have clutched so close, and never could keep too near to my mind. I talked to her as little as I could and as gently. Gently! if words could have floated on the air like eider-down, or touched her with gossamer-light touches, they would still have seemed to me too rough to be cast at her then. Still I was forced to try and ascertain her wishes. "You know what is best, you will do what is most right," she answered me gently; "but don't ask me to leave the house while he is in it. Think of the long years that I have not seen him, think of the long years that There she paused, burst into violent weeping - she had not cried before "O! I feel as if my heart was breaking!" she said, pressing her hands over it. I clasped her to me; I comforted her as well as I could, reminding her, as well as I knew how, of how well things must be with her beloved brother. I spoke, too, of the place where we would lay him to rest, of the country quiet among the roses, the violets, the cypresses. She lay quiet in my arms, and by and by lifted up her face to listen. To see that sweet, sad face resting against my breast, to look down upon it, and meet its trustful eyes, filled me with overmastering emotions. "If you can love me," I said then, "you need never feel alone or unsheltered, never more while I live. This is no unfit place or time to tell you this, for he knew I loved you, and was glad in knowing it; but I do not ask or expect or desire any answer, not now." I hardly know that she then took in the sense of my words; sorrow and exhaustion had drained her life. No tinge of color came to her cheek; she just listened. "How good you are! how good you are!" she said. "What could I have done but for you? I arranged everything for the best as far as I knew; I tempted her from the room to go with me to the Protestant graveyard beyond the walls, to choose where he should lie. She seldom spoke; she said afterwards it was all like a dream, from which she expected at any moment to awake. The next day we buried him. When all was done we lingered near the place. A spring-breathed soft wind was blowing; springvoiced sweet birds were singing; the cypresses were swaying to and fro; the mild spring sun was shining; the place was very soothing and peaceful, towered over by the great monumental pyramidal tomb of some forgotten great one, with the wonderful city of the dead, of memories, and of surviving art lying in sight. That was a day to be remembered. I promised her that the grave should be cared for better than any other in the place; that flowers should always blossom on it, and its headstone never be moss-encrusted. When we went away I took her to the care of that motherly, kind, quakerish lady of the diligence, whom I had prepared to receive her. I did not see her again for some days; she was too exhausted, when the reaction from long overtension set in, to leave her bed. I called every day, and always found some gentleworded, grateful message ready for me; but day after day I did not see her. At last a bright day came when I did. She was more altered, more broken-down-looking than I had anticipated; the meeting me agi tated her very greatly; her black dress, too, increased the delicacy of her look. Mrs. Norrison stood by her, smoothing her hair and petting her with loving deeds and words till she was calmer, then, good woman, she left us together. I had no idea what lay before me. Our interview was a long one. More than once I left her side, and paced the room in despair, stood at one or other of the windows that looked down over the city, and pondered how I could convince her of my love, that is to say, of the selfish and interested nature of it. She met my definite offer of my hand and heart (as the novelists phrase it) with the most meekly, humbly firm refusal. Her gratitude was so full and so lowly, her agitation so great that I could not be angry with her, but I was greatly irritated, and turned my irritation against myself; cursed myself that I could find no words strong enough to convince her. She had set me on a pinnacle, and she would keep me there, and I wanted to be no higher than the level of her love. It was just like me, she told me. Just like what she had always heard of me. She would always love me with the most grateful, reverent love, always remember me in her prayers, but be my wife - no. It was long before I could get a reason why; but at last I tortured it from her. She believed that I was sacrificing myself, that I loved her because she was friendless and alone; but she was not fit for me, she told me; she had not the accomplishments, the education, the talent, the beauty, the anything that my wife should have. As for her future I need not be anxious, she assured me. Mrs. Norrison had told her that here, in Rome, she could procure her a suitable situation. At last, when I had exhausted every argument, or thought I had, and despaired, at all events, of present success, I grew hurt and angry; I turned from her to a window, and stood looking out. veil of blackness gathered between me and all I looked on. I was ill with anger, disappointment, and thwarted will. A I don't know how long I had stood so (but I believe it was a long time) when the softest of small hands entered mine, which hung down beside me. I started and looked round. She was looking up into my face so wistfully, her own face strained with pain and earnestness. "You look so pained, so displeased," she said. "I must seem to you so thoroughly heartless and ungrateful. I cannot bear it.” Before I knew what she was going to do she was kneeling beside me; before I could prevent her, her soft fingers were raising my hand to her softer lips. I lifted her up; holding her by the shoulders, I asked her, I am afraid almost fiercely, "Can you tell me that you do not love me?" "No, I cannot; I do love you: I love you very dearly." Her tears began to fall, and she, tottering towards me, shed them on my breast. I held her there, fast and firm, and never since has she disclaimed the right to be there. ENGRAVING WITH A SUNBEAM. THIS is assuredly the age of scientific wonders. If in point of philosophic abstraction our generation is somewhat inferior to preceding ones, in all that concerns the practical application of theories it is far in advance of its predecessors. Our modern savants are of the utilitarian school, and they seek rather to discover the mode in which scientific speculations may be made subservient to the comforts of man, than to frame generalizations which have only an abstract importance. How far this condition is to be admired we do not pretend to say. The contemplation of Nature's works, and the search for the laws by which she controls the universe, are pursuits of the sublimest type; but in these days the man who is completely absorbed by them is often looked on as a dreamer,—as one who does not take his rank in the race of life. Whether it be that Transatlantic tendencies have taken possession of us or not it is difficult to determine, but one thing is certain, we of the nineteenth century pride ourselves above all things upon being "practical men." Need we adduce proofs that the utile is the fetish of the age? Can we not flash our thoughts with the rapidity of lightning to the remotest portions of the globe?nay, can we not even cause them to be written down in enduring letters by Casselli's recording telegraph? Have we not turned the spectroscope towards the sun and stars, and investigated their chemical constitution? Do not our microscopes, in fulfilling the highest anticipations of optical theorists, enable us almost to penetrate into the molecular condition of matter? Can we not with the most rigid accuracy forecast the hurricane, explore the bowels of the earth, and examine the very recesses of the human frame? These surely are sufficient examples of the practical science of to-day. There is, however, another instance which, from its familiarity and the infinity of its possible applications, is better testimony to what we have said than any of the foregoing, we allude to the art of sunpainting. Photography, which is the application of a very simple chemical principle, has done, and promises to do, more for man than any other invention save that of the steam-engine. Already it has lent its aid to the painter, the sculptor, the philosopher; but it now extends its sphere of usefulness, and gives a helping hand to "the arts," properly so called. By M. Williême's curious apparatus, photography has been made to do the greater portion of the work formerly achieved by the sculptor's chisel. Through the exertions of Mr. Brooke, it has been made the handmaid of meteorology, the records of the various indications of scientific instruments being now intrusted to this "genius of the lamp." It is wonderful to think that, through the long hours of the night, when the whole world is at rest, photography takes the place of human labor, and moment by moment writes down a history of the natural phenomena which are taking place around us; yet this is no freak of the imagination. In the Royal Observatory at Greenwich the night assistants have been, in a great measure, done away with, and the unerring pen of photography records, in legible and truthful symbols, the operations of the physical universe. The combination of lithography and sun-painting is another important illustration of what photography has done. Photo-lithography is undoubtedly a most useful application of the art, but its field of action is a limited one. When a picture in black and white alone is required, the process of photo-lithography is admirably adapted to the cheap reproduction of the original representation. But when it is necessary to preserve a variety of gradations of shading- when a number of half-tints have to be delineated-the photolithograph cannot be employed. One of the most valuable qualities which photography possesses is its precision. By it we get an undeniably faithful picture of the object portrayed, and one whose accuracy can never be called in question. Therefore in all pictorial illustrations which are not merely works of the imagination, photography surpasses the pencil in truthfulness, and would necessarily be universally employed were it not for the time and expense attending the production of copies on a large scale. To illustrate cheap works by photography alone, would necessitate an expenditure which no experienced publisher would dream of. This difficulty of reproduction, then, has hitherto trammelled the application of photography to literary purposes. We say hitherto, for a new invention removes all obstacles, and henceforth we hope to see the reliable labors of the photographer substituted for the less assuring results of the pencil and the graving-tool. The title of our article is by no means figurative. We can now dispense with the engraver, and employ the sunbeam in his stead. The new process by which this revolution is to be effected is that of Mr. Walter Woodbury, and has been recently described in the scientific journals. As it is not a complex one, we shall try and convey an idea of its general features. In taking an ordinary photograph, a solution of silver is placed upon glass, and has projected on it, through the medium of a camera obscura, an image of some object which it is desired to represent. This image consists of several combinations of light and shade, and, as the effect of light is to darken the silver solution by decomposing it, the lightest shades (those most illuminated) are represented on the glass plate by dark portions, and the dark shades, being less decomposed, are fainter. In this case, the object photographed has been represented by lights and shades. There are, however, certain combinations other than those of silver, which are differently affected by light. Now, a compound of gelatine and bichromate of ammonia is one of these. When this is exposed to the action of light, it becomes perfectly insoluble; so that when a photograph taken with it is placed in hot water, the parts which were least exposed are dissolved away, and those submitted to the light remain, thus leaving a representation in relief. Upon this quality of bichromatized gelatine depends the principal feature in the new process. In the first instance, a negative (that is, a photograph of a special kind on glass) is taken of the picture or object of which it is wished to obtain an engraving, and this is placed over a plate of talc, bearing a stratum of the prepared gelatine, and in this position exposed to the light. The sun's rays, in passing through the negative, fall upon the gelatine, with various intensity, hardening the parts least covered, and leaving those parts unaltered which are completely protected by the shadows of the negative. After sufficient exposure, the gelatine plate is removed, and placed in hot water, which dissolves away all those parts unacted on by the sun, leaves those completely exposed intact, and partially removes the portions of the plate which were slightly protected. When, therefore, the gelatine plate, with its support of talc, is removed from the water, it presents a series of elevations and depressions which exactly correspond in extent and height to the lights and shades of the picture. It is in fact an intaglio plate in gelatine, but one which, as its depressions correspond to the light portions of the picture, cannot be used for engraving. A cast must be taken; and this is effected either by metallic deposition, as ! in clectrotyping, or by pressing the hardest gelatine | from a journal kept by himself, we learn much of the plate into one of soft lead. The latter method is terrible struggle that followed the advent of Crabbe the one which Mr. Woodbury employs, and although in the Metropolis. His "wealth" gradually diminit seems hard to believe, it is unquestionably the fact ished; went down to shillings, and then to pence: that by pressure alone a perfect impression of the nay, once on taking stock, he found "sixpence fargelatine is produced on type-metal. thing" in his purse, and reduced it to fourpencehalfpenny, by expending seven farthings in the purchase of a pint of porter. The pawnbroker gave temporary relief. At length he had accumulated a debt of seven pounds; and the gates of a jail were about to open to the heir of Parnassus. Here, there, and everywhere, he had sought a publisher in vain: as futile were his efforts to find a patron. Lord North was deaf; Lord Shelburne silent; Lord Chancellor Thurlow had "no leisure to read verses"; a poetical appeal to Prince William Henrythen a young sailor, afterwards King William IV. produced no response. The next stage in the process is that of printing. An intaglio block, i. e. one in which the depressions are to be filled with ink and the surface to be left clean, has been produced, but it remains to be shown how it is used. If it were simply coated with ordinary printing ink the "proof" would be as devoid of half-tones as the worst photo-lithograph, and therefore a peculiar ink, suggested many years ago by M. Gaudin, is employed. This ink consists of gelatine holding coloring matter, of whatever hue is desired, in solution; it is a translucent preparation and is not densely colored. This compound is poured into the intaglio mould,- for a mould it really is, and the latter is pressed down upon the paper which is to receive the print. The ink, which has become semi-solid, falls from the depressions in the block somewhat in the manner of jelly from a jelly-mould, and soaks into the paper. In this way the deepest depressions, corresponding to the darkest shades, throw down the greatest number of layers of ink, and the shallowest ones the least; so that a picture is produced in which even the most delicate half-tints are exquisitely brought out. Indeed, the result is somewhat similar to that of "washing" in water-color painting, the greatest quantity of color producing the greatest shade, and conversely, -every tint in the gradation being preserved. The inventor of the exceedingly ingenious method we have described considers that one man at work with four "presses" could produce as many as one hundred and twenty prints per hour, and at a cost which would be very trifling. If in practice Mr. Woodbury's process turns out as successful results as those we have already seen, we have no doubt of its coming into general use. At present we can only testify to the beauty and perfection of the specimens we have inspected. GEORGE CRABBE. Here he was, in the "peopled solitude," without a friend, without a shilling, without a hope, nay, not so, for trust in God never left him. And there was a dearly-loved girl (afterwards his loving and devoted wife) praying for him in the humble home he had left. But his sufferings of mind and body were intense: once when he had wandered away to Hornsey Wood (the locality he most frequented), and found it too late to return to his lodging, he passed the night under a hayrick, having no money to pay for a casual bed. What was he to do? The natural holiness of his nature kept him from following the example of that "marvellous boy," who, but a few months gone, had " perished in his pride," in the wretched attic of Shoe Lane. What was he to do, as he wandered about, hungry and hopeless, with high aspirations and much selfdependence,- a full consciousness of the fount within, that was striving to send its streams of living water to mankind, yet without a hand to beckon him across the slough of despond, or a glimpse of light to guide him through the valley of the shadow of death? His lot has been the lot of many to whom "letters" is a sole "profession"; but of few may the story be told so succinctly and emphatically as of Crabbe; for but few so thoroughly or so suddenly triumphed over the enemy, or could look back without a blush upon the progress of the fight when its end had been Victory. CRABBE was born at Aldborough, in Suffolk, in a small and rude cottage, now removed; the "portraiture" of which has been preserved by the painter Who will say that his prayers, and those of his Stanfield. His father was a man of humble means "Sarah," were not heard and answered, when an and position. He gave, however, to his eldest son the inspired thought suggested an application to Edbest teaching he could; but George was "in a great mund Burke? I copy a touching passage from measure self-educated": yet the ground must have" The Life of the Rev. George Crabbe," by his son, been well laid, for in later days he was no mean a volume of rare interest, that renders full jusscholar. He was born on the Christmas Eve of the tice to an illustrious memory, but claims for it nothyear 1754; and when little more than a child, hading that the present and the future will not readily made essays in verse. He was apprenticed to a village surgeon; but learned little and knew little. When "out of his time," he "set up for himself" at Aldborough. Of this uncongenial and ill-rewarded employment he soon wearied; and in 1780,-" with the best verses he could write," and a borrowed three pounds in money, he set forth to seek his fortune in London. ད give: "He went into Mr. Burke's room a poor young adventurer, spurned by the opulent and rejected by the publishers, his last shilling gone, and all but his last hope with it; he came out, virtually secure of almost all the good fortune that by successive steps afterwards fell to his lot; his genius acknowledged by one whose verdict could not be questioned; his character and manners appreciated and approved by a noble and capacious heart, whose benevolence knew no limits but its power." Ay, the dark and turbulent river was crossed; and the celestial city was in sight. The sad and solitary wanderer no longer walked London streets in hopeless misery; no more was the spirit to be subdued by the sickness of hope deferred; and who will grudge him the natural triumph with which he | once again entered his native town, his genius acknowledged; his position secured; his lofty imaginings converted into palpable realities; the companion and the friend of many great men, whose renown had reached even the poor village of Aldborough? It was by the advice of Burke, responding to his own thought, that he became a clergyman; and by that good man's influence he was ordained on the 21st December, 1781; his first curacy being in his native village; and, no doubt, among those who heard his first sermon was the "Sarah" who had believed in him, when neighbors considered him a "lubber" and a " fool," or at best, a hair-brained youth, who "would never come to good." In 1783 they were married, and went to reside at Belvoir Castle, the Duke of Rutland having made Crabbe his domestic chaplain. He who had borne poverty with heroism was able to bear "straitened circumstances," which he had to endure for several after years. There was a sweet seraph ever by his side; and "trust in God" had been strengthened by imparting "trust" to others. formed the leading part. Her father, Dr. Baillie, must have been a stern, ungenial man, for it is said by Lucy Aikin (on the authority of her sister) that he had never given his daughter a kiss, and Joanna herself had spoken of her "yearning to be caressed when a child." We have but little to sustain — yet nothing to ignore the portrait Miss Aikin draws of the author of "Plays of the Passions":—“ If there were ever a human creature pure in the last recesses of the soul,' it was surely this meek, this pious, this noble-minded and nobly-gifted woman, who, after attaining her ninetieth year, carried with her to the grave the love, the reverence, the regrets of all who had ever enjoyed the privilege of her society." In the appearance of Crabbe there was little of the poet, but even less of the stern critic of mankind, who looked at nature askance, and ever contemplated beauty, animate or inanimate, It that of a "The simple loves and simple joys," — "through a glass darkly." On the contrary, he seemed to my eyes the representative of the class of rarely-troubled, and seldom-thinking English farmers. A clear gray eye, a ruddy complexion, as if he In 1815 he was inducted into the living of Trow-loved exercise and wooed mountain breezes, were bridge; and on the 5th of June, he preached his first the leading characteristics of his countenance. sermon there. Here he lived and worked till he is a picture of age, "frosty but kindly," died, discharging his duty until within a week of tall and stalwart man gradually grown old, to whom his removal: having been so richly gifted with health age was rather an ornament than a blemish. He and strength that he had not omitted the duty on a was one of those instances of men plain, perhaps, in Sabbath once for forty years, – youth, and homely of countenance in manhood, who become absolutely handsome when white hairs have become a crown of glory, and indulgence in excesses or perilous passions have left no lines that speak of remorse, or even of errors unatoned. "The children's favorite and the grandsire's friend, Tried, trusted, and beloved!" 66 In the autumn of 1830, the world was closing over him. Age had sadly bent his once tall stature, and his hand trembled"; and on February 3, 1832, he "died"; almost his last words to his children being, "God bless you! Be good, and come to me!" Crabbe seldom visited London during the later years of his long life, and I saw him only in a crowd, where, of a surety, he was not "at home." He was then aged over threescore and ten; it was impossible, however, not to be impressed by the exterior of the poet whom a high contemporary authority characterized as "Nature's sternest painter, yet her best." Half a century had passed between the period when the raw country youth sought and obtained the friendship of Edmund Burke, and the time when I saw him, the "observed of all observers," receiving the homage of intellectual listeners. My visit was paid to him at Hampstead, where he was the guest of his friends, "the Hoares." It was in the year 1825 or 1826, I do not recollect which. There were many persons present; of the party I can recall but one; that one, however, is a memory, This is the portrait that Lockhart draws of Crabbe: -" His noble forehead, his bright beaming eye, without anything of old age about it, though he was then above seventy, his sweet and, I would say, innocent smile, and the calm, mellow tones of his voice, all are reproduced the moment I open any page of his poetry." Certain it is that the Crabbe that wrote "The Village," and "Tales of the Hall," who seemed to have neither eye nor ear for the pure and graceful, whose spring wore the garb of autumn, to whom even the breeze was unmusical, and the zephyr harsh, whose hill, and stream, and valley were barren, muddy, and unprofitable, was only misanthropic in verse. In his life and practice he was amiable, benevolent, and conciliatory. We have other authority besides that of his son and biographer for believing that "to him it was recommendation enough to be poor and miserable"; that as a country clergyman, "To relieve the wretched was his care!" the poet Moore:-"The musa severior which he worships has had no influence whatever on the kindly dispositions of his heart; but while with the eye of a sage and a poet he looks into the darker region of human nature, he stands in the most ge This is a tribute to his memory from his friend, nial sunshine himself." Joanna Baillie. I remember her as singularly, impressive in look and manner, with the "queenly air we associate with ideas of high birth and lofty rank. Her face was long, narrow, dark, and solemn, and her speech deliberate and considerate, the very antipodes of "chatter." Tall in person, and habited according to the "mode" of an olden time, her picture, as it is now present to me, is that of a very venerable dame, dressed in coif and kirtle, stepping out, as it were, from a frame in which she had been placed by the painter Vandyke. Her popularity is "His poems have a gloom which is not in nature; not the derived from her 66 Plays of the Passions," only one shade of a heavy day, of mist, or of clouds, but the dark and overof which was ever acted. - De Montford-in which charged shadows of one who paints by lamp-light, whose very John Kemble, and afterwards Edmund Kean, per-Crabbe was Pope in worsted stockings." memory in the church at Trowbridge, of which he This is the inscription on the monument to his was so long the rector: lights have a gloominess."-SOUTHEY. Some one has written that SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. G. CRABBE, LL.B. and desultory warfare against the English inhabitants of Jamaica, encouraging rebellion and harboring runaway slaves. Collecting in large numbers Who died on the 3rd of February, 1832, in the 78th year of his in the mountains of Clarendon, under a chief called Age, and the 18th of his services as Rector of this Parish. Born in humble life, he made himself what he was; Juan de Bolas, they distressed the small island settlers by their nightly predatory excursions, plunder Breaking through the obscurity of his birth by the force of his ing houses, destroying cattle, and carrying off slaves genius, Yet he never ceased to feel for the less fortunate; Entering, as his works can testify, into the sorrows and wants of the poorest of his parishioners, And so discharging the duties of a pastor and a magistrate as to endear himself to all around him. As a writer he cannot be better described than in the words of a great poet, his contemporary, "Tho' Nature's sternest painter, yet her best." by force. For many years they retarded the settlement of that part of the island of Jamaica, keeping the estate-holders in continual alarm, obliging them to build their houses very much in the style of forts, with flankers and loop-holes for the purpose of firing on the assailants when they advanced too near. After the death of Juan de Bolas they wandered about This monument was erected by some of his affectionate friends in small parties under petty leaders; but hearing and parishioners. THE MAROONS OF JAMAICA. IN a recent number of the Times, Governor Eyre, of Jamaica, is reported to have spoken as follows: "To the fidelity and loyalty of the Maroons it is due that the negroes did not commit greater devastations, and that the rebellion has not been a more protracted one. It is owing to them also, under the able leadership of their indefatigable former captain, now Colonel Fyfe, that the chief rebel leader, Paul Bogle, was captured, and that the recesses of the mountain fastnesses were searched, and the insurgents captured, destroyed, or driven from them." A short account of these people may not be uninteresting. that it had been decreed by the legislature of the All efforts to subdue them proved ineffectual: though they suffered greatly from surprises and well-projected attacks, their numbers continued to increase, for they were joined from time to time by discontented slaves, principally those imported from In 1655, when Jamaica was taken by the English the Coromantee country, on the coast of Africa, a from the Spaniards, several of the Spanish inhabi-people inured to savage warfare. tants went over to their own island of Cuba; and, as if wishing not to be too far separated from the home whence they had been driven, they settled themselves on that line of the Cuban coast which was only twenty-four hours' sail from their beloved Jamaica. Some families, however, with numerous slaves, remained at the north and northeastern part of the island. We had not many troops at that time in Jamaica; only a sufficient number to occupy the southern coast, so that there was no one to interfere with the clustering together of these Spanish families in a town called Sevilla Nueva, which was situated near St. Ann's Bay, and which had risen to some consequence under the Spaniards. For some time they had lived there unmolested, keeping up an intercourse with their countrymen who had been compelled to abandon Jamaica, and who no doubt often cast longing looks over the wide waters towards the home whence they had been driven. At length Don Arnoldo de Sasi, the vanquished Spanish governor of Jamaica, with five hundred of the exiled Spaniards and a thousand troops from Spain, landed at Rio Nuevo, and immediately proceeded to build a fort there. Captain Doyley, the English governor of the island, no sooner heard of this invasion than he marched up from Kingston with a body of six hundred men, attacked the Spaniards, and forced them, after a severe battle, to abandon their settlement and seek refuge in Cuba. After this contest numbers of the Spanish slaves were missing; they had fled to the woods for shelter in different parts of the island,-the great primeval woods, whose soil in many parts had never been trodden by the foot of man; and these fugitive slaves were called Maroons, or hog-hunters. For many years they carried on a troublesome Yet negroes from other tribes joined Cudjoe, the Cattawood party and the Kencuffees, in which line the succession of their chiefs continued. At this time, too, a curious set of negroes joined the Clarendon Maroons, a people concerning whose origin no actual information could be obtained. They had been imported from Africa, but their skin was of a deeper jet than that of the ordinary negro; they intermarried with the Maroons, and became a part of that body of people. Their features resembled those of the European; their hair had not the tight curl which is the peculiar characteristic of the negro, but was wavy, soft, and glossy; their form was delicate, and their stature low; and, though evidently not possessing the hardiness and strength of nerve belonging to the negroes around them, they were less indolent in motion, and more industrious and energetic than their sable brethren. The Maroons did not confine themselves to the Clarendon district of Jamaica, but took possession of the forest-land in different parts of the island, at Trelawny, Montigo Bay, Spring Vale, and at the eastern end of the country they had their strongholds. Gue Before 1730 their warfare was carried on under Cudjoe in a regular and disciplined manner. rilla warfare, short skirmishes with sudden attacks, was their favorite mode of fighting. They were more provident of their ammunition than the white troops. Though Cudjoe's settlements and provisions were frequently destroyed, though from time to time he was driven back into the woods, still he was not conquered. He would issue out again with his men, placing a strong guard at the mouth of the defile, and then cautiously ascending the mountain, would fire down on the enemy. At length Cudjoe removed his seat of government from Clarendon to Trelawny, and was quite a Leonidas in his choice of position, which was at the en |