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The whole party left when the regiment was ordered home, and commenced a series of adventures, such as must have been known to many an officer who married about the same period. Scarcely ever parted, Arthur and Violet visited many climes; they knew the vicissitudes of heat and cold, of pestilence and scarcity, and of danger and death, interspersed with bounding life and happy hours. Brune, as soon as he got work to do, made his way in the profession, as people had prophesied that he would. He is at this moment holding a high staff appointment, and known and respected for his achievements and character. There is plenty left in him, too, to do still greater things, and win a still higher name, if the clouds which now darken the horizon should end in war, and oblige Great Britain to draw the sword. His wife (she isn't Mrs Brune any longer) is, to our mind, who are not so young as we were, even a more fascinating person than was the Violet Arabin of old days; and the comparison is not made with a vague shadow of the past, for there sits beside her another Violet, whose every look or gesture brings up a crowd of recollections, and transports one back to youth, raising the shades of Crystal Mount and old adventures, and half-forgotten faces, and merry days. The youngsters appear to think Miss Brune a more charming person than her mother: they will get wiser some day. Arthur has a son a captain in his father's regiment, and another is preparing for his competitive examination with a view to entering the service.

Pat Shane was purposely kept out of the way for some time after the duel, by being left in doubt as to Melhado's fate. As long as any of those connected with the affair remained in the regiment, all who were cognisant of the catastrophe behaved most honourably, and never let Pat know that Melhado was unhurt; though, of course, it was known that he didn't die. After a

time, however, some indiscreet comrade let out the story, and Pat's indignation was, we understand, of a very appalling kind. He only wished that M'Corrigan and he might meet before he died, and then-Neptune's quos ego was nothing to it. They did meet many years after, when Pat had taken to himself a wife (we believe it was the little divil with the purtiest feet in the world) who, in a dangerous illness that followed the birth of their first child, had bound Pat by a solemn obligation to abstain from private encounters. 'Twas in India that he met his quondam second, who was on the march through the station where Pat's regiment lay. As soon as they recognised each other, Major Shane broached the matter, which had lain heavy on his heart for many a day; and the other, who had wellnigh forgotten it, said be believed something of the sort did happen- he had a slight recollection of it.

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If ye'd met me two years ago," said Pat, whose brogue had acquired additional richness by time and matrimony, "ye'd surely have had to confront me in the field; but at present there are raisons, don't ye see, and I'll lave ye to th' upbraiding of your own conscience: we'll not foight, ye know; but as the priests and philosophers tell ye, that when ye're debarred from one amusement, ye shouldn't sigh over it, but take the next best that offers, come and dine wid us at six; we'll talk over ould toimes. Mind six," said Major Shane, at parting; and then he added, in a confidential tone, "I'll show ye the foinest little boy seven months ould ye iver seen, and give ye a glass of clar't that hasn't its aiqual out of the same bin!"

Though Pat had forsworn duels, he was under no restriction as to the enemies of his country, as Siks, Ameers, Affghans, Russians, and Pandies knew to their cost. The London Gazette made frequent mention of the services which Major, and afterwards Colonel, Cornelius

Shane (his name wasn't Pat at all) had performed. He is at this present writing unemployed, and surrounded by Shanes male and female of all sizes in Ireland, where he likes to talk of the many scenes that he has gone through-Indian and Crimean experiences not a few; but it would seem that the old Jamaica life is, upon the whole, the favourite reminiscence; for when he gets back that far, he generally exclaims, "Ah, them was the days, after all."

Tom Gervaise returned to England, but he never broke himself of the bad habits he had contracted in the West Indies, and they killed him before long.

Though he died at an early age, he survived by many years his cherished hat, which, in the plenitude of its rich absorptions, was removed by cruel and violent hands, while yet warm from the head of its owner. It had been felt in the regiment that neither gods nor men could longer tolerate its appearance; and one day, while Tom was eating or dozing, or otherwise profoundly occupied, the hat was surreptitiously abstracted and arraigned before a kind of Venetian Council or Holy Vehme, summarily assembled in one of Knox's lower rooms. We, the writer, assisted at this solemnity. The court being assembled and sworn, the doors were locked, and the lower sashes of the windows secured to prevent profane intrusion or attempts at rescue. Then the unhappy hat was brought in on the point of a stick (tongs being scarce in that land) and deposited with much ceremony, and in imposing silence, upon the table. Judgment did not pass by acclamation, because such a proceeding would have been incompatible with the gravity of the members and the greatness of the occasion; but a unanimous verdict was recorded, and instant execution prescribed. None of the judges could of course act as finisher of the law, and there were reasons why none of them wished for that office; therefore a

young lady of colour, who happened to be about the barracks, was called in and charged with the demolition. It was to be a cutting in pieces as complete as that which overtook King Agag in Gilgal. The first squeeze of the scissors showed why the handling of the victim was not pleasant work-the original material had attracted innumerable foreign impurities not worth mentioning. As Pat Shane remarked, "it may have been felt, but cannot be described." Contemplation of the convict was, however, interrupted by a heartrending spectacle, which appeared at the window; the outraged Tom himself, standing on tiptoe to get a full view of the proceedings, his head bare to the sun, his eyes upturned, his hands lifted on high, and an expression of the strongest emotion on his face, while, with imprecations of the foulest character, he demanded the surrender of his tile. Even this harrowing appeal was insufficient to shake the firmness of those righteous judges. Miss Graves, immovable as Atropos, plied her relentless shears, and the disintegration of the hat was accomplished. It is nothing to say that the hatter who made it would not have known it; that recognition was long ago impossible. Its destruction was like that of ancient Babylon-it had become heaps. And the court summoned Gonsalvo de Cordova to gather together the pieces with his besom, and commanded him that they should be burned with fire, and their ashes scattered to the four winds of heaven!

It was many months before Tom became resigned to his loss; and, as long as he refused to kiss the rod, the members of the Vehme kept beyond the reach of his stick. He was comforted at last; and, as regarded earthly retribution, the conclave escaped vengeance. But there is one of the judges who is, we know, still expiating, and to expiate, the stern fulfilment of his duty. Oft when we ourself retire to rest, refreshed with oysters and

porter, with a Welsh rabbit, or with well-spiced kidneys and brandypunch, ere we have composed our thoughts, comes the shade of old Tom Gervaise, with his stick in his hand, and, in terrible accents, he demands his hat. In conscious impotence and terror, speechless and immovable, we shrink within our narrowest limits, and desire that the earth may open and cover us from the dreadful presence. But there is no escape for us in earth or heaven, or in the waters under the earth. Tom seizes on our quailing body, and, laughing fearfully, springs with us to the realms of space. And we are in a tandem fashioned from a thunder-cloud, whirled along by dark and dreadful steeds. Old Tom is on the box, his stick exchanged for a mighty whip, his hatless head shining like a celestial globe, and studded with pimples of all magnitudes for stars. His weed blazes with the fire of Ætna, and ever on us he turns a look of undying revenge. Lashing his weird coursers with indefatigable wrath, he causes them to hurry us ten thousand and again ten thousand stages through space— onward and onward, reaching nowhere though the whip, between the lashes, is pointed as towards some awful goal. We are consumed with thirst, and yet, just beyond our fingers' reach, runs a cool and limpid stream which we may not touch. And on we go, and on, through horror and despair, till, struggling, shrieking, we awake, and, behold, it was a dream!

Old Clutterbuck, considering the liberty we have taken with his name and liquor, certainly deserves a word at parting. He left the service without further accession of rank, and took to civil employment. There is, in one of the midland counties, a natty, thin, erect, gentlemanly, bald-headed chief of constabulary, who might be thought to resemble him.

Mr Nicholas Chitty quitted the service of Mr Arabin a year or two after Violet's marriage, that

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he might fulfil two important designs. One was to "jine relijan," i. e. to become attached to one of the denominations of Christians; the other was to open a mart for the sale of wine and spirits and malt liquors. This emporium was contained in a wooden hut, upon wheels, about eight feet square, which was usually anchored somewhere near Up Park Camp, in order that the troops, as well as Mr Chitty's religious connection (which was a thirsty one), might reap the benefit of the establishment. One corner of it, about five feet by three, formed his private apartment, where, surrounded by a numerous family, he and his fourteenth wife live in great comfort and respectability. The last Mrs C., aged eighteen, was an interesting catechumen, who overlooked Nick's age in contemplating the rigid principles which he enounced, and his high estimation in the religious world. an elder of his communion, and devotes whatever time he can spare from his secular occupation to denunciations of " de world, de flesh, and de debil." He professes to "lub eberybody, 'pecially de saints," spite of the old-hyænaish grin which still appears frequently upon his venerable countenance. He it was who once announced to his meeting that "on Toosday nex' dere will be a callectian for de ministry of dis church-God willing and weather permitting; and on Wednesday whether or no." Nick's crown is silvered now with the rime of age. He must be approaching ninety years, and will probably live to be a hundred, or even more. Like all eminent people, he has more than once been assailed by the venom of detraction. Graceless sinners and envious saints have hinted ungenerously at some thorns in the elder's flesh, and once or twice arose an imputation of serious backsliding. But these Mr Chitty regarded with his wonted superiority, and we have the pleasure of reporting that he has lived them down, and is now in the enjoyment

of all that which should accompany old age, including the ability to take a pint of rum at a sitting with perfect steadiness.

Gonsalvo de Cordova, at his particular request, came to England when Knox, his master, returned home. It was the poor fellow's for tune to reach the mother country at a time when the negro question was exciting considerable interest; and as his sad air and whining voice were well calculated to arouse compassion, he became at once an object of great interest in the neighbourhood of Knox's residence. The enthusiasm of one fair creature, a maid-servant, was so intense as to force her pity into love; and she finally, after taking very active measures to that end, bestowed on the great Captain her person and worldly goods, amid the plaudits of a liberal and sympathising community. They retired with great eclat to a little shop set up by joining the bride's savings to a donation contributed by Knox-and everything seemed to promise a happy career. Unfortunately, however, other questions began to occupy the public mind; and Mrs De Cordova, finding her spouse no longer an object of great attention, began to flag in her devotion to him. She even got, at last, to open expressions of regret for her folly in marrying him, and to upbraidings on his colour and nation. She would set forth the great matches she might have made, and how she had been fool enough to throw herself away on a stinking blackamoor who didn't know the value of her. This caprice nearly broke the Captain's heart; and, if he was melancholy before, he became now a monument of woe. After he had suffered some time in this way, on a sudden there appeared an American work which raised up for black people a sympathy which they had never excited before. Once more did Gonsalvo become an object of interest to the whole vicinity; whereupon, we are happy to say, his wife's affection returned, and

she appeared most devoted. He was repeatedly solicited to recount the wrongs and atrocities of which he had been the victim, and large sums were offered for his simple appearance at indignation meetings, where other people undertook to speak for him, and to recount his unparalleled sufferings, and set forth his divine perfections. Poor Gonsalvo, however, who was both truthful and meek, gave great offence to his intending sympathisers, and omitted the tide in his affairs which promised to lead on to fortune. Had his invention been more acute, or had he possessed a little more impudence, he might have been the centre of attraction to thousands, and received contributions without end. Mrs De C., who perceived the opening, used all her influence to induce him to make use of it; but in vain. Whereupon she attempted to do a little business on her own account as the loving wife of a negro, too heart-broken to speak for himself, or even to meet the public gaze. This vicarial appearance, however, by no means satisfied the prevailing appetite, which was stimulated to a frightful degree. The lady, therefore, could only bewail the loss of this splendid chance, and, in the second place, abuse and torment poor Gonsalvo more than ever she had done. When much irritated, as she not unfrequently was, she would buffet the poor fellow unmercifully. More than once he ran to his neighbours for protection, and thus gave them opportunities of exhibiting their sensibility, which he had denied to the public. All took the husband's part, and so did not soothe the temper of the wife. One day, having read an account of a less scrupulous black man, who at a monster meeting had realised a heavy sum, she went home perfectly furious, and, commencing with abuse, she lashed herself from injury to injury till she ended in laying her poor spouse senseless with a poker. So great was the general excitement at this outrage that the perpetrator

was given into custody by those who now took the matter out of the injured husband's hands. As the officers bore her off, she turned, with all the naïveté of a Cincinnatus, to poor Gonsalvo, saying, "I'm afraid your vile throat must remain uncut for a short time!" Somewhat to her astonishment, she was committed to prison for the assault, and never came to trial, for her ungovernable temper brought on a violent fever, which destroyed her. Gonsalvo, when he heard of her illness, obtained permission to see her, in the hope that he might be able in some sort to assuage her sufferings. He was admitted to her cell during a lucid interval, but so great was her rage at the sight of him, that it brought on a paroxysm from which she never rallied.

Be

fore her death she raved fearfully, and was accustomed to shriek out, "Wherever I go, they can't be blacker than that rascal." After

her death Gonsalvo disposed of the little business, and gladly resumed the service of his old "Massa," with whom he still continues, melancholy and pensive, but happier than in his married life.

Knox kept very fairly to his resolution concerning gambling, and now allows himself only an occasional quiet rubber. He, too, is on the shelf; for, imagining that the service promised nothing in the way of promotion, he left it just before things began to mend, and took to lounging about a club and perpetrating small literature. He can rejoice in the fortune and honours of his old comrades, particularly those of his true and tried friend Arthur Brune, of whom and his delightful wife he is frequently a guest. His writing, though of an unpretending character, sometimes enjoys immense honour. He now and then-hem! he now and then gets a paper into Blackwood.

CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD: SALEM CHAPEL.

PART I.-CHAPTER I.

TOWARDS the west end of Grove Street, in Carlingford, on the shabby side of the street, stood a red brick building, presenting a pinched gable terminated by a curious little belfry, not intended for any bell, and looking not unlike a handle to lift up the edifice by to the public observation. This was Salem Chapel, the only Dissenting place of worship in Carlingford. It stood in a narrow strip of ground, just as the little houses which flanked it on either side stood in their gardens, except that the enclosure of the chapel was flowerless and sombre, and showed at the farther end a few sparselyscattered tombstones-unmeaning slabs, such as the English mourner loves to inscribe his sorrow on. On either side of this little tabernacle were the humble houses-little de

tached boxes, each two storeys high, each fronted by a little flower-plotclean, respectable, meagre, little habitations, which contributed most largely to the ranks of the congregation in the Chapel. The big houses opposite, which turned their backs and staircase windows to the street, took little notice of the humble Dissenting community. Twice in the winter, perhaps, the Misses Hemmings, mild evangelical women, on whom the late rector- the LowChurch rector, who reigned before the brief and exceptional incumbency of the Rev. Mr Proctor-had bestowed much of his confidence, would cross the street, when other profitable occupations failed them, to hear a special sermon on a Sunday evening. But the Misses Hemmings were the only representatives of anything which could, by the

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