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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

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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—


“The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.”

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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


“a chyld was i-born,
Us for to savyn that al was forlorn,”
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—

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“Now thrice welcome Christmas
Which brings us good cheer,
Minced-pies and plum-porridge,
Good ale and strong beer,” &c.
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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 359.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]

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

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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

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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

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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

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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.”