214 
D0TTINGS ON THE ROADSIDE. [Chap. XIII.— B. P. 
It is a thirsty country, and there is plenty to dr ink , 
they say; so in you must come and refresh; and pretty 
hard work it is to get out again, as many a man can 
testify. There are G-and P-, for example, 
whose genial hospitality cannot be beaten anywhere. 
Poor G-! I nearly set fire to his house in return 
for his kindness to me. His children, and amongst 
them I include the children of the blacks living on 
his estate (for he was a father to them all), were 
eager for a display of fireworks. My contribution 
was a quantity of rockets; by some accident one of 
them set fire to the dry undergrowth close to the 
house, and this burnt with such fury that the united 
exertions of all hands were unable to stop it; and had 
not a favourable wind sprung up, wafting the flames 
in a direction where they could do but little damage, 
not a vestige of G-’s mansion and outhouses 
would have been saved. The fire, which burnt for 
hours, reminded me not a little of a prairie conflagra¬ 
tion. Poor G-, who was custos of the parish, be¬ 
loved by all who knew him, and as large-hearted a 
man as ever breathed, escaped, as we sailors say, “by 
the skin of his teeth,” from the massacre at Morant 
Courthouse, but not without receiving a desperate 
wound. 
Well, good-bye, my friends, one and all; your 
hearts are as warm as your climate, and that is saying 
a good deal; may prosperity attend you wherever you 
go; but take my advice—don’t stop in Jamaica. The 
cloud hanging over you is becoming blacker and 
blacker, and you had better take shelter before the 
