To return to our overseer’s duty. Perhaps some of my readers may be inclined to think this kind of life described not the most enviable, and their “good luck” in meeting with such a situation very illusory. Like, however, the solitary waste in the Eastern story of “Abdallah,” this life of drudgery leads to riches. A few years over, and if the overseer is “smart” in his business, he gets promoted to “manager,” marries, perhaps, his former master’s daughter, or some other fair one, starts his horse and gig, purchases a dozen or two of wine, and a decent suit of clothes; and what with his salary, and the pickings and gleanings procured from off the property, he begins to make a show, and ventures to give a dinner-party to the “great people.” Another year or so, and if the island is blessed with fine and copious rains, and the estate makes a good crop in consequence, the proprietor in England experiences great delight, and by the return packet, despatches a commission, promoting our _ci-devant_ overseer to the situation of attorney as well as manager. Now, in truth, he begins to raise his head, like other mushrooms after a shower of rain, and thinks himself a man of family. His gig is replaced by a rattling, shaking, tumble-down carriage, drawn by a pair of spavined horses, and further graced by a shoeless coachman, his head surmounted by a pitiful beaver, encircled by a gold or silver band, his only other article of livery consisting of a scarlet waistcoat, made perhaps from some cast-off militia uniform. A little meagre black boy, whose habiliments are upon a similar scale to the coachman’s, serves the office of footman, and attends upon “the ladies” in their morning drive, with a grace and grimace most admirably seconded by the monkeys in the zoological gardens of London. Nor is the starting of this equipage all that marks the change; Mr. Attorney becomes more egotistical every day—his cellar receives a stock of champagne, (_or perry_,) and he cries, “Taste my wine—it is excellent, I do assure you. I cannot drink bad wine; I have never been used to it!” His larder becomes replenished with richer fare. “Try this turtle-soup,” says he; “you’ll find it superb—my cook is celebrated for his skill. I can tolerate nothing that is indifferent at _my table_.” He procures a commission in the militia, and sets up for the house of assembly; and being elected, takes his place among that august body with a vast deal of dignity. He makes no long speeches, ’tis true; but, instead, shakes his head with an overpowering gravity, and insinuates, “I think the more,” taking good care, however, to chime in with the strongest party.