That's a southern moon.

"Kiss me, kiss me, flower o' night!
Madelon!
'Ware the voices, 'ware the light!
Madelon!

"Will you smoke with me, Mr. Bacon? I'd like to try the Monticello leaf."

"I have to go to the quarters for a bit," answered the overseer.
"There's sickness there. I'll join you later, Mr. Gaudylock."

He went whistling away. Adam sat down upon the broad steps whitened by
the moon, filled his pipe, struck a spark from his flint and steel, and
was presently enveloped in fragrant smoke. The dancing-master,
hesitating somewhat disconsolately in the hall, at last went also into
the moonlight, where he walked slowly up and down upon the terrace, his
thin, beruffled hands clasped behind his old brocaded coat. What with
the moonlight and the ancient riches of his apparel, and a certain lost
and straying air, he had the seeming of a phantom from some faint,
bewigged, perfumed, and painted past.

Lewis Rand paused for a moment before the door, and looked out upon the
splendid night, then turned and passed into the library, where he called
for candles, and, sitting down at a desk, began to write. His letter was
to the President of the United States, and it was written freely and
boldly. "'Twas thus they did--'twas so I did. We won, and I am glad;
they lost, and that also is to my liking. As the party owes its victory
to your name and your power, so I owe my personal victory to your
ancient and continued kindness. May my name be abhorred if ever I forget