een a favorite pastime with the self-exiled sons of
Merry England.

Such things have passed away from thee, my native State! Forever have they
gone, and the times when over waxed floors thy sons and daughters
gracefully performed the minuet. The stately bow, the graceful curtsey are
seen no more; there is hospitality yet lingering in thy halls, but fashion
is making its way there too. The day when there was a tie between master
and slave,--is that departing, and why?

Mr. Weston passed from the house under a covered way to the kitchen, and
with a firm but slow step, entered. And here, if you be an Old or a New
Englander, let me introduce you--as little at home would be Queen Victoria
holding court in the Sandwich Islands, as you here. You may look in vain
for that bane of good dinners, a cooking stove; search forever for a grain
of saleratus or soda, and it will be in vain. That large, round block, with
the wooden hammer, is the biscuit-beater; and the cork that is lifting
itself from the jug standing on it, belongs to the yeast department.

Mr. Weston did not, nor will we, delay to glance at the well-swept earthen
floor, and the bright tins in rows on the dresser, but immediately
addressed himself to Aunt Peggy, who, seated in a rush-bottomed chair in
the corner, and rocking herself backwards and forwards, was talking
rapidly.

And oh! what a figure had Aunt Peggy; or rather, what a face. Which was the
blacker, her eyes or her visage; or whiter, her eyeballs or her hair? The
latter, unconfined by her bandanna handkerchief as she generally wore it,
standing off from her head in masses, like snow. And who that had seen her,
could forget that one tooth projecting over her thick underlip, and in
constant motion as she talked.

"It's no use, Mister Bacchus," said she, addressing the old man, who
looked rather the worse for wear, "it's no use to be flinging yer imperence
in my face. I'se worked my time; I'se cooked many a grand dinner, and eat
'em too. You'se a lazy wagabond yerself."

"Peggy," interposed Mr. Weston.

"A good-for-nothing, lazy wagabond, yerself," continued Peggy, not noticing
Mr. Weston, "you'se not worth de hommony you eats."

"Does you hear that, master?" said Bacchus, appealing to Mr. Weston; "she's
such an old fool."

"Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Weston; while Mark, ready to strangle his
fellow-servant for his impertinence, was endeavoring to drag him out of the
room.

"Ha, ha," said Peg