Chapter X

For a second, nobody answered a word; this quiet declaration of an honest self-sacrifice took them all, even Nora, so utterly by surprise. Then Edward murmured musingly: ‘And it was for this that you gave up the prospect of living at Cambridge, and composing symphonies in Trinity gardens!’

The mulatto smiled a deprecating smile. ‘Oh,’ he cried timidly, ‘you mustn’t say that. I didn’t want to make out I was going to do anything so very grand or so very heroic. Of course, a man _must_ satisfy himself he’s doing something to justify his existence in the world; and much as I love music, I hardly feel as though playing the violin were in itself a sufficient end for a man to live for. Though I must confess I should very much like to stop in England and be a composer. I’ve composed one or two little pieces already for the violin, that have been played with some success at public concerts. Sarasate played a small thing of mine last winter at a festival in Vienna. But then, besides, my father and friends live in Trinidad, and I feel that that’s the place where my work in life is really cut out for me.’

‘And your second great passion?’ Marian inquired. ‘You said you had a second great passion. What is it, I wonder?—Oh, of course, I see—your profession.’

(‘How could she be so stupid!’ Nora thought to herself. ‘What a silly girl! I’m afraid of my life now, the wretched man’ll try to say something pretty.’)

‘O no; not my profession,’ Dr Whitaker answered, smiling. ‘It’s a noble profession, of course—the noblest and grandest, almost, of all the professions—assuaging and alleviating human suffering; but one looks upon it, for all that, rather as a duty than as a passion. Besides, there’s one thing greater even than the alleviation of human suffering, greater than art with all its allurements, greater than anything else that a man can interest himself in—though I know most people don’t think so—and that’s science—the knowledge of our relations with the universe, and still more of the universe’s relations with its various parts.—No, Mrs Hawthorn; my second absorbing passion, next to music, and higher than music, is one that I’m sure ladies won’t sympathise with—it’s only botany.’

‘Goodness gracious!’ Nora cried, surprised into speech. ‘I thought botany was nothing but the most dreadfully hard words, all about nothing on earth that anybody cared for!’

The mulatto looked at her open-eyed with a sort of mild astonishment. ‘What?’ he said. ‘All the glorious lilies and cactuses and palms and orchids of our beautiful Trinidad nothing but hard words that nobody cares for! All the slender lianas that trail and droop from the huge buttresses of the wild cotton-trees; all the gorgeous trumpet-creepers that drape the gnarled branches of the mountain star-apples with their scarlet blossoms; all the huge cecropias, that rise aloft with their silvery stems and fan-shaped leaves, towering into the air like gigantic candelabra; all the graceful tree-ferns and feathery bamboos and glossy-leaved magnolias and majestic bananas and luxuriant ginger-worts and clustering arums: all the breadth and depth of tropical foliage, with the rugged and knotted creepers, festooned in veritable cables of vivid green, from branch to branch among the dim mysterious forest shades—stretched in tight cordage like the rigging yonder from mast to mast, for miles together—oh, Miss Dupuy, is that nothing? Do you call that nothing, for a man to fix his loving regard upon? Our own Trinidad is wonderfully rich still in such natural glories; and it’s the hope of doing a little in my spare hours to explore and disentomb them, like hidden treasures, that partly urges me to go back again where manifest destiny calls me to the land I was born in.’

The mulatto is always fluent, even when uneducated; but Dr Whitaker, learned in all the learning of the schools, and pouring forth his full heart enthusiastically on the subjects nearest and dearest to him, spoke with such a ready, easy eloquence, common enough, indeed, among south Europeans, and among Celtic Scots and Irish as well, but rare and almost unknown in our colder and more phlegmatic Anglo-Saxon constitutions—that Nora listened to him, quite taken aback by the flood of his native rhetoric, and whispered to herself in her own soul: ‘Really, he talks very well after all—for a coloured person!’

‘Yes, of course, all those things are very lovely, Dr Whitaker,’ Marian put in, more for the sake of drawing him out—for he was so interesting—than because she really wanted to disagree with him upon the subject. ‘But then, that isn’t botany. I always thought botany was a mere matter of stamens and petals, and all sorts of other dreadful technicalities.’

‘Stamens and petals!’ the mulatto echoed half contemptuously—‘stamens and petals! You might as well say art was all a matter of pigments and perspective, or music all a matter of crotchets and quavers, as botany all a matter of stamens and petals. Those are only the beggarly elements: the beautiful pictures, the glorious oratorios, the lovely flowers, are the real things to which in the end they all minister. It’s the trees and the plants themselves that interest me, not the mere lifeless jargon of technical phrases.’

They sat there late into the night, discussing things musical and West Indian and otherwise, without any desire to move away or cut short the conversation; and Dr Whitaker, his reserve now broken, talked on to them hour after hour, doing the lion’s share of the conversation, and delighting them with his transparent easy talk and open-hearted simplicity. He was frankly egotistical, of course—all persons of African blood always are; but his egotism, such as it was, took the pleasing form of an enthusiasm about his own pet ideas and pursuits—a love of music, a love of flowers, a love of his profession, and a love of Trinidad. To these favourite notes he recurred fondly again and again, vigorously defending the violin as an exponent of human emotion against Edward’s half-insincere expression of preference for wind instruments; going into raptures to Nora over the wonderful beauty of their common home; and describing to Marian in vivid language the grandeur of those marvellous tropical forests whose strange loveliness she had never yet with her own eyes beheld.

‘Picture to yourself,’ he said, looking out vaguely beyond the ship on to the star-lit Atlantic, ‘a great Gothic cathedral or Egyptian temple—Ely or Karnak, wrought, not in freestone or marble, but in living trees—with huge cylindrical columns strengthened below by projecting buttresses, and supporting overhead, a hundred feet on high, an unbroken canopy of interlacing foliage. Dense—so dense that only an indistinct glimmer of the sky can be seen here and there through the great canopy, just as you see Orion’s belt over yonder through the fringe of clouds upon the gray horizon; and even the intense tropical sunlight only reaches the ground at long intervals in little broken patches of subdued paleness. Then there’s the solemn silence, weird and gloomy, that produces in one an almost painful sense of the vast, the primeval, the mystical, the infinite. Only the low hum of the insects in the forest shade, the endless multitudinous whisper of the wind among the foliage, the faint sound begotten by the tropical growth itself, breaks the immemorial stillness in our West Indian woodland. It’s a world in which man seems to be a noisy intruder, and where he stands awestruck before the intense loveliness of nature, in the immediate presence of her unceasing forces.’

He stopped a moment, not for breath, for it seemed as if he could pour out language without an effort, in the profound enthusiasm of youth, but to take his violin once more tenderly from its case and hold it out, hesitating, before him. ‘Will you let me play you just one more little piece?’ he asked apologetically. ‘It’s a piece of my own, into which I’ve tried to put some of the feelings about these tropical forests that I never could possibly express in words. I call it “Souvenirs des Lianes.” Will you let me play it to you?—I shan’t be boring you?—Thank you—thank you.’

He stood up before them in the pale light of that summer evening, tall and erect, violin on breast and bow in hand, and began pouring forth from his responsive instrument a slow flood of low, plaintive, mysterious music. It was not difficult to see what had inspired his brain and hand in that strangely weird and expressive piece. The profound shade and gloom of the forest, the great roof of overarching foliage, the flutter of the endless leaves before the breeze, the confused murmur of the myriad wings and voices of the insects, nay, even the very stillness and silence itself of which he had spoken, all seemed to breathe forth deeply and solemnly on his quivering strings. It was a triumph of art over its own resources. On the organ or the flute, one would have said beforehand, such effects as these might indeed be obtained, but surely never, never on the violin. Yet in Dr Whitaker’s hand that scraping bow seemed capable of expressing even what he himself had called the sense of the vast, the primeval, and the infinite. They listened all in hushed silence, and scarcely so much as dared to breathe while the soft pensive cadences still floated out solemnly across the calm ocean. And when he had finished, they sat for a few minutes in perfect silence, rendering the performer that instinctive homage of mute applause which is so far more really eloquent than any mere formal and conventional expression of thanks ‘for your charming playing.’

As they sat so, each musing quietly over the various emotions aroused within them by the mulatto’s forest echoes, one of the white gentlemen in the stern, a young English officer on his way out to join a West Indian regiment, came up suddenly behind them, clapped his hand familiarly on Edward’s back, and said in a loud and cheerful tone: ‘Come along, Hawthorn; we’ve had enough of this music now—thank you very much, Dr Thingummy—let’s all go down to the saloon, I say, and have a game of nap or a quiet rubber.’

Even Nora felt in her heart as though she had suddenly been recalled by that untimely voice from some higher world to this vulgar, commonplace little planet of ours, the young officer had broken in so rudely on her silent reverie. She drew her dainty white lamb’s-wool wrapper closer around her shoulders with a faint sigh, slipped her hand gently through Marian’s arm, and moved away, slowly and thoughtfully, toward the companion-ladder. As she reached the doorway, she turned round, as if half ashamed of her own graciousness, and said in a low and genuine voice: ‘Thank you, Dr Whitaker—thank you very much indeed. We’ve so greatly enjoyed the treat you’ve given us.’

The mulatto bowed and said nothing; but instead of retiring to the saloon with the others, he put his violin case quietly under his arm, and walking alone to the stern of the vessel, leant upon the gunwale long and mutely, looking over with all his eyes deep and far into the silent, heaving, moonlit water. The sound of Nora’s voice thanking him reverberated long through all the echoing chambers of his memory.

COLONIAL FARM-PUPILS.

It would be a matter of considerable interest if statistics could be obtained showing the number of parents who at the present time find themselves under the necessity of answering that much-debated question, ‘What shall I do with my sons?’ The comparatively narrow paths which lead to fame and prosperity are now so densely crowded by youths of good breeding and education, that but few parents are able to decide, without much anxious consideration, which is the best one for their sons to start life’s journey upon. Some parents choose the learned professions; others select a commercial career; while not a few decide upon a colonial life for their sons. The wisdom, or otherwise, of this last decision we do not here propose to discuss. We accept the plain fact that many well-bred and carefully nurtured young men annually leave these shores as emigrants, bound for the British colonies or the United States. The object of our remarks is to present to the fathers of these young emigrants what the writer—who has seen much, both of emigrants and emigration, on both sides of the Atlantic—regards as a piece of sorely needed advice upon one point of the great question of emigration, as it affects the sons of English gentlemen and ‘blue-blooded boys’ in general.

The average British parent is, as a rule, very ignorant of everything connected with life and labour in the colonies. He is perhaps a fairly successful man of business, or has risen in his profession; but in attaining this success, he has probably been so engrossed with his own occupations, that he has found but little opportunity of turning his attention to matters concerning him less closely. It is not indeed to be expected that any one man should be intimately acquainted with many different subjects. In these days of competition, the division of knowledge is as necessary as the division of labour; and it is the duty of those who are practically acquainted with emigration or any other subject to advise those who are not so well informed. This is what we now propose to do. We desire that our remarks upon the farm-pupil system in the British colonies be understood to apply equally to the Western States of America, which, so far as this article is concerned, are to all intents and purposes British colonies.

To the youth who has been brought up in a comfortable English home, under the care of watchful parents, emigration to any of the colonies brings a very rude and abrupt change of life. Thenceforth, parental oversight will be no longer obtainable, and the young emigrant will have to seek his own living among strangers in a strange land, where evil influences are generally numerous, where the ordinary mode of life is often very rough, and where no one need hope for success unless he is willing and able actually to perform hard manual labour. Under these circumstances, it naturally appears desirable to most parents to do all that lies within their power to obtain for their sons some training to fit them for their future life. This desire has called into existence the system under which many moderately well-to-do young emigrants, on first leaving England, agree to pay a premium to some colonist who is already established on a farm of his own, in order that they may be taught colonial farming.

The system is not in any way essentially a bad one; but it is open to great abuses, and in too many cases leads to fraud. No detailed rules for the guidance of the parents of young emigrants in this matter can be laid down. The necessities vary according to the circumstances of each particular case. But, in a general way, it may be stated that, when the parents of a youth can afford to pay a premium for his instruction, and have ascertained that the settler with whom they are placing their son is in a position faithfully to exercise that amount of oversight which they desire for him, there cannot be any very great abuse of the system. At the same time, it must be admitted that there is seldom any necessity why a premium should be paid. If the young emigrant be steady and of average push and intelligence, there is certainly little or nothing to prevent him obtaining all the experience he requires without paying any premium. Nevertheless, a youth of weak character, easily led away, and of indolent habits, may of course be benefited by a certain amount of care and oversight.

Farming, as practised in the colonies and in the Western States of America, is of the most elementary kind. A person of limited abilities may very easily acquire a knowledge of all its details. Moreover, in these thinly peopled countries, labourers are in great demand. It may be safely asserted that, in those colonies and in those portions of the west of America to which emigration is now chiefly directed, any young man, willing and able to perform ordinary farm-work, will find little difficulty in obtaining employment, at least during the summer months, in spite of the large number of men who are almost always in want of work in large cities. A perfect novice may find it necessary to work for a time for his board and lodging merely; but after a while, he will probably find himself in a position to demand at least sufficient wages, in addition to his board and keep, to maintain himself respectably. If the young emigrant follows the course thus suggested, he may not find his path quite so smooth as that of the young man who has paid his premium; but he will have a better chance of obtaining practical experience of farming. He will live in his master’s house, board at his table, and be treated very much as a member of the family—indeed, the premiumed pupil could hardly be better off; but he will be compelled to learn in a way which he who pays a premium can hardly be, and he will actually be paid for gaining the experience he requires, instead of paying for it!

The eagerness on the part of colonial farmers to obtain farm-pupils is capable of a very simple explanation. In most cases, these men know well enough that there is no real need for the system to be followed; but if they can succeed in obtaining a pupil, they are hardly to be blamed for so doing, as it is no slight advantage to themselves. In the colonies, the harvest usually is plentiful, while the labourers are few, and labour, consequently, is expensive. Obviously, therefore, a pupil who will pay to work and who will not be constantly wanting to leave, is a very great boon to any settler. It should be clearly recognised that, in most cases, if the pupil works in such a way as he must do if he is to obtain a useful practical knowledge of his occupation, his labour alone will amply remunerate the farmer, even if the latter has to find both board and lodging. Clearly, therefore, if a substantial premium be added, the advantage to the settler is considerable. The pupil-system often affords a good deal of amusement to keen-sighted Americans who are in a position to see its weak points. Not unfrequently the writer has had said to him on the other side of the Atlantic: ‘How uncommonly stupid you English people must be to be willing to pay to work!’ This expression not inaptly sums up the whole case.

The abuses to which the system is open are many. In the first place, an exorbitant sum—sometimes as much as one hundred pounds—is asked. Considering that the pupil could in most cases obtain the necessary experience without paying any premium, and that he actually remunerates the settler by working for him, we consider that, under all ordinary circumstances, ten pounds paid to the settler is ample. In the next place, an agent of some kind is necessary to mediate between the parents of a youth and the colonial settler; and either this agent or the settler, or both, may be dishonest, and fail to fulfil their contracts; indeed, the difficulty which a parent would meet with in attempting to compel a defaulting settler to carry out his agreement, is a great incentive to fraud. Only a short time ago it was reported in the daily papers that a number of youths who had paid premiums to an agent in England to be placed with farmers in California, found, on their arrival there, that no arrangements whatever had been made for their reception—in short, that they had been swindled. Similar cases have been heard of before. At the same time, we do not wish to say that there are not honest agencies.

Those who have seen most of the hap-hazard way in which emigration, not only of the poorer, but also of the better classes, is carried on from this country, often express amazement at the injudicious acts which are constantly being committed by ill-advised young emigrants and their blind though well-meaning parents. The needless paying of premiums by parents who can ill afford to spare the money is but one of these indiscretions. Passing over without comment the practice of shipping ‘ne’er-do-wells’ off to the colonies in the vain hope that they will do better there than at home, we cannot help remarking that numbers of promising young men, who are utterly unfitted for the life of an emigrant, are constantly being sent out, and either they, or the country to which they are sent, subsequently get blamed for an almost inevitable failure. Nothing, too, could be more injudicious than the placing of capital in the hands of inexperienced young emigrants at the outset of their career. In a large number of cases it is wholly lost; indeed, it is a common saying in America that but few young Englishmen commence to make headway in their new home until they have either lost or spent all they originally brought out with them and have had to buckle-to in sober earnest. As recommended in a late number (No. 95) of this _Journal_, those who are intended for a colonial career should go through a course of school-training especially intended to fit them for it.

A GOLDEN ARGOSY.

_A NOVELETTE._