For all that, the sketcher was not a professional artist. Professionally, indeed, and to his misfortune, he was nothing. A poor scholar—without trick or trade by which he might earn a livelihood—he had come out to the West Indies, as young men go to other colonies, with that sort of indefinite hope, that Fortune, in some way or other, might prove kinder abroad than she had been at home.
Whatever hopes of success the young colonist may have entertained, they were evidently neither sanguine nor continuous. Though naturally of a cheerful spirit, as his countenance indicated, a close observer might have detected a shadow stealing over it at intervals.
As the ship drew near to the shore, he closed the book, and stood scanning the gorgeous picture of tropical scenery, now, for the first time, disclosed to his eyes.
Despite the pleasant emotions which so fair a scene was calculated to call forth, his countenance betrayed anxiety—perhaps a doubt as to whether a welcome awaited him in that lovely land upon which he was looking.
Only a few moments had he been thus occupied, when a strange voice falling upon his ear caused him to turn towards the speaker—in whom he recognised the distinguished cabin-passenger, Mr Montagu Smythje.
As this gentleman had voyaged all the way from Liverpool to Jamaica without once venturing to set his foot across the line which separates the sacred precincts of the quarter from the more plebeian for’ard deck, his presence by the windlass might have been matter of surprise.
A circumstance, however, explained it. It was the last hour of the voyage. The Sea Nymph was just heading into the harbour; and the passengers of all degrees had rushed forward, in order to obtain a better view of the glorious landscape unfolding itself before their eyes. Notwithstanding his often-expressed antipathy to the “abom’nable smell of taw” it was but natural that Mr Smythje should yield to the general curiosity, and go forward among the rest.
Having gained an elevated stand-point upon the top of the windlass, he had adjusted the glass to his eye, and commenced ogling the landscape, now near enough for its details to be distinguished.
Not for long, however, did Mr Smythje remain silent. He was not one of a saturnine habit. The fair scene was inspiring him with a poetical fervour, which soon found expression in characteristic speech.
“Doocèd pwetty, ’pon honaw!” he exclaimed; “would make a spwendid dwop-scene faw a theataw! Dawnt yaw think so, ma good fwend?”