The Church of England in Jamaica—­Drive to Castleton—­Botanical Gardens—­Picnic by the river—­Black women—­Ball at Government House—­Mandeville—­Miss Roy—­Country society—­Manners—­American visitors—­A Moravian missionary—­The modern Radical creed.

If I have spoken without enthusiasm of the working of the Church of England among the negroes, I have not meant to be disrespectful.  As I lay awake at daybreak on the Sunday morning after my arrival, I heard the sound of church bells, not Catholic bells as at Dominica, but good old English chimes.  The Church is disestablished so far as law can disestablish it, but, as in Barbadoes, the royal arms still stand over the arches of the chancel.  Introduced with the English conquest, it has been identified with the ruling order of English gentry, respectable, harmless, and useful, to those immediately connected with it.

The parochial system, as in Barbadoes also, was spread over the island.  Each parish had its church, its parsonage and its school, its fonts where the white children were baptised—­in spite of my Jesuit, I shall hope not whites only; and its graveyard, where in time they were laid to rest.  With their quiet Sunday services of the old type the country districts were exact reproductions of English country villages.  The church whose bells I had heard was of the more fashionable suburban type, standing in a central situation halfway to Kingston.  The service was at the old English hour of eleven.  We drove to it in the orthodox fashion, with our prayer books and Sunday costumes, the Colonel in uniform.  The gentry of the neighbourhood are antiquated in their habits, and to go to church on Sunday is still regarded as a simple duty.  A dozen carriages stood under the shade at the doors.  The congregation was upper middle-class English of the best sort, and was large, though almost wholly white.  White tablets as at Port Royal covered the walls, with familiar English names upon them.  But for the heat I could have imagined myself at home.  There were no Aaron Bangs to be seen, or Paul Gelids, with the rough sense, the vigour, the energy, and roystering light-heartedness of our grandfathers.  The faces of the men were serious and thoughtful, with the shadow resting on them of an uncertain future.  They are good Churchmen still, and walk on in the old paths, wherever those paths may lead.  They are old-fashioned and slow to change, and are perhaps belated in an eddy of the great stream of progress; but they were pleasant to see and pleasant to talk to.  After service there were the usual shakings of hands among friends outside; arrangements were made for amusements and expeditions in which I was invited to join—­which were got up, perhaps, for my own entertainment.  I was to be taken to the sights of the neighbourhood.  I was to see this; I was to see that; above all, I must see the Peak of the Blue Mountains.  The peak itself I could see better from below, for there it stood, never moving, between seven and eight thousand feet high.  But I had had mountain riding enough and was allowed to plead my age and infirmities.  It was arranged finally that I should be driven the next day to Castleton, seventeen miles off over a mountain pass, to see the Botanical Gardens.

Accordingly early on the following morning we set off; two carriages full of us; Mr. M —­, a new friend lately made, but I hope long to be preserved, on the box of his four-in-hand.  The road was as good as all roads are in Jamaica and Barbadoes, and more cannot be said in their favour.  Forest trees made a roof over our heads as we climbed to the crest of the ridge.  Thence we descended the side of a long valley, a stream running below us which gradually grew into a river.  We passed through all varieties of cultivation.  On the high ground there was a large sugar plantation, worked by coolies, the first whom I had seen in Jamaica.  In the alluvial meadows on the river-side were tobacco fields, cleanly and carefully kept, belonging to my Spanish friend in Kingston, and only too rich in leaves.  There were sago too, and ginger, and tamarinds, and cocoa, and coffee, and cocoa-nut palms.  On the hill-sides were the garden farms of the blacks, which were something to see and remember.  They receive from the Government at an almost nominal quit rent an acre or two of uncleared forest.  To this as the first step they set light; at twenty different spots we saw their fires blazing.  To clear an acre they waste the timber on half a dozen or a dozen.  They plant their yams and sweet potatoes among the ashes and grow crops there till the soil is exhausted.  Then they move on to another, which they treat with the same recklessness, leaving the first to go back to scrub.  Since the Chinaman burnt his house to roast his pig, such waste was never seen.  The male proprietors were lounging about smoking.  Their wives, as it was market day, were tramping into Kingston with their baskets on their head.  We met them literally in thousands, all merry and light-hearted, their little ones with little baskets trudging at their side.  Of the lords of the creation we saw, perhaps, one to each hundred women, and he would be riding on mule or donkey, pipe in mouth and carrying nothing.  He would be generally sulky too, while the ladies, young and old, had all a civil word for us and curtsied under their loads.  Decidedly if there is to be a black constitution I would give the votes only to the women.

We reached Castleton at last.  It was in a hot damp valley, said to be a nest of yellow fever.  The gardens slightly disappointed me; my expectations had been too much raised by Trinidad.  There were lovely flowers of course, and curious plants and trees.  Every known palm is growing there.  They try hard to grow roses, and they say that they succeed.  The roses were not in flower, and I could not judge.  Bye the familiar names were all there, and others which were not familiar, the newest importations called after the great ladies of the day.  I saw one labelled Mabel Morrison.  To find the daughter of an ancient college friend and contemporary giving name to a plant in the New World makes one feel dreadfully old; but I expected to find, and I did not find, some useful practical horticulture going on.  They ought, for instance, to have been trying experiments with orange trees.  The orange in Jamaica is left to nature.  They plant the seeds, and leave the result to chance.  They neither bud nor graft, and go upon the hypothesis that as the seed is, so will be the tree which comes of it.  Yet even thus, so favourable is the soil and climate that the oranges of Jamaica are prized above all others which are sold in the American market.  With skill and knowledge and good selection they might produce the finest in the world.  ’There are dollars in that island, sir,’ as an American gentleman said to me, ‘if they look for them in the right way.’  Nothing of this kind was going on at Castleton; so much the worse, but perhaps things will mend by-and-by.  I was consoled partly by another specimen of the Amherstia nobilis.  It was not so large as those which I had seen at Trinidad, but it was in splendid bloom, and certainly is the most gorgeous flowering tree which the world contains.

Wild nature also was luxuriantly beautiful.  We picnicked by the river, which here is a full rushing stream with pools that would have held a salmon, and did hold abundant mullet.  We found a bower formed by a twisted vine, so thick that neither sun nor rain could penetrate the roof.  The floor was of shining shingle, and the air breathed cool from off the water.  It was a spot which nymph or naiad may haunt hereafter, when nymphs are born again in the new era.  The creatures of imagination have fled away from modern enlightenment.  But we were a pleasant party of human beings, lying about under the shade upon the pebbles.  We had brought a blanket of ice with us, and the champagne was manufactured into cup by choicest West Indian skill.  Figures fall unconsciously at such moments into attitudes which would satisfy a painter, and the scenes remain upon the memory like some fine finished work of art.  We had done with the gardens, and I remember no more of them except that I saw a mongoose stalking a flock of turkeys.  The young ones and their mother gathered together and showed fight.  The old cock, after the manner of the male animal, seemed chiefly anxious for his own skin, though a little ashamed at the same time, as if conscious that more was expected of him.  On the way back we met the returning stream of women and children, loaded heavily as before and with the same elastic step.  In spite of all that is incorrect about them, the women are the material to work upon; and if they saw that we were in earnest, they would lend their help to make their husbands bestir themselves.  A Dutch gentleman once boasted to me of the wonderful prosperity of Java, where everybody was well off and everybody was industrious.  He so insisted upon the industry that I ask him how it was brought about.  Were the people slaves?  ‘Oh,’ he cried, as if shocked, ’God forbid that a Christian nation should be so wicked as to keep slaves!’ ’Do they never wish to be idle?’ I asked.  ‘Never, never,’ he said; ’no, no:  we do not permit anyone to be idle.’

My stay with Colonel J —­ was drawing to a close; one great festivity was impending, which I wished to avoid; but the gracious lady insisted that I must remain.  There was to be a ball, and all the neighbourhood was invited.  Pretty it was sure to be.  Windows and doors, galleries and passages, would be all open.  The gardens would be lighted up, and the guests could spread as they pleased.  Brilliant it all was; more brilliant than you would see in our larger colonies.  A ball in Sydney or Melbourne is like a ball in the north of England or in New York.  There are the young men in black coats, and there are brightly dressed young ladies for them to dance with.  The chaperons sit along the walls; the elderly gentlemen withdraw to the card room.  Here all was different.  The black coats in the ball at Jamaica were on the backs of old or middle-aged men, and, except Government officials, there was hardly a young man present in civilian dress.  The rooms glittered with scarlet and white and blue and gold lace.  The officers were there from the garrison and the fleet; but of men of business, of professional men, merchants, planters, lawyers, &c. there were only those who had grown up to middle age in the island, whose fortunes, bad or good, were bound up with it.  When these were gone, it seemed as if there would be no one to succeed them.  The coveted heirs of great estates were no longer to be found for mothers to angle after.  The trades and professions in Kingston had ceased to offer the prospect of an income to younger brothers who had to make their own way.  For 250 years generations of Englishmen had followed one upon another, but we seemed to have come to the last.  Of gentlemen unconnected with the public service, under thirty-five or forty, there were few to be seen, they were seeking their fortunes elsewhere.  The English interest in Jamaica is still a considerable thing.  The English flag flies over Government House, and no one so far wishes to remove it.  But the British population is scanty and refuses to grow.  Ships and regiments come and go, and officers and State employes make what appears to be a brilliant society.  But it is in appearance only.  The station is no longer a favourite one.  They are gone, those pleasant gentry whose country houses were the paradise of middies sixty years ago.  All is changed, even to the officers themselves.  The drawling ensign of our boyhood, brave as a lion in the field, and in the mess room or the drawing room an idiot, appears also to be dead as the dodo.  Those that one meets now are intelligent and superior men—­no trace of the frivolous sort left.  Is it the effect of the abolition of purchase, and competitive examinations?  Is it that the times themselves are growing serious, and even the most empty-headed feel that this is no season for levity?

I had seen what Jamaican life was like in the upper spheres, and I had heard the opinions that were current in them; but I wished to see other parts of the country.  I wished to see a class of people who were farther from headquarters, and who might not all sing to the same note.  I determined to start off on an independent cruise of my own.  In the centre of the island, two thousand feet above the sea, it was reported to me that I should find a delightful village called Mandeville, after some Duke of Manchester who governed Jamaica a hundred years ago.  The scenery was said to have a special charm of its own, the air to be exquisitely pure, the land to be well cultivated.  Village manners were to be found there of the old-fashioned sort, and a lodging house and landlady of unequalled merit.  There was a railway for the first fifty miles.  The line at starting crosses the mangrove swamps at the mouth of the Cobre river.  You see the trees standing in the water on each side of the road.  Rising slowly, it hardens into level grazing ground, stocked with cattle and studded with mangoes and cedars.  You pass Spanish Town, of which only the roofs of the old State buildings are visible from the carriages.  Sugar estates follow, some of which are still in cultivation, while ruined mills and fallen aqueducts show where others once had been.  The scenery becomes more broken as you begin to ascend into the hills.  River beds, dry when I saw them, but powerful torrents in the rainy season, are crossed by picturesque bridges.  You come to the forest, where the squatters were at their usual work, burning out their yam patches.  Columns of white smoke were rising all about us, yet so abundant the timber and so rapid the work of restoration when the devastating swarm has passed, that in this direction they have as yet made no marked impression, and the forest stretches as far as eye can reach.  The glens grew more narrow and the trees grander as the train proceeded.  After two hours we arrived at the present terminus, an inland town with the singular name of Porus.  No explanation is given of it in the local handbooks; but I find a Porus among the companions of Columbus, and it is probably an interesting relic of the first Spanish occupation.  The railway had brought business.  Mule carts were going about, and waggons; omnibuses stood in the yards, and there were stores of various kinds.  But it was all black.  There was not a white face to be seen after we left the station.  One of my companions in the train was a Cuban engineer, now employed upon the line; a refugee, I conjectured, belonging to the beaten party in the late rebellion, from the bitterness with which he spoke of the Spanish administration.

Porus is many hundred feet above the sea, in a hollow where three valleys meet.  Mandeville, to which I was bound, was ten miles farther on, the road ascending all the way.  A carriage was waiting for me, but too small for my luggage.  A black boy offered to carry up a heavy bag for a shilling, a feat which he faithfully and expeditiously performed.  After climbing a steep hill, we came out upon a rich undulating plateau, long cleared and cultivated; green fields with cows feeding on them; pretty houses standing in gardens; a Wesleyan station; a Moravian station, with chapels and parsonages.  The red soil was mixed with crumbling lumps of white coral, a ready-made and inexhaustible supply of manure.  Great silk-cotton trees towered up in lonely magnificence, the home of the dreaded Jumbi—­woe to the wretch who strikes an axe into those sacred stems!  Almonds, cedars, mangoes, gum trees spread their shade over the road.  Orange trees were everywhere; sometimes in orchards, sometimes growing at their own wild will in hedges and copse and thicket.  Finally, at the outskirts of a perfectly English village, we brought up at the door of the lodging house kept by the justly celebrated Miss Roy.  The house, or cottage, stood at the roadside, at the top of a steep flight of steps; a rambling one-story building, from which rooms, creeper-covered, had been thrown out as they were wanted.  There was the universal green verandah into which they all opened; and the windows looked out on a large common, used of old, and perhaps now, as a race-course; on wooded slopes, with sunny mansions dropped here and there in openings among the woods; on farm buildings at intervals in the distance, surrounded by clumps of palms; and beyond them ranges of mountains almost as blue as the sky against which they were faintly visible.  Miss Roy, the lady and mistress of the establishment, came out to meet me:  middle-aged, with a touch of the black blood, but with a face in which one places instant and sure dependence, shrewd, quiet, sensible, and entirely good-humoured.  A white-haired brother, somewhat infirm and older than she, glided behind her as her shadow.  She attends to the business.  His pride is in his garden, where he has gathered a collection of rare plants in admired disorder; the night-blowing cereus hanging carelessly over a broken paling, and a palm, unique of its kind, waving behind it.  At the back were orange trees and plantains and coffee bushes, with long-tailed humming birds flitting about their nests among the branches.  All kinds of delicacies, from fruit and preserves to coffee, Miss Roy grows for her visitors on her own soil, and prepares from the first stage to the last with her own cunning hands.

Having made acquaintance with the mistress, I strolled out to look about me.  After walking up the road for a quarter of a mile, I found myself in an exact reproduction of a Warwickshire hamlet before the days of railways and brick chimneys.  There were no elms to be sure—­there were silk cotton-trees and mangoes where the elms should have been; but there were the boys playing cricket, and a market house, and a modest inn, and a shop or two, and a blacksmith’s forge with a shed where horses were standing waiting their turn to be shod.  Across the green was the parish church, with its three aisles and low square tower, in which hung an old peal of bells.  Parish stocks I did not observe, though, perhaps, I might have had I looked for them; but there was a schoolhouse and parsonage, and, withdrawn at a distance as of superior dignity, what had once perhaps been the squire’s mansion, when squire and such-like had been the natural growth of the country.  It was as if a branch of the old tree had been carried over and planted there ages ago, and as if it had taken root and become an exact resemblance of the parent stock.  The people had black faces; but even they, too, had shaped their manners on the old English models.  The men touched their hats respectfully (as they eminently did not in Kingston and its environs).  The women smiled and curtsied, and the children looked shy when one spoke to them.  The name of slavery is a horror to us; but there must have been something human and kindly about it, too, when it left upon the character the marks of courtesy and good breeding.  I wish I could say as much for the effect of modern ideas.  The negroes in Mandeville were, perhaps, as happy in their old condition as they have been since their glorious emancipation, and some of them to this day speak regretfully of a time when children did not die of neglect; when the sick and the aged were taken care of, and the strong and healthy were, at least, as well looked after as their owner’s cattle.

Slavery could not last; but neither can the condition last which has followed it.  The equality between black and white is a forced equality and not a real one, and nature in the long run has her way, and readjusts in their proper relations what theorists and philanthropists have disturbed.

I was not Miss Roy’s only guest.  An American lady and gentleman were staying there; he, I believe, for his health, as the climate of Mandeville is celebrated.  Americans, whatever may be their faults, are always unaffected; and so are easy to get on with.  We dined together, and talked of the place and its inhabitants.  They had been struck like myself with the manners of the peasants, which were something entirely new to them.  The lady said, and without expressing the least disapproval, that she had fallen in with an old slave who told her that, thanks to God, he had seen good times.  ’He was bred in a good home, with a master and mistress belonging to him.  What the master and mistress had the slaves had, and there was no difference; and his master used to visit at King’s House, and his men were all proud of him.  Yes, glory be to God, he had seen good times.’

In the evening we sat out in the verandah in the soft sweet air, the husband and I smoking our cigars, and the lady not minding it.  They had come to Mandeville, as we go to Italy, to escape the New England winter.  They had meant to stay but a few days; they found it so charming that they had stayed for many weeks.  We talked on till twilight became night, and then appeared a show of natural pyrotechnics which beat anything of the kind which I had ever seen or read of:  fireflies as large as cockchafers flitting round us among the leaves of the creepers, with two long antennæ, at the point of each of which hangs out a blazing lanthorn.  The unimaginative colonists call them gig-lamps.  Had Shakespeare ever heard of them, they would have played round Ferdinand and Miranda in Próspero’s cave, and would have borne a fairer name.  The light is bluish-green, like a glowworm’s, but immeasurably brighter; and we could trace them far away glancing like spirits over the meadows.

I could not wonder that my new friends had been charmed with the place.  The air was exquisitely pure; the temperature ten degrees below that of Kingston, never oppressively hot and never cold; the forest scenery as beautiful as at Arden; and Miss Roy’s provision for us, rooms, beds, breakfasts, dinners, absolutely without fault.  If ever there was an inspired coffee maker, Miss Roy was that person.  The glory of Mandeville is in its oranges.  The worst orange I ate in Jamaica was better than the best I ever ate in Europe, and the best oranges of Jamaica are the oranges of Mandeville.  New York has found out their merits.  One gentleman alone sent twenty thousand boxes to New York last year, clearing a dollar on each box; and this, as I said just now, when Nature is left to produce what she pleases, and art has not begun to help her.  Fortunes larger than were ever made by sugar wait for any man, and the blessings of the world along with it, who will set himself to work at orange growing with skill and science in a place where heat will not wither the trees, nor frosts, as in Florida, bite off the blossoms.  Yellow fever was never heard of there, nor any dangerous epidemic, nor snake nor other poisonous reptile.  The droughts which parch the lowlands are unknown, for an even rain falls all the year and the soil is always moist.  I inquired with wonder why the unfortunate soldiers who were perched among the crags at Newcastle were not at Mandeville instead.  I was told that water was the difficulty; that there was no river or running stream there, and that it had to be drawn from wells or collected into cisterns.  One must applaud the caution which the authorities have at last displayed; but cattle thrive at Mandeville, and sheep, and black men and women in luxuriant abundance.  One would like to know that the general who sold the Newcastle estate to the Government was not the same person who was allowed to report as to the capabilities of a spot which, to the common observer, would seem as perfectly adapted for the purpose as the other is detestable.

A few English families were scattered about the neighbourhood, among whom I made a passing acquaintance.  They had a lawn-tennis club in the village, which met once a week; they drove in with their pony carriages; a lady made tea under the trees; they had amusements and pleasant society which cost nothing.  They were not rich; but they were courteous, simple, frank, and cordial.

Mandeville is the centre of a district which all resembles it in character and extends for many miles.  It is famous for its cattle as well as for its fruit, and has excellent grazing grounds.  Mr. —­, an officer of police, took me round with him one morning.  It was the old story.  Though there were still a few white proprietors left, they were growing fewer, and the blacks were multiplying upon them.  The smoke of their clearances showed where they were at work.  Many of them are becoming well-to-do.  We met them on the roads with their carts and mules; the young ones armed, too, in some instances with good double-barrelled muzzle-loaders.  There is no game to shoot, but to have a gun raises them in their own estimation, and they like to be prepared for contingencies.  Mr. —­ had a troublesome place of it.  The negro peasantry were good-humoured, he said, but not universally honest.  They stole cattle, and would not give evidence against each other.  If brought into court, they held a pebble in their mouths, being under the impression that when they were so provided perjury did not count.  Their education was only skin-deep, and the schools which the Government provided had not touched their characters at all.  Mr. —­’s duties brought him in contact with the unfavourable specimens.  I received a far pleasanter impression from a Moravian minister, who called on me with a friend who had lately taken a farm.  I was particularly glad to see this gentleman, for of the Moravians everyone had spoken well to me.  He was not the least enthusiastic about his poor black sheep, but he said that, if they were not better than the average English labourers, he did not think them worse.  They were called idle.  They would work well enough if they had fair wages, and if the wages were paid regularly; but what could be expected when women servants had but three shillings a week and ‘found themselves,’ when the men had but a shilling a day and the pay was kept in arrear, in order that, if they came late to work, or if they came irregularly, it might be kept back or cut down to what the employer chose to give?  Under such conditions any man of any colour would prefer to work for himself if he had a garden, or would be idle if he had none.  ‘Living’ costs next to nothing either to them or their families.  But the minister said, and his friend confirmed it by his own experience, that these same fellows would work regularly and faithfully for any master whom they personally knew and could rely upon, and no Englishman coming to settle there need be afraid of failing for want of labour, if he had sense and energy, and did not prefer to lie down and groan.  The blacks, my friends said, were kindly hearted, respectful, and well-disposed, but they were children; easily excited, easily tempted, easily misled, and totally unfit for self-government.  If we wished to ruin them altogether, we should persevere in the course to which, they were sorry to hear, we were so inclined.  The real want in the island was of intelligent Englishmen to employ and direct them, and Englishmen were going away so fast that they feared there would soon be none of them left.  This was the opinion of two moderate and excellent men, whose natural and professional prejudices were all on the black man’s side.

It was confirmed both in its favourable and unfavourable aspects by another impartial authority.  My first American acquaintances had gone, but their rooms were occupied by another of their countrymen, a specimen of a class of whom more will be heard in Jamaica if the fates are kind.  The English in the island cast in their lot with sugar, and if sugar is depressed they lose heart.  Americans keep their ‘eyes skinned,’ as they call it, to look out for other openings.  They have discovered, as I said, ‘that there are dollars in Jamaica,’ and one has come, and has set up a trade in plantains, in which he is making a fortune; and this gentleman has perceived that there were ‘dollars in the bamboo,’ and for bamboos there was no place in the world like the West Indies.  He came to Jamaica, brought machines to clear the fibre, tried to make ropes of it, to make canvas, paper, and I know not what.  I think he told me that he had spent a quarter of a million dollars, instead of finding any, before he hit upon a paying use for it.  The bamboo fibre has certain elastic incompressible properties in which it is without a rival.  He forms it into ‘packing’ for the boxes of the wheels of railway carriages, where it holds oil like a sponge, never hardens, and never wears out.  He sends the packing over the world, and the demand grows as it is tried.  He has set up a factory, thirty miles from Mandeville, in the valley of the Black River.  He has a large body of the negroes working for him who are said to be so unmanageable.  He, like Dr. Nicholls in Dominica, does not find them unmanageable at all.  They never leave him; they work for him from year to year as regularly as if they were slaves.  They have their small faults, but he does not magnify them into vices.  They are attached to him with the old-fashioned affection which good labourers always feel for employers whom they respect, and dismissal is dreaded as the severest of punishments.  In the course of time he thought that they might become fit for political privileges.  To confer such privileges on them at present would fling Jamaica back into absolute barbarism.

I said I wished that more of his countrymen would come and settle in Jamaica as he had done and a few others already.  American energy would be like new blood in the veins of the poor island.  He answered that many would probably come if they could be satisfied that there would be no more political experimenting; but they would not risk their capital if there was a chance of a black parliament.

If we choose to make Jamaica into a Hayti, we need not look for Americans down that way.

Let us hope that enthusiasm for constitutions will for once moderate its ardour.  The black race has suffered enough at our hands.  They have been sacrificed to slavery; are they to be sacrificed again to a dream or a doctrine?  There has a new creed risen, while the old creed is failing.  It has its priests and its prophets, its formulas and its articles of belief.

Whosoever will be saved, before all things it is necessary that he hold the Radical faith.

And the Radical faith is this:  all men are equal, and the voice of one is as the voice of another.

And whereas one man is wise and another foolish, and one is upright and another crooked, yet in this suffrage none is greater or less than another.  The vote is equal, the dignity co-eternal.

Truth is one and right is one; yet right is right because the majority so declare it, and justice is justice because the majority so declare it.

And if the majority affirm one thing to-day, that is right; and if the majority affirm the opposite to-morrow, that is right.

Because the will of the majority is the ground of right and there is no other, &c. &c. &c.

This is the Radical faith, which, except every man do keep whole and undefiled, he is a Tory and an enemy of the State, and without doubt shall perish everlastingly.

Once the Radical was a Liberal and went for toleration and freedom of opinion.  He has become a believer now.  He is right and you are wrong, and if you do not agree with him you are a fool, and you are wicked besides.  Voltaire says that atheism and superstition are the two poles of intellectual disease.  Superstition he thinks the worse of the two.  The atheist is merely mistaken, and can be cured if you show him that he is wrong.  The fanatic can never be cured.  Yet each alike, if he prevails, will destroy human society.  What would Voltaire have expected for poor mankind had he seen both the precious qualities combined in this new Symbolum Fidei?

A creed is not a reasoned judgment based upon experience and insight.  It is a child of imagination and passion.  Like an organised thing, it has its appointed period and then dies.  You cannot argue it out of existence.  It works for good; it works for evil; but work it will while the life is in it.  Faith, we are told, is not contradictory to reason, but is above reason.  Whether reason or faith sees truer, events will prove.

One more observation this American gentleman made to me.  He was speaking of the want of spirit and of the despondency of the West Indian whites.  ‘I never knew, sir,’ he said, ’any good come of desponding men.  If you intend to strike a mark, you had better believe that you can strike it.  No one ever hit anything if he thought that he was most likely to miss it.  You must take a cheerful view of things, or you will have no success in this world.’

‘Tyne heart tyne a’,’ the Scotch proverb says.  The Anglo-West Indians are tyning heart, and that is the worst feature about them.  They can get no help except in themselves, and they can help themselves after all if we allow them fair play.  The Americans will not touch them politically, but they will trade with them; they will bring their capital and their skill and knowledge among them, and make the islands richer and more prosperous than ever they were—­on one condition:  they will risk nothing in such enterprises as long as the shadow hangs over them of a possible government by a black majority.  Let it suffice to have created one Ireland without deliberately manufacturing a second.