanted a dollar if he had it. I thought of all these
things in a moment. I fancied I heard the father
whispering in my ears, and that I saw the mother
pleading with all her eyes, and my own grew to be
quite blinded by my tears. And, then, old Enoch tottered
to me in the piazza, staff in hand, and his gray
beard hanging on his chest, and his old eyes, half shut
up by age, were dripping too; and, taking my arm,
he said to me, `Mauss Openheart, you surely ain't
gwine to let us go off to strange people?'—only these
words, and they finished my struggles. Just then,
Skinflint said one hundred round, and I mounted him
with another. I knew his game, the moment I heard
his voice. And when he said to me, `Really, Mr.
Openheart, I had no idea that you wished to increase
your force,' I swore in my own mind that he at least
shouldn't have them. You've heard the whole story.
The negroes are to be here to-morrow, and Mary Butler,
and Skinflint himself, who is to bring the bonds
and bill of sale.”

“Well, Edward, I only hope that you may not
suffer by your benevolence.”

“Nay, never fear, Emily. I'm rash and head-strong,
I know, and have done many foolish things;

but I feel sure that I shan't suffer for this helping of
the orphan, and keeping these poor dependent creatures
from being scattered over the face of the earth.
The probability is that my bonds will scarcely be presented
for payment so long as the interest is regularly
paid. The executors, Ingelhart and Cripps, can make
no better investment of the money, and it will be a
very nice sum for her when she is of age—or I am
prepared to let her have the negroes back if she prefers
it then. The plantation was not sold.”

“And what will you do with these old negroes,
Edward?”

The answer was somewhat impatiently spoken.

“Feed them first, Emily; clothe them, give them
Christmas. We'll kill a beef for them to-morrow to
begin with, and pray God to-night for good times,
that we may be enabled to feed them always, from
Christmas to Christmas, as well as now. So now to
bed, and see that you rise before the sun, Bessy Clinton.
You have to see to the pies and pastries. It's
now one week to Christmas, and”—looking out from
the windows—“a bright starlight night, in the language
of the watchman. May we wake to a bright,
dry, and honest winter morning!”

2. CHAPTER II.

The day of Christmas eve dawned propitiously
upon the broad fields and groves of “Maize-in-milk.”
There never had been, in all the South, a brighter or
sweeter December sunshine. Nature seemed to have
yielded herself wholly to the moral of the season.
She had put on her gayest habiliments; the earth
sent up a perfume less penetrating and diffusive,
perhaps, but not less sweet and persuasive than in the
spring time, and the woods wore such robes as autumn
had bestowed upon them—glorious, rich investitures
of crimson and yellow, which made gum, oak, and
poplar look each like a sovereign prince begirt by his
obsequious courtiers. Christmas in Carolina is very
apt to be vexed with storm and rain, a fatal conjunction
for thousands of schemes of juvenile delight and
delinquency. But the present promises to be quite
as favorable to the plans of happy-hearted creatures
as the most amiable and philanthropic spirits could
pray for; and, with the dawn, the three sons of Colonel
Openheart, Tom, the good-fellow, Dick, the mischievous,
and Harry, the little, starting from a sleep

which teemed with the most happy dreams of turbulent
enjoyment, had darted into the chamber of their
excellent sire, and were hauling him out of sleep and
bed at the same moment. He, too, had been in the
enjoyment of the happiest heart fancies, such as are
natural to the fond and hopeful parent. In his sleeping
visions, he had beheld the return of his son,
Edward, now travelling in Europe, a tall and handsome
youth, refined by foreign observation, and with
a mind generously expanded to the appreciation of
all that was excellent and noble in foreign standards.
William and John were also returned from college,
availing themselves of the brief respite of a single
week accorded them during the great religious holiday
of the year. And other forms, almost equally
dear, and other images quite as sweet and persuasive,
had passed beneath his waking fancy, while his real
and earthly nature slept. Sweet glimpses of dear
Mary Butler, and his own fair daughter, Bessy Clinton,
and vague and indistinct forms and aspects, in
innocent relationship with these, all of which aroused
the fondest hopes and the most grateful imaginings
in the fond father's bosom. It was the season when
all sights and sounds are sweet and wholesome to the
heart which desires and exercises itself in wholesome
influences—when, as the great bard expresses it—
And merrily, indeed, and with most vigorous throat,
did the hundred voices of Mrs. Openheart's poultry
yard respond to each other through the watches of
that calm December night. Nor were these the only
voices whose music somehow melted in with and
formed a part of the dreams of the excellent colonel.
All around the fine old mansion-house of “Maize-in-Milk,”
the mock-birds had made homes for their young
among the ancestral oaks and cedars. Of these, the
bold choristers had maintained immemorial possession;
and, as some of the trees spread their great
limbs even up to the windows of the dwelling, against
the panes of which their leaves rattled in the gusty
night, it was easy for the Puck of the southern groves
to send his capricious music through every chamber.
These had Colonel Openheart been long accustomed
to hear, but it seemed as if, at the approach of the
season when
the voices of the birds grew more full and numerous,
and a generous and glad spirit, a soul of exultation,
gave new impulse to their merriment and music.
Their fitful and capricious strains formed fitting echoes
to the fancies that swarmed in the good man's
visions; and his own heart caught up their echoes,
and even while his boys were breaking into his chamber
with their clamorous exhortations, he might have
been heard to murmur in his sleep broken fragments
of one of the ancient English carols—
And this was the boys' welcome as they bounced into
the chamber, and dispelled, with a single shout, all
the visions of his sleep.

“Why, what a mischief, boys, is the matter, that
you rout me up at midnight.

“Midnight, father—why, the sun's a-rising!”

“Well, what then? Is that any good reason that
the father shouldn't sleep? You don't know what
fine dreams you may have driven away by your uproar.”

“Oh, this is no time for dreaming, father. Come,
up with you, and let's go to the river, and shoot off the
big cannon.”

“Well, I suppose there's no resisting you,” said
the indulgent sire, as he prepared to obey the requisition.

“You will ruin those boys, Colonel Openheart,”
murmured his excellent help-meet, with some querulousness
of accent, occasioned by the rude disturbance
of a slumber which had been as precious full of dreams
in her case as in that of her husband.

“Nay, never fear,” was the reply; “the boys are
not so easily spoiled. The danger is with the girls.
Boys are naturally good—a little more boisterous
than their sisters, but better on the whole. You women
are always apt to confound honest impulse with misdoing.
We must let them play. Childhood is the

season for play, and play is necessary for the heart;
and so, boys, let's go to play heartily, as others go
to work. Now that you have roused me, get you gone
till I get up and dress myself. I shan't stay long.”

In a moment, their merry voices might have been
heard upon the lawn in front, ringing clearly out in
the dry sweet atmosphere. A gentler song suddenly
took wing in an adjoining chamber, and the eyes of
father and mother both twinkled with the lustre that
came directly from the heart, as they heard the soft
but melodious accents of Bessy Clinton, singing, as
if in preparation for the coming day, a familiar old
Christmas ballad.

“And you think boys better than girls—naturally
good, husband—not so easily spoiled?” was the quiet
but ironical inquiry of the wife, as the last murmurs

of the girl's song subsided away, and were followed
by a triumphant shout from below, and a tremendous
explosion from a huge blunderbuss, to discharge which
they had not waited for the father.

“The rogues!” exclaimed Colonel Openheart.
“But I did the very same thing myself when I was
a lad—the very same thing—nay, something worse.
I made a mine of a whole canister of powder, and
nearly shook down the old house on Briar Hill with a
single blast. That's the nature of the animal. Don't
let it worry you, my dear Emily; they shoot and shout
while Bessy Clinton smiles and sings, and I am content
that they should both enjoy themselves in their
different ways. But the rogues are impatient; hear
how they clamor! Emily, dear wife, a kiss! God has
blessed us in our children—eight living out of thirteen,
five already blessed, and the others blessing us! We
have not lived in vain, dear wife? And, hark you,
is that Bessy Clinton again? No; it's dear little
Rose. She has awakened at last, and sounds her
little pipes in song also. How like her voice to Bessy
Clinton's, and how like both to your own! But the
horses are at the door, and those rogues are ten times
as noisy as ever. And you don't like their singing,
Emily, so much as Bessy Clinton's, eh?”

“Surely not. How can you ask?”

“Nor I—nor I,” said the good-natured father, as he
hurried below, leaving the now thoroughly awakened
mother to the embraces of the two girls, who entered
from an inner chamber, bearing in their hands great

bunches of holly, pranked gayly with their own and
the red berries of the cassina.

“You are late this morning, dear mother,” said
Bessy Clinton with a kiss; and little Rose echoed the
opinion and followed the example.

“Late? You are as impatient as Dick and Harry,”
said the mother. “I am sure it's an hour sooner
than you rise usually.”

“Ah! but it's Christmas eve, mother, and we have
to do a great deal. We shall have them here, pretty
soon, and must get an early breakfast. Good old Mr.
Bond will be here betimes to help us, and Squire
Whipple won't be long after him.”

“And Susan Bond's a-coming too, mamma, and
Sally,” was the eager assurance of little Rose, anxious
to put in.

“You are all too like your father, too impatient,
children. But now that you are here, Bessy Clinton,
make yourself useful. Put the pin in this tippet, and
—ah! child, how you're sticking me!”

“I'm so sorry, mother!”

“You're always so impatient! There, that will
do. Pick up your holly branches and your berries;
such a litter as you make. And come, we will hurry
down and see about breakfast, so that it be in readiness
when your father comes back. By this time he's
half way to the river.”

And they descended the stairs. Bessy Clinton
singing pleasantly, while her fingers wove the green
bushes and the red berries artfully together, from
another of the ancient carols with which the English

tastes of an affectionate grandsire had long since made
her familiar.

Etcetera! The song was hushed in the sound of
carriage wheels. The neighbors had already begun to
make their appearance. Sure enough, there was good
old Mr. Bond in his homely “Jersey,” and Susan
Bond in her nice white dimity and old-fashioned tippet,
and little Sally, to the delight of Rose, in her
faded calico, that sat upon her rounded limbs like the
sack upon her great-grandmother; and they brought
along with them bouncing Joe Dillon, a great chubby-cheeked
lad of one of the farther neighbors, of whom
the family at “Maize-in-Milk” as yet knew nothing.
And such a tumbling out of the frail vehicle as followed,
and such a tumbling out of the house to receive

them as took place, is quite beyond description. Mrs.
Openheart met old Mr. Bond on the threshold, and
Bessy Clinton took charge of Susan, while little Rose
led off Sally—the little also—followed by the chubby
boy at halting paces. And between Bessy Clinton and
Susan Bond, the work of the day began almost instantly.
The myrtle and the holly, the cassina and
the bamboo were instantly in requisition, and over the
great heavy windows and doors, and all about the huge
mirrors and antique family pictures, you could see the
arches, and the wreaths, and festoons beginning to grow
up in green and crimson, giving to the spacious walls
and rooms a charming aspect of the English Gothic.
How sweet is work when our tastes go with the toil,
and when beauty compensates industry. Our happy
maidens were conscious of this pleasure in the progress
of the labors of their hands; and now they put up and
pulled down, rearranged and altered, their tastes becoming
more and more critical the more they were
exercised. And “there now, Susan, that will so
please father,” declared at length that Bessy Clinton
was herself quite satisfied.

Leaving the girls thus happily engaged, let us follow
the boys in their excursion to the river. You
should have seen the lads mount each on his pony
not excepting Harry the little, who did not seem a bit
too little for the marshtacky, brought all the way from
Pocotaligo, which he straddled like an infant centaur.
Colonel Openheart, mounted on a strong, black parade
horse, upon which he had more than once marshalled
his regiment, led the way, Tom trying hard to

keep beside him in the narrow road, and Dick more
ambitiously darting half the time ahead. They were
followed by Swift, Sure, and Slow, three famous dogs,
which were the admiration of all the hunters of St.
Matthews. Then came Bedford, the Superlative, a
stout, gray-headed negro, who officiated as high-sheriff
over the plantation, carried out the wishes of
his master, and reported progress nightly; a shrewd
sensible negro, cool and steady, confident in his opinions,
yet perfectly respectful, who served God and his
master as well as he knew how, and, murdering the
king's English, seldom committed any more heinous
offences. The way of the cavalcade lay over hill and
dale, gentle eminences and pleasant slopes, and chiefly
through woods which were as old as the hills themselves.
Colonel Openheart was fond of trees and foliage,
and had so contrived his fields as to maintain a fine
body of wood between each. Through these his
several roads meandered, and he could pass to the survey
of one field after another without once leaving
the shelter of the original forests. These were of
pine, or oak and hickory, interspersed with a pleasant
variety of gum and poplar, and shrub trees of every
sort. Long reaches of swamp occasionally relieved
the uniform aspects of the hill foliage, by the gigantic
forms of cypress, ash, and other trees of deciduous
character. The brightness of that sunshiny December
morning had its effect upon all parties. A cheery
smile sat upon the face of the father, and brightened
benevolently in his large blue eye; the white teeth
of Bedford, the Superlative, never displayed their
massive outlines more conspicuously than while riding
along with the boys, responding to their eager inquiries;
and they, the lads, their young souls spoke out
only in shout and caracole, in impatient question that
stayed for no reply, and in the expression of an exulting
confidence in the joys of the day, which nature
herself seemed to counsel and encourage. The autumn
still lingered among the tree-tops in robes of saffron
and purple; and the life which animated them beside
showed itself momently in groups of squirrels—white,
black, and gray—which, darting from tree to tree,
seemed really only to sport themselves for the amusement
of the cavalcade and the annoyance of the dogs.
Sometimes a covey of partridges flushed up from the
brown and half-withered foliage along the track, and
a couple of great turkey-hawks might be seen to rise,
sweeping the air over the open field in wide circles,
with keen eye bent upon the long grasses, in which
the rabbit might be supposed to have slept the previous
night. The track pursued by the party, though
a narrow, was a sufficiently open one. Made studiously
circuitous, it was a good two miles to the river,
and every fifty or a hundred yards afforded some
pleasant or picturesque changes to the eye. Now
they skirted a hill upon whose brow sits a crown of
the noblest pines, green, towering, and magnificent;
and now they wind along a copse of bays, a thicket,
whose leaves suffer only enough from the winter's frost
to give forth those sweets of which none of the
persuasions of the summer could beguile a single
breath. A uniform dark green overspreads this region,
save here and there where a great gum-tree,
rising in the midst, shakes a head of glorious yellow
aloft in lonely majesty. And now they pass into the
levels of the swamp, through some choice cotton fields,
in which, however, Colonel Openheart sees but little
promise, during the present season, of realizing the
usual bountiful returns. They are already nearly
stripped of fruit; the white pods which commonly
sprinkled these fields—as if strewn with blossoms of
the dogwood, until the last of January, being quite
beyond his power to pick until that period—show
now but a scattered whiteness here and there, which
rather mocks than satisfies the sight.

“Bad business here, Bedford, this season.”

“Monstrous bad!” says Bedford, with a closing of
the lips and a lugubrious shaking of the head. “Monstrous
bad, sir; but such a portentious drought as devoured
us, and such a tempestious tornado as beat us
down after it, jest as the field was going to blow in
September, was a ravaging of us that no cotton could
stand under.”

“We must do better next year, Bedford.”

“Ef it's the will of Providence, there shall be another
guess desemblance in our swamp next year.”

“It must be, Bedford,” was the rather emphatic
reply of the colonel.

The negro was silent. The master proceeded:
“The old Salem tract must be put in order with the
beginning of the New Year. You know that I have
bought the force of our old friend, Ben Butler. They
will be here to-day. We must work them on that

tract, and must contrive to pay for them, in part, out of
next year's crop. They are not the best negroes in
the world, as you know, but we must manage them
with prudence. I look to you, Bedford, to do your
best”—the negro touched his beaver—“and I do not
doubt that you can meet all my calculations. The
seasons can scarcely be so bad again as they have been
for the last two years.”

But these details are sufficient. Crossing a pretty
but shallow stream, which was skirted by a growth of
gum, and traversed by occasional cypresses, of immense
size, that strode clear away, six or eight feet
deep in the water, the party emerged upon a hammock
beyond which lay the river; and the impatient
boys cantered away in front, while the colonel and
Bedford continued at a more moderate pace. When
the two latter reached the banks of the river, the
urchins were already dismounted, and each had his
pony fastened to the swinging limb of a tree; and here
the object which had brought them to this point was
at once presented conspicuously to the sight. Here,
commanding the river, which was a broad and turbid
stream, with a vast stretch of drowned swamp spreading
away on the opposite side, was a tiny fortress, a
redoubt of earth, with its bastions and its merlons,
and a neat little two-pounder, looking out with impudent
aspect upon the raftsmen going down the stream.
In a moment, the colonel unrolled a nice silken banner,
upon which the fair hands of Bessy Clinton had
wrought a palmetto, and it was soon run up the staff,
and floating gayly above the juvenile ramparts. And

it was to hear the thunder of this piece, and to see
the smoke and fire issue from its jaws, that our boys,
Tom, Dick, and Harry, would at any time abandon
the more staid and regular amusements of the household.
The smaller piece at home, manufactured from
an old ship's blunderbuss, and set on a rude block
before the house, though in itself a delight, and which
they could venture to discharge themselves, was not
to be spoken of in the same breath with the more formidable
engine by which the river was commanded.
Strange passion which the boy has for guns and uproar!
Colonel Openheart encouraged this passion
among his sons, and the fantastic notion of a fort at
his landing on the river was a sort of tribute to the
memory of his father, who had been one of the defenders
of Fort Moultrie against the British. The
fact—then proved for the first time—that a rifleman
of the American forests made a first-rate artillerist,
was one to be remembered by the son of one who had
been conspicuous among those by whom the fact was
so well proven; and the possession of a small British
piece, which was one of the trophies awarded to his
father's valor, had prompted the little battery that
crowned the water approaches to “Maize-in-milk.”

But the signal is given! The eager hearts of the
boys are bounding violently against their ribs; their
eyes are dilating; their heads stretched forward, and
their whole souls filled with delicious expectation. The
torch is applied, and the roar follows. Then they rush
forward into the smoke, Dick leading the way, and
even little Harry, convulsed with frenzy, rolling and

tumbling about in the sulphurous fog. Twice, thrice
the discharge is made, and then the signal is given to
resume the march. Each lad unfastens his horse,
Bedford performing the office for little Harry, who is
too proud, however, to admit of any help in clambering
up his pony's sides. The adventure of the morning
is over, and now back to the domicil for breakfast,
with what appetite they may.

There they found old Mr. Bond and pretty Susan
Bond, and other guests, already arrived; for their
excursion to the river had somewhat encroached, in
spite of all their efforts at early rising, upon the
breakfast hour. The breakfast consisted of all the
varieties known to a Carolina plantation of ante-revolutionary
establishment. I don't know that it would
be worth while to enumerate the various “creature
comforts” under which the table groaned; and yet
there may be some young persons among my readers
to whom a catalogue raisonée may not be altogether
without its uses. And first, then, for the inevitable
dish of Indian corn, in its capacity of vegetable rather
than breadstuff—hominy! Now, your yellow corn
won't do for hominy—the color and the flavor are
alike against it. It must be the genuine semitransparent
flint, ground at a water-mill, white as snow,
and swelling out in two huge platters at convenient
places upon the table. A moderate portion of each
plate is provided with this vegetable, boiled to a due
consistency; neither too soft, like mush, nor too stiff,
hard, and dry for easy adjustment with a spoon. It
requires long experience on the part of the cook to

prepare this dish for the just appreciation of an adept.
There must be no rising lump in the mass; there must
be no dark speck upon the surface. The spoon should
lie upon it without sinking below the rims, and hominy
should always be eaten with a spoon or fork of silver.
I name all these little particulars, as I assume the
time to be approaching fast, when Great Britain and
Ireland, and one-half the continent of Europe will be
fed out of the American granaries, and when hominy
will arrive at its position of true dignity and distinction
in the cuisine of the Old World. The Carolina
breakfast-table would be a blank without hominy.

That of “Maize-in-milk” had its usual bountiful
supply on the present occasion, and was not without its
variety of breadstuffs. There were loaves and cakes of
wheat, corn, and rye, all the growth of the plantation;
Colonel Openheart not being one of those conceited
wiseacres who rely only upon the cotton market and
neglect every other interest. It may be that he relied
still too much upon the profits and prospects of the
cotton market, so as to indulge in a too ready habit of
expenditure, but he never was that purblind proprietor
who forgets the farm in the staple; a class of people
still quite too large in Carolina for their own and the
good of the country. His table rejoiced in its rice
cakes and waffles also, among his breadstuffs; rice
being also one of the grains of his own production.
But of these, enough is said already. Among the
meats on table, to say nothing of cold corn-beef and
boiled venison, we must spare a passing sentence to
the sausages and black puddings. Christmas on the

southern plantation is emphatically the sausage season.
Then it is, as old Mr. Bond was wont to say, that
every negro is heard to whistle, and every mouth looks
oily. But perhaps it is not every reader who knows
what black puddings are. Well, we shall not pretend
to enlighten those who are unhappily ignorant. It is
enough to say that a black pudding is something in
the nature of the Scotch haggis, so sublimely sung by
Burns, without the deficiencies and infirmities of that
venerable compound. It is less unsightly to the eye,
and less unfriendly to the taste, more delicate in its
flavor, and, perhaps, even more various in its ingredients.
You shall find it a goodly commodity, taken
along with its kindred, sausage and hominy, at a
southern breakfast, when the Yule log is blazing.
Colonel Openheart had just killed his usual hundred
head of hogs, and this was one of the great events to
bring happiness to the negro quarter. The great
beef had also been slaughtered, and plenty and pleasure
were conspicuous in every visage. No wonder
the breakfast went off swimmingly. The boys were
the happiest creatures in the world, and the achievements
of the great gun were thrust into all ears. Not
that they were either obtrusive or uproarious in the
house with the guests or at the table. On these points,
our colonel, though very indulgent generally, was
something of a martinet, and breakfast was discussed
and dispatched with a degree of order and quietude
which only was not solemnity and stiffness. After
breakfast the girls continued the work of decoration,
and the boys went out to play. The lady of the house
had her preparations still in some degree to make,
and the worthy colonel took charge of good Mr. Bond,
and they went together to the farm-yard, comparing
notes, and discussing peas, ploughs, and potatoes as they
went. Soon, however, their attention was drawn to
farther arrivals. First came poor old Kinsale, a worthy
old Irishman—a farmer of small degree, who had been
so long in America as to insist that yams and Spanish
were the real potatoes of green Erin, and that the
Irish potato had never been otherwise than sweet
from the days of Sir Walter Raleigh. He was a
good old man, seventy-six years or more, for whom
Colonel Openheart sent his own horses and carriage
every Christmas. Unlike Irishmen, who are not
generally tenacious of early customs, he still wore
small clothes and long stockings, having no better
reason for his adherence to ancient fashions than the
possession of a pair of legs which were formed after
the best of ancient models. The youngsters of the
day, however much they might smile at the tottering
gait and rheumy eyes of old Kinsale, were not without
a sufficient degree of taste to prompt envy of his
calves. The red bandana about his neck, and the
great hanging cape and flaps of his Marseilles vest
were in odd contrast with the modern sack, of newest
pattern, which had lately beguiled him by its cheapness,
its bright colors and glittering buttons, at a
Charleston slop-shop. The old fellow was now all
agog for the war with Mexico, and his first demand
was for the last newspapers which spoke of that event.
But that the approaches of age were quite too unequivocal
to suffer such an absurdity, it might have
been that we should have heard him talk of volunteering
in the Palmetto Regiment. But he was still
strong to totter about field and stable; he disliked
the house, and placing his chair under the shade of a
group of great oaks that circled the centre of the lawn
before the mansion of “Maize-in-milk,” he indicated
to the other gentleman the propriety of choosing that
as the place for the reception of the arriving company.
So here they all took seats together, with the newspapers
in the grasp of old Kinsale, and a variety of
potatoes of the largest dimensions, yam, Spanish, and
brimstone, at his feet. These, with a laudable brag of
Colonel Openheart, he had displayed as the largest
which had been made anywhere that season. A few
superior cotton-stalks were also beside them, with some
mammoth turnips and great ears of corn. While they
sat together, in rolled the barouche of Captain Whitfield
with his family, five or seven in number, soon
followed by Squire Whipple and a Mr. Bateman, who
had just bought a snug farm in the neighborhood, and
had been invited to share the Christmas hospitalities
of “Maize-in-milk.” All these were farmers of moderate
resources, well to do in the world without being
wealthy, a comfortable and improving people. Colonel
Openheart's pleasure was to feel himself in a
neighborhood with which he could sympathize; and
with this object he had been for a long period engaged
in the politic task of endeavoring to secure the affections
of those around him. He made but little difference
between his neighbors, except such as was
called for by moral differences among themselves; and
if he thought of the poverty of any among them, it was
only that he might remember the needy with more
seasonable assistance.

But now other guests began to make their appearance,
and as a stately carriage came whirling down
the road, dear Bessy Clinton ran out to the trees
where her father was seated, exclaiming—“It's Mary
Butler, papa—that's the carriage;” and the eager
eyes of the damsel sparkled as dewily bright as if the
sunshine which they showed was about to issue from
a tear. Sure enough, it was Mary Butler—but who
is it with her? Bessy Clinton had never been so fortunate
as to know Elijah Skinflint, Esq., the lawyer
of Messrs. Ingelhart and Cripps, to whom the temporary
charge of Mary Butler had been confided.
Mr. Skinflint, though he owned a plantation a few
miles above that of Colonel Openheart, was a practising
lawyer at a distant court-house, which he seldom
left, except hurriedly to cast an eye upon the doings
of his overseer. His lean and angular person, red,
searching, ferret-like eyes, and gaunt, erect frame
were quite new to our Bessy Clinton, who, though
anxious to embrace Mary Butler, somewhat shrunk
from the idea of approaching the grim guardian who
came along with her. But, Skinflint and all his terrors
were forgotten, when her father lifted Mary from
the carriage; and the fond damsel bounded to her
friend, and took her about the neck with as much
fervency as if all the blood from her heart had gone
into her arms. She was about to lead the lovely

orphan away, when the voice of her father called her
back; and she suffered a formal introduction to the
redoubted lawyer, who had himself suggested the proceeding.
Skinflint was evidently struck with the appearance
of Bessy Clinton; who, for her age, was a
tall and womanly-looking creature. I need not say
she was a very lovely one. Skinflint appeared to
think her so, and threw as much gentleness and animation
into his glance, when he spoke with her, as a
long practice in a very different school permitted him
to do. He would have given her his arm in moving
towards the house, but the damsel, too anxious to have
Mary Butler to herself, contrived not to appear to see
the awkward half-tender of civility which the learned
barrister had made. In this way she got off, and the
two girls were out of sight in an instant. The gentlemen
again went towards their trees, where they soon
forgot the other sex in a discussion which was equally
shared between politics and potatoes.

Skinflint was something of a politician, but he met
his match in old Kinsale. If the one was expert at
weaving the knot of Gordius, the other had a prompt
Alexandrine method of unloosing it. His sturdy
practical mind, and clear direct judgment, made him
more than a match for the lawyer, who soon contrived
to get as far from him as possible. In a little while
the attention of all parties was drawn to new objects,
which appeared upon the highway. These were the
negroes of the Butler estate, whom Colonel Openheart
had so rashly purchased, and at such high prices. He
had sent all his carts and wagons to bring them to

their new abodes, with all their prog and furniture.
And a quaint and merry-looking cavalcade they made.
The carts, four in number, the wagons, too, and a great
ox-cart, were all laden heavily with baggage and bedding.
Grinning little urchins lay on the top, and the
able-bodied walked beside the vehicles. Each carried
something in his hands, or a wallet upon his shoulders.
More than one old fiddle was to be seen among them,
and the song with which they accompanied the crazy
music of its strings, only ceased when they came in
sight of the group beneath the trees. Colonel Openheart,
followed by his guests, went out to the roadside
to speak to them as they passed. He had a pleasant
word for each, and shook hands with old Enoch, the
patriarch of the plantation, where the latter sat in the
wagon which brought up the rear. Bedford appropriately
made his appearance at this moment, and
took charge of the cavalcade, which he conducted to
the quarters prepared for them. Affectionate memories
of his friend, Ben Butler, caused the eyes of
Colonel Openheart to grow dim as he shook hands
with the aged negroes; but a very different sentiment
was in those of Lawyer Skinflint. Be sure, that excellent
citizen had thoughts in his mind, as he beheld
the scene, which he would never have ventured to
declare in any of his pleadings. But the worthy
colonel neither saw nor suspected anything, and his
deportment to Skinflint, whom he did not love, was
quite as courteous and kind as to any other of his
guests. For that matter, as the day advanced, Skinflint
began to grow in favor. He evidently took some
pains to make himself agreeable. He was a man of
considerable experience and information; had travelled,
was well read, and not entirely wanting in those
finer tastes which so happily garnish even the conversation
of the merely sensible. He could be sportive
when he would; and a vein of dry humor, which at
the bar was causticity, seasoned his most ordinary
conversation. He was habitually a hard man—cold,
ascetic; sarcastic, selfish; with but little sympathy
for humanity in its susceptibilities, and in those pliant
movements of the heart and fancy, which the worldling
is apt to regard as weaknesses. But he knew how
to humor the moods of others; and, with an object in
view, he could play the pleasant companion for an
hour, or a day—nay, quite as long as he had anything
to gain by it. And he had something to gain at
“Maize-in-milk;” at least, we already half suspect
the grim bachelor of being more than pleased with the
graces and charms of dear Bessy Clinton. We don't
know that any eye but ours beheld him, as, frequently,
in the progress of the day, his glance was fixed on
the fair face and beautifully rounded form of the
maiden, with a positive show of interest and pleasure.
The insolent! He to presume on the affections of
that sweet creature—that incarnation of all that is
delicate and dear in humanity and woman!

But the day passes—O! most pleasantly to all;
and the young increase in numbers as the hours melt
into the past; and the brightness grows in every eye
as, sporting on the lawn, they seem to hurry the footsteps
of the sun. And he sets at last! Then emerging

from an ancient closet, our host brings forth the
rude charred fragments of a half-burned log. It is
the Yule log of the last year. The hall chimney is
carefully denuded of all its fires—the sticks are taken
out, the hearth is swept. The great back-log, chosen
for the fire of the new year, is brought in, and the
fragments of last year's log are employed to kindle
it. Our colonel delighted to continue, as nearly as
he could with propriety, the customs of his English
ancestors; and his own shoulders bore the log from
the woodpile, and his own hands lighted the brands
of the new year's fire as the sun went down. Doubtless,
there is some superstition in all this; but such
superstitions are not without their charm, and have
their advantages. The superstitions which tend in
some degree to make us forgetful of self, are equally
serviceable to humanity and religion.

The tea-things are removed; the night advances,
the sable fiddler has made his appearance; and, seated
in the piazza, attended by an urchin with a rude
tambourine, he brings forth sounds which have a
strange effect upon youthful feet and fancies. The
dance begins, and, for two hours, the girls and boys foot
it merrily in the great hall. Then a few steal away to
another apartment, and there the eggs are broken.
One seizes upon the bowl, another upon the dish, and
they proceed to manufacture a noggin of eggs; that
luscious draught not to be foregone, styled, in homely
parlance, eggnog! not an inebriating beverage in that
temperate household. The dance ceases; the draught
is enjoyed; the more youthful disappear, and the

sweet voice of Bessy Clinton, as she sings another of
her ancient Christmas carols, is the signal for the
separation of the company that night at the mansion
of “Maize-in-milk.” Verily, Lawyer Skinflint never
in his life before appeared so devotedly fond of music.
He hung upon the tones of the sweet songstress as if
she were especially the sweet singer in Israel, while
she poured forth, at her father's summons, the old
“Carol for Christmas Eve.”

3. CHAPTER III.

And never did a Christmas morning dawn more
cheerily on human eyes than did this, so much looked
for at “Maize-in-milk,” in St. Matthews. The harmony
of heart within, seemed to lend its aspect to
the outer world; and though at sunrise a heavy white
frost lay upon the fields and woods, yet the day was
sweetly mild and the atmosphere vigorous and bracing.
The song-birds are seldom forest-birds. They
fly to the shelter and countenance of man, from the
deep thickets where the hostile vermin keep shelter.
Perhaps there is an intellectual consciousness which
they feel, that the human is the most justly appreciative
audience. So the smaller birds of game harbor
only in the neighborhood of fields which are cultivated
by man, not for the reason assigned by M. Chateaubriand,
but simply because these furnish most readily
the food which they desire; and because here, also,
in the neighborhood of human habitations, they are
less likely to fall victims to the prowling owl and fox,
or the vigilant hawk. Now the proprietors of “Maize-in-milk”
had, from time immemorial, been disposed to
acknowledge the confidence which the feathered tribes
thus tacitly seemed to repose in their forbearance;
and, in the immediate proximity of the homestead,
no hostile gun was permitted to ruffle a bird's feathers.
The song-birds laughed merrily at noontide and morning
in the roof-tree, and had no apprehension; and

the partridge led her young along the roadside, skirting
the hedge of box and myrtle, having no fear of
being thought a trespasser. Our Christmas morning
on the present occasion, was particularly distinguished
by these free forest visitors, who came about the
habitation, to the great delight of the guests, as if
they not only were disposed to assert their privileges,
but as if they knew that the season was one for Sunday
clothes and merry-making. When poor old Kinsale
rose, therefore, some time before the sun, and before
any other of the household—for old age requires fewer
hours for sleep than youth—very sweet and pleasant
was the sight that greeted his aged eyes. Sitting in
the great massive porch of the building, which faced
the south, a wide lawn spread out before him covered
with green trees. These were of the various sorts of
oak and orange, with a sprinkling of laurel and other
trees, most of which were aged like himself, but showing
far greater proofs of vigor. Their heavy tops
were populous cities of song-birds. Here the red-bird
flourished, with his crimson tufts, satisfied with
his glorious plumage and his brief but complacent
note. Here was the imperial mock-bird, one of which,
well known to the household, and fed with crumbs by
the children—old Puck—very soon discerned a stranger
in the portico, and was sending forth a short
sharp and querulous inquiry, which might be translated,
“and who are you, my good fellow? and what do
you want?” But though pleased with the familiarity
of the bird—for if there be anything which age most
loves, it is society—old Kinsale was not the person to
invite them by his presence. The summer of childhood
is always most effectual, and, failing to conciliate
the suspicions of old Puck, who hopped off at his call
to one of his remotest twigs—the old man turned his
attention upon the great trees of the park, and finally
beyond them, to the open fields. It was the policy
of the proprietor of “Maize-in-milk” to maintain
about his household as much of the aspect of spring
and freshness as he could. His fields on the right
were accordingly covered with a vigorous growth of
wheat, which, in his hands, was a crop of respectable
production for Carolina. While his less considerate
neighbors were satisfied to get but eight bushels of
this luxuriant grain from the average acre, he, by
skilful dressing, and the free use of lime, contrived
to extract nearly thrice that quantity. On the opposite
side was to be seen a broad tract of rye, green
and growing, while beyond, on every hand, spread a
wall of thickly wooded copse and forest, by which
each of his fields was girdled, and through which lay
pleasant walks and openings to the corn and cotton
fields still farther distant. The settlements at “Maize-in-milk,”
standing upon a hill, gave a very extensive
view on every side. Looking from the rear of the
dwelling, the eye might discern, a few miles off, the
great gray tops of the cypress that looked forth from
the dark recesses of the swamp. For these objects old
Kinsale had an eye. They had harbored the aged man
in the Revolution from some of his Tory neighbors.

But he was not suffered long to indulge in his solitary
survey. Soon the children came skipping forth,

Tom, Dick, and Harry, each clamoring with new discoveries.
Santa Claus visits us in the South, too, but
under no such Dutch appellation. We do not confound
the day of St. Nicholas with that of Christmas,
though we distinguish them, in the old houses, by similar
customs, borrowed, however, from our English ancestry.
With us, the good genius of the nativity, in
a merely social point of view, is good old Father Christmas
himself. The benevolent old graybeard makes
his presents to the children, under this more seemly
appellation. And the urchins are very well accustomed
to look for his coming. They hang their stockings
in the chimney-place, each with a sprig of ivy, or cassina,
or holly, or sumach, either or all, in tribute to
the venerable visitor. These he withdraws, and leaves
in place of them such gifts as he deems best suited to
the character and the deserts of his protégé. To
some of these a bunch of hickories conveys a rebuke
and threat, which by no means makes the coming of
Father Christmas a merry one.

Our lads and lasses at “Maize-in-milk” had done
their best to merit, or, at all events, to receive the
bounties of the ancient patron. Tom had hung his
new boots, the first pair that had ever embraced his
ankles, upon sticks pendent over the fender. Dick,
more ambitious of favor, had occupied a chair fronting
the fireplace, with one or more suits of clothes,
hat and shoes included, from each of which, capable
of holding them, might be seen the protruding green
and red of the sumach and the holly. Harry, without
pockets to his breeches, had put his cap, shoes, and

stockings. The girls had also made provision for
their guest. The tiny stockings of dear little Rose
were placed conspicuously not to escape attention,
while Mary Butler, Susan Bond, and Bessy Clinton,
had set their nice white baskets, beautifully dressed
with flowers mingled with holly, on different sides of
the fireplace in their chamber.

And now came forth the boys, each bounding tumultuously
with his treasure, which had come with
the dawn of Christmas. They had all slept with an
eye open, eager to see what sort of visage the old man
would put on. Dick swears he saw him; a big man,
in a sort of white overall, or shirt, with a great basket
on his arm, a great pair of horns on his head, and a
long beard, like moss, hanging to his knees. Tom
thinks he saw him; but is of opinion that he had on
petticoats, and looked something like his mamma;
while little Harry slept through it all. As for the
girls, we can only say that, when asked what they saw,
Bessy Clinton and Mary Butler smiled knowingly,
but said nothing; while dear little Rose insists that
Father Christmas was a big lady like her own mamma.

But for their gifts! Old Kinsale had the first
sight of these. The treasures of each were spread
before him, and he was called upon to decide on their
value. Tom emptied his boots to display a pair of
spurs, a buck-handled knife, and a very pretty flageolet,
with all of which he seemed very well contented.
Dick held himself quite as lucky with one small qualification.
His trophies were, a knife also, but smaller
than that of Tom's, a bag of marbles, an India-rubber

ball, a bilboketch, or cup and ball, a joint-snake, and
a bunch of hickory switches. There was something
in every pocket or receptacle among his clothes, from
which the holly sprig had been taken. Little Harry
was quite satisfied with certain toys that leapt like
frogs, barked like dogs, or rolled and grunted like
hogs. He was also indulged in a tipsy Turk, with
his chibouque, manufactured in papier maché. The
gifts of Father Christmas to the girls were in less
doubtful taste. Dear little Rose had her toys, it is
true; but Bessy Clinton found in her basket a beautifully
bound copy of the common-prayer, and a fine
ladies' gold watch. A single sentence written in antique
characters, evidently by King Christmasse himself,
warned her to use the first gift properly that
she might not lose the value of the second. Mary
Butler had a ring with the initials of Bessy Clinton.
Susan Bond was not forgotten. Her tribute of holly
disappeared, and a very pretty musical-box, with a
handsome set of chess-men, and a beautiful copy of
Pilgrim's Progress, remained in place of it. The ancient
sire had chosen judiciously. He knew the tastes
of all parties, and their deserts too. They were all
satisfied equally with his liberality and justice; and,
in their satisfaction with their treasures, the great gun
was almost forgotten. Its sharp and loud report
routed the rest of the sleeping household, and each
urchin, lying in wait, made the house ring again, as
the several members came forth, with “Merry Christmas,
papa! Merry Christmas, mamma!” “I've
caught you—I've caught you!” And this led to a
new distribution of gifts. Father Christmas had done
his duty, but the ordinary sire of the household must
do his—and the mother, and the sister, and all;—
and the custom did not confine these claims to the
children, but extended to the house-servants, none of
whom forgot that the advent of Father Christmasse,
gave them claims upon massa and missis, which were
to be urged early in the morning, with vociferous
cries, as soon as they should show their faces.

Before this rout had well subsided, the girls, Bessy
Clinton, Mary Butler, and Susan Bond, were busy at
another and equally essential part of the ceremonies
of the season. Each had a pile of eggs before her,
and there were huge bowls and dishes spread out, and
great vessels of sugar and a decanter of wine; and
the eggs were broken, the whites emptied into the
dish, the yolks into the bowl, and Susan Bond, seizing
upon the bowl, began to beat away with a spoon like
mad, stirring in every now and then a modicum of
sugar with the yolks, till they lost their golden hue
and put on one more silvery and less rich. At the
same time, our Bessy Clinton, even more busy, and at
the more laborious process, was beating the white and
mucilaginous portions of the egg into a thick foam of
such final consistency that she could turn the vessel
upside down without losing a drop of the commodity.
This was the standard point, which, once attained, the
yolk and white were again to be united, the wine was
to embrace the two in its ardent grasp, and the whole
was then fit for the palate of Father Christmasse
himself, the King of the Feast. This is eggnog—

a noggin of which is the necessary preface to a Christmas
breakfast, after the old fashion in Carolina. This
discussed, and breakfast followed, ample and various
as the preceding day; and then all parties sallied
forth, in several groups, to ride, to ramble, and to
hunt. Two or three of the young men, taking Tom
Openheart along with them, and calling up the hounds,
set off to chase the deer. Numerous drives on the
ample estate of “Maize-in-milk” promised abundant
sport. We shall not follow the hunters, but content
ourselves with saying that their efforts were rewarded
with a fine fat doe and a monstrous wild-cat, four feet
from snout to tail, inclusive, that made famous play
with hounds and hunters, and was only caught after
three hours' running and doubling, and a most terrific
fight.

Meanwhile, breakfast scarcely over at “Maize-in-milk,”
a new collection of shining faces appeared about
the porch of the dwelling, in waiting for the appearance
of “old maussa” without. These were the field
negroes, under the lead of ancient Enoch, including
those not only of the plantation proper, but those also
who had just been bought of the Butler estate. The
household servants, as we have already hinted, had
made sure of their “Christmas” as soon as the family
budged out of their several chambers. And such a
chorus of cries and salutations! Such a happy variety
of voices in the same monotonous chant of “Merrie
Chrystmasse.” There were voices of lame, halt, and
blind; beginning with old Dolly, a white-headed matron
of ninety-three, whose memory was a complete chronicle

of the revolutionary warfare. Blind and deaf, she sat
between her great-great-grandchildren, on the steps of
the porch, and shook her palsied head, with a feeble
chirrup, which was drowned in the more vigorous
burden of a hundred more, whose lungs deferred but
little to her weight of years. And there was Binah,
the mute; and Tony, the one-armed; and Polly, the
half-witted; and Diana, the rheumatic, and a dozen
more of both sexes, whom the master only knew as
dependents for whom he had to provide, and who were
of more trouble and expense to him than thrice their
number of the rest. But of this our excellent proprietor
did not complain. Indeed, these poor creatures
were particular objects of his attention. He was
content to take the evil with the good; and he regarded
these old heirlooms as so many subjects of
his father, who, having served their time faithfully,
deserved to be protected and provided for during the
future, in consideration of the past. There was no
discharging the operative the moment he ceased to be
useful.

And such a clamor as was raised, as our Colonel
Openheart came forth at the head of his guests, as
if his benevolence was now to be assailed by storm.
The jaws of eighty or more were instantly unclosed
upon him; and “God bless you, maussa,”—“Merry
Christmas, old maussa,”—“How all is, dis merrie
Christmas,”—“Hoping you live tousand merry Christmas
more,”—“And all de chillans;” these were some
few of the burdens of their common song. Some had
it in rhyme, borrowed probably from the school-boys:—

Or,
Or,
And, from another voice, as if by way of chorus,

For this scene our excellent proprietor had been
accustomed to prepare. In this respect he followed
the example of his ancestor, and, indeed, of most of
the very old native proprietors. A sort of peddler's
variety was produced from a huge case, which had
been brought up from the city a few days before. To
some were given knives and scissors, caps, shawls, and
handkerchiefs. Others had hatchets, razors, tobacco,
and cases of pins and needles. Some chose cotton or
wool cards—for most of the negro women of character
on a plantation, carry on some little domestic manufactures
of their own; and others were quite content
with queer clumsy toys, and great grinning masks,
with which they could amuse or frighten the more
simple of their own or of neighboring plantations.
Money is seldom given, never by a judicious proprietor,
as it is sure to be spent perniciously at some neighboring
groggery.

This distribution of Christmas presents occupied an
hour or more. In some instances, but not often, and

only when Col. Openheart could trust the good sense
of the recipient, he was permitted to choose his article
for himself. They all withdrew, more or less satisfied
—their greasy, grinning faces doing ample justice,
by their expression, to the bounty of the master, and
the fulness of the hog-meat upon which they had been
feasting for a week past.

Lawyer Skinflint was not satisfied with the spectacle
he witnessed. He thought it a mode of spoiling them.
They would always expect such favors. It invited
familiarity. It would provoke jealousy among themselves.
It would be productive of many other mischiefs
which we shall not mention. To all these Col.
Openheart opposed evasive answers only. It was not
the season for discussion; nor was he, in his old age,
to discuss or doubt the propriety of a practice which
his grandfather and father had pursued before him
without being thought worse persons than their neighbors.
The excellent lawyer only ceased his pleadings
with the appearance of the ladies in the portico, when
he addressed himself with a benignant smile to Mrs.
Openheart, and, after a few studied phrases about
the day, turned to play the gallant with lovely Bessy
Clinton; a new rôle, which seemed by no means native.

The horses were now in readiness, the carriage and
barouche. All parties were preparing to go forth.
Col. Whitfield, with his wonted promptness, offered
his services to Mrs. Openheart and Mrs. Whipple, for
a drive; while Misses Whipple and Jones, failing to
persuade Bessy Clinton, Mary Butler, and Susan Bond
from the saddle to the barouche, very civilly offered

to take up good old father Kinsale. Having ascertained
how Bessy Clinton went, the lawyer determined
to engage also in equestrianship, though really inclining,
by reason of his peculiar physique, to the
cushions; and he, Col. Openheart, Mr. Bond, and the
two boys, became the companions of the three girls,
and were soon mounted upon the liveliest and pleasantest
pacers in the whole parish. It was a day for
horseback, and the “righte merrie” cavalcade dashed
at once up the highway for a mile; then, turning
aside, proceeded to pay an annual visit, in especial, to
the old fort, overlooking the river, remarkable for its
local traditions; where you may yet see the proofs of
the devil's presence, in one of his ancient frolics, in
the tracks of his tail and carriage wheels—a legend
which, at some future and convenient season, we shall
have to put in print. The description of the scenery
along the route taken by our party we must reserve
for the same occasion. Enough to say of it that it
harmonized admirably with the bracing air, the calm,
generous sunshine, and the rapid but easy motion of
the horses. All parties were delighted—eyes were
in a glow, cheeks were brightly flushed, and even our
lawyer, who kept his horse neck-and-neck, like a
young gallant, with that of Bessy Clinton, talked of
nothing but purling brooks, green leaves, and love in
a cottage, the whole way. The sweet, gentle-hearted
girl heard him with respectful kindness, and answered
without hesitation or reserve. She had no suspicions
of his gallantry, to put her on her reserves; and all
things might have gone, with him, “as merry as a
marriage bell,” but for a slight incident which happened
on the route.

Dashing suddenly into the main road, on their way
back to “Maize-in-milk,” they came unexpectedly
upon another party, the sight of which kindled the
eyes equally of Col. Openheart and Bessy Clinton.
“Why, Bessy,” said the colonel, “that is Mrs. Berkshire's
carriage, surely. What brings her from the
city?” The words were scarcely spoken, when the
head of a young man was thrust forth from the carriage,
which was in front, and suggested a new conclusion
to our worthy proprietor of “Maize-in-milk.”
“It is she, and that is her son, Fergus, just from college;”
and, with the words, giving his horse the
spur, our colonel dashed ahead, and was soon alongside
of the vehicle and the persons in question. In
another moment the carriage was stopped, Colonel
Openheart alighted, and, changing places with young
Berkshire, the latter soon joined the young ladies by
whom the rear was brought up. A handsome, tall,
high-spirited young fellow was Fergus Berkshire. He
spoke to Bessy Clinton as to an old acquaintance, and
our lawyer watched, with some uneasiness, the sudden
flush upon the cheek of the damsel as she hailed the
youth's approach. He soon explained the motive of
the sudden appearance of himself and mother.

The old mansion-house and estate were in bad
condition, and something was to be done with it before
he went to Europe. Of course,” he added, “it is our
purpose, now, to spend our Christmas at 'Maize-in-milk.'”

Bessy heard and answered him with undisguised
pleasure.

“You know, Fergus,” she answered, “you are always
at home with us.”

“We took that for granted,” said the youth, “though
I almost feared that a three years' absence had caused
you to forget us all.”

“And you go soon again?” she inquired.

“Yes; mother is anxious to comply with the earnest
wishes of my poor father, whose instructions were,
that, after leaving college, I was to pass two years in
foreign travel. We shall spend a couple of weeks
here, with your permission, get our new overseer fairly
under weigh, then proceed to the city and to New
York, so that our preparations may be complete for
sailing in the May packet.”

He was silent, and so was Bessy Clinton. A certain
gravity which was unusual overspread her face. We
will not trouble ourselves just now to ask wherefore this
was so. Let it suffice that, from whatever source her
emotion may have sprung, it did not make her forgetful
of the courtesies; and the introduction of the newcomer
to the rest of the company took place selon les
règles. Our lawyer's share in this proceeding was
conducted with sufficient stiffness; but it escaped the
notice of all parties, except possibly young Berkshire
himself; who, by the way, did not seem greatly to
consider the presence of our excellent Skinflint. He
soon contrived to get himself close beside our heroine,
and on her bridle-hand, and they jogged along
together rather too slowly, it would seem, for the attorney

whose steed had suddenly become possessed of
the idea of going forward with all possible rapidity.
An hour brought all parties home safely to “Maize-in-milk,”
and after the interchange of the usual courtesies
with the newly arrived, the company was left
to dispose of itself as the several members pleased,
until dinner time. We will but remark that Berkshire
was the first person to emerge after making his toilet,
and sweet Bessy Clinton was the first to find him in
the parlor. The person who next entered to them
was Skinflint, who listened demurely to the conversation
of the young people, without taking part in it,
wondering to himself, all the while, what in the name
of common sense people could find to please their
minds in the prattle about their days of childhood.
Fergus Berkshire and Bessy Clinton made much more
of the theme than sour old Skinflint had ever made of
his childhood. He, unhappily for himself, had never
known the period. He was born a man—hard, wiry,
inflexible, calculating, selfish—with his coat buttoned
up to his chin, and his hard intellect busy from the
first in stifling all his natural affections.

Old Colonel Openheart was one of those to whom
the every-day world would give the title, sneeringly,
of a man of affectations. He was certainly no hum-drum
personage. His Christmas dinner, for example,
was not a good dinner merely. It was a Christmas
dinner. He did not summon his guests to eat,
simply, and to drink. The mere swill was not his
object. The intellectual tastes were to be consulted,
the fancies, the very superstitions, which, in the progress

of the ages would naturally accumulate about
the practices of a people on peculiar occasions. His
Christmas was a season of equal thanksgiving and
enjoyment. There was to be a natural ebullition of the
feelings at such a time. There should be exultation.
High and humble should equally show gratitude; and
the natural expression of gratitude is good-humor and
cheerfulness. The high was to be high only in the
exercise of an ability to make the lowly glad and
happy; the humble was to exult in gratifications which
showed them consciously in possession of bounties
bestowed, in the first instance, by the Lord of all, and
intermediately by those whose only boast was in
being able in some degree to follow his example in its
bounties and its sympathies. Colonel Openheart
strove for these objects. We have glimpsed at some
of his household modes of doing this. His Christmas
dinner, as it appealed somewhat to the superstitions
and the fancies, was designed for this end also. And
when the great hall was thrown open to his guests,
dressed in a deep Gothic garment of green boughs
and branches, sprinkled with red berries and blue,
with candles distributed between, and a great oak
wood fire blazing at the extremity—with a stately
arch of green at each end of the table, and one of
triumphal aspect and colossal size spanning its centre
—the entering company felt themselves transported
to the old baronial domains of our Anglo-Norman
ancestry, and their minds were naturally elevated
with the moral sentiments which grew out of their
recollections of history. The quaint masking was not
without its influence. The device was a homily; and
when the head waiter made his appearance, bringing
in, as the first dish, the “boar's head,” done after the
ancient Saxon method, dressed in rosemary, and with
a huge lemon in its open mouth, they were all in the
mood to join in chorus with the host, who, knife in
hand, began chanting merrily the ancient carol:—

Set in the centre of the table, this “armed head”
was soon surrounded by the several solid meats for
which John Bull has always been renowned, and the
taste for which has been amply inherited in the South,
with certain “graffings” of our own. Ham and
turkey, for example, are certain as the day at our
Christmas, and when venison is procurable it is never
omitted from the board. But ours is no mere catalogue.
The reader must imagine the variety. He
must suppose the presence of roast and boiled—the

beef and the venison pastry—the duck as well as the
turkey, and much of these to have been stricken wild
in the woods and waters, with all the provoking freshness
of the game flavor upon them. Wines of ancient
denomination—Madeira that had been walled up for
thirty years, and sherry that had grown pale, indeed,
from weight of years, was at hand; but our host confined
himself, on this day, chiefly to his new supply
of natty English ale—a potation which did honor to
the British breweries. The dessert was composed of
the fruits of Cuba and the North, nuts and figs, not
forgetting pindars, groundnuts, or peanuts, as they
call them north of the Delaware. Nor had the damsels
of the household neglected the usual preparation
of mince-pies and plum-puddings. In the latter article,
in particular, our worthy colonel was resolute to
do honor to his ancient English origin, and the plum-pudding
was as certainly upon his Christmas table as
was the soused head of the boar.

Day slipped away unconsciously while the parties
were still at table. It seemed as if the quaintness
of the feast and the admirable humor of “Mine
Hoste” had penetrated all hearts, and made each
wholly forgetful of his cares. Even the excellent
attorney was subdued to a temporary oblivion of the
acridity which belonged to the profession, and the
peculiar rigidity with which he practised it; and, at
the close of a certain number of glasses of old south-side
Madeira, to which he did (like Desdemona—eh?)
“seriously incline,” he might have been seen pelting
our Bessy Clinton with almonds across the table, with

a studied slyness of intention which his skill did not
enable him to realize, and the familiarity of which
made young Fergus Berkshire look rather graver than
his wont. Suddenly the great gun in the park in
front was heard to explode, and then followed a huzza
from Tom, Dick, and Harry, and a cloud of urchins
whom they had gathered to the event. This uproar
was succeeded by one of more gentle influence. The
violin was heard in an adjoining apartment, the tambourine
responded with its lively jingle, while the heavy
foot of old Jake Priester, the white-headed butler of
the establishment, gave notice to the young people of
stirring preparation, which would task all the lightness
of their heels and hearts. But these were preparatory
notes only, for old Jake always took some
time to get his foot and fiddle in tune, and to put little
Christier, his grandson, in training with his tambourine.
Of the dance which followed we shall say nothing,
except that “will-he, nill-he,” Skinflint was resolute
to dance with sweet Bessy Clinton. This was a bold
resolution of the attorney. He had certainly taken
lessons in his youth; but that day had gone by many
years, and his practice had been much more constant
and devoted in the courts of law than in those of
beauty. Still, he had not forgotten the figures, and
the wine of Colonel Openheart had enlivened his head,
if it had not strengthened the virtue in his heels. He
was not to be outdone by any young fellow, however
fresh from college. But how, in the Virginia reel
which followed, he contrived to get entangled between
Bessy Clinton and Fergus Berkshire, and to take his
length on the floor in consequence, is not easily understood.
He himself ascribed it entirely to the awkwardness
or the malice of young Berkshire, whom
he did not remember, accordingly, with any especial
affection. While the young people were dancing in
the mansion of “Maize-in-milk,” the blacks were
busy in the “Negro Quarter.” Thither Colonel
Openheart soon withdrew, accompanied by Whitfield,
Whipple, Bond, and the older portion of the company.
The negroes had their fiddle also—nay, they had three
of them, such as they were—one belonging to “Maize-in-milk,”
one from the Butler estate, and one who
volunteered from a neighboring plantation. Such
wholesale abandon as they showed—so much recklessness
of care, and toil, and vexation of spirit—would
delight a philanthropist from Utopia. Every house
had its circle, with open doors—and the grounds
between their several cabins were filled with jigging
groups—tossing heads, kicking shins, rompings and
rollicking—with the rare impulse of so many happy
urchins just let loose from school. They had their
supper too, and devoured a good-sized barbacued steer,
and several hogs, to say nothing of sundry possums,
made captive the night before. Of bread, the consumption
was intolerably vast; and some fifty gallons
of persimmon beer—an innocent domestic beverage
of their own manufacture, somewhat resembling
cider—were finished before the fiddlers and dancers
showed signs of weariness. It grew to the shortest
possible hours before “Maize-in-milk” was everywhere
fairly wrapped in slumber.

4. CHAPTER IV.

We trust that our readers have not forgotten our
last Christmas at “Maize-in-milk.” Since that period,
two anniversaries of this happy season have
elapsed—we will not say how happily—at that ancient
manor. But times have somewhat changed since then.
The weather now has grown less favorable to field
sports. The sun is far less cheering. The fields look
gloomy. The woods, stripped of their foliage, have a
ghostly aspect, that chills and discourages. It lacks
some three weeks to Christmas, yet the cotton fields,
which at good seasons were wont to look white until
the middle of January, are now absolutely bare. The
naked stems, shorn of boll and fruit, stunted, slender,
and with few and feeble branches, declare that the
season has been unfriendly, and that the crop is short.
The spring rains were unfavorable to a stand; the
rich swamp bottoms were inundated, when the plant
should have been up; the growing season continued
wet and cold; and when the partial crop, which did
promise to mature, was about to do so, a new enemy
appeared in the caterpillar and the army-worm.
These filthy insects, worse than the locusts of the
East, swept the fields in a single night. The leaves
of the plant first disappeared beneath their devouring
ravages; the unopened bolls then perished; and they
fastened finally upon the stems and fruit, though with
an appetite somewhat diminished. The worthy proprietor

of “Maize-in-milk” was the first to suffer.
His fields were chiefly of that class which felt the evil
consequences of excessive moisture. The heavy rains
of spring, the continued inundations throughout the
summer, and the numerous pests which a burning sun
drew forth from the rank moisture of the fen and
forest, were peculiarly injurious to the low, but rich
swamp tracts which constituted his most productive
acres. His best lands, his chief reliance, failed him,
and he might be seen, towards the close of a cheerless
day, the second week in December, alone, and
riding gloomily and slow from his river fields towards
his dwelling. He felt all the sadness of the prospect.
There were considerations working in his mind, which
rendered this failure particularly distressing, if not
absolutely fearful. The two previous seasons, though
not so absolutely lost as the present, were yet not productive.
They had not enabled him to diminish the
debt which he had incurred by the purchase of the
Butler negroes. Not a cent of this money had been
paid beyond the interest, and that, for the year about
to finish, was not to be realized from the products of
the present crop. Economy is not, unhappily, a frequent
virtue in the household of a southern planter of
the old school. His income lessens, but that does not
imply any lessening of his expenses. He does not
like to approach, or to consider this necessity. His
training, in fact, has been such as not to suffer him to
do it. He knows not well how to put down his horses;
to forbear the dinner-parties and pleasure-parties to
which his neighbors have become accustomed as well
as himself; to put his family and negroes upon short
commons, and to sell unnecessary property in time to
save himself. Colonel Openheart was no simpleton.
He did not lack courage. He was not blind to his
danger. He was not insensible to the claims of his
creditors. But the habit of living like a prince, and
training his children to do the same, and feasting his
poorer neighbors like a feudal lord—these made the
necessity of contracting equally difficult and irksome.
He felt how childish was the pride which made him
unwilling to confess his inability, but the habit of
thinking and acting in one way only was incorrigible.
He did not lack the courage to say to himself, there
must be no more of this fine living; but how say it
to his wife, whom he had married an heiress, who
had always been accustomed to the luxuries he was
required to suppress, and whose mature years might
render it peculiarly difficult to submit to any change;
and how say it to dear Bessy Clinton, whom the
world looked upon as an heiress; and to the boys at
college, how cut off their allowance; and Ned, in
Europe, who had been no small spendthrift, how declare
to him that his drafts could no longer be honored?
These were all duties which thrust themselves
for serious consideration upon our excellent proprietor,
and darkened his brow to a corresponding shadow
with that which rested on the natural landscape.
Some of these duties had already been attended to.
Ned had been long since summoned home from Europe;
the boys at college had been warned that with
the close of the present year they must be satisfied
with but a pittance of the money which had hitherto
supplied their wants; and to his wife and Bessy Clinton,
the amiable husband and father had dealt in hints
of his approaching difficulties, which neither of them
understood. A secret instinct warned our proprietor
that his great trouble was with Skinflint, the attorney
of Ingelhart and Cripps, executors of the estate of
Butler. There had already been some negotiations
between them, which had given Colonel Openheart a
taste of the quality of this person. He was, it is
true, exceedingly polite and specious, but very searching,
very scrupulous, and very expensive. One thing
more than all had impressed our planter with disquiet
in relation to the attorney; it was a gradual approach
to forwardness, consequence, and the show of an imperious
will on the part of the other, in due proportion
to the evidently increasing necessity for indulgence
on the side of Openheart. The latter was made
to anticipate the sting of being at the mercy of one
with whom he could have no sympathy; and it was
very clear that the attorney was impatient for the
moment when he could compel that recognition of his
importance, which, as a man, Openheart had apparently
shown no disposition to entertain. Our proprietor
paced his cheerless fields with a momently
increasing cheerlessness of mood. He was joined by
old Enoch, to whom for several minutes he said nothing.
At length, shaking his head, he exclaimed:
“Old man, this might have been better!”

“How, better, maussa, enty de rain and de caterpillar?”

“I know all about the rain and the caterpillar; I
know the mischief they have done, and wish to hear
nothing on that subject;—but had you minded what
I said, had you taken in the upper fields instead of
the lower, they would not have been drowned, and we
should have saved sixty acres there at least; but no,
you must have your own way; you must know better
than anybody else.”

“Well, maussa, you nebber been say plant dem,
and leff de lower field; you say, `I tink you better
plant dem upper,' and I been tink diffren, so I tells
you, and you say, `Well!'”

The answer was conclusive. Colonel Openheart,
instead of issuing his orders, had left it to Enoch's
discretion, contenting himself with giving a suggestion
instead of a command. This is a frequent error
of the old planter of Carolina.

“Well, it is too late now to complain. How are
your cattle?”

“De winter is mighty hard 'pon dem, maussa.”

“How many hogs have you got in pen for slaughter?”

“Sebenty-tree.”

“Instead of a hundred and fifty. How do you
account for that, Enoch, when we turned out more
than two hundred and fifty into the swamp last spring,
and your hog-minder has been carrying out his three
bushels of corn daily, for six months, to keep them
up?”

“Well, maussa, dere's no telling; but de varmints
in de swamp is mighty hard 'pon de pigs dis season—

de wild-cat, de niggers, and dem poor buckrah, Moses
Daborne, 'Lishe Webter, Zeke Tapan, and dat half
Ingin, Sam Johnson. Ef you could only clear de
swamp of dem white niggers, you could raise hog tell
you couldn't count dem.”

“The old story! Enough. Ride up to the postoffice
and bring me the papers and letters.”

Our proprietor was once more alone. “The world
goes wrong with me on every side. I am either destined,
or I am imbecile. I have certainly been weak
and erring, profligate, thoughtless; as wildly confident
of the future as ever was a poor boy with a pocket
full of shillings and a long holiday before him. I
must amend promptly or all is lost. If Ingelhart and
Cripps, or rather, if Skinflint will indulge, one good
crop will gain me time; two good crops at good prices,
and all would be safe. But there's the rub! This
swamp cultivation is so uncertain, and these good
prices are so doubtful, and—the d—l take these
lawyers and merchants; they get everything at last!”
And then he mused in silence, looking neither to the
right nor left, as he went forward. Passing out of
the open fields, he penetrated a dark avenue which
ran through a dense and umbrageous swamp-forest,
which formed, as it were, a boundary between the
river-lands and uplands, and was crowded with an
immense growth of cypress, ash, poplar, and pine—
so densely arrayed that, though in midwinter, when
all but the evergreens were stripped of foliage, the
beams of the sun were seldom suffered to find entrance.
The day being clouded, the darkness of this

region was still more oppressive, and a slight shiver
shook the frame of our already desponding proprietor
as he entered the narrow and dismal passage. At
this moment an owl shrieked above him, a huge fowl,
bald but horned, whose great human eyes and horrid
screech might well disquiet, with unpleasant forebodings,
the mood of one so circumstanced as our worthy
planter. “How like,” he exclaimed, “to the voice
of Skinflint. I almost fancied at first that it was he
crying out to me.” He looked up as he spoke, and
beheld the bird sitting upon a great limb almost overhead,
and looking directly down upon him. He rode
on, the little incident oppressing him unpleasantly,
and much more than his pride was willing to admit.
“Why does that fellow cross my fancy thus? What
is he to me? What can he do? He can have no purpose
but for his clients, and these may be satisfied—
let the worst come to the worst—by a timely surrender
of the property.” But a second thought taught
him not to lay this flattering unction to his soul. He
had bought the Butler negroes at high, and the same
sort of property was now selling at low prices. The
loss must be large, and must be made up out of his
own estates. Then the interest, then his own debts,
which, to meet this interest, already had been suffered
to grow to a heavy item! Altogether, the prospect
was such that our proprietor of “Maize-in-milk” was
only too happy to exclude the subject altogether from
his thoughts. But this was not so easy, and his
gloomy mood continued till he reached his dwelling,
where, soon after, the contents of his mail gave it an
increase of sting and bitterness. “A letter from Mr.
Skinflint,” he remarked quietly to his wife, “in which
he speaks of being here in three days. That must
bring him here to-morrow. Let us see—the letter is
dated the 12th. Yes, indeed, to-morrow we may look
for him.”

“What does he come for?” said the simple-hearted
but shrewd mother, looking up at Bessy Clinton. The
latter did not see the glance, and did not appear to
hear the inquiry.

“You forget,” said the colonel, “that he has the
management of all the business of the Butler estate.”

“Did you say that Mary Butler was coming, papa?”

“Not unless this letter says so, which I see comes
from Bloomsdale, and is addressed to you.”

Bessy Clinton received and read the epistle with
eagerness. “There, mamma, it is from Mary, and
she and her aunt both are coming, and will be here
on Saturday.”

“We shall have a full house, then, for Fergus
Berkshire rode in this morning to say that his mother
would be up from the city in three days, and would
spend the Christmas with us.”

The communication was received in grave silence;
Colonel Openheart, his letters still in his hand, steadily
watching the fire as flake by flake crumbled away into
the mass below.

“We shall have a full house, Mr. Openheart,”
repeated the lady.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Why, husband, you seem to be in a dream!”

“Yes—yes, I hear.”

“I am glad you do, for it is necessary that you
should write at once for supplies for Christmas. The
sugar is almost out; we must have several pounds of
green tea, and perhaps a little black, for Mrs. Berkshire
asked for it when she was here before. She
has learned the use of it at the North, where I am told
they drink no other kind. And raisins, and currants,
and almonds, apples, and—”

We need not follow the good housekeeper through
the catalogue. Our worthy proprietor was almost in
despair, yet he subdued his feelings with great firmness
and strength of will. Bessy Clinton alone perceived
that something was wrong. Her eye perused the
countenance of her father with a modest interest, that
did not suffer him to see that he was watched. She
saw that his face had grown somewhat paler than its
wont. She had already remarked that he had grown
thinner during the past few months, and she now
fancied that his hair had put on a more snowy complexion.
She saw and mused, but was properly silent.
Colonel Openheart reopened one of the letters which
he had just received. It was the polite request of his
grocer that his account should be attended to. The
sum total was set down, that there should be no mistake,
$718 44; and here were wants which must increase
it considerably, and no crop, and no means of
payment, but by a great sacrifice of property.

“I wish there was no such season as Christmas.”

“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Bessy Clinton, in reproachful
accents, “how can you wish so?”

Mrs. Openheart looked up in surprise.

“At least,” said the proprietor, “I may be permitted
to wish that this Christmas were fairly over.”

“What, papa, just when I am calculating upon this
as the most merry Christmas of any that we have ever
had!” and the sweet girl, as she spoke, had glided to
the chair where her father sat, and with arm that
circled his neck was bending round and looking up
affectionately in his face. A slight moisture gathered
in his eyes, which it was just possible for him to subdue.

“May you ever find it happy with you at Christmas,
Bessy, and at all other seasons. God bless you,
my dear child; you are of more comfort to me than
all the others. But I can scarcely share with you in
your delights this Christmas.”

“And why not, papa?”

“You know that I have made no crop this year;
there was a fai0lure last year also, and another partial
failure the year before, and my expenses have been
very heavy. Bills must be paid, and—”

“Didn't I warn you of it, husband, when you would
buy those Butler negroes?” said the good wife, with
an exulting shake of the head and finger.

“Yes, Mrs. Openheart, you did,” answered the
husband, mildly, “but that was only after they were
bought; and the question now is, not exactly as to
your credit as a prophet, but to mine as a paymaster.”

The sagacious lady felt the gentle rebuke and was
silent.

“There are debts to be paid, Bessy Clinton,” continued
the father, affectionately, though sadly; “and
this it is which makes me tremble even at the additional
charges which this Christmas is to bring upon
me.”

“But our friends must be received with proper
welcome, Colonel Openheart,” said the lady.

“Oh, true,” was the answer, as if it were a matter
of course that certain appearances should be maintained
even though at the sacrifice of everything;
“true, true, your groceries shall be ordered, and we
shall be prepared, I trust, to welcome with proper
warmth every guest who may honor us with his presence—not
forgetting that bird of evil aspect and
voice, Richard Skinflint, Esq., himself. But I am
afraid it will cost us greatly, and we must look to
contract our expenses among ourselves, and make up
in this way what our hospitality may dissipate. I
will order what you desire. This year there shall be
no changes. Merrie old Christmasse must visit the
children, too, as usual; and, as we continue our own
luxuries, the negroes must have theirs. The New
Year must not be clouded to our inferiors because
we are gloomy.”

“But we shall not be gloomy, papa,” said Bessy
Clinton, twining herself about him and kissing his
cheeks fondly. “This dark weather will disappear;
hereafter you will have good seasons and good luck.
Let me prophesy—me, Bessy Clinton, among the

prophets—that next year will be a famous crop year,
prices high—”

“And grocers' low,” was the somewhat sober conclusion
of the father. “You are a good girl, Bessy,
and I will probably remind you of your prophecy next
Christmas, as your mother takes care to remind me of
hers—that is, when they happen to be true. But
what is here? Looking at Skinflint's letter and the
grocer's, I have omitted one that would seem to be
from Ned.”

“From Ned?” exclaimed mother and daughter in
the same breath.

“It looks like his hand, and is from New York.
Sure enough, it is he. He reached New York on
Friday last, in the Sylvie de Grasse, from Havre, and
will be in Charleston by the Wilmington boat.”

“When, papa, when?”

“To-morrow.”

“To-morrow! Dear, dear Ned, how I long to see
his face again.”

The ejaculations of Bessy Clinton were sufficient
for the rest. The mother's eyes were full of bright
tears, and in the grateful thoughts of a favorite son
arrived at home and manhood, the cares which troubled
the father were temporarily forgotten.

The next day brought Skinflint. He was received
with respect and kindness, if not cordiality; though
neither our proprietor nor the worthy matron, his
wife, beheld his coming with any satisfaction. The
former could not forget that it was in the power of
this man, with whom he could have no sympathies,

materially to impair his fortunes; and the latter had
suspicions which never crossed her companion's mind,
that Skinflint's eye was fixed upon her daughter with
an expression which already denotes the foregone conclusion
of the hawk, who sees, from his swing in air,
where the partridge is about to nestle. Any notion
that such was the passion of the attorney, never once
troubled the thought of Colonel Openheart, whose
pride of character could not for an instant tolerate
the idea of any sympathies between a creature of such
avid and selfish character and his purely-minded and
generous child. But Mrs. Openheart said nothing of
her conjectures, and the fears of her husband with
regard to Skinflint were wholly of a different character.
They rode out together a little while after the
arrival of the latter, and crossed the cotton and cornfields
in their route to the river. There was an unpleasant
grin upon the lips of Skinflint as the mean
appearance of the cotton stems denoted the complete
failure of the crop. He had heard something of this
before, enough to satisfy him that things were going
on as he wished them. A southern planter is apt to
be suspicious of your comments when he is conscious
that his crop is obviously inferior, and the eye of
Colonel Openheart was soon sensible of the expression
on the countenance of Skinflint.

“Not much cotton here this year, colonel,” said he,
switching his boot as they rode.

“None, sir, none, as you may see,” was the sudden,
almost sharp reply.

“Hum!” A pause. “How is your corn crop,
colonel?”

“Turn your horse's head with mine, and you shall
answer your own question.”

They rode aside to other fields. The corn-stalks,
low and slender, told their own story of a blight quite
as great as that in the cotton field.

“Why, colonel, you will hardly make enough to do
you at this rate.”

“Shall have to buy a thousand bushels at least, sir,”
responded the other, almost fiercely.

Skinflint knew the fact a month before, but it was
the nature of the creature to extort the acknowledgment
of the sufferer, by making him lay bare his sore
as frequently as possible, though at each effort he tore
away some portion of the skin.

“And corn already seventy cents,” was the muttered
commentary of the executor.

“Seventy-five here,” was the stern correction which
the proprietor interposed.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Skinflint; “then in three
weeks more it will be a dollar.”

“Possibly two, sir,” was the second moody amendment.

“Scarcely, colonel,” was the speculative suggestion
of the attorney. “Prices here, whenever they pass
beyond a certain point, bring in competition from
other quarters. Here, sellers must be governed by
some regard to the Charleston market, which in turn
takes its color from the extent of the crops in Maryland
and North Carolina. Now, as the crops this

year in these two States have been of average character,
it follows that the article will scarcely exceed
eighty cents in Charleston. Allow for the cost of
each transition and freight by railroad or wagon, and
you must see that it can by no possibility exceed one
dollar here, unless with reference to some very great
scarcity. I don't think, all things considered, that
you will have to give more than a dollar, though it
may possibly, in two months more, go two-eighths
above it, particularly as I suppose that none of your
neighbors have done better than yourself.”

“You mistake, sir; few of them but have done
better.”

“Indeed! But that is very unfortunate! But
you have past seasons to rely upon, colonel. You
have made good crops heretofore, and can very well
afford to contend with the evils of the present.”

“Unfortunately, sir, I have no such source of consolation.
This is the third, though the worst by far,
of three successive failures.”

“Indeed! But suffer me to ask, Colonel Openheart,
to what do you ascribe these failures?”

“Why, sir, I do not see what good can possibly
arise to either of us from the inquiry. Perhaps the
shortest way would be to adopt the suggestion of my
neighbors, and to assume that all the mischief lay in
the incapacity of the proprietor.”

An audible “hem!” answered this cold conclusion,
which shut the door upon any farther annoyance from
this score at least, and a somewhat protracted silence
followed, broken at length by Colonel Openheart,

whose mind had been gradually steeled by the tone,
manner, and comments of his companion, to a resolute
approach to the very subject which, over all, he most
dreaded and could have wished to avoid. It was with
something of desperation, therefore, that he himself
opened the business of his debt to the estate of Butler.

“I take for granted, Mr. Skinflint, that there can
be no reason why, in the present condition of my
affairs, I should not have every indulgence from
Messrs. Ingelhart and Cripps. Miss Butler is still a
minor, and the investment is notoriously safe. I am
aware that the entire payment is now due, but it must
be evident to you that in the failure of my crops,
and the low prices of cotton for the last three years,
so large a payment was impossible except at great
sacrifice of property. Besides, as you are aware, the
negroes were bought at very high prices.”

“Quite too high,” said Skinflint, with some gravity,
well remembering that but for the generous impulse
of Openheart, he would have had them at his own
prices. The recollection did not make him more accessible
to the suggestions of the proprietor. “There
may be some difficulty about the matter; and I am
free to confess, Colonel Openheart, that your own
statement holds forth nothing encouraging to a creditor,
particularly in such a case as ours, where we
represent the interests of a minor. The investment
may be safe at present, but when you speak of a failure
of three crops in succession, upon the successful
making of which your only chance of payment depends,
we are a little disquieted. Another failure diminishes

our securities, and necessarily increases your responsibility
to other creditors, and the game may finally
depend upon the degree of speed which the creditor
may make in securing the stakes.”

Openheart winced at this cool suggestion, but he
had to control his emotions. The matter was one
simply of business, and he felt that he had nothing to
do but put aside all the sensibilities—quite unnecessary
in such a case and with such a companion—of the
gentleman. He answered quietly, though it tasked
some effort to do so: “But the property is always
there, secured by mortgage, which you may foreclose
at any moment.”

“But the property may not be always there.”

“How, sir?”

“It is a perishable property; and your real estates,
which are the collateral securities, may be subject to
the more perfect liens of other creditors. Besides,
sir, negroes are falling in value, and the foreclosure
of mortgage at this moment may be of vast importance
even to your own safety, since the probabilities
are that they will bring much better prices now—
though still far less than when you bought—than
they would twelve months hence.”

“Am I to understand from this, Mr. Skinflint, that
your instructions are to foreclose if payment be not
now made?”

“By no means, sir. What I say, is simply to suggest
some of the difficulties in the way of a decision
at this moment. I must reflect on the condition of
affairs, and will communicate with my clients.”

“It is understood, Mr. Skinflint, that you have the
entire confidence of Messrs. Ingelhart and Cripps, and
that your opinion will be almost certain to determine
their conduct?”

“I flatter myself,” replied the attorney, with a
mixed expression of meekness and complacency, “that
I am not wholly without my influence over the minds
of those gentlemen. But you will permit me to ask,
Colonel Openheart, with what purpose your remark is
made?”

“Surely, sir, my purpose was a very simple one;
it was only that I might express the hope that your
dealings with me, and your knowledge of my affairs,
were such as would enable you to assure your clients
of the undoubted security which they possess, collaterally,
for the bonds which they hold of mine in behalf
of the estate of Butler.”

The lawyer looked grave for a moment, then smiling
and turning round to his companion with an air
of great amenity and frankness: “Colonel Openheart,
it may be that I shall find it equally my pleasure and
my interest to serve you in this manner. I think it
likely, sir, that I shall have to seek a favor at your
hands before I leave you. Now, sir, one good turn
deserves another, and—”

“A favor at my hands, Mr. Skinflint? And, pray,
what is it?”

“Excuse me, sir; not just now. Sufficient for the
day, &c. Excuse me; not yet; not yet! Meanwhile,
sir, if you please, we will suspend the conversation
on this subject.”

The manner of Skinflint struck our proprietor unpleasantly.
Without question, Colonel Openheart was
an aristocrat; and the familiar, very frank, and friendly
tones of his companion, were decidedly more grating
upon his ears than the keen, avid utterance of
the calculating and selfish man of business. They
made him uneasy for a moment, as he could not possibly
divine in what way he was expected to requite
the service of the attorney. He was relieved when
he recollected that Skinflint had lately bought a plantation
in his neighborhood, and, being a lawyer, naturally
looked to fill some seat either in Congress or the
legislature. The large influence of Colonel Openheart
was unquestionable, and he now worried himself with
asking if he could conscientiously support such a
person. But the adage of which Skinflint had reminded
him, and which is always a favorite one with
those who recoil from trouble, determined him to dismiss
the evil to the day when it must come up; and
thus satisfied, our colonel readily complied with the
evident desires of his companion to canter off in the
direction of the dwelling.

They left the fields, accordingly, after a ten minutes'
ride, and took their way out into one of the main
roads of the country. They were scarcely entered
upon this, when they encountered Bessy Clinton and
Fergus Berkshire, on horseback, emerging from one
of the long and lonely avenues leading out into the
pine lands. Could Colonel Openheart have seen the
scowl that showed itself upon Skinflint's brow at this
unexpected meeting? The two young people rode

slowly, and seemed totally absorbed in their own affairs.
There was an evident flush upon the face of Bessy
Clinton, while the cheeks of Fergus seemed rather
pale than otherwise. The parties exchanged greetings,
and while the colonel and his companion walked their
horses, the youth and damsel gave their steeds a free
rein, and were soon out of sight in the direction of the
dwelling.

“A good-looking young fellow, that,” said Skinflint,
with some natural cleverness. “But ours is not
an age of industry and exertion; and once give a
fellow a chance with plenty of money on foreign travel,
and you may be sure that all's over with him. I
have good reason to believe that young Berkshire
made a monstrous hole in his own and mother's capital
when he was abroad. His dissipation while in
Paris was said to be notorious.”

“Said by whom, Mr. Skinflint?”

“Oh, by everybody. The thing was all over town
when he first came home from Europe.”

“Town is a famous place for scandal, Mr. Skinflint,
and `they say' is a proverbial liar. I know nothing of
Berkshire's doings while abroad except while he was
in Paris, and there my son Edward happened to be
with him during his whole stay. Edward speaks of
him there as a close and eager student of the language,
the country, and the fine arts. I very much doubt if
the charge of dissipation was ever less properly made
than against Fergus. He shows no traces of it now;
and, indeed, by his general intelligence, equal readiness
and modesty, and large acquisition of facts, he

shows that he could have employed but little time in
excesses, or his intellectual gains must have come by
instinct. As for his expenditures—but it may be that
your profession has brought you to a knowledge of
straits in the family with which I am unfamiliar, and
I must not oppose my conjectures to your facts. Still,
I cannot persuade myself that either he or his mother
is in any difficulty.”

“Nor do I say it. I have no knowledge of their
affairs myself, but it was said they would probably
have to put down the city establishment, and retire
wholly upon the country.”

“Said probably by those who speak rather from
their wishes than their wit. Mrs. Berkshire, while a
very liberal and lofty-minded woman, is yet a very
prudent one. She has, I think, trained her son very
admirably, and—”

“All that may be, Colonel Openheart, but the best
of training will not always or often secure our children
against the temptations of a new sphere and an intoxicating
novelty in society.”

“Always, sir; good training will always secure the
young against any temptation. But the question is as
to the quality of training. What is good and what
is bad training is hardly settled yet among philosophers.
It certainly is not among parents and school-masters,
who seem to me to pride themselves most
upon their system where the regimen is the very
worst.”

“You may be right, sir, and I am not prepared to
discuss a mere abstraction; but though this young

man's education may have been as you think it, still
the exception is possible, you know; and while such
are the reports in the city, if I were a father, I should
be very jealous of the familiarity of any such person
with a daughter of mine.”

Colonel Openheart half wheeled his horse, about to
survey the speaker. “Really, Mr. Skinflint, I have
reason to thank you for your counsel, and so has my
family; but, believe me, we have none of us any apprehensions
either from the vices of Fergus Berkshire
or the weaknesses of my daughter. Her training, at
least, has been such that we can confide everything to
her delicacy; which, in the case of women, is the best
security for their discretion. Still, sir, I thank you;
I thank you.”

There was something in the tone and manner of
Colonel Openheart, that warned Mr. Skinflint he had
ventured a little too far.

“Pardon me, Colonel Openheart,” he said, quickly,
“but I meant not to advise. My remark was purely
general, and did not specially relate to your case.
This young man may be a very good young man.
Of my own knowledge, I can say nothing against him.”

“Can you upon the knowledge of any other person?
If you can, Mr. Skinflint, you shall see that I am as
vigilant in the protection of my fireside as any man
in the country.”

“Why no, sir, not upon the knowledge of any one
in particular; but what is said by many, sir, places
the matter said in that category, which, among legal

men, constitutes a proverbial notoriety, and such is
not supposed to need proving.”

“Good law, no doubt, but most awful morality!
Can you mention, among those who deal in this notoriety,
one person who professes to speak from his
own knowledge?”

“No; I am not sure that I can.”

“Then I think that we may safely venture to dismiss
the story, since the truth that no man will father
is very apt to prove a falsehood. Your law rule,
which rejects all hearsay testimony, will justify our
irreverence.”

We need not pursue the dialogue, which Skinflint,
confident as he usually was, could not but see had
terminated to his disadvantage. His tone was judiciously
lowered, though without lessening any of the
unfavorable impressions which his companion had
contrived to form of his character and heart. Our
proprietor treated him, however, with a peculiar civility,
the stateliness of which, as it kept him at a distance
without affording him definite cause of resentment,
was sufficiently irksome, and he longed in his
heart to have an opportunity to punish the patrician
for the privilege which he exercised, being an honest
man, of behaving fearlessly like one. It was the
error of Skinflint to suppose that, having shown Colonel
Openheart that he was somewhat in his power, he
had acquired the right to prescribe to him in moral
and social respects. He was soon made to see that
there were some personal barriers which not even his
legal and moneyed strength would enable him to break

down. The character which is well grounded upon
principle and well trained by habit, never yields in
any misfortune, never succumbs to any condition,
though these may menace every social and domestic
security that we possess.

At dinner, Colonel Openheart was the hospitable
landholder; that noble old English character which
we do not sufficiently value, but which is the source of
England's best securities. He seemed to forget that
he had cause of apprehension or annoyance, and the
ease, the dignity, the grace with which he presided,
the perpetual watchfulness, that saw that no one remained
unsupplied, these all served to extort from
the secret thought of Skinflint a wholesome wonder as
to the source of so much equilibrium. Dinner was
late, and with night came the mail, bringing a hurried
letter from Edward, which our proprietor, for reasons
of his own, and with (for him) unwonted circumspection,
forbore to read aloud. This letter told him of
the young man's safe arrival in Charleston, and of his
intention to be en route for the plantation in another
day. Was it the postscript which informed the father
that it was the writer's purpose to take Bloomsdale in
his way, and if possible bring Mary Butler and her
aunt along with him, that kept him from reading it
aloud?

The two gentlemen sat up late. We did not mention
that Fergus Berkshire did not stay to supper, but
left the company as soon as dinner was over, with an
apology, in which he pleaded necessary business. He
ceased to be the subject of Skinflint's comment, but

the occasional glance of the latter, as the youth engaged
the attention of Bessy Clinton, did not escape
the eyes of the vigilant mother. The intimacy between
the young man and the maiden seemed to disturb
the equilibrium of the attorney, and probably
rendered him much more precipitate than he would
have been in a matter which, as he sat with Colonel
Openheart that night—the family having retired—he
proceeded to bring up. We will not adopt his language,
the substance of which was a formal proposal
from him, Richard Skinflint, attorney at law, for the
hand in wedlock of the fair maiden, Bessy Clinton
Openheart. Many long speeches, circuitously conceived
and cumbrously worded, prefaced this offer.
Colonel Openheart looked upon the speaker with
unmitigated astonishment; but he was prudent, kept
his temper and his secret, and calmly answered the
lawyer, that he, Skinflint, should be permitted an
interview in the morning with his daughter, and
hear his answer from her own lips. Skinflint said
something in reply to this in approbation of the excellent
custom prevailing in certain countries, where the
parents adjusted among themselves the contracts of
marriage, and the young people were sufficiently dutiful
to submit. But Colonel Openheart's reply was
brief and to the purpose. His daughter must determine
for herself in a matter so vital to her own happiness.
The night passed over with due rapidity.
The morning brought breakfast and the promised interview.
Conducting his daughter to the library, he
instructed her to await the coming of Mr. Skinflint,
and to give becoming ear to his communications. The
latter was apprised that the damsel was in waiting,
and with something more of flurry and agitation than
ever troubled him in his ordinary practice, he stole
half on tiptoe into the designated apartment. How
he purred and prabbled, with what studied and formal
phrase he proceeded to a declaration, in which, if the
heart be only warm and faithful, the lips may bungle
and the tongue falter without dread of censure or
ridicule, we will not say. Enough that his proposals,
when Bessy Clinton fully understood them, were
quite as confounding to that damsel as they were to
her father. We need scarcely say that they met with
ready rejection. What a blind thing is selfishness!
Here, now, was a person of great worldly shrewdness,
singularly sagacious in common business transactions,
yet blundering with the inconceivable notion that he
could possibly prevail with youth, beauty, tenderness,
and the most generous and confiding faith. Taught
by selfishness to regard wealth as the only power, he
had forgotten that such subjects as affection, duty,
taste, sweetness, and grace, must always acknowledge
far different authorities. It was impossible for sweet
Bessy Clinton to be unkind or harsh, and though
greatly surprised, if not indignant, at the proposal,
she replied with gentleness: She was sorry that Mr.
Skinflint had set his heart—his heart!—on his hand-maid,
but really the thing was out of the question.
She was very grateful, but begged respectfully to be
excused. Do not suppose that there was any mocking
in her response. The irony is wholly ours. His
pill was quite as much sweetened as it well could be,
but was still such as he found it difficult to swallow.
He would have argued the case, as he recovered his
courage, precisely as he would have done before a
jury, in the matter of cow and calf, in trespass or
replevin—and did argue it. The damsel heard him
quietly to the end, and affirmed the previous verdict.
He hurried to Colonel Openheart, as to a court of
appeal, but the colonel disclaimed jurisdiction; and
ordering his horses, with fury but ill concealed, Skinflint
prepared to take his departure before dinner.
With genuine politeness, regarding the circumstances,
our proprietor did not urge him to delay. With nice
and delicate consideration, he complied with his
wishes, conversed with him without reserve and with
studied kindness, but studiously forbore any absurd,
apologetic, or sympathetic discourses. The parties
separated on good terms, Skinflint shaking his host's
hand warmly, and smiling in his face affectionately as
he took his departure; but ere he was well out of
sight, he shook his hand menacingly back upon the
habitation, and swore, in muttered accents, through
his closed teeth, a bitter oath of vengeance. Our
proprietor knew enough of the person to apprehend
that he had made a fast enemy, but he remembered
the proverb, and put off his regrets and sorrows, as
well as he might, to the day of evil that should compel
them.

We pass over three days, and still Edward had not
arrived. “He is sick in Charleston,” said the anxious
mother. “He is at Bloomsdale,” said the more

knowing daughter. “He is spending time and money,
wherever he is,” said the dissatisfied father, “instead
of being at his law.” The fourth day brought the
truant, as an escort to Mrs. St. Clair and Mary
Butler. He had been delayed at Bloomsdale at the
requisition of the ladies, and the excuse was readily
received by the parents, particularly as it was urged
by a tall, handsome, and well-bred youth, more than
six feet high, admirably proportioned, and carrying
himself like a prince of the blood royal. The father
forgot his troubles as he saw his own youth restored
and reflected in his son. He was not suffered to
forget them long. That very evening brought him a
letter from Skinflint, as the attorney for Ingelhart
and Cripps.

The proprietor crumpled the graceless epistle in
his palm, and hurled it into the fire. The wife alone
saw the act. The young people were busy around
the evening table, examining a world of curiosities
which Edward had brought home from Europe. They
little knew of the bitterness that dashed the cup of
joy even while it was at the old father's lips. He
uttered no sigh, no word. He would not cloud the
happiness of that youthful circle. He resolved upon
the exercise of all his manhood. Taking his hat, he
went forth into the night. It was a lovely starlight.
The skies were never more thickly studded with the

saintly watchers, and all were bright and beautiful as
if they had never felt a cloud. He walked down the
noble avenue of oaks and cedars towards the high
road. Ere he reached the gateway, a vehicle dashed
by in considerable haste, which he recognized as that
of Skinflint. This person was also a proprietor, and
planted only a few miles distant. Though not a resident
at his place, for his professional duties in the city
would not suffer this, he yet contrived occasionally to
visit his plantation, where, when not the guest of his
neighbors, he was of his overseer. The angry feeling
in Colonel Openheart's breast was strongly excited as
he detected the carriage of his enemy. He himself
remained unseen in the shadow of the ancestral trees,
but he clearly discerned the head of Skinflint as he
thrust it forth for examination while passing the avenue
of the man whom he now fondly thought to victimize.
Colonel Openheart conjectured his thoughts, and
the fierce idea rose in his mind of a deadly grapple
with the scoundrel. Had they met on foot or on
horseback in the high road, it had been scarcely possible,
in the present mood of our proprietor, to have
forborne inflicting some indignity upon the base and
malignant creature. But he passed, never dreaming
that Openheart was so near. Had he fancied it, his
head had never shown itself from the carriage window.

We must hurry over a week in order to realize the
more important events in our narrative. We are
again on the threshold of Father Chrystmasse. Our
lady proprietor at “Maize-in-milk” has received the
necessary supplies from the grocer. The hogs are

killed, the mince-pies are made, and the usual guests,
invited and uninvited, are already pouring in. The
songs of Bessy Clinton and Mary Butler are ringing
through the dwelling, and every customary chorus,
gathered from the early poets in tribute to the season,
has been employed to guide the merry damsels in the
decoration of mantel, and mirror, and window, and to
cheer them in the prosecution of their pretty tasks.
For a week beforehand the dance was continued
nightly in the great hall. There were now Fergus
Berkshire and Edward Openheart, and one or more
of the latter's old acquaintances, to say nothing of
neighboring maidens just rising into womanhood, whom
the hospitalities of “Maize-in-milk” had brought together.
Two days before Christmas, John and William
made their appearance from college; and Tom Openheart,
now a lad of twelve, and very tall for his age,
was permitted to add to the strength of the company,
in regard to the interests of certain of the damsels
who were about his own age. Altogether, the auspices
were particularly favorable to the sports of the
young. Our ancient friends, Jones, Whipple, Whitfield,
Bond and daughter, and good old father Kinsale
—who in growing older did not seem to have grown
a jot more feeble than he was twenty years before—
also came with the day preceding Christmas, and wore
their pleasantest aspects. But the weather had a cold
forbidding complexion still, and our proprietor found
it difficult to keep from his own visage the doubts and
apprehensions which were working in his mind. At
this moment a stranger rode into the inclosure, who
proved to be the sheriff of the district. He declared
his purpose very civilly, regretted the necessity under
which he was placed, showed his credentials, and
would receive either the money on the bond, or the
negroes. There was no remedy; Colonel Openheart
submitted with simple fortitude. The negroes were
at the sheriff's service. He excused himself to his
guests, and accompanied the officer to the negro-quarter.

“But why not wait till sale day, sir?” was the inquiry
of Colonel Openheart. “They shall then be
forthcoming.”

The officer hesitated, but at length remarked: “I
should do so cheerfully, sir, having myself every confidence
in your honor; but I have been counselled that
I shall be held rigidly responsible unless the levy is
at once made, as some reason exists for suspecting
that your son will be employed to run the negroes to
Texas.”

“By whom, sir, has this intimation been given?”

“By Mr. Skinflint, acting for Ingelhart and
Cripps.”

“The scoundrel! But I have no more to say.
Make your levy.”

The negroes were by this time assembled, and listening
with eager anxiety.

“You must go, my people,” said the proprietor,
addressing them with a voice which his emotions hardly
suffered to be articulate; “you must go, I cannot
help it. I would have saved you, but cannot. I have
done for you all I could; I can do no more!”

He turned away to conceal his emotion, and hurried
into the neighboring woods. The strong man wept
like a child as the loud outcries and lamentations of
the slaves still pursued him. He had been to them
a father and a benefactor, had watched them in sickness,
and indulged them with moderate tasks when
well. As he thought upon the parting, he recovered
all his strength. He came forth, and said to the
sheriff: “You will bring them up to the house?”

“Why, sir,” said the officer, with considerate sensibility,
“I had proposed taking them through the
woods. It would mortify you before your guests.”

“I thank you, sir,” was the respectful but proud
answer; “I thank you, but I must request that you
will bring them to the dwelling before you depart. I
have something to bestow upon them. My guests will
know all before long, and may as well hear it at once.

The negroes were brought accordingly.

“You see, my friends, I have some troubles for my
Christmas. They are rather new to me in my old
age, but it is probable that I shall become familiar
with them before I die.”

Something more was said, enough to show that
our proprietor, in his unaffected grief, had lost nothing
of his manliness. He proceeded to open the
cases in which the Christmas presents were kept.
These were not to have been given till the ensuing
day, but this delay would have deprived the Butler
negroes of their share of gifts. With hasty hand our
proprietor bestowed his wares.

“Now take them, Mr. Sheriff, as quickly as you

please, so that our young people may not see them.
They are down the road, and if you pursue that path,
you will escape them. Good-morning, sir, good-morning,”
and the speaker retired among his guests. He
maintained his courage manfully, was once more the
courtly and considerate host, still solicitous of the
wants and wishes of the meanest, until, some two
hours having elapsed, an uproar without drew attention
to the windows. What was the surprise of Col.
Openheart to see all the negroes returned, and to
find them quite clamorous in the publication of their
delight that they were not to lose their present master.
One of their number presented himself with a
letter, which our proprietor opened with no little
curiosity, for as yet nothing had been got from the
negroes, by reason of the multitude of voices, which
threw any or much light upon the mystery. The
letter was from young Berkshire. We give it without
curtailment.

Colonel Openheart had not a word to say. The
act was so handsome, that he at once gave the letter
into the hands of old Kinsale, who read it twice
aloud to the company. The proprietor went out to
the negroes, and sent them back happy to their habitations.
The young people soon after made their
appearance. They had heard something of the matter,
and Edward Openheart, as soon as all the facts
were made known to him, at once rode over to Berkshire's
to give him his own and the thanks of the
family.

“Tell him, Ned, that he shall have the negroes,
and tell him what you please besides, from your own
heart.”

Such was all the message of the father. Berkshire
looked somewhat anxious when the young man
paused.

“Do you bring any letter, Ned?”

“No.”

“No message from anybody?”

“None but that from my father. What do you
expect?”

“Nay, never mind; you will hear soon enough.”

The young man seemed dull and disappointed, and

was not easily persuaded to give a detailed account
of his fortunate interposition to arrest the departure
of the sheriff with the property. His narrative was
briefly to the effect that, having occasion to ride a
few miles up the road, he had suddenly, on his return,
encountered the troop, with the sheriff and
Skinflint at their head. The former had been summoned
to the house of the latter, where he had
stayed the last night, and they had gone out together
the next day on their official mission immediately
after breakfast, Skinflint waiting some four miles off
for the return of the officer. He had timed his proceedings
with the basest cunning and malevolence.
He knew that “Maize-in-milk” was crowded with
guests and neighbors, and that the pride of the proprietor
would be touched to the quick by such a
humiliating exposure as that which he meditated.
He had not anticipated the issue. Fergus Berkshire
met the party even while Skinflint was receiving from
the sheriff a description of what had taken place.
The exulting grin had not passed from his features as
Fergus drew nigh. A few words sufficed to put him
in possession of all the facts.

“I will assume this obligation,” he said to the
officer, by whom he was well known.

“Costs, interest, &c.?” said Skinflint.

“I will assume them all.”

“It must be in writing,” muttered Skinflint.

“Very good, sir.”

The sheriff produced the papers with which the
providence of the lawyer had furnished him, and a

pocket-inkstand-and pen enabled Berkshire to prepare
and sign an adequate obligation, under the instructions
of Skinflint himself, with which he had
to confess himself satisfied. No unnecessary words
passed between the parties.

“Go home to your master, good people,” said
Berkshire to the negroes. The sheriff he asked to
dine with him; to Skinflint he bowed, and bade good-morning.

“The rascal!” exclaimed Ned Openheart; “if I
had him under my horsewhip! But, dear Fergus,
you will go back with me to `Maize-in-milk?'”

“Not to-day, Ned,” said the other, somewhat
sadly.

“To-night, then?”

“No; you must excuse me, but I have good reasons
for not visiting your house to-day.”

“Pshaw! you fear that we shall be thanking you,
and all that sort of thing, but I promise you on my
honor we shall say nothing about it.”

Berkshire was firm, and Ned rode away, somewhat
wondering what had so suddenly come over the fellow.
The mystery was explained as soon as he got home.
Sweet Bessy Clinton had seized the first moment,
when she could divert her father from his guests, to
place before his eyes a written proposal from Fergus
Berkshire for her hand, and to throw herself in tearful
silence upon the old man's neck.

“And when did you get this, Bessy Clinton?”

“Last night, sir.”

“And what do you say, Bessy?”

“Oh, father, I do think Mr. Berkshire is an honorable
gentleman.”

“I agree with you, Bessy; and were I you, I would
certainly accept his offer.”

“Thanks, dear father, thanks.”

“Well, my child, go and write to him yourself.
He deserves it.”

Fergus Berkshire did come to “Maize-in-milk” that
night.

If Richard Skinflint found himself discomfited so
unexpectedly that day, the next, which was Christmas,
brought him new sources of disquiet, and new mortifications,
in a communication from Mrs. St. Clair, advising
him that her niece had accepted the hand of Mr. Edward
Openheart, and that the marriage was arranged to
take place the ensuing May. “As this event,” said the
letter, “is the contingency upon which her minority
determines, and as I have yielded my consent to the
contract, which was the sole condition coupled with
this contingency, it will be necessary that Messrs.
Ingelhart and Cripps should be prepared for the settlement
with the future protector of the heiress in
anticipation of the expected event.”

Skinflint did not sleep that night—nor, for that
matter, did several of our parties; but the provocation
to wakefulness among them was the result of very different
feelings. At “Maize-in-milk” there was now no
check to the happiness of all the circle. The revolution
was complete. The horizon was no longer overcast.
The moon and stars were all out. Instead of
the shrieks of the owl, a mock-bird sang at the window,

and the cheek of our proprietor grew warm, and his
face lightened as the several couples wheeled gayly
in the great hall in the mazes of the dance; the tear
of joy gathered brightly in his eye, and he murmured
to his placid spouse, half unconsciously, “Thank
God, it is a happy Christmas after all!”