him, and still harder to explain why any kindly feeling should exist towards him yet the foregoing paragraphs were penned with regret. He was an example, and unfortunately not a rare one, of the destructive effects of a warm climate upon a person of undisciplined mind and indolent disposition.

An injustice has, however, been done to Tom in representing him as in all things listless and inert. Stuck on the box of any vehicle drawn by horses, with the whip and ribbons in his hands, he would show you that he knew something of putting a team along: four-inhand was the only style which he thought worthy of his science, but he was content, faute de mieux, to run a tandem; and it was on that equipage that he commonly effected locomotion, in a most disgraceful old frock-coat, and a broad-brimmed white beaver with an aperture cut on either side below the crown for ventilation, and a series of greasy circles rising from the rim upwards, and telling of many seasons, as the age of a palm-tree is known to the naturalist by its rings. From this elevation Tom smacked his whip at all passengers, where he dared making its lash excite the skin a little, which, in that drowsy country, where very light clothing is worn, was no doubt an agreeable stimulus. In return he would get a mango, orange, or possibly a brickbat at his head. Sometimes a thin-skinned ensign was known to hoard up his wrath, and at a future meeting express with black ingratitude his dissatisfaction at Tom's passing notice, whereupon the latter would remind him that the touch did not hurt, and explain how pungent his scientific arm could have made it, had it so pleased him; which explanation would cause the ensign to marvel greatly what the real tickler must be like if the one he received was considered painless.

Tom's regiment lay at Up Park Camp, about a mile from Kingston; but their mess having been very quiet for some days past, he had

driven over to Stony Hill, in the hope that his presence would induce the officers stationed up there to put on a little extra steam in his honour; in which hope he had not been disappointed. His cart was quartered on some one who happened to possess the luxury of a gighouse, his leader on another, his shaft-horse on a third, and the honour of entertaining his highly respectable self he had conferred on Arthur Brune, in whose sitting-room he took a shakedown if he chanced to go to bed. They had had a great jollification the night before, for these country folks did not dislike an excuse for a chance merry-making.

It would be unfair towards Arthur Brune to judge him by his present appearance. He does not often look thus. It is wrong, the writer knows, to introduce him in this exceptional condition; but there are duties towards the narrative as well as to its characters, and the history will have it so. Deal mildly with him, however, reader!-that is, if you be masculine (many soft eyes, we flatter ourself, will read Arthur Brune's story, whose owners require no caution in respect of charity); say, if you like, how grieved you are to see a fine handsome young man with that debauched look. Pity his pale gills, his weak-looking eyes, his jaded expression; but no lofty denunciations, remember-no thanking God on him! You have perhaps in your virtuous mind already piled up a goodly battery of stones. Pause a moment before you discharge one. If you were a fine, generous, warmhearted fellow at three-and-twenty (which of course you were), and never in your life picked yourself up of a morning in a somewhat similar condition, shy away! But if memory, spite of the ingenious manner in which you have barricaded your bosom against her, and puttied up the minutest chinks, doth ever percolate the fence, and lure you back, and rock you pleasantly in days and nights when you were as other men are, then, we charge you, forbear! We know ex

actly how things are with you now; are we not human? have we not sipped, and suffered, and profited? If you are an exemplary member of society, so are we. If your spouse is a paragon, and can attribute to you no earthly failing, present or past, ours is as unexceptionable in her own attributes, and more blind to our demerits than we deserve. Are your little people "sweet innocent cherubs?" we call ours "dear angelic lambs ;" that is the only difference. Are you orthodox? so are we. Is your name respected throughout the district? we hope ours is so too. Do men cut short their jokes, and take the twinkle out of their eyes, when you come within hearing? 'Tis exactly the same with us. It is possible that in the article of charities, moral associations, and philanthropic endeavours, you and we are much on a par. We will measure phylacteries with you, or enter into judgment concerning neck-ties. In short, it is plain that both of us are correctness itself. This is in 1861 you know; but it was not always '61. We used to write the figures 35-6-7-8-9, &c. How if our biographies during these years could be revealed! What should we feel when the many checkered and the occasional dark pages should come under review! Shall we quote? No, not unless you force us: all the sweet souls read Maga, therefore we forbear; but— be charitable to Arthur Brune.

There was, as will speedily appear, a reason why Arthur for a time consented to dissipation. On his breast lay a heavy disappointment, which he sought to stifle, but could not. And he called in idle company, and walked in their ways, to lure him from himself, and support him in a trial which his resolution-though he was a youth of strong mind-hardly enabled him to endure. The young man had suffered cruelly in his affections, and was, moreover, perplexed to determine how his duty required him to act. Hitherto he had followed the dictates of his pride; but reflection, which he could not wholly shut out,

persuaded him more and more to a bolder course. The conflict was so grievous, that he could not bear to think of his trouble.

Well, the immediate cause of Brune's condition was, as has been said, a great symposium which had taken place last night in honour of old Tom's visit. It had ended in a squabble, as was too often the case; and, but that some one present had sense and influence enough to compose the matter before it had reached the seventh cause, there would have been a duel. The cool morning air, which probably contributed much to the rational termination of the dispute, also disposed the party to dispense with going to bed. It is a question whether the freshness inhaled without doors an hour before sunrise be not a stronger restorative than a feverish slumber. Brune and Tom appeared to think that it is, and so took coffee and a chasse at daybreak, strolled about the stables and negro-paths for half an hour, proclaimed themselves "all right," and, in the strength of their morning ramble, made a tolerable essay at breakfast. As the sun mounted, however, and the air began to boil, and the shadows shrank up to almost nothing, and the seabreeze, which chose to be a sluggard that morning, was anxiously waited for, the gentlemen found that last night's account was not yet settled. They relapsed into a rakish discreditable condition, fit only to loll about, half alive, and sip portercup, that they might not utterly waste the morning; for improvement of the fleeting hour was insisted on by Tom Gervaise, who remembered that with each sun came its appointed duty of getting tipsy before bed-time. Happier than Titus, Tom never, to our knowledge, suffered remorse for having lost a day!

66

"Hollo you, sir!" shouted Tom to a negro who passed the window, come here and fetch me Massa Brune's cigar; my light's out." "Yes, massa.'

It did not astonish the negro, as it probably does the reader, that he

was called into the room to perform a service which, by simply rising up, or even stretching across the table, Tom might have executed for himself. The sable minister received as his guerdon, first a rap on the shins from Tom's stick, which made him hop with his leg in his hand and cry "Hei!" and, secondly, a Cuban cigar, shot by Brune with the accuracy of a Tell, so as to graze his scalp and bury itself in the woolly covering, which made him turn on the whites of his eyes and grin delightedly as he did obeisance with his naked foot, and pocketed the prize, and went his way. "Pon my soul!" said Tom, between the inspirations from his newly lighted weed, "this climate is the devil. See how weak and helpless it makes us. How I have borne it so many years is a marvel. If I had not attentively supported the system during my residence, I must have turned up my toes long ago. And yet you get neither credit nor thanks for this at home. By Jove! nothing they can give is a sufficient reward for passing a large slice of one's life in such a furnace : a peerage wouldn't be too much!"

"If they ever should give you one, Tom," answered Brune, "it's to be hoped that you'll' purge and live cleanly as a nobleman ought."" "That's a bit of chaff you picked out of Hannah More or Tristram Shandy. I know I saw it in print somewhere when I used to read books. Can't read in this climate,' said Tom, as if the latitude alone stood between him and scholarship. "You'll have the papers to read soon. You know the packet from England was signaled this morning," replied Brune.

quarters since they came out here. In each case a youngster at the depôt was allowed to purchase by their bringing in some old sinner from the half-pay to sell."

Well, you'll soon be out of suspense," said Tom; "here comes the postman. We shall have the letters in ten minutes. I bet five dollars they've disappointed Clutterbuck again."

"Then they deserve the pains of Tartarus," said Brune. "You talk of a peerage, Tom: all they are likely to give one here is a grave. One's legitimate promotion is jobbed and bartered away. Heigho! I can stand disappointment pretty well, but patience has limits."

"There's one of your disappointments that I fancy you may get rid of and turn on your opponents whenever you like," said Tom.

"What the devil do you mean, Tom?" asked Brune sharply.

no

"Mean!" answered Tom, 66 thing but what every fellow with half an eye sees and knows as well as I do. You may cut out that Melhado whenever you like—even now his wedding-day is fixed; ay, and by Jove! I'd do it too. I'd do it for the fun of cheating that creole savage, let alone the splendid little filly.'

The young man blushed scarlet as Tom began to speak, and then turned pale; his colour came and went rapidly. Gervaise, I can't stand this," said he hurriedly.

66

Nobody wants you to stand this or anything else. 'Tisn't my affair." And Tom leisurely replaced his cigar, and began coaxing back the fire, which had nearly expired during his exhortation. "Devil take the girl," he recommenced, puffing only interjectionally, now that he saw a cheerful glow under his nose; "let Melhado have her if he likes. I wouldn't, thoughfeed me on slops if I would. I'd carry her off in spite of all. Hollo! here's the letter-bag."

Brune was pacing the little room with a flushed face and a rapt gaze. He seemed quite unconscious of the mail's arrival until Gervaise,

having turned over the packet, shouted, "Look here, I say; here are a dozen letters for you. Only two for me, and they'll keep till I've seen how the betting is, and to whom they've given the step.' So saying, Tom pocketed an epistle from his sister, and another from his tailor.

Brune opened one letter after another, skimmed over their contents, and glanced at the signatures. He came at last to one without post-mark, and evidently despatched from some station in the island, and this he read with interest. Tom turned over the newspapers, throwing each down, after a short examination. "I've found three gazettes," said he, "but not a word of our regiment. Just look ; here's an interesting gazette for a whole week: Erratum in the Gazette of the 20th instant.—The Christian names of Ensign Bogg of the 55th are Salusbury, de Vere, Gubby, Plantagenet, and not Salusbury, de Vere, Grubby, Plantagenet, as previously stated.' Ensign Bogg, indeed! Still nothing of Clutterbuck. They can't have filled the vacancy; they must be keeping it for some rascally job.' "Make yourself easy," replied Brune; "Clutterbuck has it all right. "Tis a letter from him I have here."

open

"there

"Ugh!" grunted Tom; was no pet who wanted it, I suppose, or he'd have got it."

Brune read through the epistle, and afterwards read it aloud to Tom. It ran as follows:

There followed a postscript, which Brune with hesitation read. It was this:

"P. S.-I shall probably give champagne on the th; so keep Won't we yourself disengaged. have fun! I must ask old Arabin and Melhado, as they've been very civil; but you won't mind that; our mess-room is large, and you needn't be near them."

The seal enclosed and alluded to in the letter was well known pretty nearly throughout the island. 'Twas engraved as follows:

"PSALM LXXV.

Verse 6th." *

A witty conceit went at that time a long-a very long way in Jamaica. The seal was not of Clutterbuck's invention; neither did he know the gifted originator, whose name and local habitation had become an antiquarian question by reason of the changes of quarters. Perhaps he was in England over a sea-coal fire, relating stories about Jamaica-perhaps he lay under the sod of the Antilles. Messes contended for him as of their numbers;

'Candidior postquam tondenti barba cadebat,

Respexit tamen et longo post tempore

venit'

any mess, but was an accomplished civilian- a devilish deal sharper fellow than mess-tables often produced; while profound thinkers maintained that such a witticism was beyond an individual, and was probably the joint work of confederate Millers. Clutterbuck got the gem from some one who parted with it for the same reason that induced Clutterbuck to transfer it now to Brune,-it was no longer applicable to his condition.

"Umph! So you've got the ring," said Tom, who had a good deal of passive jealousy in his composition.

"I've got it," said Arthur, " and I shan't be sorry to part with it for a good reason."

"Rather a stale joke," Tom said; "but never mind the ring. I was thinking Clutterbuck's night will just suit for the enterprise of which we were speaking. You see old Arabin and Melhado are to be there. They'll sit all night-that's your chance."

66

"Tom, you old sinner," Brune replied, I believe the Evil One is tempting me out of your mouth at this moment. Say the truth-have you let him your old temple?"

"He hasn't half good enough taste to come my way. He likes serpents - hate snakes - always make my blood run cold," said Tom shuddering, and taking a pull at the jorum.

"I'm afraid," said Brune, "he has a turn at all sorts."

"Well," replied Tom, "I don't pretend to be better than my neighbours; perhaps the old enemy takes a night's lodging with me now and then."

"Lodging!" echoed Arthur; "he's got a confounded long lease, if not the fee-simple."

"So much for that," Tom answered; "but it's nothing to do with what we have been speaking of. Be it devil or angel that prompts, I'd have her off on Clutterbuck's night. Look here! we'll see them well primed and fast at hazard: you shall go up and pilot the prize to the mountain's foot, where I will be waiting with the cart, and if I don't take you to any church in the island, and see you spliced before pursuit has begun, my name isn't Gervaise."

Tom had struck the chord which had of late been vibrating so painfully, and whose thrill now amounted to agony. His voice was like the hair that breaks the camel's back. Brune's mind had been oscillating so miserably between the promptings of two different spirits, and was so desperate with their importunities, that even the suggestion of Gervaise served to fix his determination. Nothing tries a vigorous mind like uncertainty; but once decision takes the place of doubt, though it point to trying or desperate measures, there is a relief in collecting the energies for action which is akin to pleasure. Before that morning passed Brune had formed a resolution out of which springs this tale of Captain Clutterbuck's Champagne.

On the afternoon of the day which we began in the last chapter, Brune left old Gervaise snoring on the sofa after second breakfast (Anglicè, lunch), and, mounted on a rough, fast-trotting pony, was clearing the paths which lead from Stony Hill to another branch of the Port Royal Mountains. He travelled with the unconscious speed of excitement. All flushed he pressed the pony's reeking sides, devouring the way, yet heedless of his passage; spurring faster yet, and faster, while inwardly he revolved some all-absorbing thought. Brune's route descended first from Stony Hill to the plain, across which he rode with his face towards the principal moun

tain chain. That road is not one for a traveller to pass unnoticed. Varied and ever varying rise the broken heights clad to the summits with herb or forest, the tops fading, from distance, into the softest purple. A thousand prongs and ridges push out and court the sunbeam, hugging between them shadowy channels and dimples where the dazzled eye may rest. Even faces of perpendicular rock are covered by verdure and blossom, for the daring creepers weave themselves across. Only where a slight landslip has recently happened, or where the zigzag path has been newly made, is the bare soil exposed. All earth is gay, all heaven is serene, and the