they are! how insinuating in their portraiture of a tie
which possibly might, but does not actually, bind the parties.

If my readers concur not in these sympathies; I have great satisfaction
in saying that Roland Cashel did. He not only sat gazing at the few
lines, but he looked so long at them as to half believe that the first
word was a superlative; then, suddenly rousing himself he asked the
hour. It was already past six. He had only time, then, for a verbal,
"With pleasure," and to dress for dinner.

It seemed like a reproach on his late mode of living, the pile of
unopened letters, which in imposing mass Mr. Phillis had arrayed on
his master's dressing-table. They contained specimens of everything
epistolary which falls to the lot of those favored children of fortune
who, having "much to give," are great favorites with the world. There
were dear little pressing invitations signed by the lady of the house,
and indited in all the caligraphy of the governess. There were begging
letters from clergymen with large families, men who gave so "many
hostages to fortune," that they actually ruined themselves in their
own "recognizances." Flatteries, which, if not written on tinted
paper, might have made it blush to bear them, mixed up with tradesmen's
assurances of fidelity and punctuality, and bashful apologies for the
indelicacy of any allusion to money.

Oh, it is a very sweet world this of ours, and amiable withal! save that
the angelic smile it bestows on one part of the creation has a sorry
counterpart in the sardonic grin with which it regards the other. Our
friend Cashel was in the former category, and he tossed over the letters
carelessly, rarely breaking a seal, and, even then, satisfied with a
mere glance at the contents, or the name of the writer, when he suddenly
caught sight of a large square-shaped epistle, marked "Sea-letter." It
was in a hand he well knew, that of his old comrade Enrique; and burning
with anxiety to hear of him, he threw himself into a chair, and broke
the seal.

The very first words which met his eye shocked him.

"St. Kitt's, Jamaica.

"Ay, Roland, even so. St. Kitt's, Jamaica! heavily ironed
in a cell at the top of a strong tower over the sea, with an
armed sentry at my door, I write this! a prisoner fettered
and chained,--I, that could not brook the very orders of
discipline! Well, well, it is only cowardice to repine.
Truth is, _amigo_, I 've h