Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

CHAPTER XI.—More Scenes in Jamaica.

There be land-rats and water-rats—water-thieves
and land-thieves I mean pirates.
The Merchant Of Venice, I. iii. 22—24.

The malady from whose fangs I had just escaped, was at this time making fearful ravages amongst the troops and white inhabitants of Jamaica generally; nor was the squadron exempted from the afflicting visitation, although it suffered in a smaller degree.

I had occasion at this time to visit Uppark camp, a military post about a mile and a half from Kingston, where two regiments of infantry, and a detachment of artillery, were stationed.

In the forenoon, I walked out in company with an officer, a relation of my own, whom I had gone to visit; enjoying the fresh sea breeze that whistled past us in half a gale of wind, although the sun was vertical, and shining into the bottom of a pint pot, as the sailors have it.

The barracks were built on what appeared to me a very dry situation (although I have since heard it alleged that there was a swamp to windward of it, over which the sea breeze blew, but this I did not see,) considerably elevated above the hot sandy plain on which Kingston stands, and sloping gently towards the sea. They were splendid, large, airy two story buildings, well raised off the ground on brick pillars, so that there was a perfectly free ventilation of air between the surface of the earth and the floor of the first story, as well as through the whole of the upper rooms. A large balcony, or piazza, ran along the whole of the south front, both above and below, which shaded the brick shell of the house from the sun, and afforded a cool and convenient lounge for the men. The outhouses of all kinds were well thrown back into the rear, so that in front there was nothing to intercept the sea-breeze. The officers’ quarters stood in advance of the men’s barracks, and were, as might be expected, still more comfortable; and in front of all were the field-officer’s houses, the whole of substantial brick and mortar. This superb establishment stood in an extensive lawn, not surpassed in beauty by any nobleman’s park that I had ever seen. It was immediately after the rains when I visited it; the grass was luxuriant and newly cut, and the trees, which grew in detached clumps, were most magnificent. We clambered up into one of them, a large umbrageous wild cotton-tree, which cast a shadow on the ground—the sun being, as already mentioned, right overhead—of thirty paces in diameter; but still it was but a dwarfish plant of its kind, for I have measured others whose gigantic shadows, at the same hour, were upwards of one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, and their trunks, one in particular that overhangs the Spanish Town road, twenty feet through of solid timber; that is, not including the enormous spurs that shoot out like buttresses, and end in strong twisted roots, that strike deep into the earth, and form stays, as it were, to the tree in all directions.

Our object, however—publish it not in Askalon was, not so much to admire the charms of nature, as to enjoy the luxury of a real Havannah cigar, in solitary comfort; and a glorious perch we had selected. The shade was grateful beyond measure. The fresh breeze was rushing, almost roaring, through the leaves and groaning branches, and every thing around was green, and fragrant, and Cool, and delicious; by comparison that is, for the thermometer would, I daresay, have still vouched for eighty degrees. The branches overhead were alive with a variety of beautiful lizards, and birds of the gayest plumage; amongst others, a score of small chattering green paroquets were hopping close to us, and playing at bopeep from the lower surfaces of the leaves of the wild pine, (a sort of Brobdignag parasite, that grows, like the mistletoe, in the clefts of the larger trees,) to which they clung, as green and shining as the leaves themselves, and ever and anon popping their little heads and shoulders over to peer at us; while the red-breasted woodpecker kept drumming on every hollow part of the bark, for all the world, like old Kelson, the carpenter of the Torch, tapping along the top sides for the dry rot. All around us the men were lounging about in the shade, and sprawling on the grass in their foraging caps and light jackets, with an officer here and there lying reading, or sauntering about, bearding Phoebus himself, to watch for a shot at a swallow, as it skimmed past; while goats and horses, sheep and cattle, were browsing the fresh grass, or sheltering themselves from the heat beneath the trees. All nature seemed alive and happy—a little drowsy from the heat or so, but that did not much signify—when two carts, each drawn by a mule, and driven by a negro, approached the tree whereon we were perched. A solitary sergeant accompanied them, and they appeared, when a bowshot distant, to be loaded with white deal boxes.

I paid little attention to them until they drove under the tree.

“I say, Snowdrop,” said the non-commissioned officer, “where be them black rascals, them pioneers—where is the fateague party, my Lily white, who ought to have the trench dug by this time?”

“Dere now,” grumbled the negro, “dere now—easy ting to deal wid white gentleman, but debil cannot satisfy dem worsted sash.” Then aloud—“Me no know, sir—me can’t tell—no for me business to dig hole—I only carry what you fill him up wid;” and the vampire, looking over his shoulder, cast his eye towards his load, and grinned until his white teeth glanced from ear to ear.

“Now,” said the Irish sergeant, “I could brain you, but it is not worth while!”—I question if he could, however, knowing as I did the thickness of their skulls, “Ah, here they come!”—and a dozen half drunken, more than half-naked, bloated, villainous-looking blackamoors, with shovels and pick-axes on their shoulders, came along the road, laughing and singing most lustily. They passed beneath where we sat, and, when about a stonecast beyond, they all jumped into a trench or pit, which I had not noticed before, about twenty feet long, by eight wide. It was already nearly six feet deep, but it seemed they had instructions to sink it further, for they first plied their pickaxes, and then began to shovel out the earth. When they had completed their labour, the sergeant, who had been superintending their operations, returned to where the carts were still standing beneath the tree. One of them had six coffins in it, with the name of the tenant of each, and number of his company, marked in red chalk on the smallest end!

“I say, Snowdrop,” said the sergeant, “how do you come to have only five bodies, when Cucumbershin there has six?”

“To be sure I hab no more as five, and weight enough too. You no see Corporal Bumblechops dere? You knows how big he was.”

“Well, but where is Sergeant Heavystern? why did you not fetch him away with the others?”

The negro answered doggedly, “Massa Sergeant, you should remember dem no die of consumption—cough you call him—nor fever and ague, nor any ting dat waste dem—for tree day gone—no more—all were mount guard—tout and fat; so as for Sergeant Heavystern, him left in de dead-house at de hospital.”

“I guessed as much, you dingy tief,” said the sergeant, “but I will break your bones, if you don’t give me a sufficing reason why you left him.”—And he approached Snowdrop, with his cane raised in act to strike.

“Top, massa,” shouted the negro; “me will tell you—Dr Plaget desire dat Heavystern should be leave.”

“Confound Dr Plaget”—and he smote the pioneer across the pate, whereby he broke his stick, although, as I anticipated, without much hurting his man—but the sergeant instantly saw his error, and with the piece of the baton he gave Snowdrop a tap on the shin-bone, that set him pirouetting on one leg, with the other in his hand, like a tee-totum.

“Why, sir, did you not bring as many as Cucumbershin, sir?” “Becaase” screamed Snowdrop, in great wrath, now all alive and kicking from the smart—“Becaase Cucumbershin is loaded wid light infantry, sir, and all of mine are grenadier, Massa Sergeant—dat dem good reason surely!”

“No, it is not, sir; go back and fetch Heavystern immediately, or by the powers but I will”—“Massa Sergeant, you must be mad—Dr Plaget—you won’t yeerie—but him say, five grenadier—especially wid Corporal Bumblechop for one—is good load—ay, wery tif load—equal to seven tallion company [battallion, I presume], and more better load, great deal, den six light infantry—beside him say, tell Sergeant Pivot to send you back at five in de afternoon wid four more coffin, by which time he would have anoder load, and in trute de load was ready prepare in de deadhouse before I come away, only dem were not well cold just yet.”

I was mightily shocked at all this—but my chum took it very coolly.—He slightly raised one side of his mouth, and, giving a knowing wink with his eye, lighted a fresh cigar, and continued to puff away with all the composure in the world.

At length the forenoon wore away, and the bugles sounded for dinner, when we adjourned to the messroom. It was a very large and handsome saloon, standing alone in the lawn, and quite detached from all the other buildings, but the curtailed dimensions of the table in the middle of it, and the ominous crowding together of the regimental plate, like a show-table in Rundle and Bridge’s back shop, gave startling proofs of the ravages of the “pestilence that walketh in darkness, and the destruction that wasteth at noonday;” for although the whole regiment was in barracks, there were only nine covers laid, one of which was for me. The lieutenant-colonel, the major, and, I believe, fifteen other officers, had already been gathered to their fathers, within four months from the day on which the regiment landed from the transports. Their warfare was o’er, and they slept well. At the first, when the insidious disease began to creep on apace, and to evince its deadly virulence, all was dismay and anxiety—downright, slavish, unmanly fear, even amongst casehardened veterans, who had weathered the whole Peninsular war, and finished off with Waterloo. The next week passed over—the mortality increasing, but the dismay decreasing and so it wore on, until it reached its horrible climax, at the time I speak of, by which period there was absolutely no dread at all. A reckless gaiety had succeeded not the screwing up of one’s courage for the nonce, to mount a breach, or to lay an enemy’s frigate aboard, where the substratum of fear is present, although cased over by an energetic exertion of the will; but an unnatural light-heartedness, for which account, ye philosophers, for I cannot—and this, too, amongst men who, although as steel in the field, yet whenever a common cold overtook them in quarters, or a small twinge of rheumatic pain, would, under other circumstances, have caudled and beflannelled themselves, and bored you for your sympathy, at no allowance, as they say.

The major elect, that is, the senior captain, was in the chair; as for the lieutenant-colonel’s vacancy, that was too high an aspiration for any man in the regiment. A stranger of rank, and interest, and money, would of course get that step, for the two deaths in the regimental staff made but one captain a major, as my neighbour on the left hand feelingly remarked. All was fun and joviality; we had a capital dinner, and no allusion whatever, direct or indirect, was made to the prevailing mortal epidemic, until the surgeon came in, about eight o’clock in the evening.

“Sit down, doctor,” said the president—“take some wine; can recommend the Madeira, claret but so, so your health.”

The doctor bowed, and soon became as happy and merry as the rest; so we carried on, until about ten o’clock, when the lights began to waltz a little, and propagate also, and I found I had got enough, or, peradventure, a little more than enough, when the senior captain rose, and walked very composedly out of the room—but I noticed him pinch the doctor’s shoulder as he passed.

The Medico thereupon stole quietly after him; but we did not seem to miss either—a young sub had usurped the deserted throne, and there we were all once more in full career, singing and bousing, and cracking. bad jokes to our hearts’ content. By-and-by, in comes the doctor once more.

“Doctor,” quoth young sub, “take some wine; can’t recommend the Madeira this time,” mimicking his predecessor very successfully; “the claret, you know, has been condemned, but a little hot brandy and water, eh?”

The doctor once more bowed his pate, made his hot stuff, and volunteered a song.—After he had finished, and we had all hammered on the table to his honour and glory, until every thing danced again as if it had been a matter of very trivial concern, he said, “Sorry I was away so long; but old Spatterdash has got a damned thick skin, I can tell you—could scarcely get the lancet into him—I thought I should have had to send for a spring phleme—to tip him the veterinary, you know—and he won’t take physic: so I fear he will have but a poor chance.”

Spatterdash was no other than mine host who had just vacated!

“What, do you really think he is in for it?” said the second oldest captain who sat next me; and as he spoke he drew his leg from beneath the table, and, turning out his dexter heel, seemed to contemplate the site of the prospective fixed spur.

“I do, indeed,” quoth Dr Plaget. He died within three days!

But as I do not intend to write an essay on yellow fever, I will make an end, and get on shipboard as fast as I can, after stating one strong fact, authenticated to me by many unimpeachable witnesses. It is this; that this dreadful epidemic, or contagious fever—call it which you will, has never appeared, or been propagated at or beyond an altitude of 3000 feet above the level of the sea, although people seized with it on the hot sultry plains, and removed thither, have unquestionably died. In a country like Jamaica, with a range of lofty mountains, far exceeding this height, intersecting the island through nearly its whole length, might not Government, after satisfying themselves of the truth of the fact, improve on the hint? Might not a main-guard suffice in Kingston, for instance, while the regiments were in quarters half-way up the Liguanea Mountains, within twelve miles actual distance from the town, and within view of it, so that during the day, by a semaphore on the mountain, and another at the barrack of the outpost, a constant and instantaneous communication could be kept up, and, if need were, by lights in the night?

The admiral, for instance, had a semaphore in the stationary flagship at Port Royal, which communicated with another at his Pen, or residence, near Kingston; and this again rattled off the information to the mountain retreat, where he occasionally retired to careen; and it is fitting to state also, that in all the mountain districts of Jamaica which I visited, there is abundance of excellent water and plenty of fuel. These matters are worth consideration, one would think; however, allons—it is no business of Tom Cringle’s.

Speaking of telegraphing, I will relate an anecdote here, if you will wait until I mend my pen. I had landed at Greenwich wharf on duty—this was the nearest point of communication between Port Royal and the Admiral’s Pen—where, finding the flag lieutenant, he drove me up in his ketureen to lunch. While we were regaling ourselves, the old signalman came into the piazza, and with several most remarkable obeisances, gave us to know that there were flags hoisted on the signalmast, at the mountain settlement, of which he could make nothing, the uppermost was neither the interrogative, the affirmative, nor the negative, nor in fact any thing that with the book he could make sense of.

“Odd enough,” said the lieutenant; “hand me the glass,” and he peered away for half a minute. “Confound me if I can make heads or tails of it either; there, Cringle, what do you think? How do you construe it?”

I took the telescope. Uppermost there was hoisted on the signal mast a large tablecloth, not altogether immaculate, and under it a towel, as I guessed, for it was too opaque for bunting, and too white, although I could not affirm that it was fresh out of the fold either.

“I am puzzled,” said I, as I spied away again. Meanwhile there was no acknowledgment made at our semaphore—“There, down they go,” I continued “Why, it must be a mistake, Stop, here’s a new batch going up above the green trees—There goes the tablecloth once more, and the towel, and deuce take me, if I can compare the lowermost to any thing but a dishclout—why, it must be a dishclout.”

The flags, or substitutes for them, streamed another minute in the breeze, but as there was still no answer made from our end of the string, they were once more hauled down—We waited another minute—“Why, here goes the same signal up again, tablecloth, towel, dishclout, and all—What the diable have we got here? A red ball, two pennants under. What can that mean?—Ball—it is the bonnet-rouge, or I am a Dutchman, with two short streamers” Another look—“A red night-cap and a pair of stockings, by all that is portentous!” exclaimed I.

“Ah, I see, I see!” said the lieutenant, laughing, “signal-man, acknowledge it.”

It was done, and down came all the flags in a trice. It appeared, on enquiry, that the washing cart, which ought to have been sent up that morning, had been forgotten; and the Admiral and his secretary having ridden out, there was no one who could make the proper signal for it. So the old housekeeper took this singular method of having the cart despatched, and it was sent off accordingly.

For the first week after I entered on my new office, I was busily engaged on board; during which time my mind was quite made up, that the most rising man in his Majesty’s service, beyond all compare, was Lieutenant Thomas Cringle, third of the Firebrand. During this eventful period I never addressed a note to any friend on shore, or to a brother officer, without writing in the left-hand lower corner of the envelope, “Lieutenant Cringle,” and clapping three dashing, &c. &c. &c below the party’s name for whom it was intended.

“Must let ‘em know that an officer of my rank in the service knows somewhat of the courtesies of life, eh?”

In about ten days, however, we had gotten the ship into high order and ready for sea, and now the glory and honour of command, like my only epaulet, that had been soaked while on duty in one or two showers, and afterwards regularly bronzed in the sun, began to tarnish, and lose the new gloss, like every thing else in this weary world. It was about this time, while sitting at breakfast in the gunroom one fine morning, with the other officers of our mess, gossiping about I hardly remember what, that we heard the captain’s voice on deck.

“Call the first lieutenant.”

“He is at breakfast, sir,” said the man, whoever he might have been, to whom the order was addressed.

“Never mind then—Here, boatswain’s mate—Pipe away the men who were captured in the boats; tell them to clean themselves, and send Mr——to me”—(This was the officer who had been taken prisoner along with them in the first attack)—“they are wanted in Kingston at the trial today. Stop, tell Mr Cringle also to get ready to go in the gig.”

The pirates, to the amount of forty-five, had been transferred to Kingston jail some days previously, preparatory to their trial, which, as above-mentioned, was fixed for this day.

We pulled cheerily up to Kingston, and, landing at the Wherry wharf, marched along the hot dusty streets, under a broiling sun, Captain Transom, the other Lieutenant, and myself, in full puff, leading the van, followed by about fourteen seamen, in white straw hats, with broad black ribbons, and clean white frocks and trowsers, headed by a boatswain’s mate, with his silver whistle hung round his neck—as respectable a tail as any Christian could desire to swinge behind him; and, man for man, I would willingly have perilled my promotion upon their walloping, with no offensive weapons but their stretchers, the Following, claymores and all, of any proud, disagreeable, would-be mighty mountaineer, that ever turned up his supercilious, whisky blossomed snout at Bailie Jarvie. On they came, square-shouldered, narrow-flanked, tall, strapping fellows, tumbling and rolling about the piazzas in knots of three and four, until, at the corner of King Street, they came bolt up upon a well-known large, fat, brown lady, famous for her manufacture of spruce beer.

“Avast, avast a bit”—sung out one of the topmen—“let the nobs heave a head, will ye, and let’s have a pull.”

“Here, old mother Slush,” sung out another of the cutter’s crew. “Hand us up a dozen bottles of spruce, do you hear?”

“Dozen battle of pruce!” groaned the old woman—“who shall pay me?”

“Why, do you think the Firebrands are thieves, you old canary, you?”

“How much, eh?” said the boatswain’s mate.

“Twelve feepennies,” quoth the matron.

“Oh, ah!” said one of the men—“Twelve times five is half a crown; there’s a dollar for you, old mother Popandchokem—now give me back five shillings.”

“Eigh, oh!” whined out the spruce merchant; “you dem rascal, who tell you dat your dollar more wort den any one else money eh? How can give you back five shilling and keep back twelve feepenny—eh?” The culprit, who had stood the Cocker of the company, had by this time gained his end, which was to draw the fat damsel a step or two from the large tub half-full of water, where the bottles were packed, and to engage her attention by stirring up her bile, or corruption, as they call it in Scotland, while his messmates instantly seized the opportunity, and a bottle a-piece also, and, as I turned round to look for them, there they all were in a circle taking the meridian altitude of the sun, or as if they had been taking aim at the pigeons on the eaves of the houses above them with Indian mouth tubes.

They then replaced the bottles in the tub, paid the woman more than she asked; but, by way of taking out the change, they chucked her stern foremost into the water amongst her merchandise, and then shouldered the vessel, old woman and all, and away they staggered with her, the empty bottles clattering together in the water, and the old lady swearing and bouncing and squattering amongst them, while jack shouted to her to hold her tongue, or they would let her go by the run bodily. Thus they stumped in the wake of their captain, until he arrived at the door of the Courthouse, to the great entertainment of the bystanders, cutting the strings that confined the corks of the stone bottles as they bowled along, popping the spruce into each other’s faces, and the faces of the negroes, as they ran out of the stores to look at jack in his frolic, and now and then taking a shot at the old woman’s cockemony itself, as she was held kicking and spurring high above their heads.

At length the captain, who was no great way ahead, saw what was going on, which was the signal for doucinog the whole affair, spruce-woman, tub, and bottles; and the party gathering themselves up, mustered close aboard of us, as grave as members of the General Assembly.

The regular courthouse of the city being under repair, the Admiralty Sessions were held in a large room occupied temporarily for the purpose. At one end, raised two steps above the level of the floor, was the bench, on which were seated the Judge of the Admiralty Court, supported by two post captains in full uniform, who are ex-officio judges of this court in the colonies, one on each side. On the right, the jury, composed of merchants of the place, and respectable planters of the neighbourhood, were enclosed in a sort of box, with a common white pine railing separating it from the rest of the court. There was a long table in front of the bench, at which a lot of blackrobed devil’s limbs of lawyers, were ranged—but both amongst them, and on the bench, the want of the cauliflower wigs was sorely felt by me, as well as by the seamen, who considered it little less than murder, that men in crops-black shock-pated fellows—should sit in judgment on their fellow-creatures, where life and death were in the scales.

On the left hand of the bench, the motley public, white, black, and of every intermediate shade—were grouped; as also in front of the dock, which was large. It might have been made with a view to the possibility of fifteen unfortunates or so being arraigned at one time; but now there were no fewer than forty-three jammed and pegged together into it, like sheep in a Smithfield pen the evening before market-day. These were the forty thieves—the pirates. They were all, without exception, clean, well shaven, and decently rigged in white trowsers, linen or check shirts, and held their broad Panama sombreros in their hands.

Most of them wore the red silk sash round the waist. They had generally large bushy whiskers, and not a few had earrings of massive gold, (why call wearing earrings puppyism? Shakspeare wore earrings, or the Chandos portrait lies,) and chains of the same metal round their necks, supporting, as I concluded, a crucifix, hid in the bosom of the shirt. A Spaniard can’t murder a man comfortably, if he has not his crucifix about him.

They were, collectively, the most daring, intrepid, Salvator Rosa looking men I had ever seen. Most of them were above the middle size, and the spread of their shoulders, the grace with which their arms were hung, and finely developed muscles of the chest and neck, the latter exposed completely by the folding back of their shirt collars, cut large and square, after the Spanish fashion, beat the finest boat’s-crew we could muster all to nothing. Some of them were of mixed blood, that is, the cross between the European Spaniard and the aboriginal Indian of Cuba, a race long since sacrificed on tile altar of Mammon, the white man’s god.

Their hair, generally speaking, was long, and curled over the forehead black and glossy, or hung down to their shoulders in ringlets, that a dandy of the second Charles’s time would have given his little finger for. The forehead in most was high and broad, and of a clear olive, the nose straight, springing boldly from the brow, the cheeks oval, and the mouth—every Spaniard has a beautiful mouth, until he spoils it with the beastly cigar, as far as his well-formed firm lips can be spoiled; but his teeth he generally does destroy early in life. Take the whole, however, and deduct for the teeth, I had never seen so handsome a set of men; and I am sure no woman, had she been there, would have gainsayed me. They stood up, and looked forth upon their judges and the jury like brave men, desperadoes though they were. They were, without exception, calm and collected, as if aware that they had small chance of escape, but still determined not to give that chance away. One young man especially attracted my attention, from the bold, cool self-possession of his bearing. He was in the very front of the dock, and dressed in no way different from the rest, so far as his under garments were concerned, unless it were that they were of a finer quality. He wore a short green velvet jacket, profusely studded with knobs and chains, like small chain-shot, of solid gold, similar to the shifting button lately introduced by our dandies in their waistcoats. It was not put on, but hung on one shoulder, being fastened across his breast by the two empty sleeves tied together in a knot. He also wore the red silk sash, through which a broad gold cord ran twining like the strand of a rope. He had no earrings, but his hair was the most beautiful I had ever seen in a male—long and black, jet black and glossy. It was turned up and fastened in a club on the crown of his head with a large pin, I should rather say skewer, of silver; but the outlandishness of the fashion was not offensive, when I came to take into the account the beauty of the plaiting, and of the long raven lovelocks that hung down behind each of his small transparent ears, and the short Hyperion-like curls that clustered thick and richly on his high, pale, broad forehead. His eyes were large, black, and swimming, like a woman’s; his nose straight and thin; and such a mouth, such an under-lip, full and melting; and teeth regular and white, and utterly free from the pollution of tobacco; and a beautifully moulded small chin, rounding off, and merging in his round, massive, muscular neck.

I had never seen so fine a face, such perfection of features, and such a clear, dark, smooth skin. It was a finer face than Lord Byron’s, whom I had seen more than once, and wanted that hellish curl of the lip; and, as to figure, he could, to look at him, at any time have eaten up his lordship stoop and roop to his breakfast. It was the countenance, in a word, of a most beautiful youth, melancholy, indeed, and anxious evidently anxious; for the large pearls that coursed each other down his forehead and cheek, and the slight quivering of the under-lip, every now and then evinced the powerful struggle that was going on within. His figure was, if possible, superior to his face. It was not quite filled up, set, as we call it, but the arch of his chest was magnificent, his shoulders square, arms well put on; but his neck—“Have you seen the Apollo, neighbour?”—“No, but the cast of it at Somerset House.”—“Well, that will do—so you know the sort of neck he had.” His waist was fine, hips beautifully moulded; and although his under limbs were shrouded in his wide trowsers, they were evidently of a piece with what was seen and developed; and this was vouched for by the turn of his ankle and well-shaped foot on which he wore a small Spanish grass slipper, fitted with great nicety. He was at least six feet two in height, and such as I have described him; there he stood, with his hands grasping the rail before him and looking intently at a wigless lawyer who was opening the accusation, while he had one ear turned a little towards the sworn interpreter of the court, whose province it was, at every pause, to explain to the prisoners what the learned gentleman was stating. From time to time he said a word or two to a square-built, dark, ferocious-looking man standing next him, apparently about forty years of age, who, as well as his fellow prisoners, appeared to pay him great respect; and I could notice the expression of their countenances change as his rose or fell.

The indictment had been read before I came in, and, as already mentioned, the lawyer was proceeding with his accusatory speech, and, as it appeared to me, the young Spaniard had some difficulty in understanding the interpreter’s explanation. Whenever he saw me, he exclaimed, “Ah! aqui viene, el Senor Teniente—ahora sabremos ahora, ahora;” and he beckoned to me to draw near. I did so.

“I beg pardon, Mr Cringle,” he said in Spanish, with the ease and grace of a nobleman “but I believe the interpreter to be incapable, and I am certain that what I say is not fittingly explained to the judges; neither do I believe he can give me a sound notion of what the advocate (avocado) is alleging against us. May I entreat you to solicit the bench for permission to take his place? I know you will expect no apology for the trouble from a man in my situation.”

This unexpected address in open court took me fairly aback, and I stopped short while in the act of passing the open space in front of the dock, which was kept clear by six marines in white jackets, whose muskets, fixed bayonets, and uniform caps, seemed out of place to my mind in a criminal court. The lawyer suddenly suspended his harangue, while the judges fixed their eyes on me, and so did the audience, confound them! To be the focus of so many eyes was trying to my modesty; for, although unacquainted with bettermost society, still, below any little manner that I had acquired, there was, and always will be, an under stratum of bashfulness, or sheepishness, or mauvaise honte, call it which you will; and the torture, the breaking on the wheel, with which a man of that temperament perceives the eyes of a whole courthouse, for instance, attracted to him, none but a bashful man can understand. At length I summoned courage to speak.

“May it please your honours, this poor fellow, on his own behalf, and on the part of his fellow-prisoners, complains of the incapacity of the sworn interpreter, and requests that I may be made the channel of communication in his stead.”

This was a tremendous effort, and once more the whole blood of my body rushed to my cheeks and forehead, and I “sweat extremely.” The judges, he of the black robe and those of the epaulet, communed together.

“Have you any objection to be sworn, Mr Cringle?”

“None in the least, provided the court considers me competent, and the accused are willing to trust to me.”

“Si, si!” exclaimed the young Spaniard, as if comprehending what was going on—“Somos contentos—todos, todos!” and he looked round, like a prince, on his fellow—culprits. A low murmuring, “Si, si—contento, contento!” passed amongst the group.

“The accused, please your honours, are willing to trust to my correctness.”

“Pray, Mr Cringle, don’t make yourself the advocate of these men, mind that,” said the—, lawyer sans wig.

“I don’t intend it, sir,” I said, slightly stung; “but if you had suffered what I have done at their hands, peradventure such a caution to you would have been unnecessary.”

The sarcasm told, I was glad to see; but remembering where I was, I hauled but of action with the man of words, simply giving the last shot “I am sure no English gentleman would willingly throw any difficulty in the way of the poor fellows being made aware of what is given in evidence against them, bad as they may be.”

He was about rejoining, for a lawyer would as soon let you have the last word as a sweep or a baker the wall, when the officer of court approached and swore me in, and the trial proceeded.

The whole party were proved by fifty witnesses to have been taken in arms on board of the schooners in the Cove; and farther, it was proved that no commission or authority to cruise whatsoever was found on board any of them, a strong proof that they were pirates.

“Que dice, que dice?” enquired the young Spaniard already mentioned.

I said that the court seemed to infer, and were pressing it on the jury, that the absence of any commission or letter of marque from a superior officer, or from any of the Spanish authorities, was strong evidence that they were marauders—in fact pirates.

“Ah!” he exclaimed; “gracias, gracias!” Then, with an agitated hand, he drew from his bosom a parchment, folded like the manifest of a merchant ship, and at the same moment the gruff fierce-looking elderly man did the same, with another similar instrument from his own breast.

“Here, here are the commissions—here are authorities from the Captain General of Cuba. Read them.”

I looked over them; they were regular to all appearance; at least as there were no autographs in court of the Spanish Viceroy, or any of his officers, whose signatures, either real or forged, were affixed to the instruments, with which to compare them, there was a great chance, I conjectured, so far as I saw, that they would be acquitted: and in this case we, his majesty’s officers, would have been converted into the transgressing party; for if it were established that the vessels taken were bona fide Guarda Costas, we should be placed in an awkward predicament, in having captured them by force of arms, not to take into account the having violated the sanctity of a friendly port.

But I could see that this unexpected production of regular papers by their officers had surprised the pirates themselves, as much as it had done me,—whether it was a heinous offence of mine or not to conceal this impression from the court, (there is some dispute about the matter to this hour between me and my conscience,) I cannot tell; but I was determined to stick scrupulously to the temporary duties of my office, without stating what I suspected, or even translating some sudden expressions overheard by me, that would have shaken the credibility of the documents.

“Comissiones, comissiones!” for instance, was murmured by a weather beaten Spaniard, with a fine bald head, from which two small tufts of grey hair stood out above his ears, and with a superb Moorish face “Comissiones es decir patentes—Si hay comissiones, el Diablo, mismo, les ha hecho!”

The court was apparently nonplussed—not so the wigless man of law. His pea green visage assumed a more ghastly hue, and the expression of his eyes became absolutely blasting. He looked altogether like a cat sure of her mouse, but willing to let it play in fancied joy of escaping, as he said softly to the Jew crier, who was perched in a high chair above the heads of the people, like an ugly corbie in its dirty nest—“Crier, call Job Rumbletithump, mate of the Porpoise.”

“Job Rumbletithump, come into court!”

“Here,” quoth Job, as a stout, bluff honest-looking sailor rolled into the witnessbox.

“Now, clerk of the crown, please to swear in the mate of the Porpoise.” It was done. “Now, my man, you were taken going through the Caicos Passage in the Porpoise by pirates, in August last—were you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Turn your face to the jury, and speak up, sir. Do you see any of the honest men who made free with you in that dock, sir? Look at them, sir.”

“The mate walked up to the dock, stopped, and fixed his eyes intently on the young Spaniard. I stared breathlessly at him also. He grows pale as death—his lip quivers—the large drops of sweat once more burst from his brow. I grew sick, sick.

“Yes, your honour,” said the mate.

“Yes—ah!” said the devil’s limb, chuckling—“we are getting on the trail at last. Can you swear to more than one?”

“Yes, your honour.”

“Yes!” again responded the sans wig. “How many?”

The man counted them off. “Fifteen, sir. That young fellow there is the man who cut Captain Spurtel’s throat, after violating his wife before his eyes.”

“God forgive me, is it possible?” gasped Thomas Cringle.

“There’s a monster in human form for you, gentlemen,” continued devil’s limb. “Go on, Mr Rumbletithump.”

“That other man next him hung me up by the heels, and seared me on the bare”—Here honest job had just time to divert the current of his speech into a loud “whew.”

“Seared you on the whew!” quoth the facetious lawyer, determined to have his jest, even in the face of forty-three of his fellow creatures trembling on the brink of eternity. “Explain, sir, tell the court where you were seared, and how you were seared, and all about your being seared.”

Job twisted and lolloped about, as if he was looking out for some opening to bolt through; but all egress was shut up.

“Why, please your honour,” the eloquent blood mantling in his honest sunburnt cheeks; while from my heart I pitied the poor fellow, for he was absolutely broiling in his bashfulness—“He seared me onon—why, please your honour, he seared me on—with a redhot iron!”

“Why, I guessed as much, if he seared you at all; but where did he sear you? Come now,” coaxingly, “tell the court where and how he applied the actual cautery.”

Job being thus driven to his wit’s end, turned and stood at bay. “Now I will tell you, your honour, if you will but sit down for a moment, and answer me one question.”

“To be sure; why, Job, you brighten on us. There, I am down now for your question.”

“Now, sir,” quoth Rumbletithump, imitating his tormentor’s manner much more cleverly than I expected, “what part of your honour’s body touches your chair?”

“How, sir!” said the man of words—“how dare you, sir, take such a liberty, sir?” while a murmuring laugh hummed through the court.

“Now, sir, since you won’t answer me, sir,” said Job, elevated by his victory, while his hoarse voice roughened into a loud growl, “I will answer myself. I was seared, sir, where”—

“Silence!” quoth the crier at this instant drowning the mate’s voice, so that I could not catch the words he used.

“And there you have it, sir. Put me in jail, if you like, sir.”

The murmur was bursting out into a guffaw, when the judge interfered. But there was no longer any attempt at ill-timed jesting on the part of the bar, which was but bad taste at the best on so solemn an occasion.

Job continued, “I was burnt into the very muscle until I told where the gold was stowed away.”

“Aha!” screamed the lawyer, forgetting his recent discomfiture in the gladness of his success. “And all the rest were abetting, eh?”

“The rest of the fifteen were, sir.”

But the prosecutor, a glutton in his way, had thought he had bagged the whole forty-three. And so he ultimately did before the evening closed in, as most of the others were identified by other witnesses; and when they could not actually be sworn to, the piracies were brought home to them by circumstantial evidence; such, for instance, as having been captured on board of the craft we had taken, which again were identified as the very vessels which had plundered the merchantmen and murdered several of their crews, so that by six o’clock the jury had returned a verdict of Guilty—and I believe there never was a juster—against the whole of them. The finding, and sentence of death following thereupon, seemed not to create any strong effect upon the prisoners. They had all seen how the trial was going; and, long before this, the bitterness of death seemed to be past.

I could hear one of our boat’s crew, who was standing behind me, say to his neighbour, “Why, Jem, surely he is in joke. Why, he don’t mean to condemn them to be hanged seriously, without his wig, eh?”

Immediately after the judgment was pronounced, which, both as to import, and literally, I had translated to them, Captain Transom, who was sitting on the bench beside his brother officers, nodded to me, “I say, Mr Cringle, tell the coxswain to call Pearl, if you please.”

I passed the word to one of the Firebrand’s marines, who was on duty, who again repeated the order to a seaman who was standing at the door.

“I say, Moses, call the clergyman.”

Now this Pearl was no other than the seaman who pulled the stroke-oar in the gig; a very handsome negro, and the man who afterwards forked Whiffle out of the water—tall, powerful, and muscular, and altogether one of the best men in the ship. The rest of the boat’s crew, from his complexion, had fastened the sobriquet of the clergyman on him.

“Call the clergyman.”

The superseded interpreter, who was standing near, seemingly took no notice, immediately traduced this literally to the unhappy men. A murmur arose amongst them.

“Que—el padre ya! Somos en Capilla entonces—poco tiempo, poco tiempo!”

They had thought that the clergyman having been sent for, the sentence was immediately to be executed, but I undeceived them; and, in ten minutes after they were condemned, they were marched off under a strong escort of foot to the jail.

I must make a long story short. Two days afterwards, I was ordered with the launch to Kingston, early in the morning, to receive twenty-five of the pirates who had been ordered for execution that morning at Gallows Point. It was little past four in the morning when we arrived at the Wherry wharf, where they were already clustered, with their hands pinioned behind their backs, silent and sad, but all of them calm, and evincing no unmanly fear of death.

I don’t know if other people have noticed it, but this was one of several instances where I have seen foreigners—Frenchmen, Italians, and Spaniards, for instance—meet death, inevitable death, with greater firmness than British soldiers or sailors. Let me explain. In the field, or grappling in mortal combat, on the blood-slippery quarterdeck of an enemy’s vessel, British soldier or sailor is the bravest of the brave. No soldier or sailor of any other country, saving and excepting those damned Yankees, can stand against them—they would be utterly overpowered—their hearts would fail them—they would either be cut down thrust through, or they would turn and flee. Yet those same men who have turned and fled, will meet death, but it must be as I said, inevitable, unavoidable death, not only more firmly than their conquerors would do in their circumstances, but with an intrepidity oh, do not call it indifference!—altogether astonishing. Be it their religion, or their physical conformation, or what it may, all I have to do with, is the fact, which I record as undeniable. Out of five-and twenty individuals, in the present instance, not a sigh was heard, nor a moan, nor a querulous word. They stepped lightly into the boats, and seated themselves in silence. When told by the seamen to make room, or to shift so as not to be in the way of the oars, they did so with alacrity, and almost with an air of civility, although they knew that within half an hour their earthly career must close for ever.

The young Spaniard who had stood forward so conspicuously on the trial, was in my boat; in stepping in he accidentally trod on my foot in passing forward; he turned and apologized, with much natural politeness “he hoped he had not hurt me?”

I answered kindly, I presume—who could have done so harshly? This emboldened him apparently, for he stopped, and asked leave to sit by me. I consented, while an incomprehensible feeling crept over me; and when once I had time to recollect myself, I shrunk from him, as a blood stained brute, with whom even in his extremity it was unfitting for me to hold any intercourse. When he noticed my repugnance to remain near him, he addressed me hastily, as if afraid that I would destroy the opportunity he seemed to desire.

“God did not always leave me the slave of my passions,” he said, in a low, deep, most musical voice. “The day has been when I would have shrunk as you do—but time presses. You have a mother?” said he—I assented—“and an only sister?” As it happened, he was right here too. “And—and”—here he hesitated, and his voice shook and trembled with the most intense and heart-crushing emotion—“y una mas cara que ambos?” Mary, you can tell whether in this he did not also speak truth. I acknowledged there was another being more dear to me than either. “Then,” said he, “take this chain from my neck, and the crucifix, and a small miniature from my bosom; but not yet—not till I leave the boat. You will find an address affixed to the string of the latter. Your course of service may lead you to St Jago if not, a brother officer may.” His voice became inaudible; his hot scalding tears dropped fast on my hand, and the ravisher, the murderer, the pirate, wept as an innocent and helpless infant. “You will deliver it. Promise a dying man—promise a great sinner.” But it was momentary—he quelled the passion with a fierce and savage energy, as he said sternly, “Promise! promise!” I did so, and I fulfilled it.

The day broke. I took the jewels and miniature from his neck, as he led the way with the firm step of a hero, in ascending the long gibbet. The halters were adjusted, when he stepped towards the side I was on, as far as the rope would let him, “Dexa me verla—dexa me verla, una vez mas!” I held up the miniature. He looked—he glared intensely at it. “Adios, Maria, seas feliz mi querida, feliz—feliz Maria—adios—adios—Maria Mar”.

The rope severed thy name from his lips, sweet girl; but not until it also severed his soul from his body, and sent him to his tremendous account—young in years, but old in wickedness—to answer at that tribunal, where we must all appear, to the God who made him, and whose gifts he had so fearfully abused, for thy broken heart and early death, amongst the other scarlet atrocities of his short but ill spent life.

The signal had been given—the lumbering flap of the long drop was heard, and five-and-twenty human beings were wavering in the sea breeze in the agonies of death! The other eighteen suffered on the same spot the week following; and for long after, this fearful and bloody example struck terror into the Cuba fishermen.

“Strange now, that the majority—ahem—of my beauties and favourites through life have been called Mary. There is my own Mary—un peu passee certainly—but deil mean her, for half a dozen lit”—“Now, Tom Cringle, don’t bother with your sentimentality, but get along, do.”—“Well, I will get along—but have patience, you Hottentot Venus—you Lord Nugent, you. So once more we make sail.”

Next morning, soon after gunfire, I landed at the Wherry wharf in Port Royal. It was barely daylight, but, to my surprise, I found my friend Peregrine Whiffle seated on a Spanish chair, close to the edge of the wharf, smoking a cigar. This piece of furniture is an arm-chair strongly framed with hard-wood, over which, back and bottom, a tanned hide is stretched, which, in a hot climate, forms a most luxurious seat, the back tumbling out at an angle of 45 degrees, while the skin yields to every movement, and does not harbour a nest of biting ants, or a litter of scorpions, or any other of the customary occupants of a cushion that has been in Jamaica for a year.

He did not know me as I passed; but his small glimmering red face instantly identified the worthy little old man to me.

“Good morning, Mr Whiffle—the top of the morning to you, sir.”

“Hillo,” responded Peregrine—“Tom, is it you?—how d’ye do, man—how d’ye do?” and he started to his feet, and almost embraced me.

Now, I had never met the said Peregrine Whiffle but twice in my life; once at Mr Fyall’s, and once during the few days I remained in Kingston, before I set out on my travels; but he was a warm hearted kindly old fellow, and, from knowing all my friends there very intimately, he, as a matter of course, became equally familiar with me.

“Why the diable came you not to see me, man? Have been here for change of air, to recruit, you know, after that demon, the gout, had been so perplexing me, ever since you came to anchor—the Firebrand, I mean—as for you, you have been mad one while, and philandering with those inconvenient white ladies the other. You’ll cure of that, my boy you’ll come to the original comforts of the country soon, no fear!”

“Perhaps I may, perhaps not.”

“Oh, your cousin Mary, I forgot—fine girl, Tom—may do for you at home yonder,” (all Creoles speak of England as home, although they may never have seen it,) “but she can’t make pepper-pot, nor give a dish of land crabs as land crabs should be given, nor see to the serving up of a ringtail pigeon, nor rub a beefsteak to the rotting turn with a bruised papaw, nor compose a medicated bath, nor, nor—oh, confound it, Tom, she will be, when you marry her, a cold, comfortless, motionless Creole icicle!”

I let him have his swing. “Never mind her then, never mind her, my dear sir; but time presses and I must be off, I must indeed, so good morning; I wish you a good morning, sir.”

He started to his feet, and caught hold of me. “Sha’n’t go, Tom, impossible—come along with me to my lodgings, and breakfast with me. Here, Pilfer, Pilfer,” to his black valet, “give me my stick, and massu the chair, and run home and order breakfast—cold calipiver—our Jamaica salmon, you know, Tom-tea and coffee pickled mackerel, eggs, and cold tongue—any thing that Mother Dingychops can give us; so bolt, Pilfer, bolt!”

I told him that before I came ashore I had heard the gig’s-crew piped away, and that I therefore expected, as Jonathan says, that the captain would be after me immediately; so that I wished at all events to get away from where we were, as I had no desire to be caught gossiping about when my superior might be expected to pass.

“True, boy, true”—as he shackled himself to me, and we began to crawl along towards the wharf-gate leading into the town. Captain Transom by this time had landed, and came up with us.

“Ah, Transom,” said Whiffle, “glad to see you. I say, why won’t you allow Mr Cringle here to go over to Spanish Town with me for a couple of days, eh?”

“Why, I don’t remember that Mr Cringle has ever asked leave.”

“Indeed, sir, I neither did ask leave, nor have I thought of doing so,” said I.

“But I do for you,” chimed in my friend Whiffle. “Come, captain, give him leave, just for two days, that’s a prime chap. Why, Tom, you see you have got it, so off with you and come to me with your kit as soon as possible; I will hobble on and make the coffee and chocolate; and, Captain Transom, come along and breakfast with me too. No refusal, I require society. Nearly drowned yesterday, do you know that? Off this same cursed wharf too—just here. I was looking down at the small fish playing about the piles, precisely in this position; one of them was as bright in the scales as a gold fish in my old grandmother’s glass globe, and I had to crane over the ledge in this fashion,” suiting the action to the word, “when away I went”—

And, to our unutterable surprise, splash went Peregrine Whiffle, Esquire, for the second time, and there—he was shouting, and puffing, and splashing in the water. We were both so convulsed with laughter that I believe he would have been drowned for us; but the boat-keeper of the gig, the strong athletic negro before mentioned, promptly jumped on the wharf with his boat-hook, and caught the dapper little old beau by the waistband of his breeches, swaying him up, frightened enough, with his little coat skirts fluttering in the breeze, and no wonder, but not much the worse for it all.

“Diable porte l’amour,” whispered Captain Transom.

“Swallowed a Scotch pint of salt water to a certainty—run, Pilfer, bring me some brandy—gout will be into my stomach, sure as fate—feel him now—run, Pilfer, run, or gout will beat you—a dead heat that will be!” And he keckled at his small joke very complacently.

We had him carried by our people to his lodgings, where, after shifting and brandying to some tune, he took his place at the breakfast table, and did the honours with his usual amenity and warm heartedness.

After breakfast Peregrine remembered, what the sly rogue had never forgotten I suspect, that he was engaged to dine with his friend Mr Pepperpot Wagtail, in Kingston.

“But it don’t signify, Wagtail will be delighted to see you, Tom hospitable fellow Wagtail—and, now I recollect myself, Fyall and Aaron Bang are to be there; dang it, were it not for the gout, we should have a night on’t!”

After breakfast we started in a canoe for Kingston, touching at the Firebrand for my kit.

Moses Yerk, the unpoetical first lieutenant, was standing well forward on the quarterdeck as I passed over the side to get into the canoe, with the gunroom steward following me, carrying my kit under his arm.

“I say, Tom, good for you, one lark after another.”

“Don’t like that fellow,” quoth Whiffle; “he is quarrelsome in his drink for a thousand, I know it by the cut of his jib.”

He had better have held his tongue, honest man; for as he looked up broad in Yerk’s face, who was leaning over the hammocks, the scupper immediately over head, through whose instrumentality I never knew, was suddenly cleared, and a rush of dirty water, that had been lodged there since the decks had been washed down at daydawn, splashed slapdash over his head and shoulders and into his mouth, so as to set the dear little man a-coughing so violently that I thought he would have been throttled. Before he had recovered sufficiently to find his tongue, we had pulled fifty yards from the ship, and a little farther on we overtook the captain, who had preceded us in the cutter, into which we transhipped ourselves. But Whiffle never could acquit Yerk of having been, directly or indirectly, the cause of his suffering from the impure shower.

This day was the first of the Negro Carnival or Christmas Holydays, and at the distance of two miles from Kingston the sound of the negro drums and horns, the barbarous music and yelling of the different African tribes, and the more mellow singing of the Set Girls, came off upon the breeze loud and strong.

When we got nearer, the wharfs and different streets, as we successively opened them, were crowded with blackamoors, men, women, and children, dancing and singing and shouting, and all rigged out in their best. When we landed on the agents wharf we were immediately surrounded by a group of these merry-makers, which happened to be the Butchers John Canoe party, and a curious exhibition it unquestionably was. The prominent character was, as usual, the John Canoe or Jack Pudding. He was a light, active, clean made young Creole negro, without shoes or stockings; he wore a pair of light jean small-clothes, all too wide, but confined at the knees, below and above, by bands of red tape, after the manner that Malvolio would have called cross-gartering. He wore a splendid blue velvet waistcoat, with old-fashioned flaps coming down over his hips, and covered with tarnished embroidery. His shirt was absent on leave, I suppose, but at the wrists of his coat he had tin or white iron frills, with loose pieces attached, which tinkled as he moved, and set off the dingy paws that were stuck through these strange manacles, like black wax tapers in silver candlesticks. His coat was an old blue artillery uniform one, with a small bell hung to the extreme points of the swallow-tailed skirts, and three tarnished epaulets; one on each shoulder, and, O ye immortal gods! O Mars omnipotent! the biggest of the three stuck at his rump, the point d’appuit for a sheep’s tail. He had an enormous cocked hat on, to which was appended in front a white false-face or mask, of a most methodistical expression, while, Janus like, there was another face behind, of the most quizzical description, a sort of living Antithesis, both being garnished and overtopped with one coarse wig, made of the hair of bullocks tails, on which the chapeau was strapped down with a broad band of gold lace. He skipped up to us with a white wand in one hand and a dirty handkerchief in the other, and with sundry moppings and mowings, first wiping my shoes with his mouchoir, then my face, (murder, what a flavour of salt fish and onions it had!) he made a smart enough pirouette, and then sprung on the back of a nondescript animal, that now advanced capering and jumping about after the most grotesque fashion that can be imagined. This was the signal for the music to begin. The performers were two gigantic men, dressed in calf-skins entire, head, four legs, and tail. The skin of the head was made to fit like a hood, the two fore-feet hung dangling down in front, one over each shoulder, while the other two legs, or hind-feet, and the tail, trailed behind on the ground; deuce another article they had on in the shape of clothing except a handkerchief, of some flaming pattern, tied round the waist. There were also two flute-players in sheepskins, looking still more outlandish from the horns on the animals heads being preserved; and three stout fellows, who were dressed in the common white frock and trowsers, who kept sounding on bullocks horns. These formed the band as it were, and might be considered John’s immediate tail or following; but he was also accompanied by about fifty of the butcher negroes, all neatly dressed-blue jackets, white shirts, and Osnaburgh trowsers, with their steels and knife-cases by their sides, as bright as Turkish yataghans, and they all wore clean blue and white striped aprons. I could see and tell what they were; but the Thing John Canoe had perched himself upon I could make nothing of. At length I began to comprehend the device.

The Magnus Apollo of the party, the poet and chief musician, the nondescript already mentioned, was no less than the boatswain of the butcher-gang, answering to the driver in an agricultural one. He was clothed in an entire bullock’s hide horns, tail, and the other particulars, the whole of the skull being retained, and the effect of the voice growling through the jaws of the beast was most startling. His legs were enveloped in the skin of the hind-legs, while the arms were cased in that of the fore, the hands protruding a little above the hoofs, and, as he walked reared up on his hind-legs, he used, in order to support the load of the John Canoe who had perched on his shoulders, like a monkey on a dancing bear, a strong stick, or sprit, with a crutch top to it, which he leant his breast on every now and then. After the creature, which I will call the Device for shortness, had capered with its extra load, as if it had been a feather, for a minute or two, it came to a stand-still, and, sticking the end of the sprit into the ground, and tucking the crutch of it under its chin, it motioned to one of the attendants, who thereupon handed, of all things in the world, a fiddle to the ox. He then shook off the John Canoe, who began to caper about as before, while the Device set up a deuced good pipe, and sung and played, barbarously enough, I will admit, to the tune of Guinea Corn, the following ditty:

“Massa Buccra lobfor see,
Bullock caper like monkee,
Dance, and shump, and poke him toe,
Like one humane person—just so.”

And hereupon the tail of the beast, some fifty strong, music men, John Canoe and all, began to rampauge about, as if they had been possessed by a devil whose name was Legion:

“But Massa Buccra have white love,
soft and silken like one dove.
To brown girl—him barely shivel,
to black girl—oh, Lord, de Devil!”

Then a tremendous gallopading, in the which Tailtackle was nearly capsized over the wharf. He looked quietly over the edge of it.

“Boat keeper, hand me up that switch of a stretcher,” (Friend, if thou be’st not nautical, thou knowest what a rack-pin, something of the stoutest is.)

The boy did so, and Tailtackle, after moistening well his dexter claw with tobacco juice, seized the stick with his left by the middle, and balancing it for a second or two, he began to fasten the end of it into his right fist, as if he had been screwing a bolt into a socket. Having satisfied himself that his grip was secure, he let go the hold with his left hand, and crossed his arms on his breast, with the weapon projecting over his left shoulder, like the drone of a bagpipe.

The Device continued his chant, giving the seaman a wide berth, however:

“But when him once two tree year here,
Him tink white lady wery great boder;
De coloured peoples, never fear,
Ah, him lob him de morest nor any oder.”

Then another tumblification of the whole party.

“But top-one time bad fever catch him,
colour’d peoples kindly watch him
in sick-room, nurse voice like music
from him hand taste sweet de physic.
Another trampoline.”
“So alway come—in two tree year,
and so wid you, massa never fear
brown girl for cook—for wife—for nurse:
buccra lady—poo—no wort a curse.”

“Get away, you scandalous scoundrel,” cried I; “away with you, sir!”

Here the morrice-dancers began to circle round old Tailtackle, keeping him on the move, spinning round like a weathercock in a whirlwind, while they shouted, “Oh, massa, one macaronilt if you please.” To get quit of their importunity, Captain Transom gave them one. “Ah, good massa, tank you, sweet massa!” And away danced John Canoe and his tail, careering up the street.

In the same way all the other crafts and trades had their Gumbimen, Hornblowers, John Canoes, and Nondescript. The Gardeners came nearest of any thing I had seen before to the Mayday boys in London; with this advantage, that their jack-in-the—Green was incomparably more beautiful, from the superior bloom of the larger flowers used in composing it.

The very workhouse people, whose province it is to guard the Negro culprits who may be committed to it, and to inflict punishment on them, when required, had their John Canoe and Device; and their prime jest seemed to be every now and then to throw the fellow down who enacted the latter at the corner of a street, and to administer a sound flogging to him. The John Canoe, who was the workhouse driver, was dressed up in a lawyer’s cast off gown and bands, black silk breeches, no stockings nor shoes, but with sandals of bullock’s hide strapped on his great splay feet, a small cocked hat on his head, to which were appended a large cauliflower wig, and the usual white false-face, bearing a very laughable resemblance to Chief-justice S——, with whom I happened to be personally acquainted.

The whole party which accompanied these two worthies, musicians and tail, were dressed out so as to give a tolerable resemblance of the Bar broke loose, and they were all pretty considerably well drunk. As we passed along, the Device was once more laid down, and we could notice a shield of tough hide strapped over the fellow’s stem frame, so as to save the lashes of the cat, which John Canoe was administering with all his force, while the Device walloped about and yelled, as if he had been receiving the punishment on his naked flesh. Presently, as he rolled over and over in the sand, bellowing to the life, I noticed the leather shield slip upwards to the small of his back, leaving the lower story uncovered in reality; but the driver and his tail were too drunk to observe this, and the former continued to lay on and laugh, while one of his people stood by in all the gravity of drunkenness, counting, as a first Lieutenant does, when a poor fellow is polishing at the gangway,—“Twenty-twenty-one twenty-two”—and so on, while the patient roared you, an it were any thing but a nightingales At length he broke away from the men who held him, after receiving a most sufficient flogging, to revenge which he immediately fastened on the John Canoe, wrenched his cat from him, and employed it so scientifically on him and his followers, giving them passing taps on the shins now and then with the handle, by way of spice to the dose, that the whole crew pulled foot as if Old Nick had held them in chase.

The very children, urchins of five and six years old, had their Lilliputian John Canoes and Devices. But the beautiful part of the exhibition was the Set Girls. They danced along the streets, in bands of from fifteen to thirty. There were brown sets, and black sets, and sets of all the intermediate gradations of colour. Each set was dressed pin for pin alike, and carried umbrellas or parasols of the same colour and size, held over their nice showy, well put on toques, or Madras handkerchiefs, all of the same pattern, tied round their heads, fresh out of the fold.—They sang, as they swam along the streets, in the most luxurious attitudes. I had never seen more beautiful creatures than there were amongst the brown sets—clear olive complexions, and fine faces, elegant carriages, splendid figures,—full, plump, and magnificent.

Most of the Sets were as much of a size as Lord——‘s eighteen daughters, sailing down Regent Street, like a Charity School of a Sunday, led by a rum-looking old beadle—others again had large Roman matron-looking women in the leading files, the figurantes in their tails becoming slighter and smaller, as they tapered away, until they ended in leetle picaniny, no bigger as my tumb, but always preserving the uniformity of dress, and colour of the umbrella or parasol. Sometimes the breeze, on opening a corner, would strike the stern most of a set composed in this manner of small fry, and stagger the little things, getting beneath their tiny umbrellas, and fairly blowing them out of the line, and ruffling their ribbons and finery, as if they had been tulips bending and shaking their leaves before it. But the colours were never blended in the same set—no blackie ever interloped with the browns, nor did the browns in any case mix with the sables—always keeping in mind—black woman—brown lady.

But, as if the whole city had been tom-fooling, a loud burst of military music was now heard, and the north end of the street we were ascending, which leads out of the Place d’Armes or parade, that occupies the centre of the town, was filled with a cloud of dust, that rose as high as the house tops, through which the head of a column of troops sparkled; swords, and bayonets, and gay uniforms glancing in the sun. This was the Kingston regiment marching down to the Court-house in the lower part of the town, to mount the Christmas guards, which is always carefully attended to, in case any of the John Canoes should take a small fancy to burn or pillage the town, or to rise and cut the throats of their masters, or any little innocent recreation of the kind, out of compliment to Dr Lushington, or Messrs Macauley and Babington.

First came a tolerably good band, a little too drummy, but still not amiss—well dressed, only the performers being of all colours, from white, down to jet-black, had a curious hodge-podge, or piebald appearance. Then came a dozen mounted officers at the very least colonels-in-chief, and colonels, and lieutenant-colonels, and majors all very fine, and very bad horsemen. Then the grenadier company, composed of white clerks of the place, very fine-looking young men indeed—another white company followed, not quite so smart looking—then came a century of the children of Israel, not over military in appearance—the days of Joshua, the son of Nun, had passed away, the glory had long departed from their house,—a phalanx of light browns succeeded, then a company of dark browns, or mulattoes; the regular half and—half in this, as well as in grog, is the best mixture after all, then quashie himself, or a company of free blacks, who, with the browns, seemed the best soldiers of the set, excepting the flank companies—and after blackie the battalion again gradually whitened away, until it ended in a very fine light company of buccras, smart young fellows as need be—all the officers were white, and all the soldiers, whatever their caste or colour, free of course. Another battalion succeeded, composed in the same way, and really I was agreeably surprised to find the indigenous force of the colony so efficient. I had never seen any thing more soldier-like amongst our volunteers at home. Presently a halt was called, and a mounted officer, evidently desirous of showing off, galloped up to where we were standing, and began to swear at the drivers of a wagon, with a long team of sixteen bullocks, who had placed their vehicle, whether intentionally or not I could not tell, directly across the street, where being met by another wagon of the same kind, coming through the opposite lane, a regular jam had taken place, as they had contrived, being redolent of new rum, to lock their wheels, and twist their lines of bullocks together in much admired confusion.

“Out of the way, sir, out of the way, you black rascals—don’t you see the regiment coming?”

The men spanked their long whips, and shouted to the steers by name “Back, back—Caesar—Antony—Crab, back, sir, back;” and they whistled loud and long, but Caesar and the rest only became more and more involved.

“Order arms,” roared another officer, fairly beaten by the bullocks and wagons—“Stand at ease.”

On this last signal, a whole cloud of spruce-beer sellers started fiercely from under the piazzas.

“An insurrection of the slave population, mayhap,”—thought I, but their object was a very peaceable one, for presently, I verily believe, every man and officer in the regiment, had a tumbler of this, to me, most delicious beverage at his head—the drawing of the corks was more like street—firing than any thing else—a regular feu de joue. In the meantime, a council of war seemed to be holden by the mounted officers, as to how the obstacle in front was to be overcome; but at this moment confusion became worse confounded, by the approach of what I concluded to be the white man’s John Canoe party, mounted by way of preeminence. First came a trumpeter John Canoe with a black face, which was all in rule, as his black counterparts wore white ones; but his Device, a curious little old man, dressed in a sort of blue uniform, and mounted on the skeleton, or ghost, of a gig-horse, I could make nothing of. It carried a drawn sword in its hand, with which it made various flourishes, at each one of which I trembled for its Rosinante’s ears. The Device was followed by about fifty other odd-looking creatures all on horseback; but they had no more seat than so many pairs of tongs, which in truth they greatly resembled, and made no show, and less fun. So we were wishing them out of the way, when some one whispered that the Kingston Light Horse mustered strong this morning. I found afterwards that every man who kept a good horse, or could ride, invariably served in the foot—all free persons must join some corps or other; so that the troop, as it was called, was composed exclusively of those who could not ride, and who kept no saddle horses.

The line was now formed, and after a variety of cumbrous manoeuvres out of Dundas, sixteen at the least, the regiment was countermarched, and filed along another street, where they gave three cheers, in honour of their having had a drink of spruce, and of having circumvented the bullocks and wagons. A little farther on we encountered four beautiful nine-pounder fieldpieces, each lumbering along, drawn by half a dozen mules, and accompanied by three or four negroes, but with no escort whatsoever.

“I say, quashie, where are the bombardiers, the artillerymen?”

“Oh, massa, dem all gone to drink pruce.”

“What, more spruce!—spruce—nothing but spruce!” quoth I.

“Oh, yes, massa—after dem drink pruce done, dem all go to him breakfast, massa—left we for take de gun to de barrack—beg one feepenny, massa”—as the price of the information, I suppose.

“Are the guns loaded?” said I.

“Me no sabe, massa—top, I shall see.” And the fellow to whom I addressed myself stepped forward, and began to squint into the muzzle of one of the fieldpieces, slewing his head from side to side, with absurd gravity, like a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone. “Him most be load— no daylight come troo de touch-hole—take care make me try him.” And without more ado he shook out the red embers from his pipe right on the touch-hole of the gun, when the fragment of a broken tube spun up in a small jet of flame, that made me start and jump back.

“How dare you, you scoundrel?” said the captain.

“Eigh, massa, him no hax me to see if him be load—so I was try see. Indeed, I tink him is load after all yet.”

He stepped forward, and entered his rammer into the cannon, after an unavailing attempt to blow with his blubber-lips through the touch hole.

Noticing that it did not produce the ringing sound it would have done in an empty gun, but went home with a soft thud, I sung out, “Stand clear, sir. By Jupiter, the gun is loaded.”

The negro continued to bash at it with all his might.

Meanwhile, the fellow who was driving the mules attached to the fieldpiece, turned his head, and saw what was going on. In a trice he snatched up another rammer, and, without any warning, came crack over the fellow’s cranium to whom we had been speaking, as hard as he could draw, making the instrument quiver again.

“Dem you, ye, ye Jericho—ah so you bash my brokefast—eh? You no see me tick him into de gun before we yoke de mule, dem, eh? You tief you, eh?”

“No!” roared the other—“You Walkandyam, you hab no brokefast, you liard, at least I never see him.”

“Dem lie dat!” replied Walkandnyam—“look in de gun.” Jericho peered into it again.

“Dere, you son of a—” (I sha’n’t say what)—“dere, I see de red flannin wadding over de cartridge—Your brokefast!—you be dem!” roared Jericho.

And he made at him as if he would have eaten him alive.

“You be dem youshef!” shrieked Walkandnyam—“and de red wadding be dem!” as he took a screw, and hooked out, not a cartridge certainly, but his own nightcap, full of yams and salt fish, smashed into a paste by Jericho’s rammer.

In the frenzy of his rage, he dashed this into his opponent’s face, and they both stripped in a second. Separating several yards, they levelled their heads like two telescopes on stands, and ran butt at each other like ram-goats, and quite as odoriferous, making the welkin ring again as their flint-hard skulls cracked together. Finding each other invulnerable in this direction, they closed, and began scrambling and biting and kicking, and tumbling over and over in the sand; while the skipper and I stood by cheering them on, and nearly suffocated with laughter. They never once struck with their closed fists I noticed; so they were not much hurt. It was great cry and little wool; and at length they got tired, and hauled off by mutual consent, finishing off as usual with an appeal to us—“beg one feepenny, massa!”

At six o’clock we drove to Mr Pepperpot Wagtail’s. The party was a bachelor’s one, and, when we walked up the front steps, there was our host in person, standing to receive us at the door; while, on each side of him, there were five or six of his visitors, all sitting with their legs cocked up, their feet resting on a sort of surbase, above which the jealousies, or movable blinds of the piazza, were fixed.

I was introduced to the whole party seriatim—and as each of the cock legs dropped his trams, he started up, caught hold of my hand, and wrung it as if I had been his dearest and oldest friend.

Were I to designate Jamaica as a community, I would call it a handshaking people. I have often laughed heartily upon seeing two cronies meeting in the streets of Kingston after a temporary separation; when about pistol-shot asunder, both would begin to tug and rug at the right-hand glove, but it is frequently a mighty serious affair in that hissing hot climate to get the gauntlet off; they approach,—one, a smart urbane little man, who would not disgrace St James’s Street, being more kiln-dried and less moist in his corporeals than his country friend, has contrived to extract his paw, and holds it out in act to shake.

“Ah! how do you do, Ratoon?” quoth the Kingston man.

“Quite well, Shingle,” rejoins the gloved, a stout red-faced sudoriferous yam-fed planter, dressed in blue-white jean trowsers and waistcoat, with long Hessian boots drawn up to his knee over the former, and a spannew square-skirted blue coatee, with lots of clear brass buttons: a broad brimmed black silk hat, worn white at the edge of the crown—wearing a very small neckcloth, above which shoots up an enormous shirt collar, the peaks of which might serve for winkers to a starting horse, and carrying a large whip in his hand—“Quite well, my dear fellow,” while he persists in dragging at it—the other homo all the while standing in the absurd position of a finger-post—at length off comes the glove—piecemeal perhaps—a finger first, for instance—then a thumb—at length they tackle to, and shake each other like the very devil—not a sober pump-handle shake, but a regular jiggery jiggery, as if they were trying to dislocate each other’s arms—and, confound them, even then they don’t let go—they cling like sucker fish, and talk and wallop about, and throw themselves back and laugh, and then another jiggery jiggery.

On horseback, this custom is conspicuously ridiculous—I have nearly gone into fits at beholding two men careering along the road at a hand gallop each on a goodish horse, with his negro boy astern of him on a mule, in clean frock and trowsers, and smart glazed hat with broad gold band, with massa’s umbrella in a leathem case slung across his shoulders, and his portmanteau behind him on a mail pillion covered with a snow white sheep’s fleece—suddenly they pull up on recognising each other, when, tucking their whips under their arms, or crossing them in their teeth, it may be they commence the rugging and riving operation. In this case, Shingle’s bit of blood swerves, we may assume—Ratoon rides at him—Shingle fairly turns tail, and starts out at full speed, Ratoon thundering in his rear, with out-stretched arm; and it does happen, I am assured, that the hot pursuit often continues for a mile, before the desired clapperclaw is obtained. But when two lusty planters meet on horseback, then indeed Greek meets Greek. They, begin the interview by shouting to each other, while fifty yards off, pulling away at the gloves all the while—“How are you, Canetop?—glad to see you, Canetop. How do you do, I hope.”—“How are you, Yamfu, my dear fellow?” their horses fretting and jumping all the time—and if the Jack Spaniards or gadflies be rife, they have, even when denuded for the shake, to spur at each other, more like a Knight Templar and a Saracen charging in mortal combat, than two men merely struggling to be civil; an after all they have often to get their black servants alongside to hold their horses, for shake they must, were they to break their necks in the attempt. Why they won’t shake hands with their gloves on, I am sure I can’t tell. It would be much cooler and nicer—lots of Scotchmen in the community too.

This hand-shaking, however, was followed by an invitation to dinner from each individual in the company. I looked at Captain Transom, as much as to say, “Can they mean us to take them at their word?” He nodded.

“We are sorry, that being under orders to go to sea on Sunday morning, neither Mr Cringle nor myself can have the pleasure of accepting such kind invitations.”

“Well, when you come back you know—one day you must give me.”

“And I won’t be denied,” quoth a second.

“Liberty Hall, you know, so to me you must come, no ceremony,” said a third—and so on.

At length, no less a man drove up to the door, than Judge——. When he drew up, his servant, who was sitting behind on a small projection of the ketureen, came round and took a parcel out of the gig, closely wrapped in a blanket—“Bring that carefully in, Leonidas,” said the Judge, who now stumped up stairs with a small saw in his hand. He received the parcel, and, laying it down carefully in a corner, he placed the saw on it, and then came up and shook hands with Wagtail, and made his bow very gracefully.

“What—can’t you do without your ice and sour claret yet?” said Wagtail.

“Never mind, never mind,” said the Judge; and here dinner being announced, we all adjourned to the dining room, where a very splendid entertainment was set out, to which we set to, and in the end, as it will appear, did the utmost justice to it.

The wines were most exquisite. Madeira, for instance, never can be drunk in perfection anywhere out of the Tropics. You may have the wine as good at home, although I doubt it, but then you have not the climate to drink it in—I would say the same of most of the delicate French wines—that is, those that will stand the voyage—Burgundy of course not included; but never mind, let us get along.

All the decanters were covered with cotton bags, kept wet with saltpetre and water, so that the evaporation carried on powerfully by the stream of air that flowed across the room, through the open doors and windows, made the fluids quite as cool as was desirable to worthies sitting luxuriating with the thermometer at 80 or thereby; yet, from the free current, I was in no way made aware of this degree of heat by any oppressive sensation; and I found in the West Indies as well as in the East, although the wind in the latter is more dry and parching, that a current of heated air, if it be moderately dry, even with the thermometer at 95 in the shade, is really not so enervating or oppressive as I have found it in the stagnating atmosphere on the sunny side of Pall Mall, with the mercury barely at 75. A cargo of ice had a little before this arrived at Kingston, and at first all the inhabitants who could afford it iced every thing, wine, water, cold meats, fruits, and the Lord knows what all, tea, I believe, amongst other things; (by the way, I have tried this, and it is a luxury of its kind;) but the regular old stagers, who knew what was what, and had a regard for their interiors, soon began to eschew the ice in every way, saving and expecting to cool the water they washed their thin faces and hands in; so we had no ice, nor did we miss it, but the judge had a plateful of chips on the table before him, one of which he every now and then popped into his long thin bell-glass of claret, diluting it, I should have thought, in rather a heathenish manner; but n’importe, he worked away, sawing off pieces now and then from the large lump in the blanket, (to save the tear and wear attending a fracture,) which was handed to him by his servant, so that by eleven o’clock at night, allowing for the water, he must have concealed his three bottles of pure claret, besides garnishing with a lot of white wines. In fine, we all carried on astonishingly, some good singing was given, a practical joke was tried on now and then by Fyall, and we continued mighty happy. As to the singing part of it,—the landlord, with a bad voice, and worse ear, opened the rorytory, by volunteering a very extraordinary squeak; fortunately it was not very long, but it gave him a plea to screw a song out of his right-hand neighbour, who in turn acquired the same right of compelling the person next to him to make a fool of himself; at last it came to Transom, who, by the by, sung exceedingly well, but he had got more wine than usual, and essayed the coquette a bit.

“Bring the wet nightcap!” quoth our host.

“Oh, it is that you are at?” said Transom, and he sung as required; but it was all pearls before swine, I fear.

At last we stuck fast at Fyall. Music! there was not one particle in his whole composition; so the wet nightcap already impended over him, when I sung out, “Let him tell a story, Mr Wagtail! Let him tell a story!”

“Thank you, Tom,” said Fyall; “I owe you a good turn for that, my boy.”

“Fyall’s story—Mr Fyall’s story!” resounded on all hands. Fyall, glad to escape the song and wet nightcap, instantly began.

“Why, my friends, you all know Isaac Grimm, the Jew snuff merchant and cigar maker, in Harbour Street. Well, Isaac had a brother, Ezekiel by name, who carried on business in Curacao; you may have heard of him too. Ezekiel was often down here for the purpose of laying in provisions, and purchasing dry goods. You all know that?”

“Certainly!” shouted both Captain Transom and myself in a breath, although we had never heard of him before.

“Hah, I knew it!”—Well then, Ezekiel was very rich; he came down in August last, in the Pickle schooner, and, as bad luck would have it, he fell sick of the fever.—“Isaac,” quoth Ezekiel, “I am wery sheek; I tink I shall tie.” “Hope note, dear proder; you hab no vife, nor shildir; pity you should tie, Ezekiel. Ave you make your vill, Ezekiel?” “Yesh; de vill is make. I leavish every ting to you, Isaac, on von condition, dat you send my pody to be bury in Curacao. I love dat place; twenty years since I lef de Minories, all dat time I cheat dere, and tell lie dere, and lif dere happily. Oh, you most sent my pody for its puryment to Curacao!” “I will do dat, mine proder.” “Den I depart in peace, dear Isaac;” and the Israelite was as good as his word for once. He did die. Isaac, according to his promise, applied to the captains of several schooners; none of them would take the dead body. “What shall I do?” thought Isaac, “de monish mosh not be loss.” So he straightway had Ezekiel (for even a Jew won’t keep long in that climate) cut up and packed with pickle into two barrels, marked, “Prime mess pork, Leicester, M’Call and Co. Cork” He then shipped the same in the Fan Fan, taking bills of lading in accordance with the brand, deliverable to Mordecai Levi of Curacao, to whom he sent the requisite instructions. The vessel sailed. Off St Domingo she carried away a mast, tried to fetch Carthagena under a jury-spar—fell to leeward, and finally brought up at Honduras.

Three months after, Isaac encountered the master of the schooner in the streets of Kingston. “Ah, mine goot captain—how is you you lookish tin ave you been sheek?” “No, Moses I am well enough, thank you—poor a bit, but sound in health, thank God. You have heard of my having carried away the mainmast, and, after kicking about fifteen days on short allowance, having been obliged to bear up for Honduras?” “I know noting of all dat,” said Isaac; “sorry for it, captain—very sad inteed” “Sad—you may say that, Moses. But I am honest although poor, and here is your bill of lading for your two barrels of provisions; Prime mess, it says damned tough, say I—Howsomedever,” pulling out his purse, “the present value on Bogle, Jopp, and Co’s. wharf is L.5, 6s. 8d. the barrel; so there are two doubloons, Moses, and now discharge the account on the back of the bill of lading, will you?” “Vy should I take payment, captain? if de”—(pork stuck in his throat like ‘amen’ in Macbeth,) “if de barrel ish lost, it can’t be help—de act of God, you know.” “I am an honest man, Isaac,” continued the captain, “although a poor one, and I must tell the truth—we carried on with our own as long as it lasted, at length we had to break bulk, and your two barrels being nearest the hatchway, why we ate them first, that’s all. Lord, what has come over you?”—Isaac grew pale as a corpse.—“Oh, mine Got—mine poor proder, dat you ever was live, to tie in Jamaic—Oh tear, oh tear!”

“Did they eat the head and hands and—”

“Hold your tongue, Tom Cringle, don’t interrupt me; you did not eat them; I tell it as it was told to me. So Isaac Grimm,” continued Fyall, “was fairly overcome; the kindly feelings of his nature were at length stirred up, and as he turned away, he wept—blew his nose hard, like a Chaldean trumpet in the new moon—and while the large tears coursed each other down his care-worn cheeks, he exclaimed, wringing the captain’s hand, in a voice tremulous and scarcely audible from extreme emotion,” “Oh, Isaac Grimm, Isaac Grimm—tid not your heart mishgive you, ven you vas commit te great blasphemy of invoish Ezekiel—flesh of your flesh, pone of your pone—as por—de onclean peast, I mean. If you hat put invoish him ash peef, surely te earthly tabernacle of him, as always sheet in de high places in te Sinacogue, would never have been allow to pass troo te powels of te pershicuting Nazareen. Ah, mine goot captain mine very tear friend—vat—vat—vat av you done wid de cask, captain?”

“Oh most lame and impotent conclusion,” sung out the judge, who by this time had become deucedly prosy, and all hands arose, as if by common consent, and agreed that we had got enough.

So off we started in groups.—Fyall, Captain Transom, Whiffle, Aaron Bang, and myself, sallied forth in a bunch, pretty well inclined for a lark, you may guess. There are no lamps in the streets of Kingston, and as all the decent part of the community are in their cavies by half-past nine in the evening, and as it was now “the witching time o’ night,” there was not a soul in the streets that we saw, except a solitary town guard now and then, lurking about some dark corner under the piazzas. These same streets, which were wide and comfortable enough in the daytime, had become unaccountably narrow and intricate since six o’clock in the evening; and, although the object of the party was to convoy Captain Transom and myself to our boat at the Ordnance Wharf, it struck me that we were as frequently on a totally different tack.

“I say, Cringle, my boy,” stuttered out my superior, Lieutenant and Captain being both drowned in and equalized by the claret—“why, Tom, Tom Cringle, you dog—don’t you hear your superior officer speak, sir, eh?”

My superior officer, during this address, was standing with both arms round a pillar of the piazza.

“I am here, sir,” said I.

“Why, I know that; but why don’t you speak when I Hillo where’s Aaron, and Fyall, and the rest, eh?”

They had been attracted by sounds of revelry in a splendid mansion in the next street, which we could see was lit up with great brilliancy, and had at this time shot about fifty yards ahead of us, working to windward, tack and tack, like Commodore Trunnion.

“Ah, I see,” said Transom; “let us heave ahead, Tom—now, do ye hear?— stand you with your white trowsers against the next pillar.” The ranges supporting the piazza were at distances of about twenty feet from each other.—“Ah, stand there now—I see it.”—So he weighted from the one he had tackled to, and making a staggering bolt of it, ran up to the pillar against which I stood, its position being marked by my white vestments, where he again hooked on for a second or two, until I had taken up a new position.

“There, my boy, that’s the way to lay out a warp—right in the wind’s eye, Tom—we shall fairly beat those lubbers who are tacking in the stream—nothing like warping in the dead water near the shore—mark that down, Tom—never beat in a tideway when you can warp up along shore in the dead water—Damn the judge’s ice” (hiccup) “he has poisoned me with that piece he plopped in my last whitewash of Madeira. He a judge! He may be a good crim—criminal judge, but no judge of wine—Why don’t you laugh, Tom, eh?—and then his saw—the rasp of a saw I hate—wish it, and a whole nest more, had been in his legal stomach—full of old saws Shakespeare—he, he—why don’t you laugh, Tom?—Poisoned by the judge, by Jupiter—Now, here we are fairly abreast of them—Hillo! Fyall, what are you after?”

“Hush, hush,” said Fyall, with drunken gravity.

“And hush, hush,” said Aaron Bang.

“Come here, Tom, come here,” said Whiffle, in a whisper. We were now directly under the piazza of the fine house, in the first floor of which some gay scene was enacting. “Here, Tom, here—now stand there—hold by that pillar there. I say, Transom, give me a lift.”

“Can’t, Whiffle, can’t, for the soul of me, Peregrine, my dear—but I see, I see.”

With that the gallant captain got down on all fours; Whiffle, a small light man, got on his back, and, with the aid of Bang and Fyall, managed to scramble up on my shoulders, where he stood, holding by the window sill above, with a foot on each side of my head. His little red face was thus raised flush with the window sill, so that he could see into the dark piazza on the first floor, and right through into the magnificent and sparkling drawing room beyond.

“Now tell us what’s to be seen,” said Aaron.

“Stop, stop,” rejoined Whiffle—“My eye, what a lot of splendid women no men—a regular lady party—Hush! a song.” A harp was struck, and a symphony of Beethoven’s played with great taste—A song, low and melancholy, from two females followed.

“The music of the spheres!” quoth Whiffle.

We were rapt—we had been inspired before—and, drunk as we were, there we sat or stood, as best suited us, exhibiting the strange sight of a cluster of silent tipsy men. At length, at one of the finest swells, I heard a curious gurgling sound overhead, as if some one was being gagged, and I fancied Peregrine became lighter on my shoulders—Another fine dieaway note—I was sure of it.

“Bang, Bang—Fyall—He is evaporating with delight—no weight at all, growing more and more ethereal—lighter and lighter, as I am a gentleman he is off—going, going, gone—exhaled into the blue heavens, by all that is wonderful!”

Puzzled beyond measure, I stept hurriedly back, and capsized over the captain, who was still enacting the joint-stool on all-fours behind me, by which Whiffle had mounted to my crosstrees, and there we rolled in the sand, master and man.

“Murdered, Tom Cringle—murdered—you have hogged me like the old Ramilies—broke my back, Tom—spoiled my quadrilling for ever and a day; d——n the judge’s ice though, and the saw particularly.”

“Where is he—where is Whiffle?” enquired all hands, in a volley.

“The devil only knows,” said I; “he has flown up into the clouds, catch him who can. He has left this earth anyhow, that is clear.”

“Ha, ha!” cried Fyall, in great glee, who had seen him drawn into the window by several white figures, after they had tied a silk handkerchief over his mouth; “Follow me, my boys;” and we all scrambled after him to the front door of the house, to which we ascended by a handsome flight of marble steps, and when there, we began to thunder away for admittance. The door was opened by a very respectable looking elderly gentleman, with well powdered hair, and attended by two menservants in handsome liveries, carrying lights. His bearing and gentlemanlike deportment had an immediate effect on me, and I believe on the others too. He knew Fyall and Whiffle, it appeared.

“Mr Fyall,” he said, with much gentleness, “I know it is only meant as a frolic, but really I hope you will now end it. Amongst yourselves, gentlemen, this may be all very well, but considering my religion, and the slights we Hebrews are so often exposed to, myself and my family are more sensitive and pervious to insult than you can well understand.”

“My dear fellow,” quoth Fyall, “we are all very sorry; the fact is, we had some d——d bad shaddock after dinner, which has made us very giddy and foolish somehow. Do you know, I could almost fancy I had been drinking wine.”

“Cool and deliciously impudent that same, (hiccup,)” quoth the skipper.

“But hand us back little Whiffle,” continued Fyall, “and we shall be off.”

Here Whiffie’s voice was heard from the drawing room. “Here, Fyall!— Tom Cringle!—Here, here, or I shall be murdered!”

“Ah! I see,” said Mr H. “this way, gentlemen. Come, I will deliver the culprit to you;” and we followed him into the drawing room, a most magnificent saloon, at least forty feet by thirty, brilliantly lit up with crystal lamps, and massive silver candelabra, and filled with elegant furniture, which was reflected, along with the chandeliers that hung from the centre of the coach roof, by several large mirrors, in rich frames, as well as in the highly polished mahogany floor.

There, in the middle of the room, the other end of it being occupied by a bevy of twelve or fifteen richly-dressed females, visitors, as we conjectured, sat our friend Peregrine, pinioned into a large easy chair, with shawls and scarfs, amidst a sea of silk cushions, by four beautiful young women, black hair and eyes, clear white skins, fine figures, and little clothing. A young Jewess is a beautiful animal, although, like the unclean—confound the metaphor—which they abhor—they don’t improve by age.

When we entered, the blushing girls, who had been beating Whiffle over his spindle shins, with their large garden fans, dashed through a side door, unable to contain their laughter, which we heard long after they had vanished, echoing through the lofty galleries of the house. Our captive knight being restored to us, we made our bows to the other ladies, who were expiring with laughter, and took our leave, with little Whiffle on our shoulders—the worthy Hebrew, whom I afterwards knew in London, sending his servant and gig with Captain Transom and myself to the wharf. There we tumbled ourselves into the boat, and got on board the Firebrand about three in the morning. We were by this time pretty well sobered; at four a gun was fired, the topsails were let fall, and sheeted home, and topgallant-sails set over them, the ship having previously been hove short; at half-past, the cable being right up and down—another gun the drums and fifes beat merrily, spin flew the capstan, tramp went the men that manned it. We were under weigh— Eastward, ho!—for Santiago de Cuba.

[ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]