A study of the “Runaways” interspersed up and down the pages among the other entries shows us very clearly the position of the unfortunate slave, even though no word is said against him. Cæsar on Rose Hall ran away again and again, and we feel great pity for Cæsar because possibly he could not stand this appalling labour. He returned on the 6th July for the last time, and on the 21st of the same month among “Decrease of negroes” is a simple note “By Cæsar died.” Poor Cæsar! What agonies did he suffer during that long, long fortnight. I went to Rose Hall once, a great four-storied stone building, approached by flights of steps built on arches. Its empty window-places, from which the glass has long since gone, look out over the blue Caribbean, its floors, where they are not worm-eaten, are of the most gorgeous polished mahogany, and the walls of the principal rooms are panelled with the like beautiful polished wood. It is empty, forlorn, the glory has departed, it is haunted, they say, and there is a blood stain that will not wash out on the floor. Of Mrs Palmer, who owned it last, very unsavoury tales are told. She is said to have murdered more than one husband and lived with her own slaves, doing away with her paramour when she tired of him. No old planter in the whole island had a worse reputation than this woman, who was murdered as late as 1833 by a lover who saw his influence waning. Rose Hall was a “bad estate.” It was notorious for the ill-treatment of its slaves. Underneath the Great House, reached by a flight of stone steps, are rooms dark and airless, where the unfortunates who in any way transgressed were caged. The walls are of heavy stone, and the only means by which air and light are admitted are by narrow slits in those walls, and they only give into another underground room. It was a ghastly and horrible place in which to confine anyone, let alone these children of the sun. I said this to a friend who told me of another estate on which a cruel master, when any slave offended him, had him shut up in a room--a dungeon he called it--which looked through iron bars on his dining-room. And there he kept the offender without food, and rejoiced he should be within sight and smell of the lavish plenty of the planter's table. Like a barbarian of old, the cruel master took pleasure in the thought of another's suffering. The narrator went on to say that on one occasion a slave was so shut up and the master went away taking with him the keys, and as no one could get in the unfortunate starved to death. This may be perfectly true, for it seems to me there is no particular form of torture to which the slaves have not been subjected at one time or another; reading between the lines of the Rose Hall book, one of the latest slave books, you can see this. Never till I read up the annals of Jamaica did I so thoroughly realise the meaning of man's inhumanity to man, and I suppose