cribed as the perfection of reason.
They took the bull boldly by the horns.
They tell us there is no law. The negroes on a plantation we once know, distinguished themselves by all getting drunk on the last day of harvest of a certain year.
The next year the proprietor told them they should have no whiskey.--"Humph!" grunted the head man, "I don't call dat no harvis', I don't." So is Christmas nothing if it is not merry, as Iago was nothing if not critical.
We suppose, then, the 25th day of December, in the year of Grace One Thousand Eight Hundred and Sixty, was, to us at least, not Christmas, for, most assuredly, to us it was not merry. We speak not of the rumors of war which were rife to the point of tainting the very air we breathe.
We speak not of Massachusetts or South Carolina, of the President that is going out, or the President that is coming in. We speak not of secession or revolution.
We speak only of our own peculiar aliments — of a long chill and a high fever, and