at the bottom of
the sea--I have sailed over it in what is now the harbour, and there
beneath, on the deep sands, lost to time and trouble, is the slain
and tortured town of Savanna la Mar. Was the Master of the World
angry that day when, with a besom of wind and a tidal wave, He swept
the place into the sea? Or was it some devil's work while the Lord
of All slept? As the Spanish say, Quien sabe?

Then there was that other enormous incident which made a man to be
swallowed by an earthquake, then belched out again into the sea and
picked up and restored to life again, and to live for many years.
Indeed, yes, it is so. His tombstone may be seen even at this day
at Green Bay, Kingston. His name was Lewis Galdy, and he is held in
high repute in this land.

I feel sometimes as Beelzebub may feel, and I long to do what
Beelzebub might do as part of his mission. Sometimes a madness
of revolt comes over me, and I long to ravage all the places I see,
all the people I know--or nearly all. Why I do not have negroes
thrashed and mutilated, as some do, I know not. Over against the
southern shore in the parish of St. Elizabeth is an estate called
Salem, owned, it is said, by an American, where the manager does
such things. I am told that savageries are found there. There
are too many absentee owners of land in this island, and the wrongs
done by agents who have no personal honour at stake are all too
plentiful. If I could, I would have no slavery, would set all the
blacks free, making full compensation to the owners, and less to the
absentee owners.

I look out on a world of summer beauty and of heat. I see the sheep
in hundreds on the far hills of pasturage--sheep with short hair,
small and sweet as any that ever came from the South Downs. I see
the natives in their Madras handkerchiefs. I see upon the road some
planter in his ketureen--a sort of sedan chair; I see a negro
funeral, with its strange ceremony and its gumbies of African drums.
I see yam-fed planters, on their horses, making for the burning,
sandy streets of the capital. I see the Scots grass growing five
and six feet high, food unsurpassed for horses--all the foliage too
--beautiful tropical trees and shrubs, and here and there a huge
breeding-farm. Yet I know that out beyond my sight there is the
region known as Trelawney, and Trelawney Town, the headquart