Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman & Hall “Tales ofAll Countries” edition , email.
There is nothing so melancholy as acountry in its decadence, unless it be a people in theirdecadence. I am not aware that the latter misfortune can beattributed to the Anglo-Saxon race in any part of the world; butthere is reason to fear that it has fallen on an English colonyin the island of Jamaica.
Jamaica was one of those spots on which fortune shone with thefull warmth of all her noonday splendour. That sun hasset;—whether for ever or no none but a prophet can tell;but as far as a plain man may see, there are at present but fewsigns of a coming morrow, or of another summer.
It is not just or proper that one should grieve over themisfortunes of Jamaica with a stronger grief because hersavannahs are so lovely, her forests so rich, her mountains sogreen, and he rivers so rapid; but it is so. It is piteousthat a land so beautiful should be one which fate has marked formisfortune. Had Guiana, with its flat, level, unlovelysoil, become poverty-stricken, one would hardly sorrow over it asone does sorrow for Jamaica.
As regards scenery she is the gem of the westerntropics. It is impossible to conceive spots on theearth’s surface more gracious to the eye than those steepgreen valleys which stretch down to the south-west from the BlueMountain peak towards the sea; and but little behind these inbeauty are the rich wooded hills which in the western part of theisland divide the counties of Hanover and Westmoreland. Thehero of the tale which I am going to tell was a sugar-grower inthe latter district, and the heroine was a girl who lived underthat Blue Mountain peak.
The very name of a sugar-grower as connected with Jamaicasavours of fruitless struggle, failure, and desolation. Andfrom his earliest growth fruitless struggle, failure, anddesolation had been the lot of Maurice Cumming. At eighteenyears of age he had been left by his father sole possessor of theMount Pleasant estate, than which in her palmy days Jamaica hadlittle to boast of that was more pleasant or more palmy. But those days had passed by before Roger Cumming, the father ofour friend, had died.
These misfortunes coming on the head of one another, atintervals of a few years, had first stunned and then killedhim. His slaves rose against him, as they did against otherproprietors around him, and burned down his house and mills, hishomestead and offices. Those who know the amount of capitalwhich a sugar-grower must invest in such buildings willunderstand the extent of this misfortune. Then the slaveswere emancipated. It is not perhaps possible that we,now-a-days, should regard this as a calamity; but it was quiteimpossible that a Jamaica proprietor of those days should nothave done so. Men will do much for philanthropy, they willwork hard, they will give the coat from their back;—nay thevery shirt from their body; but few men will endure to look onwith satisfaction while their commerce is destroyed.
But even this Mr. Cumming did bear after a while, and kept hisshoulder to the wheel. He kept his shoulder to the wheeltill that third misfortune came upon him—till theprotection duty on Jamaica sugar was abolished. Then heturned his face to the wall and died.
His son at this time was not of age, and the large butlessening property which Mr. Cumming left behind him was forthree years in the hands of trustees. But neverthelessMaurice, young as he was, managed the estate. It was he whogrew the canes, and made the sugar;—or else failed to makeit. He was the “massa” to whom the free negroeslooked as the source from whence their wants should be supplied,notwithstanding that, being free, they were ill inclined t