be what I am for the rest of my days, a planter denied the pleasure
of home by his own acts! Am I only a helpless fragment of a world
of lost things?

I have no friends--but yes, I have. I have Michael Clones and
Captain Ivy, though he's far away-aye, he's a friend of friends, is
Captain Ivy. These naval folk have had so much of the world, have
got the bearings of so many seas, that they lose all littleness, and
form their own minds. They are not like the people who knew me in
Ireland--the governor here is one of them--and who believe the worst
of me. The governor--faugh, he was made for bigger and better
things! He is one of the best swordsmen in the world, and he is
out against me here as if I was a man of importance, and not a
commonplace planter on an obscure river. I have no social home
life, and yet I live in what is called a castle. A Jamaica castle
has none of the marks of antiquity, chivalry, and distinction which
castles that you and I know in the old land possess.

What is my castle like? Well, it is a squarish building, of
bungalow type, set on a hill. It has stories and an attic, with a
jutting dormer-window in the front of the roof; and above the lowest
story there is a great verandah, on which the livingrooms and
bedrooms open. It is commodious, and yet from a broad standpoint it
is without style or distinction. It has none of those Corinthian
pillars which your homesteads in America have. Yet there is in it a
simple elegance. It has no carpets, but a shining mahogany floor,
for there are few carpets in this land of heat. It is a place where
music and mirth and family voices would be fitting; but there are no
family voices here, save such as speak with a negro lisp and
oracularly.