The Cruise of the Midge (Vol. 2 of 2)

by Michael Scott

CHAPTER VIII.

MY UNCLE.

Here, late as it was, all was bustle and activity; the boiling-house was brilliantly lighted up, the clouds of white luminous vapour steaming through the apertures in the roof; while the negroes feeding the fires, sheltered under the stokehole arches from the weather, and almost smothered amongst heaps of dry cane-stalks, or trash, as it is called, from which the juice had been crushed, looked in their glancing nakedness like fiends, as their dark bodies flitted between us and the glowing mouths of the furnaces. A little farther on we came to the two cone-roofed mill-houses, one of which was put in motion by a spell of oxen, the other being worked by mules, while the shouting of the drivers, the cries of the boilermen to the firemakers to make stronger fires, the crashing of the canes as they were crushed in the mills, the groaning and squealing of the machinery, the spanking of whips, the lumbering and rattling of wains and waggons, the hot dry axles screaming for grease, and the loud laugh and song rising occasionally shrill above the Babel sounds, absolutely confounded me.

We stopped at the boiling-house door, and asked the book-keeper on duty, a tall cadaverous-looking young man, dressed in a fustian jacket and white trowsers, who appeared more than half asleep, if the overseer was at home. He said he was, and, as we intended to leave our horses at his house, we turned their heads towards it, guided by one of the negroes from the mill.

The peep I had of the boiling-house was very enlivening;—for, independently of the regular watch of boiler-negroes, who were ranged beside the large poppling and roaring coppers, each having a bright copper laddie, with a long shank like a boathook, in his hands, it was at this time filled with numbers of the estate's people, some getting hot liquor, others sitting against the wall, eating their suppers by the lamp light, and not a few quizzing and loitering about in the mist of hot vapour, as if the place had been a sort of lounge, instead of a busy sugar manufactory—a kind of sable soirée.

By the time we arrived in front of the overseer's house, we found the door surrounded by a group of four patriarchal-looking negroes and an old respectable-looking negro woman. The men were clad in Osnaburg frocks, like those worn by waggoners in England, with blue frieze jackets over them, and white trowsers. The old dame was rigged in a man's jacket also, over as many garments apparently as worn by the grave-digger in Hamlet. I had never seen such a round ball of a body. They were all hat-in-hand, with Madras handkerchiefs bound round their heads, and leaning on tall staffs made from peeled young hardwood trees, the roots forming very fantastical tops. Their whips were twisted round these symbols of office, like the snakes round the caduceus of their tutelary deity, Mercury. These were the drivers of the various gangs of negroes on the estate, who were waiting to receive busha's[[1]] orders for the morrow.

[[1]] The West India name for overseer, or manager of an estate; a corruption, no doubt, of bashaw.

On seeing us, the overseer hastily dismissed his levee, and ordered his people to take charge of our horses.

"Mr Frenche is at home, I hope?" said Mr Twig.

"Oh, yes, sir—all alone up at the great house there," pointing to a little shed of a place, perched on an insulated rocky eminence, to the left of the abode he himself occupied, which overlooked the works and whole neighbourhood.

This hill, rising as abruptly from the dead level of the estate as if it had been a rock recently dropped on it,—rather a huge areolite, by the way,—was seen in strong relief against the sky, now clear of clouds, and illuminated by the moon.

At the easternmost end of the solitary great house—in shape like a Chinese pavilion, with a projecting roof, on a punch bowl, that adhered to the sharp outline of the hill like a limpet to a rock—a tall solitary palm shot up and tossed its wide-spreading, fan-like leaves in the night wind high into the pure heaven. The fabric was entirely dark—not a soul moving about it—nothing living in the neighbourhood apparently, if we except a goat or two moving slowly along the ridge of the hill. At the end of the house next the palm-tree there was a low but steep wooden stair, with a landing-place at top, surrounded by a simple wooden railing, so that it looked like a scaffold.

"There is Mr Frenche, sir," continued busha, pointing to the figure of a man lounging in a low chair on the landing place, with his feet resting on the rail before him, and far higher than his head, which leant against the wall of the house, as if he had been a carronade planted against the opposite hill. Under the guidance of one of the overseer's waiting boys, we commenced the zig-zag ascent towards my uncle's dwelling, and as we approached, the feeling of desolateness that pressed on my heart increased, from the extreme stillness of the place even when near to it. Light, or other indication of an inhabited mansion, there was none—even the goats had vanished.

"Cold comfort in prospect for me," thought I; "but allons, let us see,"—and we moved on until we came to a small outhouse beside a gate, which seemed to open into the enclosure, in the centre of which stood the solitary building.

"How terribly still every thing is about Mr Frenche's domicile," said I, as we paused until Flamingo undid the fastening of the gate. "And, pray, what hovel is this that we have come to?"

"This?—Oh, it is the kitchen," quoth Twig. "Stop, I will knock up the people."

"Don't do any such thing," said Flamingo, who, I saw, was after some vagary. "Here, Mr Brail, get up the stair,"—we had now reached the small platform on which the house stood,—"and creep under his legs, will ye—there, get into the house and conceal yourself, and Twig and I will rouse him, and have some fun before you make your appearance."

I gave in to the frolic of the moment, and slipped silently up the few steps of the steep stair, as I was desired. There, on the landing-place, reposed, al fresco, Uncle Lathom, sure enough—his chair swung back, his head resting on the door-post, and his legs cocked up, as already described, on the outer railing of the stair. He was sound asleep, and snoring most harmoniously; but just as I stole up, and was in the very act of creeping beneath the yoke to get past him, I touched his limbs slightly; but the start made him lose his balance and fall back into the house, and there I was, like a shrimp in the claws of a lobster, firmly locked in the embrace of my excellent relative—for although his arms were not round my neck, his legs were.

"Who is that, and what is that, and what have I got hold of now?" roared Uncle Latham, in purest Tipperary.

"It is me, sir," I shouted as loud as I could bellow; for as we rolled over and over on the head of the stair, I discovered he had spurs on; but the devil a bit would he relax in his hold of my neck with his legs,—"me, your dutiful nephew, Benjamin Brail—but, for goodness sake, mind you have spurs on, uncle."

"My nephew—my nephew, Benjamin Brail, did you say?—Oh, murder, fire, and botheration of all sorts—spurs, sir?—spurs?—Hookey, but I'll find stronger fare than spurs for you—You are a robber, sir—a robber—Murphy, you villain—Murphy—Dennis—Potatoblossom—bring me a handsaw, till I cut his throat—or a gimblet—or any other deleterious eatable—Oh, you thieves of the world, why don't you come and help your master?—Lights, boys—lights—hubaboo!"

By this I had contrived to wriggle out of my Irish pillory, and to withdraw my corpus into the house, where I crept behind a leaf of the door—any thing to be out of the row. I could now hear my uncle crawling about the dark room like the aforesaid lobster, disconsolate for the loss of its prey, arguing with himself aloud whether he were awake, or whether it was not all a drame, as he called it;—and then shouting for his servants at one moment, and stumbling against the table, or falling rattle over a lot of chairs, that all seemed to have placed themselves most provokingly in his way, the next. During his soliloquy, I heard Twig and Flamingo's suppressed laughter at the other end of the room. At length Mr Frenche thundered in his gropings against the sideboard, when such a clash and clang of glasses arose, as if he had been literally the bull in the china shop.

"Ah," he said, "it must be all a drame, and looking at people drinking, has made me dry—so let me wet my whistle a bit—here's the beverage, so—now—ah, this is the rum bottle—I know it by the smell—and what the devil else should I know it by in the dark before tasting, I should like to know?—he! he!—if I could but lay my paw on a tumbler now, or a glass of any kind—not one to be found, I declare—Murphy, you villain, why don't you come when I call you, sirrah?"—There was now a concerto of coughing, and sneezing, and oich, oiching, and yawning, as if from beneath.—"Will these lazy rascals never make their appearance?" continued Mr Frenche, impatiently—"Well, I cannot find even a teacup to make some punch in—hard enough this in a man's own house, any how—but I have the materials—and—and—now, for the fun of the thing—I will mix it Irish fashion—deuce take me if I don't," and thereupon I heard him gurgle, gurgle something out of one bottle—and then a long gurgle, gurgle, gurgle, out of another, apparently, for the gurgling was on different keys,—both followed by a long expiration. He then gave several jumps on the floor.

He had, as I guessed, first swallowed the raw caulker from the rum decanter, and then sent down the lemonade to take care of it. "Now, that rum is very strong—stop, let me qualify it a bit with some more beverage—how thirsty I am, to be sure—murder!—confound that wide-necked decanter." Here I could hear the liquid splash all over him. "There—so much for having a beautiful small mouth—why, Rory Macgregor, with that hole in his face from ear to ear, would have drunk you the whole bottle without spilling a drop, and here am I, suffocated and drowned entirely, and as wet as if I had been dragged through the Bog of Allan—Murphy, you scoundrel?"

Anon, two negro servants, stretching and yawning, each with a candle in his hand, made their appearance, one in his shirt, with his livery coat hanging over his head, the cape projecting forward, and a sleeve hanging down on each side; the other had his coat on certainly, but stern foremost, and not another rag of any kind or description whatever, saving and excepting his Kilmarnock nightcap.

By the illumination which those ebony candlesticks furnished, I now could see about me. The room we were in was about twenty feet square, panelled, ceiled, and floored—it looked like a large box—with unpainted, but highly-polished hard-wood, of the colour of very old mahogany—handsomer than any oak panelling I had ever seen. There was a folding door that communicated with the front piazza, out of which we had scrambled—-another, that opened into a kind of back dining-hall, or large porch, and two on each hand, which opened into bedrooms. A sideboard was placed by the wall to the right, between the two bedroom doors, at which stood a tall and very handsome elderly gentleman, who, if I had not instantly known to be my uncle, from his likeness to my poor mother, I might, after the adventures of the day, and the oddities of messieurs my friends—the Twig of the Dream, and the Flamingo of Peaweep, Snipe, and Flamingo—have suspected some quiz or practical joke in the matter.

The gentleman, evidently not broad awake yet, was dressed in light-coloured kerseymere small-clothes, top-boots, white vest, and blue coat—he was very bald, with the exception of two tufts of jet-black hair behind his ears, blending into very bushy whiskers. His forehead was round and beetling—you would have said he was somewhat bullet-headed; had the obduracy of the feature not been redeemed by his eyebrows, which were thick, well arched, and, like his hair and whiskers, jet-black—and also by his genuine Irish sparklers, dark, flashing, and frolicsome.

His complexion was of the clearest I had seen in Jamaica—I could never have guessed that he had been above a few weeks from the "First gem of the Sea,"—and his features generally large and well formed. There was a playful opening of the lips every now and then, disclosing nice ivory teeth, and evincing, like his eyes, the native humour of his country.

"So, Master Murphy, you are there at last," said he.

"Yes, massa—yes, massa."

"Pray, can you tell me, Murphy, if any one has arrived here—any stranger come into the house while I slept;" then aside, as the players say, "or has it really and truly been all a drame?"

"No see noting, massa—nor nobody"—[yawn.]

"You didn't, oh—there, do you see any thing now?" said my uncle—as he took the candle out of the black paw, and put the lighted end, with all the composure in life, into Murphy's open mouth, where it shone through his cheeks like a rushlight in a winter turnip, until it burned the poor fellow, and he started back, overturning his sleepy coadjutor, Dennis, headlong on the floor. On which signal, Twig and Flamingo, who were all this time coiled up like two baboons below the sideboard, choking with laughter, caught Uncle Frenche by the legs, a limb a piece, who thereupon set up a regular howl—"ach, murder! murder! it is abducted, and ravished, and married against my will I shall be—murder!"—as he in turn capsized over the prostrate negroes, and all was confusion and vociferation once more—until my two travelling friends, who had cleverly slipped out of the mêlée, while my uncle was clapperclawing with his serving-men, returned from the pantry, whither they had betaken themselves; and now stood on the original field of battle, the landing-place of the stair, each with a lighted candle in his hand, and making believe to be in great amazement at the scene before them.

"Heyday," quoth Twig, "what's the matter, Master Frenche?—what uproar is this in the house?—we heard it at the Devil's Gully, two miles off, believe me."

"Uproar?" shouted Uncle Lathom, still sitting on the floor, scratching his poll—"uproar, were you pleased to say?—pray, who the mischief are you, gentlemen, who conceive yourselves privileged to speak of any little noise I choose to make in my own house?—tell me in an instant, or by the powers I will shoot you for a brace of robbers"—clapping the lemonade decanter, which had all this time escaped by a miracle, to his shoulder, blunderbuss fashion.

Here gradually slewing himself round on his tail, and rubbing his eyes, he at length confronted me, as I sat coiled up behind the leaf of the door—"Why, here is a second edition of my drame." The very absurd expression of face with which he said this, and regarded me, fairly upset my gravity, already heavily taxed, and losing all control, I laughed outright.

"Another of them! and who may you be, young gentleman?—you seem to find yourself at home, at any rate, I think."

"Come, come," said Flamingo—"enough of this nonsense—don't you know your friends Twig and Flamingo, Mr Frenche?"

"Twig and Flamingo, did you say?—Twig and Flamingo—Twig—oh dear, oh dear—it is no drame after all—my dear fellows, how are you?—why, what a reception I have given you—you must have thought me mad?" By this time he had got on his legs again, and was welcoming my fellow-travellers with great cordiality, which gave me time to resume the perpendicular also. "I am so glad to see you—why, Jacob, I did not look for you until Tuesday next, but you are the welcomer, my good boy—most heartily welcome—how wet you must have got, though—boys, get supper—Felix, I am so rejoiced to see you—supper, you villains—why, we shall have a night on't, my lads."

"Give me leave to introduce this young gentleman to you first," said Twig, very gravely, leading me forward into the light, "your nephew, Mr Benjamin Brail."

"My nephew!" quoth Mr Frenche—"why, there's my drame again—my nephew!—when did he arrive?"—here he held a candle close to my face, as if my nose had been a candle-wick, and he meant to light it; then fumbling in his bosom with the other hand, he drew forth a miniature of my mother—"my nephew!—my poor sister's boy, Benjie!—as like her as possible, I declare—how are you, Benjamin?—oh, Benjie, I am rejoiced to see you—my heart is full, full—how are"——And as the tear glistened in his eye, he made as if he would have taken me in his arms, when a sudden light seemed to flash on him, and he turned sharply round to Twig—"If you are playing me a trick here, Jacob; if you are trifling with the old man's feelings, and allowing his dearest wish on earth to lead his imagination to deceive him in this matter"——

Twig held out his hand; I could notice that the kind-hearted fellow's own eye was moist. "You cannot seriously believe me capable of such heartless conduct, Mr Frenche, with all my absurdities; believe me, I would sooner cut off this right hand than play with the kindly feelings or affections of any one, far less with those of my long-tried and highly-esteemed friend;" and he shook my uncle's proffered paw warmly as he spoke.

"Tol, lol, de roll—Murphy, Dennis—supper, you villains—supper—Benjie, my darling, kiss me, my boy—I am so happy—tol de roll"—here, in his joy and dancing, he struck his toe sharply against the leg of a table; and as it was the member from whence the gout had been but recently dislodged, the pain made him change his tune with a vengeance; so he caught hold of the extremity in one hand, and pirouetted, with my assistance, to an arm-chair. But we were all tired; therefore, suffice it to say, that we had an excellent meal, and a drop of capital hot whisky-punch—a rare luxury in Jamaica—and were soon all happy and snoozing in our comfortable beds.

The first thing I heard next morning, before I got out of bed, was Mr Rory Macgregor, the Samaritan to whom our cards had been carried the night before, squealing about the house in his strong Celtic accent, for he spoke as broad as he did the day he first left home, some twenty years before. He was too proud, I presume, to be obliged to the Englishers, as he called them, even for a dash of their lingo. He had come to invite us to dine with him on the following day; and the fame of my arrival having spread, a number of the neighbours also paid their respects during the forenoon, so that my levee was larger than many a German prince's.

Mr Macgregor, and the overseer of the neighbouring estate, remained that day to dinner; the latter was also a Scotchman, a Lowlander, and although I always resist first impressions when they are unfavourable, still there was something about him that I did not like. I felt a sort of innate antipathy towards him.

From what I was told, and indeed, from what I saw, I knew that he was a well-connected and a well-educated man, and both by birth and education far above the status of an overseer on a sugar estate in Jamaica; but he had bent himself, and stooped to his condition, instead of dignifying by his conduct an honest although humble calling.

His manners had grown coarse and familiar; and after dinner, when we were taking our wine, and Flamingo and Twig were drawing out little Roderick, much to our entertainment, this youth chose to bring the subject of religion on the table, in some way or other I cannot well tell how. My uncle, I think, had asked him if he had attended the consecration of the new church or chapel, and he had made a rough and indecent answer, expressing his thankfulness to Heaven! that he was above all bigotry, and had never been in a church, except at a funeral, since he had left Scotland. He was instantly checked by Mr Frenche, who was unexpectedly warm on the subject; but it seems this was not the first time he had offended in a similar way; so I was startled, and not a little pleased at the dressing he now received at the hands of my usually good-natured uncle.

"Young gentleman," said he, with a gravity that I was altogether unprepared for, "you compel me to do a thing I abhor at any time, especially in my own house, and that is to touch on sacred subjects at untimely seasons; but this is not the first time you have offended under this roof, and I therefore am driven to tell you once for all, that I never will allow any sneering at sacred subjects at my table. I just now asked you a simple and a civil question, and you have returned me a most indecent and unchristian answer."

"Christian—Christian!" exclaimed the overseer; "you believe in those things, I suppose?"

"I believe my Bible, sir," rejoined my uncle, "as I hope you do?"

"Oh!" said the overseer, "Mr Frenche has turned Methodist," and burst into a vulgar laugh.

He had gone too far, however. My uncle at this rose, and for several seconds looked so witheringly at him, that, with all his effrontery, I could perceive his self-possession evaporating rapidly.

"Methodist, sir—Methodist I am none, unless to believe in the religion of my fathers be Methodism. Heaven knows, whatever my belief may be, my practice is little akin to what theirs was; but let me tell you, once for all, although I am ever reluctant to cast national reflections, it is your young Scotchmen, who, whatever they may have been in their own country, and theirs we all know to be a highly religious and moral one, become, when left to themselves in Jamaica, beyond all comparison, the most irreligious of the whole community. How this comes about I cannot tell; but I see, young man, false modesty has overlaid your better sense, and made you ashamed of what should have been your glory to avow, as it will assuredly be one day your greatest consolation, if you are a reasonable being, when you come to die. At all events, if you do not believe what you have so improperly endeavoured to make a jest of, I pity you. If you do believe, and yet so speak, I despise you; and I recommend you hereafter, instead of blushing to avow the Christian principles that I know were early instilled into your mind, to blush at your conduct, whenever it is such as we have just witnessed; but let us change the subject. I say, Benjie, let us have a touch of politics—politics."

Here the kind-hearted old man's anxiety to smooth the downfall of the sulky young Scotchman was so apparent, that we all lent a hand to help him to gather way on the other tack; but our Scotch friend could not stomach being shown up, or put down, whichever you may call it, so peremptorily; and the first dinner I ate in mine uncle's house was any thing but a pleasant one.

According to previous arrangement, we had the whole of the next forenoon to ourselves. Many a long and kindly family yarn was spun between us; but as this is all parish news, I will not weary the reader with it, simply contenting myself with stating, that, before we began to prepare for our ride, I had more reason than ever to be grateful to my dear uncle.

At two o'clock we mounted our horses, and set out, accompanied by Messrs Twig and Flamingo, to dine with our Highland friend, Roderick Macgregor, Esq. We rode along the interval or passage between two large cane-pieces, the richest on the estate, which was situated in a dead level, surrounded by low limestone hills. By the way, the locality of Ballywindle was very peculiar, and merits a word or two as we scull along. Stop, and I will paint it to the comprehension of all the world, as thus—Take a punch bowl, or any other vessel you choose approaching to the same shape, and fill it half full of black mould; pop three or four lumps of sugar into the centre, so that they may stick on the surface of the mould, without sinking above a half of their diameter. They are the works, boiling-house, still-house, trash-houses, and mill-houses. Then drop a large lump a little on one side, and balance a very tiny one on the top of it, and you have the small insulated hill on which the great house stands. As for the edges of the vessel, they are the limestone hills, surrounding the small circular valley, the faces of them being covered with Guinea grass pieces, sprinkled with orange and other fruit-trees; both grass and trees finding their sustenance of black earth, as they best may, amongst the clefts of the honey-combed limestone that crops out in all directions, of which indeed the hills are entirely composed, without any continuous superstratum of earth whatever. You see the place now, I suppose? Well, but to make it plainer still—take a sheet of paper, and crumple it in your hand; then throw it on the table, and you have a good idea of one of those hills, and not a bad one of the general surface of the island taken as a whole.

The ridges of the hills were in this case covered with high wood. So now let us get hold of our yarn once more. The field on the right hand, from a large sink-hole, as it is called, or aperture in the centre—I love to be particular—was called "Tom's Pot," and the cane patch on the left, "Mammy Polder's Bottom."

I found that a level cane-piece, in such a situation, was always called a Bottom. Again, as for those sink-holes, or caverns in the rock, I can compare them, from their sinuosities, to nothing more aptly than the human ear. They generally seem to be placed in situations where they answer the purpose of natural drains to carry off the water; the one in question, for instance, always receiving the drainings of the little valley, and never filling; having a communication, beyond doubt, with some of the numberless streamlets, gullies, or small rivers (hence such natural syphons as the Fairywell), that cross one's path at every turn in this "land of streams," as the name Jamaica imports in the Charib tongue, as I have heard say.

The canes grew on each side of the interval, to the height of eighteen or twenty feet; but as they did not arch overhead, they afforded no shelter from the sun, although they prevented the breeze reaching us, and it was in consequence most consumedly hot.

"Now for a cigar to cool one," quoth Twig, chipping away, cigar in mouth, with his small flint and steel, as we began to ascend the narrow corkscrew path that spiralled through the rocky grass-piece bounding the cane fields.

After we had zigzagged for a quarter of an hour on the face of the hill, we attained the breezy summit, where the guinea grass-piece ended, and entered, beneath the high wood, on a narrow bridle-path, that presently led us through a guava plantation, the trees heavily laden with the fruit, which makes a capital preserve, but is far from nice to eat raw. It is in shape and colour somewhat like a small yellow pippin, with a reddish pulp, and the flavour being rather captivating, I had demolished two or three, when Flamingo picked two very fine ones, and shortened sail until I ranged alongside of him. He then deliberately broke first the one and then the other, and held up the halves to me; they were both full of worms.

"Dangerous for cattle," quoth Don Felix, dryly.

"Come, that is rough wit, Flamingo," chimed in Twig. "But never mind, Mr Brail. Cows do die of bots sometimes hereabouts, after trespassing; but then you know they also die of a surfeit of wet clover. At all events, there is nothing bucolical about you."

"Bots," thought I; "how remarkably genteel and comfortable, and what an uncommonly delicate fruit for a dessert."

Leaving the guava jungle, we proceeded through a district that seemed to have once been in cultivation, as all the high timber, with the exception of a solitary mahogany or cedar here and there, was cut down, and there was nothing to be seen but a thicket of palma Christi, or castor oil bushes, on every side. There had apparently been some heavy showers on this table land during the time we had been winding up the hill, as the bushes and long grass were sparkling brilliantly with rain-drops, and the ground was heavily saturated with water.

"Hillo, Twig, my darling," sung out uncle Lathom, who was the sternmost of all, except the servants, as we strung along the narrow path in single file "mind you take the road to the right there—it will save us a mile."

"Ay, ay, sir," returned he of the Dream.

Master Flamingo, who was between him and me, was busy at this moment with his fowling-piece, that he carried in his hand; the fame of abundance of teal and quails in the Macgregor's neighbourhood having reached him before starting.

"What a very beautiful bird that is, Mr Brail," here he pointed with the gun to the huge branch of a cotton tree that crossed the path overhead, where a large parrot was perched, looking at us; one moment scratching its beak with its claws, and the next, peeping knowingly down, and slewing its head first to one side and then to the other—a parrot, amongst the feathered tribes, being unquestionably what a monkey is amongst quadrupeds.

"I should like to bring that chap down now," said Flam, stopping in his career, and damming us up in the narrow path, whereby we all became clustered in a group about him; then suiting the action to the word, he, without any farther warning, dropped the rein into the hollow of his arm, and taking aim, let drive—and away went the whole party helter skelter at the report, in every direction, by a beautiful centrifugal movement. If we had been rockets disposed like the spokes of a cart-wheel, with the matches converging to a centre, and fired all at once, we could scarcely have radiated more suddenly. It was quite surprising the precision with which we flew crashing through the wet bushes, some of us nearly unhorsed amongst them, if the truth were known:—and such shouting from whites and blacks, and uproarious laughter, as we all got once more into sailing order!

"Now, friend Felix," said Twig, as he and his horse emerged from the brushwood, with his pale yellow nankeens as dark with moisture as a wet sail, his shirt frill and collar as if the garment had been donned fresh from the washing-tub, and with the large silvery globules of moisture as thickly clustered on the black silk frogs of his coat as diamonds on the Dowager Lady Castlereagh's stomacher—there's a simile for you,—"now, friend Felix—give one some notice next time you begin your fusilade, if you please. Why, did you ever see a pulk of Cossacks on a forage, Mr Frenche?—I declare I am glad to find myself on the beaten path again, for my horse took so many turns that I was fairly dumfounded, and having no pocket-compass nor a sextant to take the sun by—you perceive I have been at sea, Master Brail—I thought I should have been lost entirely, until you should have been piloted to me some days hence by the John Crows. But ah, ye little fishes, what is that—what is that?"

It was neither more nor less than the sound of an ill-blown, yelling and grunting bagpipe. We rode on—the diabolical instrument squealing louder and louder—until the path ended in a cleared space amidst the brushwood, with a small one-story wattled house in the centre, having a little piazza in front, with a yard or two at each end, shut in with wooden blinds, sadly bleached by the weather. There was a group of half-naked negroes squatting before it, and a number of little naked black children, and a sprinkling of brown ones, running about, and puddling in a dirty pond, amongst innumerable ducks, fowls of many kinds, and at least a dozen pigs. "No signs of any approach to famine in the land at all events," thought I.

There was no rail or fence of any kind enclosing this building, which, to all appearance, was neither more nor less than a superior kind of negro-house. It stood on the very edge—indeed was overshadowed by some gigantic trees (beneath whose Babylonish dimensions it shrank to a dog-kennel) of the high natural forest, a magnificent vista through which opened right behind it, overarching a broken up and deeply rutted road, the path, apparently, through which some heavy timber had been drawn, it being part of Rory's trade to prepare mill-rollers and other large pieces of hard-wood required for the estates below.

In front of this shed—full fig, in regular Highland costume, philabeg, short hose, green coatee, bonnet and feather—marched the bagpiper, whose strains had surprised us so much, blowing his instrument, and strutting and swelling like a turkey-cock, to some most barbarous mixture of "a gathering of the clans," and the negro tune of "Guinea corn, I love for nyam you."

The fellow was a negro, and as black as the ace of spades—shade of Ossian, let thy departed heroes hereafter recline on clouds of tobacco smoke—and as we approached he "loud and louder blew," to the great discomfiture of our whole party, as the animals we bestrode seemed to like the "chanter" as little as they had done the report of Flamingo's gun, one and all resolutely refusing, as if by common consent, to face the performer—so there we were, jammed, snorting, and funking, and splashing each other to the eyes with mud of the complexion and consistency of peas brose, in the narrow path; Twig and I, the head of the column, as it were, being the only individuals visible on the fringe of the brushwood.

"I say, Rory—Rory Macgregor," shouted Twig, "do give over—do tell your black bagpiper to have done with his most infernal noise, and be hanged to him—or we must all go home again without our dinner—none of our horses will debouche in the face of such a salutation, don't you see?"

"Ou ay, ou ay," rejoined Rory, emerging from the house himself, also dressed, like his man, in full Highland costume—and having desired the piper in Gaelic, with the air of the hundredth and fiftieth cousin to "her Grace the Tuke," to cease her bumming, he marshalled us into the house, evidently in no small surprise that any breathing creature whatever, biped or quadruped, should have any the smallest objections to the "music of the cods."

The bagpiper, we found afterwards, was his servant, whom he had taken to Scotland with him two years before, and polished him there, through the instrumentality of a Highland Serjeant, to the brilliancy we had witnessed. However, let me be honest—he received us with the most superabundant kindness; and when we had retired into the inner part of the house, which was his dining-hall, he gave the word for dinner, and, every thing considered, the set out was exceedingly good—we had a noble pea-fowl—and, as if that had not been sufficient, a young turkey also—a capital round of beef—a beautiful small joint of mutton; excellent mountain mullet; a dish of Cray-fish; and a small sort of fresh-water lobster, three or four times bigger than a large prawn, which are found in great plenty below the stones in the Jamaica mountain streams—black or land crabs, wild-duck, and wild Guinea fowl, and a parrot-pie—only fancy a parrot-pie!—wild pigeons, and I don't know what all besides—in truth, a feast for six times our number—but in the opinion of our host, there appeared to be something wanting still.

"Tuncan," this was our friend the musician, who had laid down his instrument to officiate as butler—"Tuncan, whar hae ye stowed tae hackis—whar hae ye stowed tae hackis, man?—a Heeland shentleman's tinner is nae tinner ava without tae hackis!"

"Me no know, massa," quoth the Celtic neger.

"You ton't know—ten you pehuvet to know, sir—Maister Frenche, shall I help you to a spaul of tae peacock hen?—Maister Flamingo, will you oplige me py cutting up tae turkey polt?"

"All the pleasure in life—whew!—what is this?" as a cloud of fragrant vapour gushed from the plump breast of the bird.

"As I am a shentleman, if tae prute peast of a cook has na stuffet tae turkey polt we tae hackis—as I am a shentleman!"

"And what is this, then," said Dr Tozy, a neighbouring surgeon, who was one of the party—and a most comfortable looking personage in every sense of the word, as a dish, containing the veritable haggis to all appearance, was handed over his shoulder and placed on the table. "A deuced good-looking affair it is, I declare," looking at it through his eyeglass—"here is the real haggis, Master Macgregor, here it is."

"Ah, so it is—so it is"—quoth Rory, rubbing his hands. "Here, poy—here, Tuncan—pring it here—let me cut it up mysell—let me cut it mysell."

It was accordingly placed before Rory, who, all impatience, plunged his knife into it—murder, what a hautgout, and no wonder; for it actually proved to be a guava pudding, that the drunken cook had stuffed into the sheep's stomach!

However, we had all a good laugh, doing great honour, notwithstanding, to an excellent dinner; and when we began to enjoy ourselves over our wine, Dr Tozy and Twig, aided and abetted by Flamingo, amused us exceedingly by the fun they extracted from our friend Rory.

Mr Macgregor not being quite so polished a gentleman as his Majesty George IV., had been rather particular, shortly after this, in his notice of Mr Twig's coat—the colour of which some how did not please him.

"Noo, I taresay, Maister Twick, you ca' that plue—a plue coat—put I think it mair plack tan plue."

"Why, Mac, you are not so far wrong, it is more black than blue."

"Ah, so I thought," quoth Rory.

"And I'll give you the reason, if you promise not to tell," said Twig. "It is the first trial piece of my new patent cloth."

"Your patent cloth!" whispered the last of the Goths, "have you a patent for cloth."

"To be sure I have—that never loses the colour, and is as impervious to wet as a lawyer's wig, or a duck's wing."

"It al no pe a Mackintosh, will it?"

"Mackintosh!" exclaimed his jovial friend—"Mackintosh!—why Charley cannot hold the candle to me—no, no, it is the first spun out of—here lend me your lugs," and he laid hold of the Highland man's ear, so as to draw his head half across the table in a most ludicrous fashion. "It is made entirely out of negro wool."

"Necroo wool?" rejoined Rory, lying back in his chair, holding up his hands, and looking to the roof, with a most absurd expression of face, half credulous, half doubting—"wool from tae veritable neger's heads, tid you say?"

"Negro-head wool, Rory, every fibre of it. The last bale I sent home was entirely composed of the autumn shearing of my own people at the Dream—I sent it to some manufacturing friends of mine in Halifax"—and, holding out his sleeve—"there, the Duke of Devonshire patronises it, I assure ye—nothing else will go down next season at Almack's."

"Allmac's?" exclaimed Rory, "to you mean to say it will shoopersede tae forty-second tartan?"

"Ay, and ninety-second too. However, I find it will not take on indigo freely, in consequence of the essential oil."

"Oil!" said Rory; "creeshy prutes."

"So, in consequence, I intend after this to confine the manufacture to black cloth, which will require no dye you know; if you choose to contract, Rory, I will give you half-a-crown per pound for all you can deliver during the next year—or threepence a-fleece—head, I mean—and that is the top of the market for Spanish wool—but it must be clean—free of—you understand?"

By this time I perceived that Dr Tozy and Flamingo were both literati in a small way, whereby one or two amusing mistakes took place on the part of Master Rory Macgregor, who, of all points of the compass, had no pretensions to any kind or description of erudition.

The conversation happened to turn on Irish politics, and Mr Frenche had just remarked that, notwithstanding all the noise and smoke of the demagogues who lived and battened on the disturbances of the country, he believed on his conscience, from what he saw, when he was last in Ireland, that there were very few influential men of respectability or property who countenanced them or their doings.

"Yet, strange as it does appear, there are some, uncle," said I.

"Oh yes, undoubtedly," exclaimed Tozy, an Irishman himself; "but very few—very few indeed—mere drops in the bucket—rari nantes in gurgite vasto."

"Fat's tat, toctor?—is tat Creek?"

"Yes; it means capital brandy for a long drink," said Tozy, swigging off his glass of cold brandy grog as coolly as possible.

"What an expressive language!—maist as much sae as tae Gaelic. To you know, py the very soond, I guessed it was something apoot pranty and a long trink?" quoth Rory.

"You shine to-day, doctor," said Twig; but presently Flamingo flew off with the thread of the conversation, like a magpie stealing twine, and I forget the prominent topics we discussed, but we had a great deal of fun and laughter, until Don Felix once more settled down in some literary talk with Tozy, and incidentally noticed the Decameron of Boccaccio.

Rory, unfortunate Rory, once more pricked up his ears at this, and determined to show his conversational powers now, if he had been interrupted before, being by this time also a little in the wind. So, after grunting to himself, "Cameron—Cameron," he, after a moment's thought, perked himself up in his chair and swore stoutly that he knew him very well—"as fine a chiel as ever pore the name of Cameron, and her place was ane of tae finest in the west coast of Arkyleshire—na, am no shust shure put she may pe a farawa' cousin of Lochiel's hersell."

"The very same," quoth Twig, trotting away with the Macgregor, as if he had got him on one of his own shelties, and entering on a long rambling conversation, during which he took care to butter him an inch thick—"Why, you do make the shrewdest remarks, Mac; shrewd! nay, the wisest, I should say. You really know every thing and every body—you are a perfect Solon."

Flamingo here saw, and so did I, that Macgregor—whether he began to feel that Jacob was quizzing him or not, I could not tell—looked as black as thunder, so he good-humouredly struck in with—"Now, Jacob, do hold your tongue, you are such a chatterbox!"

"Chatterbox!—to be sure—I can't help it. I have dined on parrot-pie, you know, Felix."

"I wish tae hat peen hoolets for your sake, Maister Twick," said Roderick, fiercely.

"Why, Rory, why? An owl-pie would not quite suit my complexion.—But, hang it, man, what is wrong? Judging from your own physiog, one might suppose you had been making your dinner on the bird of Minerva yourself."

"Maister Twick," said Rory, with a face as sour as vinegar, "I am unwilling to pe uncivil in my own house;—but I red you no to pe sae free wi' your nicknames."

"Nicknames!" interjected Twig, in great surprise.

"Yes, sir—you have taken tae unwarrantaple liperty of calling me a Solan—yes, sir, a Solan.—Tid you mean it offensively, sir?"

"No offence, Mac," shouted Twig, "none in the least.—Offence!—in likening you to Solon, the glory of Greece—the great lawgiver—the Athenian Solon!"

Rory grew frantic at this (as he thought) additional insult.—"Creese—Creese!—I ken o' nae Solans, sir, put tae filthy ill-faured pirds tat leeve in tae water."

"But Rory, my dear fellow"——

"Ton't tear fellow me, sir.—You may ca' them what ye like, sir, in Creese—but a Solan at tae Craik of Ailsa[[2]] is ca'd a cuse, sir, an' naething else, I ken tat, sir, I ken tat; and if ony shentlemans will tare to liken Roterick Macgregor to sic an ill-flavoured pird, sir, py"——

[[2]] A remarkable insulated rock in the frith of Clyde, famous for its solan geese, from which (the rock, not the geese) the Marquis of Ailsa takes his title.

"I assure you, upon my honour, I said Solon, and not Solan, Mac," quoth Twig. "There, ask Tozy.—You know I would not say an uncivil thing to you, Rory, for the world."

We were like to expire with laughter at this, but the Celt was pacified at length, through the good offices of the doctor, and we all held on in good fellowship. But as the evening wore away, the musquittoes began to be very troublesome, as we could feel ourselves, and hear, if we had not felt, from their loud buzzing, as well as from our host's sounding slaps on his bare limbs, the kilt not being just the thing for a defence against Monsieur Musquitto. Indeed, after Rory's localities had been fairly explored by these stinging pests, we suffered little, as they left us all (like reasonable animals choosing their food, where it was easiest to be had) in comparative peace, to settle in clouds on the unfortunate Highlander's naked premises.

At length he could stand it no longer.—"Tuncan!"—then a loud slap on his thigh;—"Lachlan!"—another slap;—"Macintosh, pring a prush, pring a prush!"—and a negro appeared forthwith with a bunch of green twigs with the leaves on.—"Noo, Macintosh, kang pelow tae table with your prush, and prush my leeks free from tae awful plakues. Prush, ye prute, prush!"

This scheme had the desired effect; the enemy was driven off, and Rory, in the fulness and satisfaction of his heart, now insisted on setting Tuncan to give us a regular pibroch, as he called it, on the bagpipe, whether we would or not.

I had observed Quacco, who had accompanied us, and that mischief-maker, Squire Flamingo, in close confabulation while dinner was getting ready; I therefore made sure of witnessing some comical issue of their complot before long, in which I was not disappointed—for the black serjeant now ushered in the bagpiper, whom, I could perceive, he had fuddled pretty considerably, besides adding to his rig in a most fantastical manner. He had, it seems, persuaded the poor creature that he was by no means complete without a queue, and powder in his hair; so he now appeared with his woolly poll covered with flour, and the spout of an old tin watering-pan, with a tuft of red hair from the tail of a cow stuck into the end of it, attached to the back of his head by a string. In the midst of this tuft I saw a small red spark, and when he approached there was a very perceptible burning smell, as of the smouldering of a slow match.

"Now, Mr Flamingo," said I to our friend, "I see you are about wickedness—No more percussion powder, I hope?"

He trod on my toe, and winked.—"Hush, you shall see."

When Tuncan first entered, he had, to save himself from falling, sat down on a chair close by the door, with his back to us. This was altogether out of character, for Tuncan plumed himself on his breeding.

"Is tat your mainers, you plack rascal?" cried Rory. "Ket up, sir, or"——

Quacco was at hand, and assisting the sable retainer to rise, got him on his pins; and when he had fairly planted him on his parade ground, which was the end of the piazza farthest from us, he seemed to recover himself, blew up his pipes, and began to walk mechanically backwards and forwards steadily enough. Flamingo kept his eye en him very earnestly, while a small twitch of his cheek, just below his eye, every now and then, and a slight lifting of the corner of his mouth, showed that the madcap was waiting in expectation of some fun. All conversation had been fairly swamped by the infernal pipes—Roderick's peacock hen, had she been alive, could not have made herself heard, so we had nothing else for it but to look at each other, and listen to the black bagpiper. I am sure I wished him any where but where he was, when, just as he had turned his back to us in one of his pendulum movements, a jet of sparks like those from a squib issued from his queue, which, drunk as he was, made him turn round fast enough; the instant he found that the fire proceeded from his own tail, he dashed down his bagpipes, rushed out of the house, and never stopped until he was up to the neck in the muddy duck-pond before the door, still fizzing most furiously. In a vain attempt to rid himself of the annoyance, he dipped his head below the water, and just as he disappeared, a crack—crack—crack showed that the squib had eventuated, as the Yankees say, in the usual manner, viz. in a zigzag, or cracker.

It turned out afterwards, as I suspected, that Quacco, who was a tolerable fireworker, amongst his other accomplishments, at Flamingo's instigation had beat up some charcoal and gunpowder, moistening the mass well, and filled the tin tube which composed poor Tuncan's queue with it; thus literally converting it into a squib.

Great was the amazement of Master Roderick at all this, and loud were his exclamations as his retainer was dragged out of the pond, more dead than alive with fear, and all but choked with mud; seeing, however, that he had been drinking, and, what was more in blackey's favour, his master having been indulging himself, he was, after much entreaty, pleased to send the poor fellow home, instead of clapping him in the stocks.

I had noticed that a little mulatto boy, also in a kilt, had been the chief agent in the extrication of poor Tuncan.

"Ah, Lachlan," said Mr Frenche to this lad, "when did you return? Why, I thought you were in Scotland!"

"So he was," said Rory. "I sent him last fall to my sister in tae Western Highlands, that is married upon tae minister; put she returned tae puir callant py next post, saying she was surprised that I should make no more of sending home my—I'll no say what—and them yellow too, than if they were sae mony tame monkeys—'and to a minister's hoose!'—Maype, if they hat na heard of my coffee crop having peen purned in the store, and if I hat no forgotten to say ony thing apoot tae callant's poord, tey wad na hae peen sae straitlaced."

It was now getting dark,—the horses had been some time at the door, and we were about saying good-night to Rory and Flamingo, who was to take up his quarters for the evening, in order, as previously arranged, to his having a day's shooting at wild-ducks and pigeons on the morrow, when it suddenly came on to rain, as if a waterspout had burst over head; so the animals were ordered back into the stable, as it was out of the question starting in such a pour.

We had coffee, and were waiting impatiently for it to clear, but it came down faster and faster, and soon began to thunder and lighten most awfully.

I am not ashamed to acknowledge that a storm of this description always moves me; and although the rest of the party carried on in the inner hall at a game at whist, while Roderick and I were having a hit at backgammon in a corner, none of them appearing to care much about it; yet one explosion was so loud, go simultaneous with the blue blinding flash, and the reverberations immediately afterwards thundered—I can find no stronger word—so tremendously overhead, making the whole house shake, and the glasses ring on the sideboard, that both parties suddenly, and with one accord, stopped and started to their feet, in the middle of their amusement. Where I stood, I had a full view into the long vista of the natural wood already mentioned, festooned from tree to tree with a fantastic network of withes, which, between us and the lightning, looked like an enormous spider's web. Another bright flash again lit up the recesses of the forest, showing distinctly, although but for a moment, a long string of mules, loaded with coffee bags, with a dark figure mounted on every third animal, and blasting every object, the masses of green foliage on the trees especially, into a smoky and sulphurous blue.

Before the rumbling of this thunder-clap had passed over our heads, the noise of the rain on the hollow wooden roof increased to a deafening roar, like the sound of a water-fall, or as if every drop had been a musket-bullet.

"Tat's hail!" said Rory, in great amazement at such an unusual occurrence.

"Small doubt of that," quoth Flamingo.

Here one of the negro servants came running in. "Massa—massa—sugar-plum fall from de moon—sugar-plum fall from de moon—see, see," and opening his palms, where he had caught the hail, and thought he had it safe, and finding only drops of water, he drew back as if he had seen a spirit—"Gone! gone! and burn my hand too; Obeah—most be Obeah!" and before another word could be said, it lightned again so vividly, even through the sparkling mist of hail, that I involuntarily put my hands to my eyes, and lay back in my chair, overcome with breathless awe.

Unlike any lightning I had ever seen before, it was as if a dart of fire had struck the large tree next us right in the cleft, and then glanced like a ray of the most intense light shot down into the centre of the back yard, where it zigzagged along, and tore up the solid ground, that appeared covered with white smoke from the bounding and hopping of the rattling hailstones. I can compare the sharpness of the report that accompanied it to nothing more fittingly than that of a long eighteen-pounder fired close to the ear. Involuntarily I repeated to myself that magnificent passage of sacred writ—"And the Lord sent thunder and hail, and the fire ran along upon the ground; so there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, very grievous."

A long tearing rive, as of the violent disruption of a large bough, had instantly succeeded the flash, and then a crashing and rushing heavy fall, and loud shrieks. It was nearly a minute before any of us found breath to speak, and then it was only in short half-suppressed exclamations.

"What is that?" as a smouldering yellow flame burst from the roof of the negro house that adjoined the Macgregor's habitation, and gradually illuminated the whole scene—the glistering hail-covered ground, the tall trees overhead, the cattle that had run beneath them for shelter—and showed a large limb split off from the immense cedar next us (with the white splinter-mark glancing), that still adhered to the parent tree by some strong fibres; while the outermost branches had fallen heavily on, and crushed in the roof of the cottage that was on fire.

The lurid flashes continued, contrasting most fearfully with the bright red glare of the burning cottage, the inhabitants of which, a woman and three children, were now extricating themselves, and struggling from under the fallen roof. Presently we saw them cluster round a dark object lying in the middle of the yard like a log, between us and the tree that had been struck. They stooped down, and appeared to pull it about, whatever it was, for a minute or so, and then began to toss their arms, uttering loud cries. I was puzzling myself as to what they could be after, when the word was passed amongst the black domestics of "a man kill—old Cudjoe kill." This ran like wildfire, and in a second we were all out in the midst of the storm, with the rapidly melting hail-stones crunching beneath our feet.

The body was brought into the house, and the doctor being fortunately on the spot, every thing was done that could be devised, but all in vain. When a vein was opened in the arm, the blood flowed sluggishly, but was quite fluid; and all the joints were even more than naturally pliant, the vertebrae of the neck especially. Indeed I had never seen such a general muscular relaxation; but the poor old fellow was quite dead. One spot on the cape of his Pennistone greatcoat, about the size of a dollar, was burnt black, and so completely consumed, that in carrying him into the house, which was no easy matter, from the extreme pliancy and eel-like limberness, if I may so speak, of the whole body, the tinder or burnt woollen dropped out, leaving a round hole as clean as if it had been gouged out.

After this unfortunate transaction we had little spirit to pursue our amusement, and accordingly, after a parting cup, we all retired to bed.

I soon fell asleep, and remembered nothing until I was awakened by the crowing of the cocks in the morning. It was still dark, and in the unceiled and low-roofed house I could hear my allies snoring most harmoniously in their several snuggeries. At length, after several long yawns, and a few preparatory snorts, and clearances of his voice, out spoke my restless acquaintance, Master Flamingo.

"Why, Rory—Rory Macgregor—how sound the body sleeps—why, Rory, I say"——

"Oich, oich, fat's tat—wha's tat—and what will she pe wantin'?"

"Wanting?—Don't you remember your promise? Didn't I tell you that I had come to spend the night here, in order to have a crack at the ducks this morning?"

"Ducks this morning," thought I—"Ducks—does the madcap mean to shoot ducks, after such a night and such a scene?"

"Tucks," grunted Rory—"tucks?" then a long snore.

"Ducks, to be sure; so get up, Mac—get up."

"Well, well," yawned the Macgregor; "I will, I will; put ton't waken tae hail hoose—ton't tisturp Mr Frenche nor Mr Prail."

"Oh, never mind, Flamingo," quoth my uncle, turning himself in his bed, and clearing his voice; "I am awake, and Dennis has brought my gun I find."

And here followed a concerto of coughing, and yawning, and groaning, and puffing, as of the pulling on of tight or damp boots, and rumblings and stumblings against the furniture of the various apartments, and all the other miscellaneous noises incidental to a party dressing in the dark.

"Romulus, a light," shouted Twig.

"Twister, a ditto," roared Flamingo; and these exclamations called forth a renewed volley of snortings and long yawns from the negro servants, who were sleeping in the inner hall.

"Twister, get me a light, you lazy villain, don't you hear?"

"Yes, yes, massa, directly"—snore.

"Directly, you sleepy dog!—now, sir—get it me now. Don't you hear that I have broken my shin, and capsized the basin-stand, and I can't tell what besides?"

"Yes, yes, massa"—snore again.

I heard a door open, and presently a loud tumble, and a crackling and rattling of chairs, and startled cries from the negroes.

"Murder! Twig—where's your patent lucifer match box? Here have I fallen over that rascal of yours, and I am terrified to move, lest I break my own neck, or extinguish some black fellow out and out. Gemini! if my great toe has not got into some one's mouth. Hillo, Quashie, mind that's my toe, and not a yam. Oh dear, will no one get me a candle? Jacob, you cannibal, do come and rescue me, or I shall be smothered amidst this odoriferous and flat-nosed variety of the human species."

I had never spent such a morning, and as it was quite evident that there was no more sleep to be had, I got up and dressed the best way I could. We were soon all congregated in the inner hall by candle light, with half a dozen black fellows, and as many fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, and muskets as there were buccras, ready to sally forth to attack the teal.

Quacco was here, as elsewhere, the most active of the throng, and sideling up to me, "Massa, you and de old gentleman take de blonderboosh—I hab load dem bote wid one bushel of dock hail. You shall never see so much bird as you shall knock down—take dem, massa—take dem."

After coffee, we put ourselves en route and sallied out of the house.

"Why, uncle," said I, "I have no great stomach for the fight after what happened last night."

"Poo, poo," said he, "never mind—people don't mind a thunder-storm here."

"But then the poor old watchman—struck down almost before one's eyes."

"Ah! that was melancholy enough—but it can't be helped, so come along, you must do as others do."

The morning was thick, dark, damp, and dreary; there should have been a moon, but she had veiled her beauties behind the steamy clouds, that seemed to be resting themselves on the tree-tops. The earth sent up its vapours, as of water poured on hot bricks; and all the herbs and grass and leaves of bushes, through which the footpath lay, seemed absolute blobs of water, for the instant you touched them they dissolved into a shower-bath; while I soon perceived that I was walking ankle deep in soft mud—indeed we were travelling as much by water as on terra firma. After ploutering through this chaos for about a mile, we entered a natural savannah, inlaid with several ponds, which looked like dark mirrors, dimmed by the films of thin grey mist that floated on their calm surfaces. Rory walked round several of these natural pieces of water, while the negro scouts were also very active; but it was all—"The tiel a tuck is tere," from Rory. "The devil a teal is here," from Flamingo. And "no teal, no dere; no duck no here; none at all," from the negroes.

"So we shall have been roused out of our warm beds, and soaked to the skin, to say nothing of a very sufficient plastering with mud, for no use after all," said I.

"No fear—no fear—only have patience a little," quoth Mr Twig.

There was a low marshy ditch that ran across the savannah, nearer the house than where we now were, that had overflowed from the rains, and which covered about six acres of the natural pasture. We had waded through it on our advance, expecting to find the teal in the ponds beyond. But being unsuccessful, we now tried back, and returned to it; and just as we faced about, the clouds lifted from the hill tops in the east, and disclosed a long clear stripe of primrose-coloured sky, the forerunner of early day-dawn. As we reapproached the flooded ground, one or two cranes sounded their trumpet notes, and taking wing with a rustling splashy flaff, glided silently past us.

"Halt," quoth Serjeant Quacco, in a whisper, "halt, gentlemen, I hear de teal on de feed."

"The deuce you do!" said I, "you must have the ears of an Indian;" and we all held our breath, and stooped and leant our ears towards the ground, in imitation of the serjeant; and to be sure we now heard distinctly enough the short quacks of the drakes, and the rustling and cackling of the feathered squadrons among the reeds. My uncle, the Macgregor, and myself, were planted at the westernmost end of the swamp; two of us armed with blunderbusses, and the Celt with his double-barrelled gun—while Messrs Twig, Flamingo, and Quacco, made a sweep towards the head of it, or eastern end.

The rustling continued, as of great numbers of large birds on the opposite side; while near at hand we heard an occasional plump, and tiny splashes, such as a large frog makes when he drops into the water, and curious crawling and crackling noises, made, according to my conception, by reptiles of some kind or another, amongst the reeds.

"Any alligators here?" whispered I to Mr Frenche, who was next me.

"Great many," was the laconic reply.

"How comfortable," thought I; "and snakes?"

"Abundance."

"Pleasant country," said I Benjie, again to myself. But all this time I could see nothing like the teal we were in pursuit of, although it was as clear as mud that the reeds all round us were alive with something or another. At length, as the morning lightened, and the clouds broke away, and the steamy sheet of water began to reflect them and our dark figures, and the trees and other objects on the margin, a line of ten or a dozen large birds emerged from the darkness and mist at the end where Flamingo was situated, and began slowly to sail towards us in regular line of battle.

"Tere tae come at last—noo—mak reaty, Maister Prail; frient Frenche, pe prepared," and Rory himself, lying down on his chest on the wet grass, and taking deliberate aim, fired both barrels—and such a squatter!—as a flock of a thousand teal, I am certain there could not have been fewer, rose into the air with a loud rushing noise like the sound of a mighty stream—a perfect roar of ducks. I fired my bellmouthed trabucco with the bushel of shot at random into the thickest of the flock, and so did mine uncle; whereupon down came a feathery shower upon our heads, and down came we both on our tails—the bushels of shot having told in more ways than one. This hot discharge had the effect, however, of turning the flock, and Flamingo and Twig had their own share of the spoil at the head of the swamp. The four shots had brought down four-and-thirty feathered bipeds, and two without feathers—we were as regularly smothered in ducks, as you ever saw a rabbit in onions.

"I say, uncle, how do you feel?"

"Rather chilly at tother end of me, Benjie; and I believe my shoulder is dislocated," quoth he, scratching his bald pate, as he sat on the ground, where Quacco's bushels of shot had deposited both of us.

"And my cheek is stove in," quoth I.

"My nose is bleeding like a pump," quoth he.

"And mine is blown off entirely," said I. Here we both got on our feet, the ground around us being literally covered with killed, and alive with the wounded birds.

"See if our facsimiles in the soft mud are not like two punch bowls, Benjie?" And true enough we had made a couple of holes in the spungy soil, that instantly filled with water as we rose, leaving two round pools.

"I say, uncle, your punchbowl is somewhat the biggest of the two, though, eh? mine is only the jigger."

"Bah!" quoth he, showing his white teeth.

But how came Rory on all this while, the hero who had led into action? Right in front of us, half a dozen black spots rested dead still, where his shot had just torn up the sleeping surface of the grey swamp, while as many more waterfowl of some description or another, that had been wounded, were quacking and splashing, and wheeling, half flying, and half running on the water, in a vain attempt to escape from the Macgregor, who, in the enthusiasm of the moment, had dashed in up to his waist to secure the prey.

And there he was chasing the wounded birds, all about, every now and then tripping in the weeds, and delving down, nose and ears, under water; whereby he lost his hat and dropped his gun, puffing and snorting all the time with many an outlandish exclamation, and dripping like a water-god.

"Never was such a morning's sport," roared the Highlander, "never did I see such pluidy wark in aw my porn days; stalking tae ret tear is nothing to it," as he regained terra firma, with both hands filled with ducks' legs and necks as full as he could gripe; the wounded birds flaffing and flapping, and struggling round him, as if they would have flown away with the wee Hieland body up into the air.

By this time I had secured my wounded, and the daylight was fast brightening.

"Quacco, my man," said uncle Lathom to the serjeant, as he passed him, "the next time you clap a bushel of shot into my gun, pray don't let it be imperial measure, if you please."

"Why," said Twig, who had now joined us, "this is capital sport certainly. Never saw such a flock of teal in my life before—but, Roderick, what have you got there—what sort of game is that you have shot—let me see?" Here he deliberately counted out of the Macgregor's hands eight large tame Muscovy ducks, and a goose.

"As I am a sinner," said the poor Highlander, in great dismay when he saw what he had been about, "if I have not killed my own puire tucks; and the vera coose hersell that I expected to eat at Michaelmas. Hoo cam tae here—hoo tae teevil cam tae oot o' the pen?" and he turned a fierce look at his servant. Alas, on reflection, he remembered that the poor old man who was killed by the lightning had been the henman, and no one having taken his place, and the pen having been beaten down by the hail overnight, the sacrifice of the ducks and the poor Michaelmas goose had been the consequence and crowning misfortune.

But the absurdity of our entertainer having shown his expertness as a shot by murdering his own poultry was too much, and it was with the greatest difficulty any of us could keep his gravity.

We returned to the house—shifted, breakfasted, and that forenoon returned to Ballywindle, where we spent an exceedingly pleasant week with our friends Twig and Flamingo, who, in the mean time, prevailed on Mr Frenche to make a return visit to them in Kingston, and we accordingly prepared for our trip.

It was the Saturday before the Monday on which we meant to start. I was playing at piquet with Mr Twig; my uncle and Flamingo were lounging about the piazza, and the horses were ready saddled for an airing, at the door, when my antagonist and I were startled by a loud rushing, or rather roaring noise, that seemed to pass immediately overhead. "A flock of teal," thought I, remembering the exploit at Rory Macgregor's. Simultaneously all the shutters, which, according to the usual West India fashion, opened outwards, were banged to with great force—doors were slammed, and the whole house shook with the suddenness of the gust.

"Hillo," said Twig, "what's all this?" as his point, quint, and quatorze were whisked out of his hand, and a shower of gritting sand, with a dash of small pebbles in it, was driven against our faces through the open windows, like a discharge of peas.

My uncle and his companion had halted in their walk, and seemed as much surprised as we were. Presently the noise ceased, and all was calm again where we were. We naturally looked down into the mill-yard below us to see what would take place there.

It was as busy as usual—the negro boys and girls were shouting to the mules and steers, as they drove them round the circles of the cattle mills—the mule drivers, each with a tail of three mules loaded with canes from the hilly cane-pieces, where waggons could not work, were stringing into the yard, and spanking their whips. The wains, each with a team of six oxen, yoked two and two, built up with canes as high as a hay waggon, were rumbling and rattling on their jolty axletrees, as they were dragged through deep clayey ruts, that would have broken Macadam's heart to have looked on; the boilermen were shouting in the boiling-house, their voices, from the reverberation of the lofty roof, rising loud above the confusion, as if they had been speaking in masks, like the Greek and Roman actors of old; and the negro girls were singing cheerily in parts, their songs blending with their loud laughter, as they carried bundles of canes to be ground, or balanced their large baskets full of trash on their heads, while the creaking of the mill machinery, and the crashing of the canes between the rollers, added to the buzz.

The dry sun was shining down, like a burning-glass, into the centre of this ant's nest, where every thing was rolling on, as it had been doing for hours before, no one apparently anticipating any unusual occurrence; but in an instant the tornado that had passed us reached them, whirled the trash baskets off the negroes' heads nearest us, and up went whole bundles of canes bodily into the air, and negro hats and jackets; indeed, every thing that would rise, and ruffling the garments of the black ladies most unceremoniously, notwithstanding all their endeavours to preserve their propriety, so that they looked like large umbrellas reversed, the shanks, in most cases, being something of the stoutest.

Before it took effect in the hollow, every thing was in motion; by the time it passed over, every thing it did not take with it was fixed to the spot, as if by the wand of an enchanter. Negroes were clinging to the bamboos of the cattle pens; cattle and mules were standing as rigid as statues, gathered on their haunches, with their forelegs planted well and firmly out, the better to resist the effects of the wind. The mill had instantly stopped, and all was silent.

But the instant Quashie recovered his surprise, and every thing had become calm again in the mill-yard, there arose such a cackling, shouting, and laughter, and lowing of kine, and skreiching of mules, as Rory Macgregor would have said, as baffles all description.

The course of the tornado, after passing over the mill-yard, continued to be distinctly marked, by the different substances it carried up and whirled round in its vortex, keeping them suspended in the air by its violent centrifugal motion; I especially remember the effect it had on a grove of cocoa-nut trees. It took them by the tops, which it tossed fiercely with a wide circular motion, tearing their long leaves up into the sky like hair, as if some invisible spirit was trying to shake the fruit down from the tormented trees. As it neared a field where a number of people were at work, one of the house servants, rubbing his black paws, whispered to his neighbour in my hearing, "Softly, now—maybe it will whip away busha"—a thing he, to all appearance, would not have broken his heart about.

Next morning, at breakfast, I stumbled on the following announcement in the newspaper I had just taken up:—

"Lucie—such a date.

"Last evening the Kingston trader, the Ballahoo, anchored in Negril bay. She had been cut out by two piratical vessels, a felucca and a schooner, from Montego bay, on such a day; and after having been in possession of the pirates for a week, during which the Spanish passengers were compelled to disclose where their money (the only thing taken) was concealed, she was politely given up to them and the crew.

"The felucca is Spanish built, painted black outside, and red within, and sails remarkably fast; the schooner is a long, low, but very heavily armed vessel, painted black, with a red streak—no guns were seen in the felucca."——

"So, so, poor Hause has got his vessel, then; but that wicked little Midge, I fear her cruising is not over yet," said I, handing the paragraph to my uncle, who, as he already knew the story, easily comprehended the import of the newspaper announcement—"well, I am glad of it"—And I resumed my attack on the yams, ham, and coffee.

Mr Frenche put on his spectacles, and, as he began the perusal of the paper, said dryly, "I suppose you consider that the letter lying on the table there, addressed to you, will keep cool—at least you appear to be in no hurry to open it."——

I seized it—not having previously noticed it, and blushed like I don't know what, when I perceived it was in very truth her dear, delightful, and all the rest of it, fist—there's a sentence ending plump for you—my hand trembled as I broke the seal, or rather drew it open; for in such a climate wax is so soft, you cannot call it breaking, which always implies a short, sharp crackle, to my mind—assuming a careless swaggering look, I began to peruse it. I could with the tail of my eye, however, perceive Friend Twig and Monsieur Flamingo exchange very knowing glances. But here goes—here is the letter:—

"Havanna—such a date

"MY DEAR BENJAMIN,

"I expected to have had an opportunity of writing by a vessel for Jamaica before this, but have been disappointed.

"You will be surprised at our change of plans. A grand uncle of my father's, a very old man, has lately died, and left some money and land to us in the United Kingdom"—(a Yankyeism, thought I—United States, United Kingdom)—"and in consequence he is obliged to go out to England immediately"—(out to England). "His first determination was to send mamma and me home to New York, but as we did not like to leave him, we have persuaded him that we shall make ourselves very portable, so we all go together, in a fine London ship, to sail the day after to-morrow. Dicky Phantom, dear pet, says, 'Oh, I shall make myself more leetle small, as one busy bee dat make de honey.' I am angry at myself sometimes, but I almost dread going to the 'old country,' lest we should be obliged to restore the darling little castaway to his kinsfolk—I am sure none of them can ever love him more than his mamma Helen does. Any letter you may write to me, you must now send to the care of the House of Baring Brothers of London. As I have no concealments from mamma, and as you always give me credit" (credit, in the mouth of a young lady!) "for being a circumspect person, she has arranged for me, that at all events we shall not leave England until we hear from you in answer to this; so I have made a duplicate of it" (duplicate of a love letter, ye gods!), "a thing that has proved more irksome than writing ten originals, which I will send by the next opportunity, as I know you would be sadly annoyed if any confusion should take place, such as your going to New York, and finding us abroad" (abroad—in England); "at least, I know, my dearest Benjamin, I should be miserable at the thoughts of it." (Well you might, my lady, thought I)—"I am all impatience for another letter from you," (why, she has not acknowledged one yet); "surely your excellent uncle will enter into your feelings; indeed I have satisfied my heart that he will, and made up my mind not to distress myself, in the mean time, in the hope that all will run smooth with us. You see I have no darts, and flames, and nonsense for you—nothing ultra, Benjamin—no superlatives—I have studied myself as well as I can, and there is no character, I am persuaded, that suits me so well as what you gave me. I am a quiet, prudent, unobtrusive, but warm-hearted little woman—there is a vain girl for you—and oh, Benjamin, my heart tells me, if I am spared in His mercy, that you will find what my father says to be true, 'Whoever marries my Helen will get a wife that will wear well, I calculate.'

"You will be surprised to learn that the old Gazelle is here again. After being a week out, she was forced back from bad weather, and is now repairing. Poor Mr Donovan has had to invalid; they say he never recovered his severe illness on the coast of Africa, and was always raving about some fair one with one eye, who lived in a street to which Broadway in York was a narrow lane—but it is a melancholy affair for him, poor young man, and I check my thoughts, and stop my pen, as I had a jest regarding him, that was ready to drop from it.

"And what do you think?—Henry de Walden has got an acting order as lieutenant in his stead. The ship had been a week here, before Mr Donovan could make up his mind, and all that time Master Henry never once looked near us, and poor Sophie did nothing but spoil wax flowers, and weep—but, two days ago, as she and I were returning in the volante from our evening drive, who should we meet, in charge of a party of seamen who were returning from the funeral of a comrade who had died that morning—oh, Benjamin, what a fearful climate this is—but him!—He did not see us until we were close upon him, when I desired the driver to pull up, so he could not escape us if he had tried it; poor Sophie lay back in the volante, out of sight, as she thought—I am sure I heard her heart beat. I asked him why he had not come to see us—he seemed unprepared to answer; indeed, as you used to say, he was evidently taken completely aback—and blushed, and then grew pale, and blushed again—for he saw very well who was cowering at the back of the carriage.—'I was going to call on you this very evening,' he said, at length; 'I thought you would all be glad to hear of my promotion'—Poor Sophie's rigid clasp round my waist relaxed, and she gave a sigh as if her heart had burst—but it was her pent feelings that had been relieved,—'Your promotion!' I cried, in great joy.—'Yes, I have got poor Mr Donovan's vacancy,'—'Dead? Is poor Mr Donovan dead?'—'No,' continued he, 'he is not dead, but has invalided this forenoon, and Sir Oliver has given me an acting order as lieutenant in his stead. I make no doubt it will be confirmed; indeed he said he knows it will.'

"He came in the evening according to his promise, and most happy we were to see him—but what a world of changes—the very next day the Spider arrived, when we heard of your narrow escape; to show you my composure, I have purposely kept this out of sight until this moment, nor will I say much now. I went when I heard it, and offered up my prayers to that Almighty Being who rules over all, and orders every thing for the best, although we poor shortsighted creatures may not see it, and blessed His holy name, that you had safely reached your destination.

"But I am getting confused, I find. The bearer of your letter, poor young man, is no more—he died this morning of yellow fever. And who do you think is appointed to the Spider?—why, Henry De Walden, once more—nothing, you see, but Henry de Walden!

"To make a long story short, Mr Duquesné has now given his consent to their union, but old Sir Oliver, who exercises a great, and to me unaccountable control over Henry, will not hear of it, until he is made commander, so they must both live in hope; but for the moment, they are but too happy to be extricated from the gloomy slough of despond in which they had made up their minds they were both set fast. My father, mamma, Mr Duquesné, Sophie, and Henry De Walden, all unite in kindest regards to you. And now, my dearest Benjamin, do not be alarmed at this blistered manuscript; my heart is melting, and weeping relieves me, but I am not unhappy—oh, no—but anxious—oh, how anxious!—I will now retire to my closet, and cast myself before the rock of my trust, and pray to my God, and your God, in whose great hand we stand, to bless us both; and speedily, if it be his good pleasure, to bring us once more together, never to be parted. I am fond and foolish, Benjamin—fond and foolish—but I know to whom I write. The seaman who waits for the letters is ordered on board, and I must conclude. Give my love to your uncle—I am sure I shall love him—tell him he must love me, for your sake, if not for my own. Once more adieu, and God bless you.

"Your own affectionate
"HELEN HUDSON."

"P.S.—Dicky has scrambled up on my knee, to give me a kiss to send to his papa. He bids me say that 'Billy, de sheep, quite well; only him hair wont curl any more, like Dicky's, but begin to grow straight and ugly, like Mr Listado's."