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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

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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

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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,

[figure description] Page 368.[end figure description]

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

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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

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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

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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—

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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

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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:—

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“Christmas come but once de year,
Da's wha' mak' we come up yer (here).”
Or,


“Enty dis da Christmas come?
Yer's de nigger look for some!”
Or,


“Merrie Christmas, maussa, for true,
You' ole niggers pray for you;”
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

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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

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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

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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.'”

[figure description] Page 378.[end figure description]

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 at

[figure description] Page 379.[end figure description]

torney, 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

[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 381.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 382.[end figure description]

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 southside
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

[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 384.[end figure description]

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.