Instead of adopting the advice of my friends in Kingston, particularly that of Mr. Bullion, whom I oftenest consulted, an accident induced me to prefer crossing the island by a road which had been trodden out by the Maroons, instead of the more frequented tract.

The Maroons originally were fugitive slaves,—a bold and savage race, who, except in their occasional insurrections against their masters, lived in the fastnesses of the mountains in indolent tranquillity, satisfied with the fruits of the forest, and the wild prey that chance or artifice occasionally bestowed. In their way of life, and in the paroxysms of passion to which they sometimes abandoned themselves, they afforded afflicting exhibitions to civilized man of the state that awaits the Negroes when the control of their proprietors shall have been withdrawn. To see something of what yet survived of these self-emancipated slaves, was one of the motives which led me by the mountain-road. I was, however, disappointed; for, save a grandmother with three little ebony imps with white eyes, sitting in the shadow of a rock, as I passed with the black boy, who was lent to me as a groom, none of them happened to appear in our path. The old woman was, however, a sight worthy of all the journey; for, had not the children who were playing round her been there, I should have hesitated to believe she was really human.