‘No, no, we want to be like you. This is babyland. Make us great and good. You know the secret: you have lived there.’
‘What am I to do?’
‘Speak to father. Father will speak to the people. He does not see it as I do, but you can open his eyes. Then we’ll have a meeting, and begin to be like England at once.’
It was inviting, no doubt: to be a Moses of the Pacific, and to shape a nation! Perhaps they are in a bad way, if one comes to think of it. I remember that test case of the barter of the yams. It seemed nothing in passing; it is everything, if you look at it in the proper light. What poverty of spirit! they cannot so much as dispose of a vegetable on first principles. They have no principles at all, only beautiful emotions; no science of life; at best, but an unconscious art. Upon my word, they live like so many lilies of the field, not even like orchids, which, in a general way, are at least brought up. They are a mere flowery mead of humanity. By the time I have brought them to this state, in swift meditation, I myself might be a Scotch landscape gardener, for my yearning to lay them out in walks.
‘Very well, Victoria; anything to make you happy—you and yours. You wish to have your people civilised?’
Her smile was answer enough.
‘I must warn you beforehand: it hurts.’
‘How else could we expect it to do us good?’
‘Sometimes you will think me your worst enemy.’
‘O! be still! when will you speak to father?’