"This is some real apple-jack," continued he, "made in 1804. I recollect the date distinctly, as we heard of the bombardment of Tripoli by my old friend Preble shortly after it was distilled." We took a drink of the old gentleman's favourite cordial, and at the same moment supper was announced.

We sat down to a glorious repast, one which Dr. Johnson might have condescended to praise: all the luxuries of a low-land table were in profusion, the savoury oyster, the soft delicate crab, sheep's head and drum, canvass-back duck, snipe, wood-cock, and a thousand et cetras, the bare sight of which would have driven a gourmand into raptures. Carmine and myself were both naturally endowed with good appetites, which were now sharpened to the height of keenness by long riding and indifferent fare. My uncle heaped our plates with a part of every delicacy on the table; and with unsparing hands, we each made a meal that might have rivalled the immortal feast of Quentin Durward at the hostelry of Plessis. "I wish Frank," at length observed the painter with a long breath, "that our quondam steward, Buck Sea, was here; it is more than probable that he would improve by this sight before us, and reform the rascally commons with which he used to supply us at College." My uncle laughed heartily and with unaffected pleasure at this sally of the painter. "I recollect, my boys," said the old gentleman, "when the sight of such a table as this, ordinary as it is, would have been far more grateful to a dozen or two with myself, than the sight of Paradise to a Turk. To give you some idea of the difficulties we

used to encounter in the glorious old revolution, I will relate you the circumstance.

About twenty of us at the battle of Germantown, were taken prisoners, and as it happened the most of us were Virginians. We were placed for safe keeping in a miserable apartment of the old courthouse, at Philadelphia, the very spot I believe now occupied by the Museum; there we remained without fire or food for two days and nights. To add to our comforts, the room had sunk in the centre, and the water from the open roof had formed a delightful pool of greenish colour, around which we were stowed as thick as hasty pudding, as the song goes. We were very indignant at such treatment, being Officers and Virginians in the bargain, and we determined to perish before we would gratify our enemies with complaint. At length Tom Fuzee, my Orderly Sergeant, upon the morning of the third day swore that he could stand it no longer; and going to the door bawled out to the centinel. The rascal, (who was a Hessian by the by) opened the door. "Vat you vant Mr. Rebels," said the Dutchman: "Something to eat and drink you damn'd rascal," said Fuzee: "Oh! ho, Mr. Rebels," exclaimed the Hessian with a loud laugh, as he slammed the door. "Well," said Tom, "I suppose we are certainly to starve in this hole. I have had my handkerchief girted round my body for the last twenty-four hours, and every hour I have drawn it two inches closer. By the powers of starvation, I am as thin as a Krout Knife." Just as he had concluded, the door again opened, and a beef's head,

with an old camp-kettle were thrown in. Tom seized them with avidity, struck a fire, singed the hair from the head, and in ten minutes had as fine a kettle of broth as ever was seen. "Captain," said he, "will

you take a dip into this mess ?" Not I, I exclaimed with pride, although the effort of denial was prodigious. "Gentlemen, you are all welcome," said Fuzee, as he fished out a lump of beef and swallowed it. Not a man moved. Tom proceeded with rapidity to discuss the contents of the kettle, until I could stand it no longer. I soused my hands into the broth, scalded my fingers and in three minutes there was neither broth, bones nor beef to be discovered. Oh! those were glorious days boys, when a man could accommodate himself to any thing; one day a battle and the next a frolic; one day starved to death, and the next gorged with every thing that was good. One night sleeping under a pine log, and the next in some tory's feather couch." The old gentleman's eyes glistened as he spoke, and he seemed really to speak with regret of those days of toil and blood shed. I thought it strange, and set him down as an eccentric humourist. "What a noble face and head for a drawing," said Carmine, as we walked out into the yard.

At this moment our ears were struck by the music of a banjo from the kitchen, where a Christmas runlet of whiskey from my uncle's cellar had gathered every negro on the plantation. Nothing would do but I must accompany the painter amongst them, as he wished to catch a group of the kind for his picture of "Christmas Frolic." As we entered,

they all respectfully arose, and those who were dan-
cing ceased. Carmine asked them to continue their
sport, and at a signal from the old greyheaded ban-
joman they struck off into a figure in which foot,
hand, head and back, kept time to the music with
the precision of a metronome. The music became
wild and animated, and at every moment a burst of
the old fellow's voice would seem to inspire new life
into the dancers. At last it ceased.
The negroes
took their seats and the rapid tones of the old mu-
sician's voice subsided into a song, the air of which
was slow and somewhat pathetic. As it is the best
specimen of negro composition I ever heard, I noted
it down with a pencil, and give it to the reader as I
heard it; with the observation, that the close of every
verse was effected by a symphony of three notes on
the banjo.

"Hark! the banjo's sound I hear,
Christmas comes but once a year,
Then let us sing and dance and drink,
And thump away to the tink, tink, tink.

"Christmas is the time for glee,

The time for myrth and revelrie,

Then let us take another drink,

And dance away to the tink, tink, tink.

"Master is a gen'rous man,

So all his neighbours think,

He keeps good liquor in his house,
And always loves the tink, tink, tink.

"Now all the girls and boys do meet,
With pumps to dance and all so neat,
They give old Cudjo a glass of drink,
To thump away to the tink, tink, tink.

"Sound the banjo, pass the bowl,
And thump away on the tatoe hole,
Old Cudjo takes a good stiff drink,

And strikes away with the tink, tink, tink."

I afterwards ascertained that this was an epithalamium composed by old Cudjo upon the marriage of my uncle about thirty Christmases before; some of the neighbours were inclined to think from the high-flown words interspersed throughout the song, such as glee and revelrie, that our uncle had composed the song himself for old Cudjo. But when accused of it he denied the fact most bitterly, protesting that the song was the genuine offspring of Cudjo's brain, when slightly deranged with liquor, into poetical inspiration and refined rhapsody, like some of his brother poets.

The next morning about day break the roar of a broad-side from the frigate, and the rival report of an old musket in the yard beneath, roused the painter and myself from our slumbers. We descended to the parlour: a huge log-fire was roaring in the massy fire-place like a small volcano, and with loud, cheerful crackling, seemed to rejoice in the festivities of the day. The whole family black and white were in motion. My uncle and cousins seemed busily engaged in mixing a bowl of egg-nog, and the yard was filled with negroes old and young, running

in

every direction with black bottles in their hands. "Christmas gift," was shouted by every one of our cousins in concert, as soon as we entered the room, with a quickness that seemed to have impatiently awaited our appearance; and I believe it is gene