About sunset, Captain Jem came up to me, and inquired whether I had any final business to settle ashore, in which case he could spare me a couple of hours, but no more. I replied, that I had no reason for quitting the vessel, when all at once, the thought of my preserver on board the French felucca, Wright, flashed upon me. I remembered how he had told me, that he lived in Jamaica, at Port Royal in all probability, and I reproached myself for not having before thought of inquiring after him. So I proceeded on shore at once, and went straight to Mr. Pratt’s, who I imagined would be likely to give me the information of which I stood in need. Nor was I disappointed. Mr. Pratt, indeed, knew no person of the name of Wright, but he had frequently seen the man to whom my description must apply, and whose real name was Blagrove. ‘He lives,’ said Mr. Pratt, ‘in great retirement, dwelling in a small hut on the outskirts of the town, and cultivating, with two or three negroes, such a small plantation, as suffices to supply him with the necessaries of life.’ Mr. Pratt then, at my request, called a negro lad, and ordered him to be my guide to Blagrove’s dwelling; adding, however, that the old Cromwellian lived in such solitude, and hated the faces of strangers so cordially, that he doubted whether I should be admitted. Determined, however, to make the experiment, I set off, the negro preceding me with a lantern. After clearing the town we had a rough and rugged walk, through trees and plantations, and deep Guinea grass, already drenched with dew. Fire-flies sparkled in every bush, and the hum of innumerable insects, and the harsh croaking of frogs in the swamps and ditches, made a melancholy music. At length we descried a distant light gleaming amid trees; at the sight of it, the negro stopped, and pointing, said, ‘Dat Massa Blagrove’s house!’ at the same time making as though he would return. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘do you not intend to come on and light me to the door?’ The negro suddenly fell upon his knees. ‘Oh, Massa, please not insist; let Juba go back, now. Massa Blagrove terrible man, Obeah man, no like oder white buccra; live all alone by himself, wid Fetish. Oh, most great heaps of Fetish.’