He had only time to exclaim to his new ally, “My dear fellow, get me some brandy and water, for the love of mercy”--when he blew up, with an explosion like the bursting of a steam-boiler--“Oh dear, oh dear,” we could hear him murmuring in the lulls of his agony then another loud report--“there goes my yesterday’s supper-hot grog and toasted cheese” another roar, as if the spirit was leaving its earthly tabernacle “dinner-claret--Madeira--all cruel bad in a second edition-cheese, teal, and ringtail pigeon--black crabs calapi and turtle soup”--as his fleshly indulgences of the previous day rose up in judgment against him, like a man’s evil deeds on his death-bed. At length-the various strata of his interior were entirely excavated--“Ah!--I have got to my breakfast-to the simple tea and toast at last.--Brandy and water, my dear Transom, brandy and water, my darling, hot, without sugar”--and “Brandy and water” died in echoes in the distance as he was stowed away into his cot in the captain’s cabin. It seems that it had been all arranged between him and Transom, that he was to set off for St Thomas in the East, the morning on which we sailed, and to get a shove out in the pilot-boat schooner, from Morant Bay, to join us for the cruise; and accordingly he had come on board the night previous when I was below, and being somewhat qualmish he had wisely kept his cot; the fun of the thing depending, as it seemed, on all hands carefully keeping it from me that he was on board. I apprehend most people indulge in the fancy that they have Consciences, such as they are. I myself now--even I, Thomas Cringle, Esquire, amongst sundry vain imaginings, conceive that I have a Conscience somewhat of the caoutchouc order I will confess stretching a little upon occasion, when the gale of my passions blows high, nevertheless a highly respectable Conscience, as things go a stalwart unchancy customer, who will not be gainsaid or contradicted; but he may be disobeyed, although never with impunity. It is all true that a young, well-fledged gentlewoman, for she is furnished with a most swift pair of wings, called Prosperity, sometimes gets the better of Master Conscience, and smothers the Grim Feature for a time, under the bed of eider down, whereon you and her ladyship are reposing. But she is a sad jilt in many instances, this same Prosperity; for some fine morning, with the sun glancing in through the crevices of the window-shutters, just at the nick when, after turning yourself, and rubbing your eyes, you courageously thrust forth one leg, with a determination to don your gramashes without more delay. “Tom,” says she “Tom Cringle, I have got tired of you, Thomas; besides, I hear my next door neighbour, Madame Adversity, tirling at the door pin; so give me my down bed, Tom, and I’m off.” With that she bangs open the window, and before I recover from my surprise, launches forth, with a loud whir, mattrass and all, leaving me, Pilgarlic, lying on the paillasse.