ON a bright Sabbath morning in June, some three quarters of a century ago, a wayfarer, in passing through one of the middle counties of North Carolina, came to a country church which attracted his attention. There was something in the appearance of things about the place which harmonized with the traveller's feelings, and, dismounting and securing his horse to the bough of a tree, he concluded to wait for the services of the day. The more he looked round him, the better was he pleased with his resolution; for the church and all about it wore a grave and antique air that impressed him much, and rendered him curious to see what sort of people worshipped there. There were two houses, one of which was very large, the sober gravity of its faded red contrasting not unpleasantly with the white sashes of its numerous windows. Over each of the four doorways there was a small, semicircular shed, supported by arms of painted iron that came out, arched akimbo, from the walls, and decorated round the edges with curiously carved work, about which, and on the fretted cornices, swarms of wasps were sunning themselves, and working on their tiny buildings. The steps, which were all of hewn granite, were, at the end doors, six or eight feet high, owing to the declivities which, from near the centre of the church, ran down to two small creeks that met a few hundred yards north of the edifice. On this side, and in the angle of the plateau, or elevation, was another and smaller house, with a chimney, and surrounded by sycamores. From here the eye ranged over an extensive, open country, and several farm-houses and plantations were in view. The other sides were shaded by a few stately and venerable oaks, which, at a short distance from the house, were merged in thick forests of similar growth, in whose leafy coverts myriads of sweet-voiced birds were singing. Not far from the church was an extensive grave-yard, walled in with rock, and entered by an arched gateway, the stone pillars of which were faced with plates of blue slate, on which were Latin inscriptions in honour of the builder of the walls. Hundreds of monuments of various kinds, of marble, rock, and brick, and of all ages, indicated that this silent city was peopled with several generations of a large parish or congregation, while the devices and inscriptions on the tombstones, the holly-trees and cedars, the green ivy and the beds of flowers, attested the taste and piety of the living, and their tenderness and affection for the memory of the dead, each one of whom must have been followed to his last resting-place by troops of sorrowing friends. The stranger, from the grave-yard, went into the church, which, though not dilapidated, bore unequivocal signs of age. The lower part was divided into five compartments by three aisles, one of which ran the full length of the edifice from east to west, and the other two led from it to the two doors on the southern side. In the centre of the other side was a lofty pulpit of mahogany, ascended by a flight of narrow, balustraded stairs, and overhung by a sounding-board supported by rods from the ceiling, and so wrought and painted as to resemble a mass of billowy clouds just rising above the horizon on a summer evening. Immediately in front of the pulpit, and joining it, but several feet lower, was the “stand” or pulpit of the clerk, and round three sides of the building, a little higher than the pulpit proper, ran a gallery with balusters in front. The traveller marked all these things with the eye of a virtuoso; and wondering, whence in a country like this, could come the opulence to build and the people to fill such an edifice, he returned to the yard, where he met a neatly-dressed lad, who at once and strongly excited his interest. The boy was quite young, but on his face was plainly visible the stamp of a bright mind and a good heart, his dark, brilliant eyes, gleaming with an expression tender, pensive, and intelligent.

“Don't be afraid of me, my pretty friend,” said the stranger. “I hope we'll soon get better acquainted, and like each other.”

“I am not afraid of you, sir,” replied the boy; “I am not afraid of any one here; but I never saw you before. Do you belong to Alamance?”

“Is that the name of this congregation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No,” said the traveller; “I came from a distant country, and only stopped here to look at the place. But what brought you here so early?”

“I always come early,” replied the boy; “I like to get here before any one else does, to ramble over the grave-yard, and sit on the tomb-stones, and think.”

The answer going straight to the traveller's heart, he and his new acquaintance soon became intimate, and sitting down on a bench, in the shade of a tree, the time flew fast with both until the Alamancers began to arrive. They came streaming in by different roads, on foot, on horseback, and in gigs; the young ladies generally dashing up on high-mettled and prancing steeds, which they managed with grace and ease. There was no noise but the clatter of the horses' hoofs and the rattle of the gigs; no confusion and bustle; no loud talking and laughing, nor simpering and grimacing, and running to and fro by the females, to show their flaunting dresses, their fluttering ribbons, and smirking faces. The traveller noticed that, with a quiet but hearty manner, every body shook hands with every body else, and then the females went into the house, the young ones sitting modestly and silently in their high-backed pews, while the men, gathering in groups under the trees, talked over their neighbourhood affairs. The traveller noticed also, that in that great multitude of every age, from the white-headed patriarch of three-score and ten to the toddling infant, each one, even among the blacks, bore himself with a still and hushed gravity, while their looks, without being austere, wore an expression sedate and solemn. He observed also, and he marvelled at the fact, that there was not one meanly-clad person in the crowd, and that even the negroes, of whom there were many, were neatly dressed. He noticed, too, that his youthful friend was a great favourite with old and young, and he saw whispered questions frequently put to him, to which he replied by shaking his head. He remained with the boy, and each new-comer cordially shook his hand, but asked him no questions.

“Who is that fine-looking old gentleman, who is hitching his horse to the sycamore behind the church?” asked the stranger.

“That,” replied the boy, “is the Rev. Dr. David Caldwell, our minister, sir. He is going into the session-house to put on his silk cloak, and it's time to go in. You must sit in father's pew, and I'll carry you to it.”

The stranger entered, following his youthful guide, and saw that his face was scrutinized by more than one, while his bald head seemed to blush during the whole of the service, as if conscious that it was the grand central object of attraction for all the eyes in that crowded audience. He knew, however, that the eyes were kind, and many of them bright, and he was delighted at the edifying silence, attention, and decorum that pervaded the assembly. He was pleased with the sermon, and still more pleased with the singing, the solemn harmony of which impressed him more than he had ever been before on such an occasion. All joined in the song; and, all seeming to know the tunes and to have melodious voices, a strain, grand, solemn, and soul-inspiring swelled through the spacious building, subduing in every heart its worldly lusts and its selfish passions, and lifting it, in devout fervour, above the things of time and sense. After the sermon the congregation were dismissed for a short recess, and the traveller, meditating on what he had heard and seen, was following a crowd in the direction of the spring, when he was accosted by his acquaintance of the morning.

“Mother wants to see you,” said the boy; and, following him, the stranger came to where three persons were sitting on the grass, in the shade of a sycamore. One of them he at once recognized as the minister, who, with a smile, said to the boy,

“Introduce us, Henry, to your friend.”

“I don't know his name,” answered Henry, looking inquiringly at the traveller.

“M'Bride, Hector M'Bride, is my name,” said the stranger; “I am a sojourner, who stopped here to hear a sermon, and an excellent one it was.”

“And my name,” said the parson, “is Caldwell, and I am happy to make your acquaintance. Mr. M'Bride, this is my friend, Mr. Warden, and that is his lady. Your young friend there is their son Henry. As the days are long, and your dinner may be late, Mrs. Warden thought you might be pleased to join us in a snack, in which case you will please fall to.”

“I thank you, one and all, for your kindness,” replied M'Bride, “and without ceremony, will honour your collation with a traveller's appetite.”

“Do you purpose to make any stay at Alamance?” asked Warden, as they were discussing cold chicken, biscuit, and pies. “You must excuse the question, as it is not prompted by idle curiosity.”

“I readily excuse it,” answered M'Bride, “and, as far as I can, will answer it with pleasure. I am, as I said, a wayfarer, and I have no particular destination in view, having, like the knights-errant in the old romances, given the reins to my horse, and letting him carry me whither-soever his pleasure leads him.”

“Surely,” said the parson, “you are not about to revive that ancient order—going about in quest of adventures, succouring the distressed and rescuing imprisoned damsels. I see no helmet, lance, or armour.

IN former times, the Old-Field School was an institution of learning known to and patronized by the highest and lowest in every part of the country. How it got its name is a subject for conjecture. Some are of opinion that it was given in derision, to show that there is no affinity between such places and the great Academia of Plato, which was in the midst of a shady grove, while others derive it from the proximity of these country-schools to fields worn out and unenclosed. Be the origin of its name what it may, it is certain that this institution bore little resemblance to the modern academy, and perhaps still less to the ancient. It was never a bantling of the Government, State of Federal, which, for the good of both, knew it not; and, not being incorporated, it was happily freed from the fostering care of an enlightened board of fat trustees, under whose judicious management the cause of education fares about as well as would the machinery of a modern steam-mill, when controlled by a body of learned mandarins. No such nuisance was ever known to the Old-Field School, nor was it ever subject to sectarian influences, or affected by the political disputes of the country; and from it, therefore, humble as it often was, flowed a stream of morals and literature whose pure waters have refreshed and blessed the country. At Alamance the qualifications of the master were tested by an examination by the parson and others best qualified to judge; and it is to be observed, that the fact of being a leading politician, or of holding a commission to be a justice of the peace, no more made a man a scholar than did the possession of land and negroes render him a gentleman. Once installed into office, the master was subject to the control of no impertinent intermeddlers, and, being absolute monarch in his little kingdom, he governed it according to his own conscience and discretion, and without favour or partiality. The teacher out of school was the equal, the companion, and Mentor of his pupils; and hence, between him and them there was not that awful and impassable gulf which now separates professor and student, and renders them the implacable and hereditary enemies of each other. The master, to diffuse the benefits of his conversation, and to prevent imputations of undue favour to any, was the guest of all his patrons, with each of whom he boarded and lodged by turns, and in the families of all of whom he was an honoured member. It was considered important that he should have at least a moderate share of common sense; he was believed to be subject to human sympathies and mortal feelings, and hence, out of school was regarded as a man and a Christian, and in all neighbourhood affairs had “a voice potential.”

In those Arcadian times, the boys and girls were supposed to belong to the same human family, and were so brought up and educated together as to be the friends of each other. Thus, an honourable emulation was excited, the confinement of study rendered pleasant, and the young people relieved from that fatal curiosity to penetrate the mystery thrown around the other sex, which now absorbs the entire attention of students.

Such was the general character of the Old-Field School, and it remains only to notice some particulars connected with that of Alamance. Hector M'Bride having been chosen as the teacher, many vague rumours about him got into circulation among the children—some representing him as very mild, and others as extremely expert at the use of the birch. His merits were talked over and discussed at length, and no satisfactory conclusion having been arrived at, all determined to wait till they had tried him. On the day of commencement, the scholars, all in new suits, were early at the school-house, and having introduced themselves or been introduced by their fathers to the master, this latter took down their names. Having next critically examined each one, he arranged them in classes, and assigned them to their studies, putting many into branches that they had long ago passed over, remarking that it was better to know one thing well than half-a-dozen badly. This done, he made an address, laying down the principles on which he should conduct the school, and thereupon read a long list of rules, commenting on and explaining each one separately. They were divided into three heads, and concerned the morals, the manners, and the studies of his students. As these rules are still preserved among the master's papers, and may prove interesting to pedagogues, a few of them are here given, with the number of each prefixed: 10. The punishments shall consist of whipping, slapping in the hand with the rule, riding the ass, and expulsion, according to the gravity of the offence.11. All the boys and girls may laugh, without noise, when any one is mounted on the ass; but no one shall speak to him, or make gestures or ugly mouths at him, in token of derision.20. When the master tells an anecdote the students are not bound to laugh immoderately, though it will be considered respectful to give some indication of their being pleased or amused.21. Whenever one enters or leaves the house, if a boy he shall bow, and if a girl courtesy, to the master, and when a stranger comes in all shall rise and do the same towards him.22. When the boys meet a stranger on the road they must take off their hats and bow: they are enjoined to be, on all occasions, respectful and attentive to their seniors, and not to talk in their presence, except when bidden.23. Every boy shall consult the comfort and convenience of the girls before his own, and whoever is caught standing between a female and the fire shall be whipped.24. If any boy is caught laughing at the homeliness of a girl, or calling her ugly names, he shall ride on the ass.25. Giggles are detestable, and when a girl is amused she must smile gracefully, or laugh out; and if the master catches any one snickering he will imitate and reprimand her in presence of the whole school.30. Every offender, when called on, must fully inform on himself, remembering, that by telling the truth he palliates his offence.31. When the master's rule falls at the feet of any one, he and all his guilty associates must come with it to the teacher.33. The master will inflict on every common informer the punishment due to the offence of which he maliciously gives information.35. As it is God who gives the mind, and as he has bestowed more on some than on others, it shall be considered a grave offence to laugh at or ridicule any one who is by nature dull or stupid, such persons being entitled to general commiseration rather than contempt.40. The girls must remember that the exemptions to which their sex entitles them are to be used as a shield, and not as a sword; and they are therefore enjoined to eschew the abominable and unlady-like habit of indulging in sarcasms and attempted wit at the expense of the boys. Whenever a girl loses the docility, gentleness, and benignity of manners becoming her sex, she forfeits her title to the forbearance and defferential courtesy of the males.41. No one shall, out of school, speak disrespectfully of the master, or of a fellow-student.45. No one shall ridicule, laugh at, or make remarks about the dress of another; the boys are enjoined to be kind and courteous to the girls, the girls to be neat and cleanly in their dresses, and all to act as if they were brothers and sisters, the children of the same parents.50. Let the words of The Preacher be held in constant remembrance, “Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,” &c., &c.

Such are a few of the many rules which the master declared he would read publicly once a month, and each one of which he said he would rigidly enforce, remarking that it was better to have no laws than good ones not strictly obeyed.

The punishment of riding on the ass was generally inflicted for long-continued and gross neglect of study, vulgarity of manners, and insults to the girls, and was as follows:—The culprit, with a large pair of leather spectacles on his nose and a paper cap on his head, with the inscription “Fool's Cap,” in Roman letters, was mounted astraddle one of the joists, being assisted up by a few cuts of the master's switch, which sometimes played, at intervals, across his legs during the hour that he held his seat. This punishment was only inflicted on the males, and was considered as so disgraceful that it was rarely merited, and when imposed attached a stigma to the culprit, which affected his standing in and out of school, for a long time afterwards.

Having thus got his school under way, the master, to inspire at once an affection for him as a man, as well as respect as a teacher, dismissed his students for recreation, went with them to the old field, helped to lay off the play-ground, and discussed with them the various kinds of sports, teaching them, by explanations and practical illustrations, many new ones, which were considered highly interesting. Thus in the morning he at once established for himself a high character as a scholar and disciplinarian; by noon he was the fast friend of every scholar he had, and that evening boys and girls went home perfectly delighted with their new teacher, and feeling an emulous desire to excel in their studies which they had never felt before. In a word, the master was, in each scholar's eye, the very perfection of a man, and to be like him was the highest ambition of all.

After this auspicious beginning, we will now leave, for a season, the master and his little kingdom.

THE events related in the last chapter took place two days before Christmas, and after Hector M'Bride had been teaching for some time at Alamance. Before the early dawn on the following morning, nearly all the boys and many of the girls assembled at the school-house, and commenced fortifying it to bar the entrance of the master. The window over the writing-bench, though too narrow to admit the body of a man, was closed with slabs, and the door was bolted on the inside with a quantity of bars, beams, and benches, sufficient to have defied the efforts of a battalion without artillery. Besides the chimney, the little window above the master's desk was the only other point of ingress, and here, all the larger boys, mounted on tables and benches, were to take their stand. Through this window, Ben Rust went out and hung on a pole fastened to the roof of the house a small flag, on which were blazoned in large letters, “School-boys' Rights,” and then tacked on the door a placard, on which was drawn a coil of ropes, with the sentence, “No admission but on conditions,” written at the bottom. These preparations having been completed, although the sun was not yet up, the students began to look anxiously for the master. Many felt a strange palpitation of the heart; some wished it was well over, and others secretly rued having embarked in the business, and thought they had rather study a week than undertake to gain a holyday by such a hazardous experiment. The more timid, making forlorn efforts at looking unconcerned and telling jokes, trembled at every rustle in the leaves, and all spoke in half-whispered, tremulous tones. Some, with great apparent coolness, amused themselves by trying to scribble on the sheets of paper that lay scattered about, but their hands were unsteady; some made lively attempts to entertain the girls, but their teeth chattered as if they were in an ague; and others clustered about Rust, cracking their wit upon him, and gathering confidence from his quiet, determined manner. Suddenly the sound of footsteps behind the house threw all within into a fever of excitement, some seizing their books, some rushing to the window and the chinks in the wall, and some walking to and fro without any definite purpose. The footsteps still approached, and Ben, listening very attentively, exclaimed,

“There's more nor one, by Jove!”

“Do you think he's brought assistance?” asked an ashy-coloured lad, trembling all over.

“Surely, no one would take part with him,” remarked another.

“There's no tellin what may happen,” said Ben; “and it may be the old folks are going to try to break up the custom, for I've heern sich chat.”

“If that's the case, we can't fight against our fathers,” observed one who desired an excuse to surrender; “and suppose they bring pistols.”

“Suppose the devil comes himself,” answered Rust, “we'll give him a chunkin; for there's plenty of fire here. Let all Alamance come; the more the merrier, I say.”

“And so do I,” said the judge; “and if they choose to fight us, they must take what they get.”

By this time the footsteps were heard advancing round to the front of the house, and suddenly, an old black horse with a most woful countenance, came in view. He paused when he saw the heads at the window, and gazing at them very solemnly for several minutes, he gave a feeble neigh, and then gravely walked off in pursuit of his pleasure. The occupants of the castle were prodigiously relieved at what they saw; and becoming by this time used to their situation, they felt ready for a trial of their courage. Ben, now seating himself in the master's chair, requested all to be silent while he made a few remarks.

“You see, my Christin friends,” said he “how a man's fears can make a fool of him. That old crittur which you all took for a legion of armed men, was so tickled at your fright, that though he seems to be a decent and gentlemanly old hoss, he could'nt hold in, and laughed right in our faces. He was so mightily amused, I could see it in his eyes; and did'nt you see how contemptiously he switched his tail, as much as to say, ‘good-bye, boys, you're green.’ I tell you, the way to get out of danger is to face it: even a painter or a wild cat will walk off if we look him straight in the eyes. You must—”

“Yonder he comes! yonder he comes!” exclaimed several who were at the window; and sure enough, the master, with his eyes bent on the ground, a staff in his hand, and a book under his left arm, came in view. All heads were withdrawn from the window, and perfect silence reigned within. Walking leisurely to the door, the master looked for the string of the latch, and finding it was gone, began to rap with his stick.

“I surely saw some one at the window,” said he; and again he rapped more loudly, calling out “Robert Smith!”

“Sir,” answered the boy, running across the room, and forgetting himself till he was seized and admonished to be silent.

“Robert,” continued the master, “open this door, my son. Will no one let me into this house? ho, you within, what fool's play is this!”

As no one answered, he continued to rattle at the door, working himself into a towering passion, and uttering the fiercest exclamations. The excitement within was now intense, and many, doubtful of the issue of the attempt to bar out, stood with their books in hand ready to act according to emergency. The master, after repeated efforts, finding the door firmly barred, walked off and began to cut and trim a supply of rods, occasionally looking back to observe the effect of this manoeuvre. Returning again, with his switches in one hand and a beam of wood in the other, he said, solemnly,

“Boys, open this door. If you do not, I shall batter it down, and the blame will lie on yourselves.”

“Read the notice,” said one within.

“The notice, hah!” replied the master, putting on his spectacles; “its a bungling fist. Treason, as I live—foul treason and rebellion: and it shall be duly punished. Young rebels! admit me instantly into my house, or I'll whip every mother's son of you till the blood trickles down your backs!”

“Ketchin's before hangin,” answered Rust, displaying his face at the window. “Praps, my Christin friend, if you'll flog the house you might save yourself a deal of trouble and whip us all in a lump.”

“Benjamin! Benjamin! are you mad?” asked M'Bride.

“Not purticularly so,” said Ben; “how is it with yourself? I hope your exercise keeps you warm, for its an ontolerable cold mornin.”

“Mr. Rust,” retorted the master, “it ill becomes you to be jesting thus with your teacher, and I can hardly believe the evidence of my own senses. Let me in, and I'll forgive the past; but wo be to you and your deluded followers if you do not!”

Ben, not in the least moved by this appeal, very quietly informed the master that, “accordin to the laws of the Medes and Persians, every dog must have its day,” and that, therefore, the day of old Proximus was over for the present. “All of which,” he continued, “we'll maintain viva voce”—a piece of gratifying intelligence which was followed by a rap of the master's switch rather uncomfortably close to the speaker's face. The teacher's blows now followed in quick succession, and he and Rust were beginning to pant with their exertions, the one to enter and the other to defend the window, when the latter exclaimed,

“Let's parley.”

“I have nothing more to say, young rebel,” M'Bride answered, preparing more rods.

“But I have a deal to say to you,” said Rust, “and it consarns you to listen. We don't want to harm a hair on your head, and are only defendin our nateral rights; but our blood may git hot, and then there's no tellin what may happen. I spose you only wanted to show pluck and then give up; and as we are satisfied with your courage, you had better now surrender.”

“I'll show you whether I am in fun or not, you saucy whelp,” exclaimed the master, whose blows soon cleared the window, one of them welting several faces. Seizing the favorable moment, he sprung to the window, and was half way in when he was grappled by Rust, whom he dragged out after him, and one of the skirts of whose coat was left behind on a nail. The judge and several others tumbled out to sustain their leader: but the foe, breaking loose from the crowd, put his legs into a rapid motion, ill sorting with his usual gravity. The boys, with a loud shout, gave chase, Ben, with his single-skirted coat, leading the pack, and yelping like a beagle-hound. The game, doubling and wheeling round trees with admirable dexterity, soon tired down his pursuers, and coursed off in gallant style. The door was flung open, and the woods swarmed with a merry crowd, shouting, laughing, and betting on the race. The tumult made by those in pursuit became fainter and fainter, and finally died away. Suddenly, and in an opposite direction, it was heard again, and soon the master, far in advance of his followers, dashed through the crowd at the house, darted in at the door, and, slapping his rod on the floor, called sternly, “to books!” The pedagogue in his chair of authority is a more awful personage than the master out of doors; and, accordingly, M'Bride was now obeyed, and the usual din of study began to be heard when the larger boys entered. They had held a short consultation out of doors, and it was easy to see that their blood was up, and that they contemplated rough measures as they took their stand round the teacher.

“Young men,” said the latter, “take your seats. I am loath to whip you, but you will force me to do it if you do not instantly resume your studies.”

“Whipping is a game two can play at,” answered the judge, “and we're as loath to do it as you are. I must, however, inform you, that if you do not grant our demands we can and we will use rough measures.”

M'Bride made no reply, but rose to his feet and raised his chair, when the judge exclaimed,

“Rust, prepare your ropes; and now, boys, on.”

As he darted towards the master, the chair of the latter fell harmless, and with a laugh he said,

“I surrender; what's your will?”

“Here are our demands,” answered Henry Warden, and he read the following carefully-written letter:

“You have shown your pluck,” said the master, “and I trust I have also displayed some courage; and now we'll laugh over the little accidents of the day.”

So saying, he sat down and wrote an order for the apples, cakes, candies, and cider, which he had before purchased for the occasion and left with his nearest patron. The parents now began to drop in, and were surprised and elated to find their sons had conquered the master so soon. The “barring out” was a high festival at old field schools, and the prescriptive rights of students in regard to it, were respected by all. On such occasions the situation of the teacher was a trying one. It was considered as his duty to resist to the last, and yet those who so considered desired to see him conqured. The turning out was considered as a sort of miniature war, in which it was incumbent on the master to teach his pupils coolness, fortitude, and perseverance.

At the time referred to, the old people congratulated master and scholar, and were highly pleased with the conduct of both.

Among the visitors was Mr. Cornelius Demijohn, commonly called Corny Demijohn, a sedate bachelor of a grave presence, and weighing some twenty odd stone. Although he had no children, he took a great interest in the school; and having been consulted by the students in regard to the proper method of proceeding in turning out the master, he had arrived early, and, from a concealed position, watched, with lively interest, the fortunes of the day. He was supposed to be skilled in military science, and his heart was as kind as charity, and his hand ever ready to strike for his friend. He was by blood related to no one but his mother at Alamance, yet all seemed to be his nephews and nieces, for he was universally known as “Uncle Corny.” As usual, his advent created a sensation among the young folk, and especially among the girls, who immediately began to cluster about him, and chatter away like a flock of magpies round a grave Muscovy duck. The old men told long stories of their own exploits on such occasions; the little boys listened, and the young men romped with the females, and assisted them in putting Uncle Corny into trouble. As the day wore towards its noon, the young people became desirous that their parents and teacher should join them in a grand game of town-ball; and, the Rev. Dr. Caldwell arriving about this time, the same request was made of him. The solicitation showed on what terms the parson lived with his people, respect for the minister being tempered by affection for the man; while his ready assent displayed the cheerfulness of a disposition which the studies of his calling had failed to tinge with an austere or fanatic feeling.

All, accordingly, adjourned to the old field, and the sport commenced in earnest. Conscious of innocence, and therefore fearless of the censure of the world, or of Heaven, the sun in his course never looked down on a happier crowd than was that day assembled on the play-ground at the old field school of Alamance. The editor of these memoirs, hurried on by more stirring incidents, regrets that he cannot stop to describe the play, once so interesting to him, and to make a good performer in which required a true eye, a quick hand, and great activity of body. He regrets his inability to chronicle the mishaps of Uncle Corny, and the sprightliness of the master, both of which created no little merriment; and he regrets still more that he cannot hand down to fame the exploits of the parson, the simplicity of whose heart and the energies of whose body, were alike untouched by the blight of advancing years. The master, whose notes we follow, when he comes to the sports of this day, in the very beginning of his account breaks off with the exclamation, “Eheu, priscos felices lusus! Eheu, tempora mutata!” He then continues his remarks with equal beauty and pathos.

“We shall not attempt,” says he, “to draw a picture of what no pen can describe. If there be any yet living who witnessed that, or similar scenes, where age and learning, wisdom and piety, beauty and innocence, forgetting the world, its vices, and its sorrows, wore away the winged hours in harmless sport and frolic, they will know that his would be a daring pen who should attempt a description; and if all the actors in those merry scenes are gathered to the last mansions of mortality, it would be a bootless task to dwell on recollections which none can appreciate.”

The editor has witnessed similar scenes, and deep in his memory are those scenes engraven, and there shall they remain, the sweetest picture in the recollections of the past, till that memory is darkened by the shadows of death! Pray, then, good reader, excuse the writer if he is tedious and garrulous on trivial matters that interest you but little. Remember that, after the vicissitudes of a long and chequered life, the dear scenes of his early and happy youth are now before him, softened, chastened, and beautified by the moonlight of memory; and surely you will excuse him for taking “one longing, lingering look,” before he shuts his eyes upon them and dashes into the more memorable but sadder scenes which follow. He is only a half-enchanter; he has conjured up from its mossy grave the fair, pale spirit of the past; but it will not down at his bidding. Bear with him, then, for a little while, and you soon shall be ushered into the midst of stirring times, and of great events, and see enough of —“Battles, sieges, fortunes;Of most disastrous chances—Of moving accidents by flood and field.”

How Nathan Gluston came into the world, and where he first saw the light, was matter of speculation more perplexing than profitable to his neighbours. It is certain that he was the son of his mother; but if he ever had a father, that fortunate personage must have been fond of obscurity, for, according to the gossips, neither wife nor offspring ever knew him as husband or parent. Nathan, however, as well will see, was not one of those who need the influence of illustrious paternity to push them forward in the world. Like other renowned men, he was born with all the elements of greatness in himself, and was destined to reflect from the meridian sun of his own glory an unfading lustre on all his race; as well on those who preceded as on those who came after him on the stage of being. The mystery which envelopes his origin shrouds also his early youth; and for the interesting history of this portion of his eventful life, the world must be indebted to the pen of Nathan himself. Until the publication of his autobiography, we must restrain our impatient curiosity, and take him where the Alamancers found him, at the age of two and twenty. Having attained his majority, and being aware that a prophet is not without honour except in his own country, Nathan left the country of his ancestors and settled at Alamance. A disciple of Saint Crispin, he came with hammer and awl to shoe the Alamancers, thus typifying his more important mission, which was to harness with sound doctrine the souls of his new and simple neighbours, and new-vamp their minds, so as to enable them to walk unhurt over the briers and sharp stones of this thorny wilderness. He pitched his tent, or, to speak more correctly, he built his shop at the crossing of two public roads. A painted sign was hung out, to be gazed at with admiring wonder by every mill-boy that passed along, and printed cards were circulated for the bewilderment of the public generally. Signboards such as his, and cards, were new things at Alamance; and, while they constituted a novelty interesting to the young, they were regarded by some very shrewd old people as unerring indications of the fast-approaching end of the world. The earth, however, despite their opinions, kept on its usual courses, and the Alamancers, satisfied by degrees of Nathan's superior artistical skill, gave him a liberal patronage. Glutson, increasing in worldly substance, took to himself for wife an old spinster with a hundred acres of land, one hundred wrinkles in her face, and five hundred crotchets in her temper. Such were the lands, goods, and chattels, which Nathan got by marriage; and turning all but the crotchets and the wrinkles into money, he took an apprentice to his trade, opened a house of entertainment, and a blacksmith-shop in which he hired some strolling workmen to labour. These shops became the resort of all the idlers in the community, and Nathan held forth to them daily on law, ethics, and politics. Among other things, he became a bailiff, and by his frequent visits to the distant court-house, augmented his influence and importance. He soon added another to his multifarious occupations, in the prosecution of which he still kept in view the public good. He became a money-lender and a shaver of paper, in the discharge of which business, he regulated himself by the wants of the borrower, endeavouring, as far as practicable, to carry out literally the language of Scripture, “from him that hath not shall be taken even that he hath.” Thus did Nathan manufacture shoes, point coulters, and entertain strangers, charging only three prices for the same; thus did he serve process and shave bonds at fifty per centum discount, until he became a man of such vast consequence as to be appointed a justice of the peace. Then it was that he enlarged his garments and his house, put on a grave and sober face, became a severe and rigid moralist, and spoke as one having authority. Sons and daughters were born unto him, and in their early promise he took a becoming pride. He joined the church, in which he was appointed a ruling elder; took an active part in all public matters, and was the terror of all poor vagabonds far and near. The advice and conversation of such a man could not but be profitable and instructive to old and young; and as Nathan was aware of this, and deemed it a sin to hide his light under a bushel, his loud and commanding voice was heard at every public gathering. At such places he was generally the last comer; a proper regard for his own dignity requiring that he should cause himself to be waited for and observed by all eyes when he came. It was therefore late on the day of “the barring out” mentioned in the last chapter when Nathan arrived at the Old-Field School. He heard a great shout just as he touched the verge of the field, and to his inexpressible mortification saw the Rev. Dr. Caldwell with the fleetness of a deer coursing round the circuit of the “town.”

Beyond measure scandalized at what he saw he stood, himself unnoticed, gazing on the merry scene with feelings akin to those of Satan, when, from a lofty hill, he beheld with baneful eye the innocent delights of that glorious Eden which his hateful presence was to mar forever. He observed with pride that his own hopeful children, apparently disgusted with what was going on, had retired from the play, and seemed engaged in the amiable occupation of criticising the conduct of their friends. They were so engaged; and just at this time, Edith Mayfield, running to catch a ball on which her upturned eyes were fixed, stumbled against and fell over Emily Glutson, and damaged the latter's bonnet, the finest in the school. Edith, who was the worse hurt of the two, was soon on her feet, laughing at the accident, when a slap in the face by Emily's brother, accompanied by a harsh exclamation, changed her merriment to tears, and sent her off bitterly weeping.

Henry Warden, observing her distress, and hearing in the crowd some remark about William Glutson, hastily enquired of every one around him what had happened. Dreading the consequences, his fellow-students endeavoured to disguise and palliate the matter to the judge, whose suspicions were still strengthened by the vague answers he received. He was instantly by the side of William Glutson, demanding, in no gentle tones, an account of his conduct to Edith Mayfield.

“Are you her protector?” asked Glutson, with a sneer, at the same time rising to his feet.

“I am,” was the emphatic response; “and you shall apologize this instant.”

“Not this week, nor ever, to such a milk-faced hero as you,” replied the other.

“Then, take that, and that!” said the judge, striking him several times in the face.

Before Glutson had recovered himself sufficiently to return the blows, Warden, grappled by powerful arms, was thrown some distance on his back, and Ben Rust stood confronting his now furious antagonist. The courage of the latter growing rapidly at the prospect of an interference, he began to let loose a torrent of abuse, and, making an effort to get at his fallen enemy, his nose came into such violent contact with Ben's fist that the blood spurted out, and he yelled with pain and rage.

“Very well!” coolly observed the keeper of the peace; “when this you see, remember me,” and the ponderous weapon again brushed through Glutson's face—Ben, with his right leg stuck out, gyrating several times on his left foot, and sweeping his arm through the air as if he were knocking down a circle of adversaries.

These things all happened in a minute, and all the company, with Squire Glutson himself, were soon on the scene of battle. The old field being no place for the investigation of the affair, they adjourned to the house, and Warden and Glutson were properly arraigned and put upon their trial.

“My practice,” said M'Bride, “is first to hear the parties themselves. I desire always to put the scholar on his or her honour, and to inculcate thus the habit of telling the truth even against themselves. William Glutson, stand up here and relate the facts connected with the fight between you and Henry Warden.”

His father, fumbling his watch-seals with his right hand, looked round with magisterial gravity and dignity as his son roundly told his story.

“Because,” said the latter, “because I would not take his insolence, Henry Warden struck me in the face, and but for your presence and that of my father I would have thrashed him like a sack.”

“What insolence?” asked the master; “tell all that occurred.”

“Edith Mayfield ran over my sister, hurting her very much, and then making fun of her; and, because I gave her a little lecture for it, Henry Warden came to me in a very insulting manner, and demanded an apology. I refused to give it, and he struck me.”

“Henry Warden, what have you to say?” asked M'Bride.

“Nothing, sir,” answered the judge.

“Come, sir, I want no insolence,” said the master; “answer at once, what took place between you and William Glutson?”

“I do not mean to be insolent,” replied Henry, “but I have no statement to make. I might contradict what has been said, and I had rather be punished for fighting than to be suspected of falsehood.”

The master, thinking that the judge was in a temporary pet, dismissed him for the present, and called Rust to the witness's stand. Ben told his story roundly, implicating no one, and leaving it extremely doubtful whether there had been a fight at all. His testimony not being entirely satisfactory to the master, the latter put various questions to him for the purpose of eliciting the whole truth.

“Did you,” asked he, “see the commencement of the fight?”

Rust.—“I can't say adzactly that I did.”

M'Bride.—“What was the first thing that you saw? Were the parties together?”

Rust.—“When I first seed them, they were standin side-and-side, lookin sorter mad, though I could'nt possibly be perticler as to that. Folks sometimes look grum, you know, when they are in a good humour; and, as to the matter of that, I never saw old Father Gruel look pleasin in my life. He eats his dinner as if it was epicac and salts, and—”

M'Bride.—“Never mind about Father Gruel. Did you hear any words pass?”

Rust.—“Somthin was said after I got to them, but I didn't pay perticler attention to the compliments passed.”

M'Bride.—“Mr. Rust, remember what you say now you are bound in honour to say. You are not acting the part of an odious tell-tale, but of a witness whose evidence affects the welfare of your fellow-students. I ask you now, for your own sake, and for the sake of these two boys, to tell all you know of the fight, its cause, its beginning, and its ending.”

Rust.—“Well, as I said before, I heerd a sort of fuss or rumpus, and, lookin round, I seed Henry Warden and Bill Glutson standin close together, and Henry's fis circulatin tolerably freely about Bill's face. They mout have been playin, but I thought I'd see the fun. When I got there, I put an end to it; and so the game's over, and I don't know who won.”

M'Bride.—“Do you pretend to say there was no fight?”

Rust (after musing a while).—“There was a little skrimmage, sir.”

M'Bride.—“How often did Henry Warden strike the other?”

Rust.—“Now, I don't know that he hit him ary time. I saw his fist travellin two or three times towards Bill's face, but whether it called or passed by I can't say. It's not onlikely it knocked for admission, as they say, at his mouth. He seemed to poke it into him faster than Bill could pack it away.”

M'Bride.—“Do you know of any cause of quarrel between the two? Had any, thing happened just before the fight to irritate Henry Warden?”

Rust.—“They say Bill Glutson struck Eddie Mayfield; but the others know more about that than I do.”

Ben now had permission to resume his seat, which he did with great gravity, having first made a profound bow to the master. Warden was again called on, and again refused to tell what he knew. Having never been chided by parent or teacher, his sensibility wounded to the quick by his present position, mortified that he was even suspected of wrong, and desirous of not calling on Edith Mayfield, no persuasion could induce him to make a defence.

“Henry,” said M'Bride, at length, “I have a painful duty to perform. You have been my best student, the pride of the school, and the boast of the neighbourhood. No one has ever before raised an accusing voice against you, but discipline must be enforced. By the testimony of others, and by your own mute confession, you are guilty of a heinous misdemeanour, and until you sincerely repent, you must be excluded, as unworthy, from my peaceful fold. With tears I blot your name—”

“Hold!” exclaimed Nathan Glutson; “you are too severe, my worthy friend. If I might be allowed,” continued he, rising with dignity, “if I might be allowed to give my humble opinion, I would advise that the culprit be soundly whipped and forgiven for his recent offence. I am sure my son would be satisfied with this. The boy is giddy, and may have a touch of his father's infirmity;” and Nathan paused and looked round for approbation. His good counsel was, however, thrown away; for something very much like disgust was visible in every face. As for the judge—his burning soul flashing through his eyes with a dignity, it may even be said, with a grandeur of manner that impressed the whole assembly—he declared that he never would survive such a chastisement as that recommended, at the hands of any but a parent.

“The whip,” he cried, “is for the back of the sluggard and the mean-spirited. As for that man,” he continued, gazing on Nathan Glutson with a sternness that discomposed his nerves, “he is a hypocrite and a slanderer; the tyrant of the weak, and the slave of the strong! And now,” said he, his great heart swelling within him, “my teacher, the Glutsons, and the world may do its worst, for I shall ask pardon and mercy of none but God!”

Thus spoke the descendant of a puritan, and the protégé of the famous Dr. Caldwell. He was mistaken, though, in thinking the world his enemy. That little part of it in which he was then acting the early hero loved and respected him, and boys and girls clustered around him, endeavouring to soothe his chafed and wounded spirit. Even the parson and master exchanged secret glances of admiration; and the sympathies of Uncle Corny became so much excited that it would have been dangerous for any one to have attempted to lay rough hands on the judge. As for Nathan, he was, in vulgar phrase, greatly flurried and hurt in feeling, and was about to begin a speech, when he was stopped by the silver voice of Edith Mayfield. The girl, catching the feeling that animated Henry Warden, came forward, covered with blushes, and told her simple story. She was listened to in breathless silence, and her tale acquitted the judge in the hearts of all but the Glutsons. The representative and pater-familias of that ilk could now no longer restrain his indignation, which blazed in crimson glory over his sharp and ruddy face, flashed in consuming majesty from his small, round, gray eyes, and poured in torrents of perspiration over his square and narrow forehead.

“Sir, Mr. M'Bride, and gentlemen, this is too bad!” he exclaimed; is my son to be discredited, my counsel despised?”

“Suffer me to interrupt you, Mr. Glutson,” interposed M'Bride; “the trial is over, and Henry Warden is honourablyacquitted.”

“What!” thundered the enraged justice of the peace; “is this the way justice is administered? Is this little jade, the sweetheart, no doubt—”

“Silence!” now thundered the master in his turn. “Mr. Glutson, this is my school-house, and these are my students. I am here judge and jury, and my authority there is none to dispute. If I have permitted you to speak at all it was not because I wanted your opinion, but simply as a mark of respect to one of my worthy patrons. You are now taking unbecoming liberties with the character of my pupils, which is as dear to me as my own, and which I will defend with my life. God forbid that I should chastise a gallant boy for resenting and punishing a wanton insult to an innocent girl! Take your seat, sir, instantly, or leave the house!”

This command was not to be disobeyed, and taking his children, William and Emily, Nathan slowly withdrew and shook off the dust of his feet against the school of Alamance. Children, teacher, and parents, seemed to breathe more freely after his departure, and the confections left in the morning were discussed with a lively animation. The roll was then called, and the Rev. Dr. Caldwell rose to make a few remarks. His discourse was short, simple, and sensible, and listened to with profound and respectful attention. The reverend gentleman was, without effort or ostentatious display, eloquent and pathetic, and brought tears from more than one ingenuous youth. In conclusion, he touched slightly upon the gathering dangers of the times, spoke of a coming crisis, and exhorted his young friends to emulate the example of their ancestors, who had sealed with their blood their devotion to civil and religious liberty. A fervent prayer was then offered to the Throne of Grace, and thus ended the ceremonies of the day.

“A day,” says the master in his memoranda, “famous in the annals of Alamance, as on it the shadows of important coming events were clearly visible.”

What these events were we shall see in the sequel; and, in the mean time, it is worthy of mention, that as Henry Warden took leave of Edith he dropped into her basket a note, which, when out of sight, she opened and read as follows:

“Beware of the Glutsons; believe no prejudicial story about me, and remember I am your sincere friend forever. Whatever happens, or wherever I may happen to be, know that you are not forgotten.”

The contents puzzled her no little, and so she went home pondering on them.

“EDDIE, my daughter,” said Mr. Mayfield, on the night before Christmas, “tomorrow there is to be a great party at Warden's, and I wish to give you some advice in relation to your conduct there. You are my only child and heir, the sole representative of my house, and in you its honour must be sustained.”

“Why do you talk so, father?” replied the girl; “have I ever disobeyed you in any thing?”

“Never, my darling, when you knew my wishes; and I am now going to explain them to you fully, so that you may know how to act in future. Come and kiss me, and I'll begin.”

Edith, seating herself in her father's lap, and throwing her arms about his neck, fondly kissed him, when he thus proceeded:-

“It's dangerous, daughter, to form early attachments, friendly or otherwise. We cannot tell when young, what is most for our interest; and I have known persons to be unsuccessful and hampered all their lives by intimacies they formed when young, and which they could not get over.”

“But, father, we ought not to choose our friends from interested motives,” said Edith; “and I thought attachments formed when we are children were the purest, because our hearts are then better than they are when we grow older.”

“It's an old and idle tale,” answered Mayfield; “and no sensible people believe it. It's a sickly sentiment, the mere cant of poets and visionaries.”

“What is a visionary?” asked the daughter.

“A visionary, child, is one whose imagination is stronger than his judgement, and who mistakes the whims and dreams of his fancy for the conclusions of reason. Henry Warden is a visionary, and has, I fear, been tutoring you.”

“Indeed he has not, father,” answered Edith, with animation; “he never taught me any thing but what was right, and he talks more sensibly than any one I ever heard.”

“So you may think now,” rejoined the father; “for you are yet unable to answer his sophisms, and to see the absurdity of his fine-spun theories. My love, you must not be so intimate with Henry. He is a good boy, generous, just, and brave; but he is, as I said, a visionary, and he may instil into your mind philosophy that is dangerous. Besides, people are beginning to think you and he are fond of each other; and that affair of to-day will make a great noise. If it is thought a girl is in love, it keeps off suitors—and—”

“I want no suitors,” exclaimed Edith, rather pettishly, hiding her head in her father's bosom.

“But you will want them some day,” said the old man; “and for this very reason you must not suffer them to come about you now. If you are too free with Henry Warden, you may never have any beau but him; and that will be a pretty tale to tell of the beautiful and accomplished daughter of the rich Isaiah Mayfield, Esq. I want you, some day, to be the belle of Alamance; and after a brilliant career, to marry worthy of yourself and of me. Tomorrow, therefore, you must be cautious and circumspect towards Henry Warden. Every body will be observing you and him; and you will be the general talk of the neighbourhood, if you don't take care.”

“Father,” said Edith, with tears in her eyes, “if it will please you, I will never speak to Henry again.”

“But it won't please me; that is the very thing I don't want you to do. You must not quarrel with him, nor show by your manners and conversation that you think enough of him to get into a pet about him or with him. When you speak of him, do it freely, lightly, and kindly; when you speak to him, do it with a formal politeness, a cold cordiality, a reserved respect. Talk to him familiarly, but not confidentially; do not smile, but laugh loud and carelessly; and when you look at him, gaze as earnestly as you please, but let there be no meaning or expression in your eyes. You may think this strange advice, but your father knows what is best for you, and his object is to do it. Poor Henry! I am sorry for him.”

Edith was, too, but she did not say so; and, in fact, her commiseration arose from a very different reason from that which prompted her father's. The latter knew exactly the sum total of George Warden's debts; and though just, honourable, and honest, “He had a frugal mind.” He was one of those sedate, moral, and careful souls who, though they cheat nobody, have no real affection for any thing but money, and who, although respected by all, are loved by no one; who are noncommittal on everything but pounds, shillings, and pence; who risk nothing in behalf of their best friend but advice; and who graduate their esteem, and regulate their bows by the length of their neighbours' purses. They are kind, good people; so says every body: they are forms of uncompounded selfishness: animated statues of stone; walking and speaking automatons, whose negative virtues are often worse than positive vices; so thinks every body. They believe they were sent here for no other purpose than to take care of themselves; and leaving that fair sample of the fraternity, Isaiah Mayfield, fully absorbed in this judicious and pleasing occupation, we will proceed with our history.

The mansion of George Warden was considered in its day as a fine specimen of architectural beauty, and its great age evidenced the attachment felt for it by the descendants of the builder. It was, however, too long, too low, and to wide to suit the more polished modern taste; had too many sheds, porches, and passages; and had, withal, windows on the roof to light the garret. It was situated on the brow of a long hill, and surrounded by oaks and walnuts, whose brawny arms had buffetted with the storms of a century, and interspersed with which were catalbers, locusts, and cedars of a smaller growth. From the great gate in front, a lane led down the hill to the creek of Little Alamance, and on the right and left of the bridge crossing the creek were large and level meadows dotted over with an occasional elm or poplar. A row of old and stately sycamores lined each side of the lane from the gate to the creek, and broad and well-cultivated fields were everywhere in view. The great gate stands open to-day, and a troop of negro children are lounging about it, ready to clamour “Christmas-gift” to each new-comer, and to take his horse; a large log-fire is blazing in the hall, and servants are running to and fro in busy preparation.

Old black Ben, with a solemn and portentous look and an air of authority, is everywhere in general and nowhere in particular; now rectifying the fires, now watching the progress of the egg-beaters, and occasionally at the gate, scolding at the mischievous boys and looking wistfully down the lane. The quiet of the morning is soon disturbed by a great hubbub, and the guests come pouring in, till the hall is filled. George Warden is to-day unusually gay, and captivates his guests with that lively and witty discourse for which, in his happy moments, he was more remarkable than any man of his time. Every trace of pride has vanished from his handsome but aristocratic face, every drop of acid seems purged from his temper, and on all subjects, except the literature of the Greeks and Romans, he is a full match for the master and the parson. “His ancient, drouthy, trusty crony,” Corny Demijohn, listens with both his ears, and stares with both his eyes, his heart all the while dancing within him to the ravishing music of Warden's voice, and his thundering laugh exploding at regular intervals like signal-guns or salutes of artillery. Mrs. Warden is also cheerful; but slight lines of care are visible in her noble face, and her stately form has lost some of its majesty by the blight of premature age. She welcomes her guests, however, with a smile, and sends a warm sunshine through every breast. Her three children are petted and caressed by every one. Henry sits surrounded by the old men, who find in him an attentive listener to their reminiscences of the men and events of by-gone times. Kate, the second child, is “spoke for” by all the young men, and incessantly kissed by all the old maids, while Wash, sturdy little Wash, a miniature hero, is the butt of all the sharp shooters, upon whom he occasionally turns the tables and creates roars of laughter by his witty sallies. Thus things were progressing within the hall, when shouts and boisterous laughter in the yard brought the crowd to the doors and windows. Emerging from one of the negro cabins, there came, in a sort of running dance, and surrounded by a rout of negroes, children, and barking dogs, two fantastic figures “in shape and stature” unlike any thing upon or under the surface of the earth. They were male and female, and as loving as a married couple during the honeymoon. The former bore some slight resemblance to an enormous monkey, walking erect, having on his face a mask to suit the character, and a black bearskin cap upon his head, while there trailed behind him a long and magnificent tail. The other had not the pendulous ornament that so graced her partner, nor were the Egyptian beauties of her face concealed. The graceful rotundity of a fat ankle peeped from under her short petticoats, a huge turban waved upon her head, and a vast promontory behind indicated the presence of an article of dress which has since become the glory of modern belles. Each was bedizened with party-coloured rags and strips of striped cloth that waved and fluttered in the breeze, and attached to which bunches of rusty nails kept up a low, jingling music.

“Clear the way for John O'Cooner and his wife!” some one cried; and on they came, singing as none but negroes can sing, old John O'Cooner's song.

A ring had been formed, and within it, while singing, John O'Cooner and his wife immortalized their legs by feats which would astonish Ellsler or Celeste. The gallant gentleman, without missing a step, made frequent efforts to kiss his spouse, while she, coy as a maiden of sweet sixteen and active as a roe, would baffle his attempts, and sidle, with mincing airs, towards grinning and bashful young negroes, whom, for his wife's partialities, John would send rolling on their backs in the dirt. Sometimes a sedate old bechelor among the white men would be the object of Dinah's favours, and then, while the gentleman blushed and ran, the crowd huzzaed and shouted. Uncle Corny seemed to be her greatest favourite, and from place to place she pursued that solemn bachelor, whose troubles excited little sympathy among his friends. Small bits of coin were showered on the hard ground and miraculously gathered in a pile between the dancers, and as miraculously disappeared. While, however, Dinah was annoying the timid gentlemen with her attentions, her spouse was prodigiously troubled to preserve his tail sacred from the rude touch of mischievous boys, until, at length, that glory of his “hinder side” having disappeared, old John and his partner retreated to the kitchen, there to enjoy, with their fellow-servants, their Christmas grog, and to divide the spoils—one half of which went to John's mother, an aged and decrepit negress.

Shall we describe the sumptuous dinner prepared by Mrs. Warden for her guests, and how it was duly honoured? Need we describe the great bowl of eggnogg which stood in the centre of the table, and from which the glasses of the old men were often filled, while those of the young were emptied only once? Need we tell that, after dinner, old Ben, with his pupil Ike, scraped more music from their fiddles than they had ever done before?—that the young folks romped, tried their fortunes, and practised (the male ones) with their rifles; and that the old ones smoked, told long stories, and discussed the signs of the times? Can we relate the troubles of