*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69580 ***

COLONIAL FACTS AND FICTIONS.




  COLONIAL

  FACTS AND FICTIONS

  Humorous Sketches

  By MARK KERSHAW


  London

  CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
  1886

  [_The right of translation is reserved_]




CONTENTS.


                                                       PAGE

    NORTH AUSTRALIA                                       1

    QUEENSLAND                                           23

    ADVENTURES WITH A BOOMERANG                          64

    DARLING DOWNS AND NEW ENGLAND                        71

    A NEWCASTLE LEGEND; OR, THE STORY OF THE DARK ROOM   82

    THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF HULLOOMALOO                    111

    A WONDERFUL BATH                                    126

    A CIRCULAR STORY                                    134

    EARLY DAYS IN MELBOURNE; OR, CAPTAIN STRINGER
      AND THE WATERS OF JOGGA WOGGA                     147

    TASMANIA                                            158

    JOHNSON’S BOY                                       162

    THE SMELTING WORKS                                  168

    THE STORY OF A POST-BOX                             179

    NEW ZEALAND; OR, THE LAND OF THE MAORIS AND MOAS    192

    THE RABBIT DIFFICULTY EXPLAINED                     209

    DICKEY ADAMS                                        223

    ABOUT EARTHQUAKES                                   227

    TRIP TO THE HOT LAKES                               254

    A SYSTEMATIC GUIDE-BOOK                             284

    THE JOURNEY TO NEW ZEALAND                          286

    COACHING IN NEW ZEALAND                             288

    THE HOT LAKES                                       290

    THE COLD LAKES                                      292

    SUNRISES AND SUNSETS                                294

    GENERAL ASPECT OF NATURE IN NEW ZEALAND             296




Colonial Facts and Fictions.




_NORTH AUSTRALIA._


Residents in foreign lands often think that it is an impertinence if a
passing stranger write about them. Those who have been for a long time
resident in a country seldom write a description of their experiences.
About many things they seem to have learnt how little they really
know, whilst to things of every-day occurrence they have become so
accustomed, that they do not think them worthy of description. The
persons who do write, and who delight to write about a place, are the
birds of passage. These persons know very little about their subject.
The very fact of only knowing a little about a place adds a charm to
an attempt at its description. If you know everything about it you are
inclined to write a series of facts, while if you only know a little,
there is room for the exercise of the imagination, and the production
becomes a combination of truths and untruths.

Reading a book of facts is like reading a dictionary. To make facts
palatable they must be diluted as you dilute whisky. Never having been
blessed with a capacity for gleaning facts, I have gradually come to
dislike them. Now and again facts have been unpleasantly thrust upon
my attention. Some facts come out of two bottles. You take an inch of
one and dilute it with two inches of the other. In many respects these
facts may be compared to the high and low pressure cylinders of a
marine engine. Other facts come out of tall, gilt-necked bottles. First
they pop, and then they fizzle. When you have imbibed a lot of these
facts, at first you feel jolly. Afterwards you feel unwell. The facts
I picked up at Port Darwin gave me a headache. When I came to P.D. (it
is an Australian custom to abbreviate), I did not know the difference
between a kangaroo’s tail and a gum tree. I do not think that I knew
very much more when I left.

The first thing that happened when we dropped anchor, was that the
anchor made a great splash in the water. This was followed by the
rattling of the chain, and a great deal of vibration. We had many
Chinamen on board, and as Australians dislike Chinamen, they do what
they can to keep them out of their country. At every port, wherever
we went, no matter whether the Chinamen were to land or not, they
had to pass a medical inspection. At some of the ports the doctors
also inspected the Europeans. ‘Let me look at your forehead, now your
chest--Um, no spots. That will do.’

The doctors hold their appointments from the Government; the Government
holds its appointment from the working man. The working man, the
horny-handed son of toil, bosses Australia. It is the ‘navy’ to whom
we must look for the stringency of the quarantine regulations of
Australia. At the present time it is reported in Australia that there
is cholera in China. That a ship has a clean bill of health, although
it may have come from a non-infected port, although China is as big as
Europe, although the ship has been nearly a month at sea, on arriving
at Sydney she must go in quarantine. You come from China, you have
Chinamen on board; we don’t want you, and therefore in the face of
reason and justice, we will do what we can to throw difficulties in
your way. But more of this by-and-bye. I am in a hurry to get past the
facts.

The water at Port Darwin is dirty green, and it is full of sharks. When
people bathe they do so in a big thing like a bird-cage, and the whales
and the sharks have to snuffle about outside. These animals are said
to regard this treatment as unusually rough. The town at Port Darwin
is called Palmerston, but the two names are pretty well synonymous.
The place is located on the level table-land like ground above the
low cliffs which fringe the bay. Some of the houses, including the
Residency, the Government offices, and a town-hall, are built of
stone. Nearly all the other houses are built of corrugated iron. The
internal arrangement of these latter buildings, which are lofty and
gable ended, is quite ecclesiastical. The streets are wide and at
right angles. The houses occur at intervals along the sides of these
streets. Some of the streets have lots of grass in them. I heard that
it was suggested to run up a tall tower in the town to see the Russian
fleet approaching. The Russophobia has run throughout the colonies,
and I shall have to refer to it very often. There are about two hundred
whites in Palmerston, six or eight hundred yellow Chinamen, and a few
aboriginal ‘blacks.’ The ‘whites’ have in addition to the town-hall,
several hotels, a public library, a race-course, a cricket ground, two
or three tennis-courts, rifle butts, and a dramatic corps. There are
some wells in the place, but a lot of water is collected in corrugated
iron water-tanks. Many of the residents have an idea that the water
is not good, and in order to keep down the _comma bacillus_ and other
microscopic organisms, it is advisable to dilute it with liquors
imported from Europe. The place is called Port Darwin, because it was
evolved out of nothing. The town was called Palmerston because many of
the early inhabitants had a habit of carrying a twig in their mouth.

One of the first things we did on landing was to make a pilgrimage to
the various hotels. Our object was to see the town, and to read the
latest papers. Many of these establishments would be creditable to any
town. All of them have mahogany bars, garnished with long white handles
to pump up beer. These handles made a great impression upon me--in
fact they were indirectly the cause of my suffering from nightmare.
That night I had a dream that my head rested on a mahogany counter,
and while in this uncomfortable position a young lady, who had got me
by the back hair, gave me a series of vigorous pulls. While this was
going on, my tormentor smiled and inquired whether I preferred stout or
bitter? I should have remonstrated, but my nose was too close to the
counter for me to speak. Do what I would, backwards and forwards went
my face across the slippery board, and the musical ‘stout or bitter,
sir,’ kept ringing in my ears. At length the movement changed, and
instead of having my nose burnished, it was being bumped. This I was
told was because I had not replied to the fair persecutor, who, as her
anger increased at my reticence, appeared to expand like a concertina.
As she grew bigger and bigger, I grew less and less. Suddenly there was
a fearful crash, and I awoke to find that Peter’s hat-box had fallen
from a rack upon my head. My head with the rolling of the ship had been
sliding up and down against the side of my berth, and I imagine that
the ‘bob-e-te-bob’ of the screw had been the ‘stout or bitter, sir.’
The blue-ribbon faction in Australia are at present trying to introduce
a bill for the abolition of barmaids in Australia. After my dream I
felt inclined to offer them my support.

While at the hotel, Peter and I were introduced to an aboriginal. He
was black in colour, tall in stature, and had a curly hair. They called
him Charlie. I was told that he had been caught wild at a place in
the bush about one hundred miles back. When he was first caught the
landlord said he was a perfect terror. If you only looked at him, he
would snap his jaws, and grind his teeth together like a couple of
millstones, and when his passion reached a climax, he would swivel
his eyes round and round in circles, snort like a bull, and jump up
and down vertically. Charlie was now quite tame, and if we would give
him a bob he would take us to an encampment. The opportunity was too
good to be lost, for we might now obtain some authentic information
about the aborigines. Before starting, Charlie asked for the shilling,
remarking that it should not be squandered in the pot-house, but be
kept in remembrance of this visit. We recommended him to forward it
to some jeweller in Melbourne, who would mount the coin as a brooch
for his wife. Charlie thanked us for the suggestion, and said that he
would consult with his family on the subject, and let us know their
decision in the evening. The road to the encampment led by the side of
the cricket ground, after which there was a sharp descent to the beach.
Not having the agility of the antelope, the latter part of the journey
was very trying. As Charlie bounded from crag to crag, I observed that
the cartilaginous divisional membrane between his nostrils had been
perforated. Peter, whose attention I had called to this unnatural
aperture, was quite shocked, and remarked that the attention of the
Government ought to be drawn to this custom.

The dwellings of the natives were made of a few bent sticks covered
with scraps of old bags, bits of bark, and butter tins. The average
height of one of these houses was about three feet. You had to enter
on all fours, and, when inside, you could enjoy a capital view of the
stars, or of the surrounding scenery, through the cracks and rents in
the roof and wall. As there was no room to turn round, you came out
backwards. The only inmate of the camp was Charlie’s wife--Mary--the
remainder of the tribe were away on a fishing excursion. At the time
of our arrival Mary was sitting in a hole she had scraped in the sand,
playing with a small fox terrier and six small pups.

As we approached, Mary rose. She was dressed in a black skirt with
six flounces, and had on her feet a pair of French boots. Her back,
like the backs of all the native beauties in these parts, was done
in ridges. These ridges are produced by making cuts with a piece of
flint or glass, and then rubbing in a quantity of sand or gritty
earth. The custom originated by an endeavour to imitate the corrugated
iron buildings of the Europeans. Charlie said that his wife derived
considerable comfort from the ridges. A rigid surface freed itself from
water better than a smooth one; also, as Mary often slept outside, the
ridges raised her from the damp earth. He had heard that this custom
had been highly approved of at the Healtheries.

‘Mary,’ said Charlie, addressing his wife, ‘allow me to introduce to
you a sample of the distinguished strangers from the _Leviathan_ now
anchored in our bay.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said he turning to us, ‘allow me to have the pleasure of
introducing you to my spouse.’ Mary gracefully inclined her head, and
blushed a whitish-grey. We bowed.

‘Be seated, gentlemen, be seated. Make yourselves at home,’ said
Charlie, pointing to the sand, and then, turning to his blushing wife,
suggested that refreshments would be acceptable.

While Mary was engaged at a decayed stump searching for the delicate
and creamy grub known to scientists as the _Vermiculites filiformis_
on which to regale her guests, Charles told us the following touching
story of her capture.

‘Well, it came about in this way,’ said Charlie, clearing his throat
and expectorating on the sand. ‘Mary and I had been married a month or
so when we thought we would take a run down to the seaside as a wind-up
for our honeymoon. For a week or so it was a blaze of sunshine, which,
gentlemen, is not unusual in these parts. All day long we wandered up
and down the beach, chasing little crabs and gathering up shells. At
night, tired with paddling in the water, we scratched a hole in the
sand, and slumbered. One morning I awoke and I found I was alone. I
didn’t think much of it at the time, for Mary had a habit of rising
early to catch a particular kind of worm for which she knew I had a
partiality. As time passed, I felt a little anxious, and looked about
me to see if it was possible to discover the direction which Mary
had followed. I tracked her to the beach, and then down to the edge
of the water, but as the tide had risen beyond this, her footsteps
had been obliterated. “Mary, Mary, my love, where are you?” I cried.
But no response beyond the lapping of the waves. That day I must
have travelled nigh on twenty miles to the Eastward, in the hopes of
discovering some sign of Mary’s whereabouts. At one time I thought she
had deceived me, and had fled with an unknown lover. I vowed vengeance.
That night I had to sleep in a hole by myself. Next day I travelled
well on forty miles to the Westward, when just as the sun was going
down, I came on tracks as thick as if there had been a mob of cattle
passing. The few minutes of daylight that remained, for you know, sir,
in these parts when the sun goes down, the light disappears as quickly
as when you blow out a lamp, I spent in examining the tracks to see if
I could find one corresponding to the hoof of my Mary. Just before
the light went out, I found the print of a toe which I thought might
have been hers. Beyond this there was another little round hole, then a
third one, and then a fourth one--one following the other in a crooked
line. After I had seen the series there was no doubt in my mind but
that I was on Mary’s track. But why was Mary travelling on one toe, and
in crooked lines? Had she been waltzing? Was she intoxicated? Had some
heathen lopped off her other toes? Who were her companions? While I was
thinking over this and a hundred other questions, it became quite dark,
and I sat down at the foot of a tree to wait for dawn. I had hardly
been there a couple of hours, when a low wailing sound came on the
breeze, which had just set in down a neighbouring gully. It was Mary’s
voice, and I was off in an instant. In twenty minutes or so I had
reached the side of my dusky bride, who, to my horror, I found lashed
to a tree. I quickly untied the bonds, and we wept upon each other’s
necks. Mary then told me how, when she had risen to capture the early
worm, she had suddenly been captured herself by a party of “whites,”
who, after putting a gag in her mouth, had carried her off to the place
where I had found her. As she was borne alone, she kept putting her
foot down to the sand, and thus the toe marks. Her captors were close
in the neighbourhood, and had gone in search of me. We must get off at
once. Our first move was to hurry towards the beach, where we should
be able to travel quickly. Arriving on the shore we almost immediately
ran upon a number of tracks similar to those I had seen yesterday. They
came _from_ the bush down to the edge of the water, and then appeared
to branch off in both directions along the shore line. Now this is what
I want you to mark,’ said Charlie, tapping the ashes out of his pipe on
the toe of his boot: ‘the tracks came down _from_ the bush. Not _up_ to
the bush. “It is impossible to travel on the shore,” said Mary to me;
“we had better take the opposite direction, and enter the bush where
the strangers came out.” Little thinking what was about to happen,
hand in hand we entered the bush. We had hardly passed the first
thicket, than there was a dreadful yell, and Mary and I found ourselves
enveloped in a net. The rest of the story was short: we were bound,
brought into Palmerston, exhibited for a week in a show, and finally
tamed.’

‘But how was it,’ said Peter, ‘that you made such a blunder as to think
you were going in the opposite direction to those who caught you?’

‘Well, it was just this way,’ replied Charlie: ‘those whites didn’t
act square, knowing if I came along the beach looking for Mary I was
not going to run into their arms; _they just walked backwards from the
shore up to where they had set their darned net_. The blacks are up
to this backward trick now, so the new dodge is to catch their wives
first, and tie them up to a tree as bait to catch their husbands. That
is why they call the black women “gins.”’

When we returned to the hotel, we asked the landlord if he had ever
heard the story of Charlie’s capture. He looked at us for a minute,
and then went off in roars. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘Charlie tells that same
old lie to everyone as comes. How much did you give him for the
entertainment?’

That night Peter and I accepted an invitation to dine at a house where
there was a collection of pet animals very closely resembling a happy
family. I can only describe those which made some impression on me.
One animal was a great slate-coloured bird like a stork. Usually it
contented itself with standing stock still, posing as a bronze image.
When you advanced to admire the beautiful workmanship, it would give
a little ‘sold again’ sort of wink, and walk away. Another remarkable
creation was a parrot who was always edging along sideways towards
you, as if desirous of seeing how near you would allow it to put its
eye to yours. I suggested that it should be provided with a cage. The
most remarkable animal of all was a male sheep. This had once been a
little lamb skipping about with a blue ribbon round its neck. Since
its early days it had grown to the size of a young ox, and therefore,
instead of wandering about the house, it had been placed together with
other sheep in a paddock inside. In going home that night we had to
cross this paddock. As it was close on midnight my companions said
that danger need not be apprehended, the sheep would certainly be
sleeping. I once thought of turning my attention to sheep-farming, but
after my experiences on that memorable evening I think that all sheep
ought to be kept in cages, or at least wear muzzles. In was 12 p.m.
on the 4th of July. When in future years Americans see me rejoicing
on the glorious 4th, they need not embrace me as a faithful citizen.
My thanksgivings will be to commemorate deliverance from the jaws of
a ferocious sheep. The name of this sheep is Billy. I first saw Billy
standing in the moonlight. The moment my companions saw him, there was
a general stampede. I am thankful to state that I kept well in the van.
As to what occurred during the next ten minutes I can only speak from
memory. There was no time allowed for taking notes. For two or three
minutes or so, I am told that I was seen passing very rapidly backwards
and forwards over and through some wire fencing. During this time I can
remember a snorting and rustling going on at the distance of about two
feet from my coat-tails. Each time that I slipped between the wires I
could feel the warm breath of my pursuer near my body. Once or twice I
heard some vicious, blood-curdling snaps. At last there was a pause.
I was on one side of the railings and Billy was on the other. About
two feet away from us was an open gate, which at once explained the
continued proximity of Billy’s nose to my coat-tails. After grinding
his jaws, he snuffed defiantly, threw his head in the air, and marched
away. Billy had certainly cleared the field. It took us fully ten
minutes to collect together, and then ten minutes more to clear our
pockets and shoes of dirt and gravel. The whole thing had been like a
thunderstorm. So much for the innocence and docility of sheep. I shall
say more about Australian sheep in another chapter.

Next day a nice-looking fellow, called Pater, invited us to join a
shooting-party. This would give me an opportunity of seeing something
of the bush, so I embraced the offer. As Billy occupied the paddock,
it was necessary to make a detour, and we were in consequence rather
late for breakfast. We started in a buggy. The euphonious word ‘buggy’
is applied to a vehicle not unlike a waggonette. The place we went
to was called ‘The Lagoons.’ I believe they were the lagoons of some
particular person, but I forget his name. It was a long drive of
perhaps ten or twelve miles, through tolerably open woods, made up of
gum trees and screw palms. The gum trees grew anywhere and anyhow, but
the screw palms grew with a corkscrew-like arrangement of their leaves,
and only in places where there is water. If everything could arrive
at a helical condition by imbibing water, what a time the sailors
would have! Our road lay along a proposed railway track, and near an
existing telegraph line. The railway line will lead to the mining
districts, about 150 miles away. The telegraph line leads to Adelaide,
nearly 2,000 miles distant. In position it is something like a line of
longitude. We thought of following the line of telegraph to Adelaide,
but as we heard that the journey usually took two years, our friends
persuaded us to give up the notion.

Here and there we saw a lot of ant-hills. These ants have white bodies
and look like little grubs. I forget the colour of their heads. Most
ants are very active, and appear to be continually dodging about in a
variety of directions. These ants are very slow in their movements.
If you had not been told that they were ants, you would be inclined
to call them cheese-maggots. To all appearance they are without any
particular points, and as ants they are certainly below the average.

The only thing which makes North Australian ants conspicuous is their
work. In the woods their business appears to be carting dirt. Five or
six ants club together, and having selected a site, they commence to
cart dirt, and they continue carting dirt until they die. Then their
children cart dirt. Finally the grandchildren cart dirt. And so carting
dirt is continued from generation to generation, until at last carting
dirt has become a family mania. All this dirt is piled up to make a
mound like a small volcano or a meat-cover. The meat-covers that I
saw would hold two or three fair-sized oxen. Of how long it takes to
make a meat-cover I am unable to give any exact information, but if I
had resided at Port Darwin for a few thousand years I might possibly
have obtained some exact date. For argument’s sake, if we suppose that
twenty ants, and I never saw more than twenty together in one volcano,
carry a pound of dirt per annum, and a given monument weighs two tons,
then to build this particular monument it must have taken at least
4,480 years. If, however, just for variety we assume, that a particular
meat-cover weighed forty tons, then, with the other assumptions, a
meat-cover must have taken 90,000 years to build. Look at the question
as we will, the Port Darwin ants possess a history that will vie with
that of ancient Egypt.

In one or two places the ants had given a character to the scenery.
Some of them, instead of following the meat-cover plan of construction,
have built slab-like structures. A group of these erections looked like
a graveyard, where the form and position of the monuments had been
regulated by legislation. These ants were evidently of a melancholic
turn of mind. From careful meteorological observations, carried on
during a long series of years, it would appear that they had determined
the direction of the prevailing winds, and had placed these slabs end
on to this direction. These were magnetical ants, and might possibly be
able to correct a compass.

What all these ants had in their heads when they first started these
structures, no one has yet discovered. Perhaps, having travelled over
the whole of the Australian continent, they had become disgusted at its
flatness, and therefore had endeavoured to alleviate the monotony by
building up towns. Maybe they feared a flood.

These are the country ants. The town ants, having during the last
few years discovered that their structures form a good cement for
tennis-courts and other purposes, have adopted different tactics.
Instead of having their houses bored into, their great delight is
to bore into the houses of other people. They approach a house by
subterranean covered ways. Reaching a post, they bore up it from the
bottom to the top, only finishing when they have left a shell of paint.
Then they take a second post. Next they may attack a door. This they
eat out until it is as hollow as a drum. After this they attack the
stationary furniture, approaching everything by covered passages.
Somehow they manage to come through the floor just beneath the centre
of the leg of the table, or whatever it is they intend to devour. A
sheet of lead is no obstruction. I have seen sheets of lead eaten
away as if they had been so many pieces of woollen cloth. They began
with dirt, next they took to wood, and now they eat metal. They are
herbiferous, carniverous, metaliverous, dirtiferous, and all the other
‘iverouses’ that have yet been discovered.

Not long ago a bank manager had to write to his directors that he
regretted to inform them that there was a deficiency in his treasury.
A large quantity of bullion had been devoured by white ants. The reply
came by wire, ‘File their teeth.’

The first bird that was shot was a great big white cockatoo. All the
other cockatoos, that were with the one we shot, fled away. This
happened at a small shanty standing near the edge of a lagoon. I should
have shot the cockatoo myself, but it looked too much like slaughtering
a domestic fowl. Cockatoos were good to eat, they make excellent pies,
and I must shoot every one I saw; but--and here my companions were very
impressive--be careful and not get ‘bushed.’

To get ‘bushed’ means to get lost. A direction was pointed out to me
where I might meet with some geese. Being in a strange land, surrounded
with strange sights, in the midst of woods which, for aught I know,
might be tenanted by blacks and bushrangers, I was a little nervous.
This was heightened by the caution I had received about getting
‘bushed.’ It wouldn’t do to show the white feather, so waving an adieu
to my companions, I put my gun on my shoulder, and started into a cane
brake which skirted the side of the lagoon. It was simply horrible; you
could not see where you were going to, or where you had come from. At
every step your feet plopped into water; now and then you received a
slap across the face from an unusually elastic reed that had slipped
past your gun barrel. Here and there the bottom became so swampy that
I felt I might be bogged. This led to rushing and jumping between bits
of hard ground and tussocks of grass. Once or twice I found that I
had become impaled by the nostril on a cane that had been sticking out
horizontally. To unthread myself I had to walk backwards. Perhaps this
is the way in which the blacks get their noses bored. After ten minutes
or so of earthly purgatory, I had advanced perhaps fifty yards. Not
having any intention of training for a bushranger, not even if I could
have shot all the cockatoos and geese in Australia, I picked out a dry
looking spot, and sat down upon a bundle of reeds. While mopping the
perspiration off my face, looking at my bird-cage like surrounding,
and, I may add, reflecting on my folly, I heard a loud crackling in
the canes. It was evident that some big brute was approaching. There
are alligators in North Australia, and perhaps this was one of them on
his way to get a drink. I would have shouted to my companions, but by
this time I knew that they were far away. Then my tongue seemed to be
paralyzed and my hair was bristling. Suddenly the noise ceased. The
brute had stopped, and I pictured it with its nose upon the ground
snuffing at my tracks. At that moment I would have given the whole of
Far Cathay, had it been mine, for a moderate-sized tree. The only trees
were in the direction from which my pursuer was approaching. Suddenly
the crashing recommenced. The animal had snuffed me out, and was coming
on in bounds. Another crash, and the monarch of the swamp stood before
me. It wasn’t an alligator, but a hairy, snipe-faced animal with
long thin legs and an elegant waist. It might have been a dingo or a
kangaroo. Anyhow, as it did not look very ferocious, I would try and
capture it alive. For some minutes we looked at each other. As it was
clear that it did not intend to open the conversation, and there was no
one near to give us a proper introduction, I put on an idiotic smile,
and holding out my hand said, ‘Poor doggy--poor ’ittle doggy’--‘poor
’ittle doggy woggy.’ The last phrase seemed to fetch it, for it waggled
its tail, but when I rose to make an advance it put its nose in the
air, gave a sniff, turned round, and bounded off. Later on, I found
that the animal was a Scotch deer-hound, belonging to a party who had
come out to the shanty for a picnic, arriving just after I had entered
the cane brake.

When I got out of the cane brake I registered a vow never to enter
another cane brake while in Australia. The next place where I found
myself was in some tolerably open woods. Here I could see what was
coming, and if anything large appeared there were lots of friendly
trees. The first thing I fell in with were a lot of parrots. These were
of all sizes, shapes, and colours. From the manner in which they were
guffawing and screeching at each other, they appeared to have assembled
for an important debate. If each of them had been provided with a
little tin pot and a chain, the resemblance of my surroundings would
have been very like the parrot-house in the Zoo. Having been told that
cockatoos were game, I picked out what looked like a good-looking bird
of the cockatoo order, and dropped him as dead as a door nail. When I
picked it up, instead of being a cockatoo, to my great astonishment,
it turned out to be some kind of pink parrot. The parrots that had not
been shot, instead of flying away as the cockatoos had done, surrounded
me and my prize, and commenced a pandemonium of screeches that it will
take long to forget. Most of them sat in the trees, but others flew
over my head. What they said I could not well make out, but a lot of
it sounded like ‘Oh! you blackguard,’ ‘you blackguard.’ ‘Who shot poor
Polly?’ The confusion was only paralleled by that which overwhelmed
Baalam. But not being in a mood to be bullied by a parcel of parrots,
I picked up my game and marched towards the camp. All the way I was
accompanied by a flock of flapping pollies. Some went in front, some
came along on my flanks, while some were behind me bringing up the
rear--they were like mosquitoes. Every one of them was yelling and
squalling fit to break their throats. A pretty lot of companions. Now
and then, one bolder than the rest, would almost touch my head. At
one time I felt inclined to bury my game. The next moment I thought I
would shoot a few of the tormentors. This, however, might only lead to
greater trouble. It was certain I could not go into camp with a troop
of yelling parrots after me, but how was I to get rid of them? As we
went on they appeared to increase in numbers, and their yelling became
louder and louder. I now began to regret that I had shot a pink parrot.
When within a hundred yards or so of the shanty, I saw an old gentleman
with a lady and two or three youngsters seated round a table-cloth.
To complete the party there was my snipe-nosed friend of the cane
brake, looking out for the tail ends of ham sandwiches. Here a bright
thought struck me. If I were to drop my game near to the picnickers,
my infuriated companions might perhaps get mixed, as to who had been
the murderer. It worked beautifully. Holding the parrot behind my
back, I walked up to within ten or twelve yards of the unsuspecting
pleasure party, and, without stopping, dropped Polly and walked along.
What happened after my absence I did not stop to see; all that I knew
is that when I returned the picnickers had departed. The pink parrot
had also gone. Shortly after this I blundered on a second lagoon,
which was fringed with tall grass. Before me there was a flock of
geese. On the opposite side of the lagoon, and evidently stalking the
geese, there were two of my companions up to their arm-pits in water.
I felt extremely sorry for my companions, for the geese, on seeing me,
immediately rose, and I shot one of them. From the gesticulations of my
companions I could see that they were annoyed, so I quickly retreated,
congratulating myself at being out of gun-shot. After this I met with
a multitude of adventures. The greatest surprise, however, was on my
way back to the shanty, where we were to meet for lunch. That I met
with a wild beast, there is no doubt. It passed in front of me at a
distance of about six feet when I first saw it; its head was in the
bushes, and it appeared to be about as long as my gun. It was like a
log of wood moving end on. There was no crackling this time. It simply
slid along like a panorama, passing out of sight into a clump of screw
pines. For a moment I was rooted to the spot; my heart palpitated, and
my hair bristled. What was the phenomenon? Could it be anything less
than an alligator? If it was a baby alligator, where were papa and
mamma? Should I go on, or should I turn round and run? The way I did
go was backwards and sideways, the whole time pointing my gun at the
clump of screw pines. Each time that a leaf rustled or I saw a crooked
stump, I prepared for the final struggle. When I got back my companions
told me it was only an iguana, and I ought to have shot it. They made
first-rate curry. I spent the afternoon in keeping camp, watering
the horses, and washing up the plates. While doing this, I saw Pater
stalking some geese up to his neck in water, at the opposite side of
the lagoon to where we were encamped. He shot one of them, and then
putting his gun ashore swam about a quarter of a mile out amongst a lot
of water-lilies to retrieve the game. Until I saw him safe ashore I was
quite concerned about his safety. To be a successful sportsman about
Port Darwin you ought to be about eight or nine feet long, and not mind
wading.

Everything having been nicely arranged about the camp, I took the
cushions out of the buggy, and prepared myself for a siesta. Then I
dozed. Just as I had reached the middle of an interesting dream, I
was awakened by crackling and a cloud of smoke. Here was a pretty go.
The bush was on fire, and within half a mile wild flames were leaping
up higher than church steeples. This was worse than alligators. The
horses might be saved by turning them free, but the buggy,--well, the
buggy might be saved if it was of cast-iron. To get a better view of
the conflagration, I climbed on the roof of the shanty. The wind was
blowing straight at me, and, at every gust, the flames would seethe
along fifty yards nearer. Nearer and nearer came the flames. Hotter and
hotter grew the gusts of air, thicker and thicker came the clouds of
smoke and smut, louder and louder grew the roaring. Oh! what an ass I
had been to venture into the Australian bush! Just as I was setting
the horses free, Pater turned up and asked me what I was about. ‘The
fire,’ said I. And then he laughed. ‘Why, we set it going ourselves. It
can’t possibly cross that patch of green stuff.’

This was the end of my first experience in the bush. We were all of us
awfully tired when we got back, and slept like tops.

Port Darwin is by no means a bad place. For many years North Australia
was a white-elephant country, but now it is a land of promise. It is a
sort of colony within a colony, being attached to South Australia by
the same sort of bonds that South Australia is attached to England. At
present Port Darwin is the terminus of the cables from Europe, and the
land lines are the Australian colonies. Before a great many years it
hopes, by being the terminus of a transcontinental railway, to become
a San Francisco or New York. When this is made, the journey to and
from the colonies will be considerably shortened; six hundred miles
of line now run northwards from Adelaide, and very shortly there will
be 150 miles of line southwards from Port Darwin. This latter line
will open up a number of valuable mining districts, where gold, copper
and tin are already being worked. In addition to mining industries,
North Australia offers a good field for the squatter and planter. The
squatters, with herds of horned cattle, have already been successful.
The planters have, however, thus far failed. When they had good land
they wanted capital, and, where they had capital, they were unfortunate
in their selection of land. On the coast there are the pearl shell
fisheries.

By-and-bye we shall hear that Port Darwin has become as famous as the
distinguished savant who gave to it its name. Port Darwin, Good luck!
and good-bye.




_QUEENSLAND._


In my last letter I told you about our experiences at Port Darwin. It
took us exactly three days to get over those experiences. Those who
didn’t sleep, sat on cane chairs gazing at the Gulf of Carpentaria,
thinking of their past folly, and speculating when the next flying
fish would rise. There is not much excitement in tropical seas. You
seldom if ever see a ship, and birds, if there are any, are too languid
to take exercise. All is dead save the movement of the waters, and
the fluttering of flying fish. We had related all our stories, and it
was too hot to invent new ones. After about two hours of silence in
the afternoon of the second day, the lively Peter said he would bet a
new hat that we could not find in Dod’s atlas, islands corresponding
to all the days of the week. I forgot to tell you that one of Dod’s
chief amusements was to mark out his route in a big atlas which he
had brought with him. Peter’s proposal was accepted, and I am sorry
to record the fact that I lost the hat. I am sure that I didn’t lose
because the islands do not exist, but because Dod’s atlas was not
big enough. It did not even mark the great Thursday Island, which we
were approaching. If there had only been a detailed map of the north
end of Australia, I think I should have won. Tuesday, Wednesday, and
Friday Islands exist near Thursday Island, and the only island about
which I should have been doubtful, would have been a Sunday island. I
don’t think the people who live near the land’s end of the Australian
continent could harmonize with an island named after the seventh day. I
wonder if Peter looked at the atlas before he made the bet?

Thursday Island is one out of a set of hilly islands forming outliers
off the end of Cape York. From a balloon they ought to look like the
commencement of a series of stepping stones, reaching from Australia
towards New Guinea. If the series were ever complete, the greater
part of it has been washed away, and all that remains is the southern
end of the line. As we steamed in between these islands, we passed at
the distance of about one hundred yards, a steamer coming out. The
waving of handkerchiefs was immense. A lady passenger not only waved
her handkerchief, but she fairly jumped with excitement, and beckoned
to us as if she wanted us all to jump overboard, and swim after her.
It was clear she recognised somebody, but, who that somebody was we
never discovered. For the next week we used to address our skipper as
‘the sly dawg who flirted with the lady on the _Greyhound_.’ It has
often astonished me how bold ladies become, and gentlemen also, when
there is some sort of a barrier between them. When a train is leaving
a platform, respectable ladies can sometimes hardly repress a smile at
respectable gentlemen, but, while the train is standing at the station,
both the ladies and the gentlemen are as solemn as petrifactions.

The handful of people at Thursday Island had, like the inhabitants of
all the other ports on the Australian coast, made preparations against
sudden invasion. Practice was going on at a rifle butt, the lights
which guide the ships had been extinguished for many nights, and the
hulks holding coals and other stores by withdrawing certain plugs could
at a moment’s notice be scuttled. One old lady fearing that on the
approach of the Russians, she might have to take refuge in the bush,
kept her pockets filled with fishing lines and hooks. At least she
would have the means of supplying the camp with fish.

On my second visit to Thursday Island, which was in company with
Captain Green, a skipper who is as lively, energetic, and entertaining
as any skipper I ever travelled with, I visited a number of the
neighbouring islands where we climbed trees to obtain enormous bean
pods, gathered orchids, and visited shelling stations.

The bays and islets of Thursday Island and its neighbourhood certainly
form pictures above the average of Australian scenery. Near the beach
are groves of mangrove, while miles up there are rocky cliffs and
patches of withered herbage. It is said that nothing of any value can
be induced to grow on Thursday Island, while on the volcanic islands,
twenty miles or so to the northward, yams and other vegetables thrive
magnificently. One great difficulty which has to be contended with is
the want of water, the supply necessary for household purposes being
chiefly dependent on what is caught from the roofs. As the quantity
of rain which falls is but little more than that which falls in the
great Sahara, the price of washing may be imagined. After three days in
Thursday Island you feel that you have lived long enough to start upon
your autobiography. After a week you feel that you haven’t the energy
for such an undertaking, and you leave the task for posterity.

From sidewalks which are over the tops of naturally formed sand dunes,
it may be inferred that there is no Department of Public Works in
Thursday Island. There is a nice sandy walk in any direction you like
to take. Now and then you may be stopped by a small mountain of old
bottles and meat tins.

The persons who live here are of various nationalities. I saw British,
Blacks, Cingalese, Japanese, and Kanakas. There were also a few
residents from Damascus, and a Polish emigrant from Siberia. The chief
occupation is diving for pearl shells. This is done from small boats
with diving dresses. The divers hold a monopoly of their business. They
get from £3 to £3 10s. for 100 shells, and it takes 8 to 900 shells to
make a ton, which is worth from £130 to £150. White men provide the
capital for this business, but it is the dark-skinned people who do the
actual diving. If a white man insists on diving, the probability is
that an accident occurs. The poor fellow’s signals were not understood,
and he dies for want of air. The divers take as their perquisite all
the pearls they find, which they trade off to jewellers or at grog
shops. The pearls ought properly to go to the owners of the boats. At
the end of a year a diver, after having received all his food which
he insists shall be of the best description, and accompanied with the
necessary sauces, finds that he has from £300 to £500. Then comes the
‘knocking down’ and a general debauch, at which time those persons not
desirous of being converted into lead mines or sieves, retire to their
dwelling.

Now there is a small church at Thursday Island, and the manners of the
cosmopolitans it is hoped may be softened. How they will get on at
their christenings without water, is a problem yet to be solved.

Thursday Island is a young place, but still it has its stories. The
stories chiefly relate to enormous pearls and the adventures of divers.
I was particularly struck with one story I heard, partly because I had
reason to believe it to be true, and partly because the scenes referred
to were indicated by the narrator as the story went on. It was called:


Ah Foo, the Gardener of Thursday Island.

Pearls and pearl shells are now getting scarce at and about Thursday
Island, began the narrator. In early days pearls were common enough
to be had for the asking. There are some of my mates here that have
had pearls given to them by the handful. They would get a few set in
rings for their sweethearts, the balance they would pass on to their
friends. The first who discovered this El Dorado was an Israelite from
Vienna. He came and bought up all he could, and then he went, and we
have never heard of him since. After the first Oriental there came a
second Oriental. This was a Chinaman. He called himself Ah Foo, and
told us that his home was in Shantung or Shanshi. I forget which. In
big colonial towns Chinamen are usually washermen. In the suburbs,
and in the country, they are gardeners. About half Australia depends
upon Chinamen for their vegetable diet. As Chinamen supply it, the
profession of a gardener has come to be regarded as an occupation by no
means comparable with true manhood.

You point to the only fertile spot in a barren burnt up township, and
before you can ask what it is, you are told that it is one of those
gardens made by Chinamen. They are always making gardens. With the
manure they use they will poison some of us yet. Would you believe it,
they only use night soil. They are such a dirty lot.

This is all the thanks a Chinaman gets for making a pleasant little
green oasis and feeding the whites on cabbages and peas. To be a
gardener is looked upon as a Chinaman’s profession. In fact pottering
about with a watering pot, and hawking vegetables, is the greatest
height to which a Chinaman’s soul is supposed to rise.

Ah Foo, when he came to Thursday Island, started a garden. How things
were to be induced to grow, nobody could conceive. That was the
Chinaman’s business. If there is a second Aden in the world, it must be
remembered that it is well represented by Thursday Island. It seldom
rains at Thursday Island, but yet Ah Foo kept digging away at his
ground, expecting that some day or other it might produce a crop, and
the harvest he would get, for cabbages were worth five shillings each,
would well repay him for his labours. But weeks passed, and no rain
came, and the Chinaman for a month or so paused in his labours. From
time to time during this period of melancholy, he would descend from
his hut up the gully, and take a seat upon a bench within the little
Public.

‘Well, John, and how’s the garden?’ the landlord would ask.

‘Me loose plenty money. No catchee lain, water melons and cabbages no
makee glow,’ replied John;--and he looked sad enough for the first
mourner at a funeral. Several of the residents on Thursday Island, who
had travelled, knew that Chinamen succeeded in growing vegetables in
places where even a Mormon would fail.

‘Just let John alone, we’ll have our cabbages yet. Why Chinamen can
raise peas out of a bed of salt in a baker’s oven.’ So John was
encouraged by a smile and toleration. Many of the older hands on the
island hadn’t tasted fresh vegetable for three years, and they regarded
John’s efforts with great interest. Now and then a resident who had
taken an evening stroll past Ah Foo’s patch, would, whilst taking his
tot of square face, casually refer to what he had observed. ‘That
garden up there ain’t doing much,’ one would remark. ‘Exactly as I was
saying to Smith, here,’ was the reply. ‘Plenty of stones and dirt; I
reckon he’s waiting for the rain.’ By-and-bye John’s garden became a
joke--in fact a sort of bye word for a bad spec. Still John pegged
along. Now and then he could be seen toiling up the hill with two
baskets filled with sea weed suspended at the end of a stick. This was
manure for the garden.

Six months passed and still there had not been a sprinkle, and John
had never produced a single vegetable. Thursday Island was as brown as
a baked apple. ‘Curious folks these Chinee,’ said the old resident,
‘always industrious. Why if we had their perseverance we’d been
millionaires by this time.’

People next began to speculate as to what would be the price of John’s
cabbages when they did grow.

‘I wonder how he lives? Why it’s half a year since Ah Foo came, and
he hasn’t sold a copper’s worth of stuff as yet. I suppose the other
Chinamen help him along.’ We heard that they are terribly clannish in
their country. In the midst of all the speculations as to the source
of Ah Foo’s income, there was a clap of thunder, and the rain fell in
buckets’ full. Everybody looked up towards the Chinaman’s cabin as if
they expected to see cabbages rising like the magic mango.

A week or so after this down came Ah Foo from his patch boiling over
with tribulation. He said, the birds had taken his seeds, and, while
all Thursday Island was putting in a coat of green, Ah Foo’s patch
remained as brown as a saddle. ‘No makee garden up that side any more,
more better look see nother place. My flend talkee that island overside
can catchee number one land. I make look see.’ For two months after Ah
Foo was heard of cruising round about the islands. And as there were
a good lot of shelters knocking about it was surmised that John got
his tucker free. At last he returned still looking fat and healthy
let it be remarked, with but an expression more woebegone than ever.
More better my go away. Spose flend pay my money I go China side. No
catchee chancee this side. The rumour that Ah Foo was busted, quickly
spread, and a good deal of sympathy prevailed. Hadn’t he tried to
benefit them, and, in the endeavour, been ruined. The argument appealed
to the feelings of Ah Foo’s sensitive sympathizers, and as most of
the residents on Thursday Island are generous and tender hearted, a
subscription was raised to send Ah Foo back to his fatherland. And he
left us.

Two months afterwards what do you think we discovered. Why we
discovered that Ah Foo had never had a garden at all, and he never
intended to have one. All the time he was here he was buying up pearls
from the black divers which ought to have come to us. _If Ah Foo took a
penny out of Thursday Island he took at least £30,000, and we raised a
subscription to get him carried off._

       *       *       *       *       *

When I turned out next morning, I found that we were steaming along
past a place called Somerset. So far as I could see Somerset consists
of one house. Many years ago it was intended that Somerset should be
the capital of this part of the world. Experience, however, showed that
a better location might be had on Thursday Island, and thus Somerset
was deserted, and Thursday Island adopted. The solitary house which
now remains at Somerset was originally the habitation of the Resident.
How deceptive atlases often are! The owner of Somerset ought to pay
Keith Johnston pretty handsomely for making the world believe that
his bungalow is of equal importance with New York or London. What the
Russians pay for having the Urals represented as a great big black
caterpillar equal to, if not bigger, than the smudge which represents
the Alps, I can’t say, but they ought to pay at least as much as the
owner of Somerset. I heard that Somerset was a good place to stay at,
and get sport amongst the blacks. Usually you can rely on getting two
or three brace per day. The great thing to attend to is to see that
they don’t get you. After a careful inquiry as to the population of
Somerset, I could only hear of one white man. His isolation has made
him famous, and the name of Jardine is known throughout Australia. As
we went south, the coast got lower and lower, until it finished as a
country of white sand hills. The Queensland Government regard these
hills as a future source of revenue. It is here, when trade becomes
more localized, that the glass works of the universe are to be erected.

Beyond the sand hills we came to some rocky capes. One of them called
Cape Melville was made of boulders, each of which was from the size of
a college to a cathedral. It is one of the best bits in the world of
rockery work.

All the way down this coast we had smooth water, in fact I believe that
everybody has smooth water. The reason for this is, that between us and
the open ocean, there is a range of coral reefs running parallel with
the land, so that we were sailing down what was equivalent to a huge
canal. The length of this canal is about 1,200 miles, and its width
from 10 to about 60 miles. If you get into one end of the canal there
is but little chance of getting out of it, unless by sailing straight
ahead or by turning back. There are certainly one or two openings
leading to the ocean, but, those who try to find them, usually find
themselves landed in a maze of channels formed by the parallel lines of
reef, which together build up the one great reef, which is marked on
maps as the Barrier Reef. An old gentleman on board, whom we picked
up at Port Darwin, gave us a thrilling account of his adventures in
the barque _Mary Ann_, which was wrecked on the outside of the great
reef in 1864. After the vessel had become a total wreck, he and his
companions were fifty-five days in a boat, sailing from reef to reef.
At first they subsisted on the few provisions saved from the wreck.
These being exhausted, death from starvation seemed to look them in
the face. From time to time they obtained a little moisture by licking
the dew which during the night was precipitated on their sails. Having
eaten their last boot, they felt their end was close at hand, and each
one, hoping that their remains would be discovered, scratched a tender
farewell to his nearest relatives on his pannikin. They were then
encamped upon a rocky reef.

‘Before lying down to die,’ said the narrator, ‘as a last hope I
dragged myself to the top of the rocky peak at the foot of which my
companions were lying. The sight I saw was one never to be forgotten.
We were saved--saved! and I beckoned to my companions to join me. It
wasn’t a ship, gentlemen; it was a turtle.’ He called them ‘tuttles.’
‘Tuttles are plentiful in those seas, but, like blockheads as we were,
we had never thought of looking for them. Up came my companions, and
there we lay flat on our stomachs peering over a rock, watching the
tuttle as it crawled along the beach. How our eyes followed the animal!
It was no good trying rushing straight at him, for the darned beast
would have rolled into the water. As for surrounding him, there was no
chance unless the tuttle went asleep. It was too flat for manœuvres
of that description. To make an attempt, and then to lose him, meant
starvation. So we had a discussion, everybody whispering his ideas to
his neighbours. If anybody only knew how fast a tuttle could run, we
might let him wander far enough back until we could outrace him before
he reached the sea. Sam, the cook, said that he had been told that some
tuttles had a very good record. In the West Indies they used to race
them for bottles of rum. The general opinion, however, was that we had
better not try the racing dodge; the tuttle might win. So we all took
in another reef of our belts, determined to hold on for half an hour
more. By this time, gentlemen, starvation had made us as elegant about
the waists as Italian greyhounds. When thus speculating as to the best
course to be pursued, Ah Sing, who was cabin-boy aboard, looks up and
says, “That tuttle makee new pigen.” We all looked, and we saw that the
black-looking rock which had been progressing slowly across the white
sand had come to a halt. Presently we saw it going in circles, for all
the world like a dog going to sit down. Then it snuffed the sand, and
began to scratch with its black legs, throwing up a shower of dirt in
all directions. At times the showers of dirt were so thick that the
motive power was invisible. “Tuttle’s gone mad,” said one. “By and by
he makee hole all same as rabbit,” said Ah Sing. Sam suggested that he
was going to lay eggs. Sam, I forgot to say, was an Irishman, and Sam
was right. For a moment we forgot our hunger, and just watched. When
he had made a hole about as big as a good-sized fish-pond, the turtle
squatted down, gave a duck of his head, and laid an egg. Presently he
gave another duck, and laid a second egg. Then a third, a fourth, and
so on, until in about twenty-five minutes she had laid seventy-two
great white eggs. This finished, she came out of the hole, or what
was left of it (for it was nearly full of eggs), scratched some sand
over her production, and, exhausted, fell on her back and dozed. We
caught the turtle, and also got the seventy-two eggs. It was this as
saved our lives.’ After this he told us how they reached the mainland,
where they had a narrow escape of falling into the hands of cannibals.
Finally they were rescued by a whaler. The story was filled with the
most circumstantial detail, and the telling of it took fully an hour.
When it was ended, the old gentleman, who looked like a colonel who had
seen service in the Indian Mutiny, remarked that he would go on deck
and have a smoke. ‘_Well_,’ said the skipper, when he had gone, ‘_I
was first mate of the “Mary Ann” from ’62 to ’64, and we never seed
no coral reefs. Folks at Port Darwin cultivates their imagination, I
suppose, I’d recommend ’im to be a poet._’

After three days’ steaming and three nights’ lying at anchor--for
our skipper was a cautious old man, and preferred camping at sundown
to waking up hard and fast on a coral reef--we reached Cooktown. We
dropped our kedge about six miles off the shore, and there we waited
lollopping about on a swell until we had been boarded by the local
doctor, who came to see if we had imported any disease. All that we
could see was Mount Cook, named after the famous captain, and the beach
on to which he had run his ship, the _Endeavour_, after jumping her
over several coral ranges when approaching the Australian coast. Mount
Cook is about 1,000 feet high. The beach is flat, and on the edge of
the water. After hearing about the famous navigator, we began to think
that after all there might be some historical associations connected
with Australia. Possibly behind Mount Cook there might be the relics
of a baronial hall, a drawbridge, a Roman aqueduct, a moat, or even an
ancient suit of armour.

The medical inspection, so far as I could see, consisted in a lot
of frowsy men--who seemed, from their general unkempt appearance,
to require more inspection than anyone on board our boat--going
into the captain’s cabin. I suppose they went to look at the ship’s
papers. Anyhow, when they came out they were wiping their mouths. I
subsequently learnt that these people whom I have called ‘frowsy’
were really very good fellows; and if we met them on shore shortly
afterwards, we might be wiping our own mouths. I regret not having
met them. After this, one by one we descended by a ladder of ropes
into a boat I’ll call a cutter. I don’t know much about ships, and it
may have been a brig. One thing I remember was that it had a thing
called a centre-board. Peter said that this was a substitute for the
keel, which had been left ashore by accident. No sooner was this
centre-board lowered and the sail hoisted, than the boat turned over
on her side, and off she set. I thought she was going to upset. Never
shall I forget that journey. Before us were waves ranged in tiers like
the Sierras of North America. Now and then a larger range, not unlike
the Rocky Mountains, would rise. All of these ranges were in motion,
and, like regiments of cavalry, came bearing down upon us. Whenever a
particularly big range of mountains approached, the man at the helm
smiled. We simply looked from the bottom of the valley, up the watery
slope at the fleecy heights looking down into our boat, with horror.
Then there was a rise, a crash, a deluge of water, and we sank, wet
through, down into the next valley. I never crossed so many ranges of
mountains in two hours before. All the time we were holding on like a
parcel of cats weathering a gale on a church spire. ‘It’s all right,’
said the man at the helm; ‘we’ll beat the _Fanny_ yet.’ The _Fanny_
was another small brig. ‘Just haul that jib-sheet in a bit, Jim, and
I’ll keep her to it. Sorry I didn’t bring some oilskins, gentlemen.
A walk ashore, and you’ll be dry in ten minutes.’ Then came another
drencher. To continually look at a series of colossal waves coming
along tier after tier, every one threatening to overwhelm you, was
perfectly appalling. It’s all very well for sailors to imitate the
penguin, but landsmen don’t like it. Just before we landed, the ruffian
at the tiller said, ‘Fares, please, gentlemen--six shillings.’ Six
shillings for having jeopardized your life and shortened your existence
by nervous excitement! There was no arguing the point. I always felt
helpless when the watchmaker, after looking through a magnifier at your
watch, said, ‘Wants cleaning; afraid the mainspring is broken; the
chain is off the barrel; two pivot-holes want renewing,’ etc., etc.
I have also felt helpless when the doctor, after feeling your pulse,
and choking you with a spoon whilst examining your tongue, remarks
that ‘Your liver’s a little out of order; am afraid there is a little
tuberculosis and spasmodic irritation of the diaphragm. Dear me!
cerebro-spinal meningitis. I’ll send you up some medicine to-morrow.
Next week you had better go to the south of France. In the meanwhile
be careful and only take gruel and a little beef-tea.’

I was, however, never so helpless as I was with the charms of Cooktown.

What a mess we were in when we did land! I looked at the Major, the
Major looked at Peter, and Peter looked at Dodd. Then we mopped
ourselves with our pocket-handkerchiefs. Peter suggested borrowing a
clothes-line and paying a housemaid to hang us out to dry for an hour.
When I looked at the ladies we met in Cooktown during the afternoon, I
almost wept at the thought of the miserable wet blotting-papery figure
they must have cut when they first came ashore. Since that event,
however, their feathers had been dried, and some of them looked quite
stylish.

The principal part of Cooktown consists of one long straight street,
about a mile in length, lined with a lot of wooden houses and shanties
of all sizes and shapes. Usually they are one story high. Here you find
confectioners, bootmakers, stationers, general stores, photographers,
a whole lot of public-houses, or, as Australians prefer to call them,
hotels, and six or seven chapels and schools. The greater number of the
latter were a short distance out of the main street, upon some rising
ground to the left. The juxtaposition of these two civilizers is very
marked in this part of the world. We visited one of the hotels, and
endeavoured to get some information about the place from one of the
barmaids, who told us she came from London. The Major was very desirous
of obtaining information about the aboriginals. He had heard of a
curious contrivance called a boomerang. They used it to catch fish,
and he was anxious to obtain one.

On the wall we read a notice that a certain John Smith, being in the
habit of making himself objectionable to his neighbours by taking too
much stimulant, it was hereby officially notified that it was forbidden
to supply the said John Smith with any more liquor.

  (Signed)
  A. B. }
  C. D. } Magistrates.

A similar notice was to be seen, we were told, in every hotel. John
Smith had moved to the next town.

While here, a funeral passed. Nearly all the people were on horseback,
and, as an indication of respect to the deceased, wore a white band on
their hats. Some had it on their arm.

From Cooktown there is a railway now in progress, which is intended
to put the Palmer Diggings in communication with the coast. In many
respects it appeared to be similar to an American line. It is to the
mines and a few squatters that Cooktown owes its existence.

It took two days’ steaming, and camping amongst the coral reefs, to
reach Townsville. The coast was hilly, and the weather rough. The
morning tub began to feel cool once more. The place we anchored at
was called ‘Magnetic Island,’ and ‘Townsville is out there,’ said the
skipper, pointing at the horizon. After about two hours’ waiting, a
custom-house officer came off to give us permission to go ashore, and
to examine the Chinamen whom we had brought. In Queensland they charge
£30 per head on every Chinaman who lands. In all the other colonies,
excepting South Australia, where John is admitted without duty, the tax
is, I believe, £10 per head. The labouring man of Australia does not
believe in cheap labour, and as he returns the members of the august
Assemblies that rule the Colonies, he takes good care to see that
restrictions are put upon its introduction. He doesn’t mind buying his
provisions from a Chinaman’s store; in fact, in many places he buys
all his provisions from the Chinaman. This is because they are cheaper
than those bought from his own countrymen. He doesn’t recognise that
when a Chinaman builds a railway in the country, he leaves behind him a
cheap article. Had European labour built it, the first cost would have
been more, and to pay this, railway fares, taxation, or something must
increase, which would directly or indirectly fall on his shoulders. The
only thing he sees is the Chinaman as a supplanter, taking labour which
ought to have been his, but at a higher price. Then the Chinaman leaves
the country, taking nearly all his earnings with him. Where a Chinaman
fossicks about for gold or tin, and only leaves behind him heaps of
_débris_, the colonist may rightly object; but when the Chinaman leaves
behind him roads and important public works, when he feeds and clothes
the colonist, and does all this at a rate cheaper than the colonist can
do it himself, it is difficult to understand where the objection to
John arises.

Many people that I met had prejudices against Chinamen without reason.
The steamers coming from China have Chinese stewards and a Chinese
crew. Everyone who has travelled on the best of these boats, and also
in the best of the Australian coasters, knows that there is greater
cleanliness and comforts to be obtained in the boats from China. On
the Australian boats, on account of the number of passengers, the
difficulties in the way of cleanliness are undoubtedly the greater.
This, however, does not apply to hotels. That Eastern hotels with
Chinese waiters are infinitely more comfortable than Colonial hotels,
there can be but little doubt. For one who has ever been waited upon by
Chinese dressed in spotless white and gliding about without noise, to
be transported to the clatter of plates, the squeaking and stamping of
boots, and general flurry of a large colonial hotel, the contrast is
very marked. One lady I met who had travelled in a China boat, remarked
that she wouldn’t travel in those boats any more. Too many ‘Chinkies’
(her name for Chinamen) on board. They smelt.

‘How do Chinamen behave in a gale?’ said a gentleman who was
present, addressing the captain of a Chinese steamer. ‘Are they ever
intoxicated?’ ‘Well,’ replied the captain, ‘I have sailed with Chinamen
for many years, and I have found them good men in bad weather; and what
is more, they are never drunk. British sailors are usually intoxicated
when they come on board, and for twenty-four hours after leaving it
often happens that there is hardly a man who could row a boat. For a
passenger-boat to go to sea with a crew like this is almost criminal.
As compared with the ordinary merchant sailor, the Chinamen on board my
ship are clean.’ This is what the captain said.

So far as I could learn, the working man, ‘the horny-handed son of
toil,’ is boss of Australia. He usually belongs to a Union. Union men
are subject to heavy penalties should they ever be found working with
a man who does not belong to a Union. They hold shipping companies in
check, and they regulate the working of coal-mines.

None of the Australian shipping companies are allowed to carry any but
white men as portions of their crew. If boats from other countries run
upon their coasts, they are not allowed to carry passengers to ports
between Cape York and St. George’s Sound. If they insist on carrying
passengers, the difficulties which are thrown in their way become so
great that hitherto the attempts to fight against them have failed.

To give an idea of what some of the rulers of the Colonies are like, I
repeat as well as I am able, two short conversations I overheard.


First Conversation.

‘Going to work to-day, Bill?’ said a strong-looking ruffian to
another who was leaning against a shed smoking. ‘Well, don’t know,’
was the reply. Then after a pause and a spit, ‘Maybe I’ll turn to
at two o’clock.’ Then he shifted one of his feet as it was getting
uncomfortable, and remarked, ‘Was working all day yesterday. Didn’t
knock off until six o’clock.’


Second Conversation.

‘Just cast off that rope,’ said a mate of a vessel that was leaving
a wharf to a group of three untidy, dirty-looking men smoking on the
wharf. ‘You be----, cast it off yourself; we ain’t paid to work for
you.’ They continued smoking, and a man had to go from the ship to cast
the rope off.

While I was in Australia, a large vessel of some 4,000 tons came
from Europe bringing heavy machinery. To discharge the machinery
without running any risk of accident, one of the crew was employed as
a winchman. This was too much for the other labourers, who insisted
that one of their number should be employed as a winchman, whether the
machinery were broken or not. The captain was defeated, and had to take
the responsibility of accidents occurring through mismanagement.

At present the working man is boss, and until the Australian population
has increased he will remain as boss, and exercise a rude tyranny over
all who have to deal with him.

Many of the members he returns to represent him are not unlike
himself, and I have heard respectable people affirm that the majority
of the more educated Colonials would refuse a seat in the Houses of
Parliament, even if it were offered to them without contention. I
am not quite certain that I believed them, and fancy that they only
wished me to understand that certain representatives of the working man
occasionally indulged in unparliamentary language.

Although I have said much that is anything but flattering about the
ruler of Australia, if I were in his shoes I expect that I should
behave like him.

To see a batch of Chinamen come into a district and take up contracts,
which I was unable to accept, would be exceedingly annoying if I and
my family were driven from the district in consequence of such an
invasion. I am certain that I should cast aside all views respecting
the general welfare of the colony, and be violent in what I should
call self-defence. Australia is for those who made it, and to be
supplanted by an alien would make me very angry. I should also be angry
if I found that I was bound to curtail my exertions by the rules of
a Union to which, if I did not belong, I might not be able to earn
a living. Unions may be used by the lazy to defend them against the
industrious.

Here I have chiefly spoken about the lazy, loafing working man of the
Colonies; farther on I shall refer to the sober, industrious labourer.

The getting ashore at Townsville was attended with as much discomfort
as the getting ashore at Cooktown. The difference between the two was,
that here I got nearly roasted; while at Cooktown I was nearly drowned.
I started in a thing shaped like half a walnut-shell. It had no seats
and was black with coal. In the middle of it there was a boiler fuming
and steaming with 55 lb. of pressure. In front of this there were two
little cylinders like a couple of jam-pots. This contrivance was called
a steam-launch. It took us nearly three hours to reach the shore. All
the time there was a blazing sun which cooked our heads, a radiation
from the boiler which cooked our middles, and a smell of oil and bilge
which upset our stomachs. The last part of the trip was up a narrow
river. On landing, the first thing which struck me was a hansom. I
promptly engaged it, and drove to an hotel. The next thing which
struck me was a confectioner’s shop filled with penny buns. I hadn’t
seen penny buns for some years, so I went in and bought one. To my
astonishment they cost a penny each. I thought that in this part of the
world a penny bun would at least have cost sixpence. It was just like
the penny buns you get in Europe--brown in colour, shiny and sticky on
the outside, sweet, soft, very palatable, and I may add, very filling.
I also purchased half a pound of sweets. On my return to the hotel
I generously offered a young lady who had in exchange for sixpence
assisted one in washing down the bun, to take some sweets: ‘Oh,
sweets,’ said she, ‘you’re a new chum, I suppose.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘only
the preface to a new chum, madame. When I have been in the Colonies
forty-eight hours I may aspire to the title.’ ‘I thought that you had
not been long amongst the kangaroos,’ was the reply; ‘we call them
“lollies” here.’ After that I was often struck with seeing or hearing
that euphonious word. Sometimes I saw it in large letters over a shop,
‘Lollies for sale,’ or ‘Lolly shop.’ Then at a railway station I have
heard an old man with white hair, who was wandering along with a basket
on his arms, droning out, ‘Nuts, oranges, apples, and nice lollies.’

At Townsville I was nearly stranded for want of money. I had with me a
letter of introduction and circular notes. I had tried to obtain money
in Cooktown, but unfortunately walked into the bank at two minutes past
three. ‘Very sorry, sir,’ said a nicely dressed young man, ‘but it
is after three.’ ‘But I leave to-night.’ ‘Very sorry, sir,’ said the
nice young man. Although I did not see anyone in the bank, I concluded
that the young men had been very busy and required rest. It is a great
mistake to overtax one’s system, and I was delighted to find a set of
young men who respect their constitutions. In Townsville the story was
quite different. The trouble with the young men at Townsville was,
that they did not care about the identification of a stranger by his
signature. After trying four banks, I crossed the street to a furniture
shop, and had a look at myself in a large mirror. My face seemed pretty
much as usual, excepting perhaps a trifle anxious as to the prospect of
having to sleep in the streets that night. Anyhow, there was nothing
suspicious, so I went back to the Number One Bank to have another try.
‘We have not been advised,’ said they. ‘Great heavens,’ said I, ‘we
haven’t stamps enough in the country I come from to write letters of
advice to all the places printed on this letter. They would cost more
than the value of the draft.’ This seemed to strike him, and after
discussing the matter in another room, he said, ‘Well, if you will
bring some one here to identify you, we will let you have some money.’

In desperation I went to the captain of the steam-launch, who had
brought me ashore, who very kindly came to the bank, and, by signing
certain documents, made himself responsible. Not only did the young
men of Townsville make one feel both mean and mad, but they charged me
a heavy commission. Subsequently in my travels my notes were cashed
without questions, and without commissions. When the young men of the
smaller colonial banks know more about circular notes and banking
operations, they also will, perhaps, cash circular notes without
commissions and delays. It is hard on their employers that they should
send money from their doors. My mind being relieved by having twenty
sovereigns in my pocket, I strolled about the town. The street--for
there is only one main street in Townsville--contains several good
shops. Outside the town I heard that there were some public gardens,
but I had not time to reach them. In the distance, in all directions,
excepting towards the sea, there are some tolerably high hills, which
in one direction reach quite up to and overlook the town.

I stayed at the Imperial Hotel, a tolerably good sort of place, but
with little box-like bedrooms. The average Australian has no idea of
the comforts of what a European would call an ordinary hotel. Give him
beef, mutton, a solid pudding, and a room like a good-sized packing
case to sleep in, and he is contented,--anyhow he puts up with it.

That evening, while strolling in the streets, I was attracted by the
sound of revelry in an hotel. As the windows leading on to a veranda
were open, I walked in, took a seat, and acquiesced in the wishes of a
gentleman who commanded me to help myself. I make it a point never to
differ with gentlemen who are imperative on such points. If he had told
me to drink it out of a tin mug, and to like it, I do not think that
I should have opposed his wishes. At the piano there was a universal
genius who could play anything and everything that was called for. A
short conversation with my neighbour revealed the fact that we had both
been educated at the same school. This led to other acquaintances,
and by 12 p.m. I knew fifty (I here speak poetically) people who were
willing to identify me. After hearing a lot of music, many songs,
violent discussions as to how a Russian invasion was to be met, and
finally joining hands to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ I got to bed about 2
a.m.

That morning I started at 8 a.m. by train to visit the mining district
and town of Charters Towers. The distance is between 80 and 90 miles.
The first thing I noticed was the dust. In fact the dust insisted
on being noticed. It went into your eyes, your ears, your nostrils,
your mouth, your pockets and your boots, as if you were to be buried.
Some of the trees in the gardens near the railway station were so
earthy, that they looked as if they had been planted root upwards.
Outside the town the country had an open park-like appearance. The
trees were the same old type which I saw at Port Darwin--scraggy gum
trees with white stems. There were also a few screw palms. Here and
there, there were plains covered with tombstone-like ant-hills. Along
the line there were posts marking every quarter mile. By observing
these I found that we were running a mile in from seventy to eighty
seconds. All the gradients were also marked. It did not take long
before I found that I was on a railway line, the engineer for which
had some originality. Part of the way I rode in a _coupé_ at the end
of the train and I could see what I left behind me. Sometimes I was
looking down a slope and sometimes up one. ‘Grand line this,’ said a
fellow-passenger. ‘Compensating grades they call them. Wait a bit, and
you’ll see some fun presently.’ It wasn’t very long that I waited. The
fun began at Reid’s River, where there was a slope of 1 in 25, down
to a bridge which was purposely made low in the centre, so that the
train could swoop down upon it and then by its impetus climb up the
other side. This sort of arrangement saved viaducts. There is another
good rush made at the Buredkin River. Here the bridge is said to be
too flat, and the train comes down upon it very like a thunderbolt. It
makes passengers quite nervous. When we commenced to lower ourselves
gently down the first of these slopes, which I could easily see by
craning my neck out of the window, I felt troubled. Very quietly the
speed became greater, and I felt my heart palpitating. Then the train
seemed to control the engine, and away we went with a lighting-like
rush down towards the bridge. At this point I drew in my head, and
prayed that the bridge was strong. It was just a rattle and a ‘whish’
and we were climbing the other side. We reached the top, panting and
puffing like a broken-winded horse. When the floods are on, the train
apparently charges down into the river,--the waters of which may have
run above the metals. There was a lot of this, so-called fun, on the
road. At the end of it, I felt that my days had been shortened by
nervous excitement. The great thing was to know how I was to get back.
I have travelled in America over high trestle work, when the engine has
crossed with the delicacy of a cat,--feeling every timber as it went
along,--not unlike Blondin on a tight rope. In Queensland you felt like
a shooting star passing through space. I think I prefer listening to
the squeaking of a rickety framework in America to the railway fun in
Queensland. At one place we were dragged by two engines, up a series of
steep inclines, called the ranges. At the time the line was being made
an old lady took a passage down the ranges in a trolly in company with
one of the engineers. The trolly got under weigh and took possession of
its two passengers, who had to lie down flat and hold on. ‘The trees,’
referring to the bush on either hand, said the old lady when relating
her adventures, ‘looked like one tree. Never had such a journey in
my life. Why, it didn’t stop until we were four miles past my house.
Further off home than when I started. Never catch me on them trollies
any more.’

The man who called this kind of travelling ‘fun’ was an insurance
agent. After some conversation he found out where I lived, and how
many years I had been there. Then he wanted to insure my life. He
informed me that he often got ‘cases’ in the train. With him a ‘case’
was the technical term for a man who is induced to pay a certain sum
of money to an Insurance Company. Another technicality with a similar
meaning was, I found, ‘a subject.’ ‘I live in an unhealthy climate,’ I
remarked. ‘Well, you say you have been there ten years, and taking you
as a sample I don’t mind insuring the whole of the inhabitants in that
part of the world.’

‘Look here, there is the doctor,’ and he pointed to a little old man
in the corner. The little old man said, ‘Yes; I’m the doctor, and
examine free.’ I felt I was being cornered. It was no good talking
about fevers, earthquakes, the difficulties of collecting his fees,
all that he wanted was the _first_ fee. As a last refuge I asked for a
prospectus, and told him I would consider the matter.

My having volunteered to consider the matter enabled him, by pointing
to me as a semi-convert, to introduce the subject of insurance to the
remaining passengers in the carriage, all of whom he would insure at
cheaper rates than any other company. By-and-bye a priest got into
the carriage. Old Insurance immediately wished him good-morning,
and after introducing him to each individual in the train as if he
had known them and all of us for years, entered into conversation
on the advantages of life insurance. In Charters Towers we stayed
at the same hotel. He often took a seat next to mine. When he sat
down to lunch the conversation usually commenced by, ‘Well, have you
considered the matter? You’ll never get such a chance again. Just
got six new “subjects” this morning, and expect to get four or five
more this afternoon. The doctor has been as busy as a bee; haven’t
you, doctor?’ The poor little doctor gave a sickly little smile, and
assented. Every day that I met Insurance, I felt that I was breaking
down. Had I remained in Charters Towers another week I must either
have allowed myself to be insured, or else have died from worry. The
doctor has probably succumbed. I never saw a man better cut out to be
led round and do as he was bidden. If Old Insurance had said to his
companion--‘Now dance, doctor--jump, doctor--say yes, doctor--stand on
your head, doctor,’ I believe the poor little man would have done his
best to comply with the orders. My pity for the doctor was very great.

It seems to be a common thing in Australia for insurance agents with
their doctors to be travelling in search of subjects. I subsequently
met one or two other sets of subject-hunters, but I never met with one
so determined either to kill or else insure you as my Charters Towers
acquaintance. The directors of his company ought to raise his pay. The
public ought to get him transported.

At Ravenswood Junction there are some experimental works for extracting
gold from its ores by chlorinization. From this point we might have
branched off to see some silver mines where ore is being smelted in one
of La Monte’s water jacket furnaces. It was nearly one o’clock when we
reached our journey’s end. Here the country was open and undulating.
There was a little brown grass to be seen, but no trees--at least,
near the town. The only thing to break the view were groups of houses,
huts, piles of white _débris_ (mullock), and tall poppet-heads. The
roads were white and dusty. In places the dust was six inches to a foot
in thickness, and so soft that you sank in it like mud. When a cart
passed, the cloud it raised rendered it invisible. In the house we
found preparations for races in progress. There were many book-makers
on the spot, and a lot of jockeys. Sometimes they used bad language
and hit each other. Mining first commenced as alluvium work. This was
about ten years ago. Now the work is all quartz-crushing. Everybody
talks about mining, morning, noon, and night, ‘The Day Dawn is running
14 ounces,’ says one man. ‘Fine body of ore in number two Queens,’
says another. ‘Seen the new heads at the Defiance, Jimmey?’ says a
third; and so it goes on until the uninitiated gets sick of mining.
When I was returning from Charters Towers I had to get in the train at
6 a.m. As it wasn’t light until about 7 a.m., I could only judge of
my fellow-companions by their conversation. In front of me there was
a most earnest discussion going on about particular claims. ‘One reef
would run four or five to the ton. After they got finished with their
new poppet-heads and got down a little deeper, things would be better,
etc.,’ etc. When daylight came, I found that all these technicalities
were being fired off by two small school-boys, respectively aged about
ten and twelve. The children at Charters Towers must be born with a
mania for quartz.

The majority of people can only talk about their own speciality, and
they quite ignore the feelings of outsiders who are compelled to listen
to their conversation. In Newfoundland everybody talks about codfish,
excepting for a month or so in spring, when they talk about seals. The
worst old talkers I have ever met have been antiquated skippers. Once
when crossing the Atlantic, the smoking-room was monopolized by three
old shell-backs who discussed reefing topsails, the qualifications of
the barques _Sarah Jane_ and _Mary Ann_, and other nautical matters, so
continually, that in less than two days no other passenger could remain
with them.

The gold at Charters Towers occurs in quartz veins or reefs. These,
instead of running through the slates in which it was once supposed was
the only proper place to expect gold, run through a kind of granite. Of
late years gold has been found in most unexpected quarters. Since being
in the Colonies I have seen it in calcite, and serpentine. The great
gold deposit of Mount Morgan is a mountain of siliceous iron-stone,
probably deposited by a geyser. At first it was thought that the
whole mountain was a solid mass of gold-bearing rock. Now, however, a
tunnel seems to have shown that it is only a skin or covering on the
outside of the hill where gold occurs. The ground originally belonged
to a young squatter named Donald Gordon. Donald suspected it might
contain minerals, and asked the opinion of a scientific professor. The
Professor said, ‘It is only iron-stone. Donald.’ Finally Donald sold
his mountain for £640. The people who bought it estimate its value at
£9,000,000. Poor Donald!

After getting the blocks of quartz, in which, as a rule, you can’t
see a speck of the precious metal, up to the surface, they are broken
in pieces with sledgehammers. They would use rock-breakers to do the
work, but as rock-breakers, like Chinamen, do away with European
labour, I imagine that they must have been tabooed--anyhow, I did not
see a rock-breaker. The broken quartz is next thrown into the iron
mortars, where heavy iron stampers are at work. When the quartz is
sufficiently fine, it escapes like so much muddy water through screens
in the front of the mortars, to flow over the surfaces of a series
of copper plates covered with mercury. Here a quantity of the gold
sticks to the mercury and amalgamates with it. From time to time these
plates are scraped, and the amalgam thus obtained is subsequently
distilled. Much gold, however, runs over the plates, and it is a great
problem as to how it is to be caught. At some mines it is caught on
rough blankets, which are stretched over an inclined plane forming a
continuation of the copper plates. Still, there is a certain quantity
of gold running away mixed with the water and the sand. This material
is usually concentrated, that is, it is caused to pass over some
machine where the light sand is washed away, and the gold, mixed with
iron pyrites and other materials, remains behind. This pyrites material
is then roasted and amalgamated in specially contrived amalgamators.
Sometimes it is treated chemically. The more rapidly these operations
are carried on, and the greater the flood of water employed to wash
the sand along, the more the fine gold escapes. All the escaping
water deposits its sediment in pits called slime pits, the contents
of which constitute tailings. At all quartz-crushing establishments,
you see mountain-like heaps of these tailings. They look like hills
of fine white sand. Some of them are sufficiently valuable to be sent
to Germany, where the gold, which the Australian miner has allowed to
run to waste, is extracted at a profit. Every mill you visit you are
told is the best mill in the Colonies, with the best methods and the
best machinery. When I looked at the enormous stamps, one could not
but think that it was like using Nasmyth’s hammers to crack walnuts.
When you saw the general want of automatic apparatus to break and feed
materials, you felt that mine proprietors were kind to workmen--who,
by-the-bye, usually get about ten shillings a day. When you saw the
floods of water tearing over the tables, and through the various
machines, you felt that those who sent their ore to the mills were
easily contented. I suppose there are reasons for all this, but they
were not explained. Notwithstanding all the gold which is washed away,
things are brisk. One gentleman was pointing out to me, who, at the
time of my visit, was making £1,000 a week. There were a theatre and a
circus in the town, and along half a mile of the main street I counted
twenty-two public-houses. Altogether there are about two thousand or
three thousand people in Charters Towers. On Sunday night I think I saw
nearly all of them. They spent the evening in parading up and down the
street in a very quiet and orderly manner.

At the hotel where I stayed, I had abundance to eat and drink. My
bedroom was only nine to ten feet square, and I had to share it with
another traveller.

I returned to Townsville the same way as I went. As I did not put my
head out at the valleys and bridges, I did not incur the same feelings
of insecurity from which I had suffered when going up. At Ravenswood
Junction we had a scramble for breakfast, that is to say for a cup
of coffee and a slab of steaming meat. Australians are fearfully
carnivorous. Each of them eats, at least, an acre of beefsteak every
year. This helps to make them big and strong. When I was in Melbourne,
some prisoners had been making public a complaint that they did not
get meat three times a day. They excited considerable sympathy. Just
as I was about to pay for my feed, a rough-looking miner gave me a
push, saying, ‘Shove that in your pocket.’ At the same time he threw
down four shillings on the table to settle for two. I did not argue the
matter with the gentleman.

At Townsville I found a launch waiting to carry me and sixty-one other
passengers off to the steamship _Warrego_. On board we found a number
more. It was an awful crush. The steamer was expensively fitted. If
they had spent the money in making her a few feet longer, instead
of spending it in fittings, we should have been more comfortable.
All the saloon and other rooms were lined with slabs of marble. It
was rather pretty, but too much like a bath-room. Here I heard very
much about mining, and a little about separation and Government
jobbery. At present Brisbane, at the extreme south of Queensland, is
the capital. Those who live in the north complain that they pay for
railways and other public works which they never see. There is too
much centralization in the south. What Northern Queensland requires is
separation and a capital at Townsville, then the money collected in the
north would be spent in the north. People at Charters Towers say that
Townsville is a fraud. It can never be made into a harbour, and their
railway ought to have terminated at Bowen, where there is a harbour.
The Townsville representatives have been too powerful, and they were
not going to lose the trade, which Charters Towers and other places
farther inland might bring them. Everybody who sends goods into the
interior, or brings them from the interior, can be beautifully squeezed
at Townsville. First, the Townsvillians collect dues for cartage from
the station to the end of the pier. They are too wise to let their
railway be carried to a place convenient for shipping. Next are the
dues for lighters out to the ships; and so it continues.

The people at Townsville are clever, and Townsville is rapidly
improving. About midnight we stopped at Bowen, but as it was dark I
kept in my berth. The next stoppage was at Mackay, where we discharged
a lot of passengers, and took in a batch to fill their places. The
coast was rocky, with islands and clumps of trees. Speaking generally
of our passengers, they were a rough lot. Nine out of ten of them wore
soft felt-hats, the brims of which they turned down. Most of them
smoked, expectorated on the deck, and jerked the ends of wax matches
and tobacco ash in all directions. The captain said that this was the
result of competition. It enabled third-class passengers to take a
saloon passage.

Australia is a land of wax matches. Everybody carries a box. There are
apparently certain points of etiquette to be observed in their use.
If you are lighting a pipe, and a gentleman asks for a light to his
cigarette, don’t give him the match which is burning, but dip your
finger in your pocket and let him strike a light of his own. It would
be more convenient to you and also to him to receive the light which is
burning, but that does not matter. When asked for a light, do not offer
your pipe or cigar, but offer a match. In South Australia I heard that
they were not considered safe, and only safety matches were allowed. My
experience is that they are equally dangerous--both may and do explode
on the slightest aggravation. An interesting series of stories might be
written on adventures with matches.

Next morning, at about half-past five, we reached Capel Bay, where
the passengers for Rockhampton disembarked. All the places down this
coast appear to be inaccessible to large steamers. They are situated
up rivers, and the rivers have bars. From this point the coast got
flatter. During the afternoon there was a little excitement by one
of the passengers having a fit; on his recovery I gave him, at his
own request, a glass of water and a Cockle’s pill. That night, at
about one a.m., there was a cry of ‘Fire! fire!’ shrieked through the
saloon. We all turned out, perhaps one hundred in all, men, women, and
children--in night dresses. The officers and, finally, the captain
appeared on the scene, and we found that it was the sick man wandering
about in a state of mental aberration. The captain ordered two stewards
to watch him. Shortly afterwards he went up the companion and out on
the port side. The stewards followed up the companion and out on the
starboard side. They expected to meet their charge on the deck. He,
however, was never found. We suppose he jumped overboard.

Early next morning we were at the mouth of the Brisbane River. On our
starboard bow we could see some remarkable-looking mountains called
the Glass Houses. One of them, which was called Mount Beerah, is 1,760
feet high. It looks like a very sharp regularly formed pyramid. From
its shape, and from the fact that round about it, places have names
alluding to volcanic materials it is probably of volcanic origin. It
is certainly a very remarkable natural needle. The river is at the
entrance very broad, and the land on the banks very flat. Here and
there are swamps and fringes of mangrove. As we get higher up we see
patches of sugar-cane and a few bananas. The river is muddy and full
of shoals. On the banks, the shoals, and floating on the water, there
are hundreds, and possibly thousands, of beacons and buoys. They help
to make up the scenery. As the channels are ever shifting, these
indices for navigators are shifted or multiplied. When an invader
approaches, the ordinary plan will be to remove or alter the position
of the guiding marks. At Brisbane it would be well to let everything
remain in _statu quo_, and if the enemy did not get wrecked, it might
be counted as a miracle. At one point there are earthworks forming a
fort. Here the river is closed by a boom of timbers. A portion in the
centre is left open for the passage of vessels. All these military
preparations are due to the expectation of a war with Russia. Even
the smallest place in Queensland has done something to beat off the
expected cruiser. In Port Darwin the volunteers were busily engaged in
practising at targets. Similar amusements were going on at Thursday
Island and in Townsville. At some towns places had been looked for to
which bank treasure might be removed.

Now, however, every town, from the snowy uplands of Southern New
Zealand to the sandy shores of tropical Queensland, has completed its
preparations. At many harbours it would be an unfortunate thing if a
belligerent found his way inside. He would most certainly never go
out. The war scare has done good. It has placed the Colonies on a war
footing.

I found Brisbane a splendid place, in some respects it was not
unlike a miniature San Francisco. The streets are, however, much
wider in Brisbane. There are some very fine shops, hansoms, busses,
barrel-organs, and itinerant musicians with harps and violins. Of
course the banks are the notable buildings. Australia is a country of
banks. If ever you see an unusually large building, you may conclude it
is a bank. Russians have a weakness for big churches. An Australian’s
hobby is to build big banks. The Houses of Parliament and the Law
Courts were also striking buildings. In the afternoon I saw a lot of
grand carriages. Inside them were handsomely dressed ladies. On the box
or behind were cockaded footmen. Many of the girls were good-looking.
They were, however, chaperoned by their mammas, and you saw what the
sweet girls might look like in the sweet by-and-bye. It is a great
mistake for a good-looking girl to walk out with an ugly mother. A
young man gets frightened. If he didn’t get frightened, then he is not
a philosopher. The girls had better refuse such men.

Many of the men wore tall hats. Tall hats are almost unknown in the
tropics. Taking Brisbane as the northern limit, they extend as far
south as Dunedin, that is to say, over nineteen degrees of latitude.
They have a similar geographical range in the northern hemisphere.
There are, therefore, two belts round the globe, each about 1,200 miles
in width, in which we may study chimney-pots.

Judging from the brogue I heard in the streets and in the hotels, I
should fancy that English, Scotch, and Irish are mixed up in Brisbane
in about equal proportions. This may not agree with statistics.
Statistics consider people who were born in Ireland as Irishmen. In my
estimate I only reckon as Irishmen those who talk with a good brogue,
make bulls, and tell every girl they see that she is the prettiest
in the town. I spent my first evening with a very jovial Irishman.
One thing which he taught me was, that the whisky of the southern
hemisphere resembles, in all its properties, that which is made in
other parts of the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

One morning I spent in visiting the Brisbane museum. It is a large
building, and is apparently omnivorous in the curiosities it receives.
There were lots of minerals to be seen, including a number of very
good specimens of opal. Upstairs there was a large collection of
oil-paintings illustrating Australian scenery. Downstairs I saw many
fossil bones, including those of the extinct gigantic kangaroo-like
animal called the diprotodon. The Major was anxious to get some
diprotodon shooting, but when we told him that the animal was 55 feet
from the tip of his tail to the tip of his snout, and 55 feet from the
tip of his snout to the tip of his tail, making in all 110 feet, that
his skin was impenetrable to the bullet of the European, etc., etc.,
the Major was not so anxious. He saw we were joking, bit his lips, and
got quite cross.

From the museum I was directed to the public gardens at the end of the
street--‘The gate right ahead of you,’ said my informant. I walked in,
entered between two rather fine gate-posts into a garden-like avenue.
‘Odd sort of botanical garden,’ I thought. ‘Trees ought to be labelled.
Don’t want to over-educate the people of Brisbane, I suppose. Might be
dangerous if they knew a lot of Latin names for trees.’ So I walked on
until I came to a big house with a carriage at the door. ‘Good place
for a curator,’ I thought. ‘Ought to have started life as a botanist,
and I might have had a house like that.’ While looking at the house,
and wondering whether a re-education would enable me to start in the
plant line, a policeman broke into my reveries by inquiring whether I
wanted to see the Governor? ‘No,’ said I; ‘I want to see the botanical
gardens.’ ‘You have taken the wrong entrance,’ he replied. ‘You will
find the entrance next to the one you came in by.’ So I had to retrace
my steps to the entrance next to the one I came in by. This was one
of those iron-gate sort of things, like a big squirrel-cage. It had a
cast-iron label on, to the effect that these gardens were the invention
of Sir George Bowen. After entering the squirrel-cage turnstile,
swing the gate and then pass on. Do not pause when once inside the
squirrel-cage, or another person may come, and, by swinging the gate
at the wrong moment, crack you like a nut between nut-crackers. Here I
found labels and Latin names, nursemaids, perambulators, grassy slopes,
and children to my heart’s content. Sir George Bowen’s invention is
very pretty, and well repays a visit. I forgot to say that at the
museum there are the apartments of the Royal Society of Queensland.
They began by calling themselves ‘Royal,’ in the same way that a
public-house may call itself the Royal Bull. Subsequently they prayed
the Government to petition the Queen for the use of the word ‘Royal.’
This was naturally granted. They have a fine library, and are doing
much good work.




_ADVENTURES WITH A BOOMERANG._


I had a boomerang given to me when in Brisbane. I have got it yet.
If the troubles it has caused me, and the troubles it has in store
for me, do not bring me to an early grave, I have the intention of
passing this specimen of aboriginal workmanship on to some fellow I
don’t like. By the same messenger I intend to send him the address of
a respectable undertaker. If you have a deadly hatred for a man--if
there is a man who has insulted you, called you a liar and a thief,
converted you and your family into paupers, blasted your hopes for
this world and the future--just ask him, when he goes to Australia,
to bring you a boomerang. Tell him you would like a good big one--a
fighting boomerang. He will either be dead or imprisoned before he
gets back. My boomerang is a fighting boomerang. It is made out of
very hard wood. At both ends it is pointed. The edge of it is like
that of a sword, and it is shaped like a young moon. My troubles with
this thing began in the streets of Brisbane. It would not go in any of
my portmanteaus, so I tied it on the outside of my bag. The bag then
became like a double-ended ram pointed at both ends. The first notice I
received about my double-ended ram was from an old gentleman against
whom my bag happened to bump. ‘D--n it, sir, what’s that? You’ve torn
my trousers,’ said he. I apologized, and felt very mean. I shall never
forget the way in which that old man glared through his spectacles,
first at me, then at his trousers, and then at the double-ender. The
last look decided the course I should take. I might charge him. After
this I tried to be more careful, and got on pretty well until I reached
the station.

At the ticket-office I found myself in a crowd, and, the persons
behind pushing me, drove the double-ender into the legs and hinder
parts of those in front. The way in which they jumped and squirmed
was quite ridiculous. ‘Please excuse me; it’s only a boomerang,’
I said. ‘Boomerang be hanged!’ said one man. ‘What do you mean by
bringing a thing like that for in here?’ By-and-by it got generally
known that there was a man with a boomerang in a bag coming through
the crowd, and they made a passage for us. The amount of apologies
that I made for my boomerang during the next six or seven days nearly
killed me. Every time I made a move into a railway-carriage, out of a
railway-carriage, near to a group of people where there was not much
room, I had always to herald myself by, ‘Ah! please excuse me--ahem!
I’ve got a boomerang.’ Once the bag got a side-blow, and swung round to
catch me across the calf of the leg; the result of which was that for
decency’s sake I had to borrow some pins to fasten up the rent. It is
useless to say that the trousers and my leg were both spoiled. My leg
got better, but the trousers didn’t. It cost me twenty-six shillings
for a new pair. Once or twice I thought of throwing the thing away;
but as I heard that boomerangs come circling back towards the thrower,
my courage failed me. To have a thing weighing forty pounds, with the
shape and edge of a scimitar, cavotting about your head, was not to be
risked. If I had paid a man to throw it away for me, I might have been
indicted for manslaughter. I would sooner be mated to a tinted Venus or
a Frankenstein than to a good-sized boomerang.

Since the above experience I have tried the thing, and thus far it
has not exhibited a trace of the movement attributed to Noah’s dove.
At first I only threw it two or three feet; but as I gained courage I
threw it farther--first edgeways, then sideways, flatways, pointways,
straightways, upwards, downwards, obliquely forwards, backwards,
upwards, outwards, and in some fifty or sixty other manners and
directions, but invariably with the result that I had to walk after the
confounded thing and bring it back. I was afraid to leave the weapon
behind--it might kill somebody. I believe I have walked one thousand
seven hundred miles after that boomerang. The only way in which I have
been successful in inducing a boomerang to return to me has been either
by paying a man to fetch it, or else by tying a long string to it.
After this it is needless to say that the return of the boomerang is a
myth, and as a myth let us relegate it to the land of the unicorn and
the deadly upas.

Note.--Since writing the above I met with a gentleman who
declares that boomerangs are capable of returning, not simply once,
but repeatedly. The difficulty, in his mind, was how to prevent them
from returning. ‘There were tame boomerangs and frisky boomerangs,’ he
remarked. My boomerang was probably a tame one. If his boomerang had
not knocked over two policemen and dispersed a crowd, he would at this
moment have been the inmate of a gaol. It came about in this way. ‘Do
you see,’ said he, ‘Christmas was drawing nigh, and I thought I would
buy something to amuse the kids. Well, I went into a big toy-shop at
the corner of Market Street, and, after looking at a lot of mechanical
dolls, rocking-horses, and what not, I decided on taking a boomerang.
The young lady, who wrapped it up in a sheet of stiff brown paper,
remarked that I had selected one that was rather lively. It was just
getting dark when I got in the ’bus, and I put the parcel containing
the boomerang on my knee. Once or twice I observed that the thing
began to edge along sideways towards the lap of an old lady, who was
my neighbour. “That parcel of yours seems to be fidgetty,” said she.
At that moment it gave a jump. “O lor’!” said the old lady; “why,
it’s alive!” “Don’t be alarmed, mum,” said I; “it’s quite harmless;”
and I put both hands over my purchase to keep it quiet. “It’s only a
boomerang that I bought to amuse the children.” At the word “boomerang”
everybody looked as if they had received an electric shock. One young
man put up his eyeglass, an old gentleman looked over his spectacles,
the old lady shot open her umbrella, and everybody edged away. If I had
said it was an infernal machine the consternation could not have been
greater. “Oh, you wicked young man!” said the old lady, still keeping
up her umbrella as a shield; but just then the ’bus stopped at the
corner of my street, so, wishing my companions good-night, I got out,
feeling, as you may suppose, much relieved.

‘My wife opened the door for me. “Maria,” says I, “I’ve brought a
boomerang just to amuse you and the children.” “Oh, you darling!” and
she threw her arms round my neck. What she thought a boomerang was I
don’t know; but while she was dangling on my neck, the parcel slipped
from beneath my arm and dropped on the floor.

‘As to the exact sequence of events which followed this unfortunate
accident, I have but a hazy recollection. For a moment or two the
parcel bobbed up and down on the floor, until the top of the boomerang
stuck through the paper, when off it went with a whizz, gyrating,
waltzing, twisting, and turning in all directions, round and round
the room. Maria was stretched flat; I got two bangs on the head, but
managed to crawl beneath the sofa; the cat was killed, the chandelier
was smashed, every ornament was cleared from the shelves. Then it
paused, balancing itself on one of its tops on the corner of the
sideboard. All of a sudden an idea seemed to strike it, and off it set
upstairs. For the next ten minutes I had the pleasure of listening to
my Christmas present smashing and banging round every room from the
first floor up to the attics. The servant-maids and the children had
luckily escaped to the cellar. Suddenly the noise stopped, and Maria,
who had found me beneath the sofa, suggested that the Christmas present
was taking breath. “This ain’t particular paradise, Maria,” said I.
“Oh, Tom, let us run into the street and call assistance.” Just as
we had got from beneath the sofa, we heard a hop-hop-hop on the top
story. The boomerang was evidently coming downstairs. “Shut the door!”
said Maria; and I did, but only just in time. When I looked through
the keyhole I could see Boomey with a bit of string and a streamer or
two of brown paper round its neck, sitting on the bottom stair. At
that moment there was a fearful knocking at the front door, and the
boomerang raised itself on end and hopped off along the passage, as
if it expected more sport. Maria ran to the window, and said, “Good
gracious, Tom, there’s two policemen!” “Throw them my latch-key,” said
I, “and tell them to come in.” I was too busy watching my friend in the
passage to do any interviewing myself. By the time Maria had got the
window opened a crowd had collected, who, when they saw Maria’s black
eyes and tangled hair, guffawed and made some remarks about the old
gal getting clawed by her husband. “Excuse me, marm,” said the bobby,
touching his hat, “but we’re come to arrest a gentleman a-living in
this house for having travelled in the streets with a boomerang.” “Yes,
policeman, this is the house he went into; I had him watched,” said an
old lady in the crowd. I recognised the voice as that of my neighbour
in the coach who had called me a wicked young man. “But,” says Maria,
in a state of terror at the thought of legal troubles. “But be hanged!”
I whispered to Maria. “Just tell them it’s all right--the gentleman’s
inside--and throw them the key. Boomey’ll get ’em!” Just then I could
see Boomey dancing up and down, and waltzing about in the passage, as
if he had understood the conversation.

‘To see Boomey when the bobby opened that door was particularly fine.
He commenced with a gentle kind of tattoo, bouncing round from head to
head like the banjo of a Plymouth brother. He evidently just wanted to
get the crowd started, so that he could have some fun a-chasing of ’em.
When they did start, the stampede was immense. “Go it, granny!” shouted
an urchin from an upstairs window to the old woman who was my accuser;
“Boomey’s a-following!” The basketful of rags that lay in front of
the door before the crowd got clear would have run a paper-mill for a
month. For a week or two the house was in a state of siege. No one dare
venture outside the door without first looking up and down the street.
At last we got into the way of travelling by going from house to house.
By pre-arranged signals an open door would be ready for us. If all was
clear, we’d make a rush. If Boomey was following, we’d just snap the
door to, and wait until he’d gone. One or two tried shot-guns on him,
but it wasn’t a bit of good--it only seemed to make him more vicious.

‘After clearing the town of cats and dogs, Boomey suddenly disappeared.
When I was last in Clarenceville I heard that he was raging round a
sheep station up in New England, and the contingent had gone up to try
their hand on him.

‘After my experiences, sir, you needn’t tell me that boomerangs won’t
return; the difficulty is to keep ’em away.’

       *       *       *       *       *

P.S.--The information for the middle piece of this last story I cribbed
from a fellow-passenger. I suspect that he cribbed it from a book. When
I and the fellow-passenger meet the original author, we sincerely hope
that he will be prepared to reward us for the trouble we have taken in
making his remarkable story public.




_DARLING DOWNS AND NEW ENGLAND._


The Darling Downs were the last I saw of Queensland. From Brisbane you
go to them by train. One of the waiters at the hotel told me that I had
better take my luggage to the station on the evening before starting.
If I took them before 8 p.m. I paid a shilling for a cab. If I took
them between the hours of 8 p.m. and 6 a.m. I should pay ten shillings.
I shall have more to say about Australian cabs and carts by-and-bye.
Independently of the cost of a conveyance, I was glad to take my bag
and boomerang to the station in daylight. The latter might have been
dangerous in the dark. The train left at 5.50 a.m. It was quite dark,
and I did not see much of the country or fellow-passengers until about
7 a.m., when we reached a pretty big town called Ipswich. Here we had
a scramble for a very bad breakfast, after which we got into the train
almost as cold as when we came out of it. At Ipswich I saw several
factories. Up to this point the country was undulating. Farther on I
saw a number of post and rail fences, a few small houses, and a great
lot of gum trees forming open woods. After a climb up a range of yellow
sandstone hills, we entered a park-like country. Here and there were a
lot of palms with heads on them like tufts of grass. These were grass
trees I suppose. Now and then there was a creek, consisting of a series
of pools of stagnant water. These I put down as an example of the
so-called _water-holes_ we read so much about in books on Australia.
Near the water there were some trees which looked like pines. These
I learnt were river oaks. Some big trees were called honeysuckles.
There are a lot of things in Australia which are not what they look
like. Sometimes we rushed past a ploughed clearing. It may have been
planted with wheat. In a few hours more we were again amongst hills,
and as we wound in and out, gradually climbing upwards, I had glimpses
of many pretty scenes. At mid-day we reached Toowoomba--the capital of
the Darling Downs. I don’t know whether I have spelt Toowoomba right,
but it is a very good example of the Hoos and Woos and Moos and Boos
they are so fond of in Australia. The letter O is a great favourite.
In Sydney I saw a word, in fact, I saw it every day, with eight O’s
in it. It was usually on an omnibus. At first I couldn’t read it for
astonishment. The next time I saw it I got as far as Woo, but as I ran
my eye along the length of the wonderful word, it got confused. It is
easy to lose your way in a good long word, especially if it is stuck on
a bus and the bus is moving. Once I chased a bus along a street, but I
never got past Wooloo. After that my sight was dazed, and I was in a
jumble. On returning to a hotel in the evening, I described my troubles
to the waiter, who wrote the mysterious word for me, and after ticking
slowly off the letters I found it was Wooloomooloo. I was told that
Woo-loo-moo-loo was the war cry of the aborigines, who resisted the
landing of the early settlers. Wooloomooloo, it may be observed, rhymes
with Timbuctoo.

The latter part of the climb up to Toowomba (I spell the name
differently in different places because I hope that I may get it right
sometimes), which is situated on the very edge of the downs, was steep
enough to require two engines. If our engine had not been so leaky,
it might possibly have done the work alone. I never before saw an
engine that could afford to lose so much steam through its cylinder
covers outside a workshop. I am glad I went up to Toowomba, if it
was only to see this engine. The view looking back down the incline,
over the heads of the trees which filled the valley up which we had
come, was beautiful and extensive. Gum trees, in quantity, do very
well for general effect; when you get close to them, then you see too
many spaces. A forest of gum trees would look all right if viewed from
above, say from a balloon about ten miles high. Turning round and
looking ahead the scene was altered. Before us were the undulating open
Darling Downs, brown, flat, and anything but inviting. In spring time,
when they are green, they may perhaps be prairie-like, and beautiful
to the eye of the farmer, but as I saw them with their miles of wire
fencing, they were not so interesting as the desert of Arabia. I was
always going to places at the wrong season. They are of basaltic
formation, which probably overlies the sandstone which I had seen
below. Perhaps the basalt welled up through great fissures; perhaps it
came from some of the small conical hills which I saw farther along
the line. All the water from the basalt contains magnesia. New-comers
don’t like it. It produces peculiar effects. Now and then I saw flocks
of sheep. They did not seem to be eating. If they liked dry stubble,
clay, or bits of basalt, they might do very well. They were usually
standing still, with their noses all pointing one way. Why sheep
should keep parallel, and cows point about in all azimuths, I couldn’t
make out. I thought I should never get across the downs. Late in the
afternoon the basalt was replaced by sandstone, and we reached the
thriving township of Warwick. Here I saw a race-course. Every town in
Australia has a race-course, I fancy. Some of them have two or three
racecourses. Racing is an Australian mania. Australians like cricket,
football, rowing, and athletic sports generally.

At Warwick there were a lot of Toowoomba football boys waiting to go
home. They must like football very much to cross the Darling Downs
for a game. I would as soon cross the Sahara. From Warwick we again
commenced to climb up hills. On either side we had open forests of
gum trees. Now and then we saw a wallaby or a kangaroo. Wallabys and
kangaroos are like gigantic crickets covered with hair. They have
long tails. Their great forte is jumping. From what I saw, I fancy
they would win the long jump at any athletic sports. Unless closely
pursued by the hunter, they do not care about jumping over wire
fences. They get past obstacles like these by lying down and rolling
through between the wires. Like donkeys, kangaroos carry their battery
in their back legs. When cornered by a pack of hounds, the kangaroo
pivots and places his back to the aggressors, and astonishes them with
lightning-like jerkings of his battery. Dogs are often disembowelled by
kangaroos. Some kangaroos have pouches in which they carry provisions.
If one kangaroo picks the pocket of another kangaroo the fight which
succeeds is terrific. At Thulimba, where we passed some clay slates and
granite, we were at an elevation of 3,004 feet, so said the railway
guide. It was cold enough for 10,000 feet. When we reached Stanthorpe,
which was the end of the line, it was bright moonlight and freezing
hard. Half an hour’s walk took us to Farley’s Hotel. Stanthorpe is a
funny little place. It consists of a few low, one-storied houses along
the sides of wide roads, I can’t call them streets. They have too much
grass on them to be streets. I hardly know why, but I shall remember
Stanthorpe, the last town I visited in Queensland, for very many
years. Perhaps the difficulty I had in getting there makes me remember
Stanthorpe. After a long journey at sea, any rock may be hailed as a
paradise. The hotel was like a little old-fashioned English hostelry.
There was the white-capped maid-servant, and there was the open hearth
with its huge log fire. When I looked at these logs fizzing and
crackling and throwing out a generous warmth, I thought well of scrubby
gum trees. The best thing, however, was the steaming fragrant half an
acre of beefsteak. ‘Will you try a little more beefsteak, sir?’ said
Mary; and I tried another perch or so. ‘Will you try a little pie--will
you try a little salt--will you try a little bread?’ Everything, it did
not matter whether it was flesh, fish, fowl, vegetable or mineral, Mary
always inquired if you would try a little of it. In this respect I may
remark that Mary was like nearly every waiter I met in the Colonies.
They all wanted you to try a little. The usual reply is to say, ‘Yes,
please, I will try a small piece more.’ If it is steak, a small piece
means the usual slab.

Stanthorpe was at one time one of the principal tin mining centres
in this part of the world. There is still a little mining going on.
The tin occurs in grains and pebbles distributed through alluvium.
The earth is thrown into boxes or sluices through which water is
flowing. The light materials are washed away and the heavy tin remains
behind. At one place I was shown a band of granitic rock, through
which grains of tin were disseminated. It is probable that it was by
the decomposition of rock like this, that the alluvium deposits have
been formed. On my way out to this we passed the house of a gold miner
who had at one time been so elated with his success, that he made
horseshoes out of gold, with which he shod his horse. After a five-mile
ride, I believe the shoes were carefully removed.

During the night I found it bitterly cold. Next morning everything
was white with frost, the ground was steaming in the rising sun, and
there was ice half an inch thick in the pails. This was tropical
Queensland. The streets were quiet, and with the exception of one man,
who was drunk and holding a maudlin conversation with a post, they were
deserted. This was the first time that I had heard a man talking to a
post, and I was quite interested to know what they had to say to each
other. People do sometimes talk to inanimate objects. I once heard of
a certain Mr. Smith who, when returning home late at night, had a
conversation with a pump. ‘Hillo, Tompkins, old chap! Hie! you’re out
late to-night.’ Tompkins was the pump. ‘Why don’t you walk about? Hie!
Very ridiculous standing there. You’ll catch cold, and what’ll your
wife say?’ Here Smith made a long pause, wondering why his friend was
so silent. ‘Can’t you talk? Suppose its beastly pride. I’m not proud.
Gimme your hand, and let’s help you home, old chappie.’ And rolling up
to the pump he took hold of the handle.

‘Oh! ’ow cold your ’ands is; you gimme the shivers. You’re like an
iceberg, Tompkins!’ Just then the pump-handle, under the weight of
Smith, slightly moved and squeaked. ‘Hillo, you’re wheasy, old man.
Let’s go and get six pennoth ’ot. Your wife’ll blow me up if I bring
you home cold.’ Leaning a little more on the pump, the handle suddenly
sank, and Smith tumbled forwards just in time to receive a deluge of
water from the spout. ‘So you’re sick; are you, you beast? No need to
treat a fellow like that. Shan’t stay here any more. May take yourself
home, Mr. Tompkins.’ And away Smith rolled, muttering something about
‘beastly behaviour’ and the ‘evil effects of drink.’

My man was not so bad as Smith. He had got his arm round the post of a
veranda. At one time he looked like the picture of Samson carrying off
the gates of Gaza. At another time he was like a revolving hobby horse.
His conversation was too inarticulate to be noted.

I spent a Sunday in Stanthorpe. A gentleman at the hotel took me out
for a drive. As we went along he carefully pointed out the devastation
left by the Chinese. ‘They come here,’ he said, ‘bring nothing but a
blue blouse, eat nothing but what they import themselves, work out the
ground that ought to be worked by white men, and then they go carrying
away gold, and only leaving those heaps of gravel’ (here he pointed
with his whip) ‘where they have been fossicking. They are usurpers of
a white man’s country. The white man is starving, and his wife and
daughters are thrown on charity, and all this because our Government is
wicked enough to let Chinamen come in the country.’

As we came back I saw a small Australian bear lying dead at the
foot of a tree. It looked to me like a sloth. It is a feeble, timid
creature, but has certain peculiarities which renders it worthy of a
passing note. When up a tree which is being felled, it has been known
to sob and cry with so much pathos, that the woodman has often ceased
his work, and gone beneath the branch on which he hung to seek for
falling tears. Many bushmen have sobbed themselves, and no one, I
have been told, can fell trees in Southern Queensland without several
pocket-handkerchiefs. A tender-hearted man can never earn a livelihood
by felling trees. The child-like grief of this little bear has been
known to overcome the stoutest hearts. Even the bloodthirsty bushranger
has had his heart softened by its weeping, and chronic sorrow is not
uncommon in districts where this animal abounds.

From Stanthorpe I travelled by coach to Glen Innis. It was a long
journey through the bush. I started at 8 a.m., and got to the end of
my journey at 6 a.m. next morning. I thought I was going to die in
this journey, so I am not likely to forget it. I had a box-seat all
the way, and a box-seat in a gale of wind, with the thermometer below
zero and wearing ordinary summer clothes, is not an enviable position.
The scenery was certainly lovely. Outside Stanthorpe we crossed the
track of a new railway line, which in time will be the connecting
link between the lines of Queensland and New South Wales. Near here
we crossed the border between these two colonies. After that our road
was over hills and valleys through interminable bush. Once or twice we
saw a kangaroo, and now and then a wallaby. Some of the old kangaroos,
which are known as old men kangaroos, will often sit up and stare at
you before they jump away. ‘No papers this morning, Jim?’ said a driver
to one of those old men sitting near the road, and the old man jumped
away. ‘Dear me,’ said a new chum, sitting next the driver. ‘I didn’t
know that kangaroos were so civilized.’ When the driver told this story
all the passengers in the coach laughed immoderately, and, not to be
conspicuous, I joined them.

At one of the stations where we changed horses, I was very much amused
by watching two frisky lambs chasing a flock of geese. The geese
were terrified and flapped away from their pursuers. Presently a dog
appeared about half a mile away, and the frisky lambs bolted in the
opposite direction. At the next station to this there were only young
girls living. They groomed the horses, and gave us our dinner. At all
of these places we had glorious wood fires and open chimneys, at which
we could toast our frozen feet. As we jogged along, the driver tried
to instruct me about gum trees, and to illustrate his lessons as we
passed along, he grabbed bunches of leaves from overhanging trees,
which he gave me sometimes to smell and sometimes to taste. Some of
them were not unpleasant to the nose, others were frightful. ‘Some you
might live on,’--at least that is what he said.

Notwithstanding all that I was taught, gum trees are to me all alike--a
scraggy variety of the vegetable kingdom. Tenterfield, which we reached
in the afternoon, is a nice little town with modern buildings, some
of which are three stories high. It is situated on an open undulating
country laid out in blocks for farming purposes. Many of the gentlemen
in the streets wore tall hats--many the ladies wore brilliant and shiny
black satin. By this time the box-seat had begun to tell on me, and
I was more than wheezy. Notwithstanding something hot and a bag of
‘lollies,’ by the time I reached the next station, which was a solitary
house in the bush called Bolivia, I could only whisper. This was at 9
p.m., and it was a question whether I should stay and die at Bolivia,
or get in the coach to be hauled along to die at or about Glen Innis.
At Glen Innis I might get a decent burial. In the bush there would not
be much ceremony. This latter ride, through dark bush, on rough roads,
up hill and down dale, with your marrow frozen, is not to be forgotten.
The cold I got remained with me for three months. All this is extremely
personal, but as it may possibly be the means of preventing some other
innocent wanderer from anticipating death, I put it in. When I am
next seen coaching in a tropical country, I hope to be wearing a fur
coat and a blanket. All that I can say about Glen Innis is that it is
a good-looking town with several fairly good hotels, situated about
3,500 feet above sea level.

From Glen Innis to Newcastle there is a regular English narrow-gauge
railroad. The carriages were, so far as my unprofessional eye could
tell, a senseless copy of what there is in the old country. In winter
they were bearable, but in summer the carriage I was in must be
stifling. It had neither curtains nor sunshades. The Brisbane line was
American, narrow gauge and with long carriages on bogie trucks. At one
place we passed over a height of 4,500 feet. This was on the side of a
mountain called Ben Lomond. All the way down to Newcastle through New
England there was much cultivated country, and many prettily situated
towns. The journey took fourteen and a half hours.

At Newcastle I took quarters in an hotel, which was not the best one in
the place. A fellow-traveller on the train recommended it to me as the
best house in Newcastle. You entered at a bar where there was a stream
of visitors passing in to drink, and then passing out rubbing their
mouths with their coat-sleeves.


A Newcastle Legend; or, the Story of the Dark Room.

My bedroom was like a cellar taken upstairs. But for a glimmer that
came in over a door leading into a drawing-room, I was in utter
darkness. It was even necessary to light a candle to dress by. When
next morning I interviewed the landlord I inquired as to the nature of
his contract with the neighbouring barber, for no one could possibly
see to shave in his establishment.

“What, were you in number sixteen?” asked the landlord. “I gave strict
orders that no guests were to be put in that room. The trouble that
I experienced about that room nearly killed me once. If you want me
to pay your barber’s account I’ll do it with pleasure, but anyhow you
might take a drink before you leave just to show that you don’t owe
me any ill feeling on account of having slept in number sixteen.”
All the while the landlord looked so anxiously at me, that I began
to think that he was astonished at seeing me alive. “Can’t visitors
sleep in number sixteen?” I asked. “Sleep indeed,” was the reply,
“the difficulty is to stop them sleeping. I had one man sleep in the
room for nearly a week without ever coming out of it.” “Well, what’s
the matter?” I inquired; “has there been a murder committed in number
sixteen, is it haunted or what?”

“It happened in this way,” said the landlord. “Just about this time
last year, we had a lot of visitors from up country making their way
southwards towards Melbourne, anxious, I suppose, to be in time to see
the Melbourne Cup. One cold drizzly afternoon an elderly man arrived
carrying in his hand a small yellow portmanteau tied up with a rope. He
said he had been sitting in the coach for the last three or four days,
and was very tired. From his dirty clothes and a curious limp that he
had got, we could quite believe that he had been knocking about for
some time.

“I asked my wife what we should do with the stranger, as all the rooms
were full. ‘Oh, put him in number sixteen, Joe,’ said my wife. ‘It’s
dark now, and maybe he’ll get up pretty early and never know that
there’s no window.’ At that time I may tell you that the door into the
drawing-room had not been made, so there was no window. The quantity
of steak and bread that the old man put away while having his supper
was something terrible. Matilda, who had been sitting in the back
parlour listening to the order which he gave, said ‘she thought he was
provisioning a fortress.’ At last he went to bed. On his way upstairs
he hoped that number sixteen was a quiet room, and that no one would
disturb him in the morning. He wanted to make up for the sleep he had
lost sitting in the coach. As I was going downstairs I heard him lock
and double-bolt his door, and then commence to hum a tune. This was
at 9 p.m. on June 30th. I don’t know whether you can believe me, but
that door was not opened until 12 o’clock on the 5th of July. Of course
we didn’t take much notice of him next morning. He wanted to sleep he
said, and perhaps might not turn out until 12 o’clock. When dinner
time came I had forgotten all about him. You know it is difficult for
us to keep the run of all our guests, and, besides, he might have been
outside attending to business in the town.

“That night, however, Susan, the chambermaid, told my wife that she
could not open number sixteen; whenever she knocked at the door there
was no answer. We thought it a bit odd, but as he said he was tired and
wanted to sleep we did not disturb him.

“Next morning, as he did not turn up to breakfast, my wife was a bit
anxious, and said to me, ‘You’d better go upstairs, Joe, and see if
number sixteen is going to get up.’ Well, after knocking at the door
two or three times, somebody inside said, ‘Hillo! what’s the matter?’
‘Ain’t you going to get up?’ says I. ‘All right,--presently,’ was the
answer, and I went downstairs and told my wife.

“Dinner time came and then tea time, but still number sixteen hadn’t
come down. ‘Better go and rap again, Joe,’ said my wife. Up I went,
and after thumping on the door till I heard somebody inside grumbling
about a noisy house and people not being allowed to sleep. ‘Are you
never going to get up?’ I said through the keyhole. ‘Will get up when
it’s daylight,’ was the answer. ‘He’ll get up when it’s daylight,’ said
I to myself. ‘Why, it’s nearly forty-eight hours since he went to bed,
and he talks of sleeping twelve hours more.’ When I told my wife what
number sixteen had said, she looked at me a moment, and then said,
‘Joe, this comes of putting a man into a dark room. It never will be
daylight in there.’ ‘Matilda, you’ve struck it, exactly,’ I said; ‘the
old fool thinks it is in the middle of the night.’ Then we discussed
what we should do. ‘Better let him alone to-night,’ was Maria’s
suggestion; ‘he has got to sleep somewhere you know. We can tell him
that it’s daylight to-morrow morning.’

“Next morning I was at the door of number sixteen pretty early.

“Rat-tat-tat went my knuckles on the panels. ‘Hillo!’ was the answer.
‘Going to get up to-day; it’s morning,’ says I. ‘Morning be hanged,’
was the answer. ‘If you don’t go away, I’ll call up the landlord and
have you removed. Don’t want to be disturbed by intoxicated visitors.
Telling me it’s morning when it’s pitch dark. You’re drunk.’

“Well, I was just flabbergasted to be called drunk. At this moment
Matilda, who was getting curious about the stranger, had joined me.
‘He calls you drunk, does he?’ says Matilda; ‘let me talk to him,’
and rat-tat-tat went Matilda’s knuckles on the door. ‘Hey, you inside
there, are you going to get up? You’ve been sleeping sixty hours,’ said
she.

“‘At it again, are you, old fool?’ was the answer. At the word ‘old
fool’ you ought to have seen Matilda’s face. I thought her eyes would
have come out of her head. ‘Old fool!’ she gasped, ‘me an old fool;
it’s the first time I’ve been called an old fool, and in my own house
too.’ For the next ten minutes Matilda kept on saying ‘old fool’ to
herself.

“Me an old fool and my husband drunk indeed! I’ll give it to you, you
wicked old ass,’ then, putting her mouth to the keyhole, she poured
into number sixteen’s ears such a shower of superlative adjectives as
he’ll never forget. I didn’t know she had it in her. ‘You dirty old
bear, do you think we’re going to have you hibernating all winter in
our bedroom. Get up, you old beast, and we’ll teach you some manners.
So you think Joe’s drunk, and I’m an old fool, do you? Out you get now,
quick, before I call in the policemen. You old villain, you, to think
you can insult people in their own house.’ Here she paused to get a
little breath. She was just putting her lips to the hole to continue,
when there was a fearful bang on the door, and something which sounded
like a boot dropped on the floor.

“‘Joe! Joe!’ said Matilda, ‘he’s thrown his boot at me,’ and with a
little scream she fell fainting in my arms. For the next few hours
number sixteen held quiet possession of his apartments while I was
plying Matilda with brandy and cold water.

“What was to be done nobody knew. ‘Starve him out’ was one suggestion.
‘At nine o’clock to-night he will have been in bed seventy-two hours,
and he must be getting pretty hungry.’

“By this time the other guests in the hotel had got wind of the fact
that there was something strange going on in number sixteen, and
several of them left us.

“Nine o’clock came, but yet there was no sign that the old man intended
to capitulate. All night long Matilda was so worked up about our guest
that she would not let me sleep. We couldn’t burst the door open,
because it was double-bolted. It would be easier to cut a hole through
the wall--the one on the drawing-room side was only plaster and wood.

“‘If we can’t starve him,’ said Matilda, ‘we can stop the old bear from
sleeping. Yes, that’s what we’ll do.’ Next morning we were up betimes,
and the business of keeping number sixteen from sleeping commenced. The
work we did that day was something terrible; we took it in turns, two
hours at a time, beating a frying-pan on the door-handle. At first the
visitors who had remained in the house thought it a joke, but towards
evening several of them thought it a nuisance, and moved with their
traps over to the Great Northern. Number sixteen never made a sound. At
eight o’clock that night, when Matilda came up to relieve me with the
frying-pan she said: ‘Suppose he is dead, Joe?’ He seemed to have heard
this. ‘So you are there again, you old fool, are you; it isn’t your
fault that I’m not dead. You have had your racket for the last twelve
hours, now I’m going to have mine;’ and then there commenced such a
row as you never heard. How he managed it I don’t know, he seemed to
have got all the fire-irons tied together and kept them bumping against
each other and the wooden wall. ‘Stop! for goodness’ sake, stop!’ I
shouted. ‘Oh, no,’ says he. ‘Why have you stopped? Please go on; the
two together will make a charming duet!’ and then he continued to bang
and clash as if he was going to bring down the house. By eleven p.m.
every visitor that had remained in the house had disappeared, and there
was I, Matilda, Susan, and Jo, the ostler, listening to the inferno
going in number sixteen. At midnight two neighbours came in saying they
couldn’t sleep, and if the row did not cease they would report the
house as disorderly, and have our licence cancelled. Of course nobody
slept that night. Matilda spent most of her time in weeping. ‘Let us
try quiet measures to-morrow,’ I suggested.

“Next morning we both went to the door, and told the gentleman that he
had been in bed for nearly five days, and if he would get up we should
be much obliged. We were sorry, we said, that there was no window in
the room; but if he would open the door, we would give him a light.

“Getting quite ‘perlite’ we heard him remark to himself, and then
speaking louder he said ‘he would do what he could to oblige us.’ Then
we heard him step on the floor. For a moment there was quietness; but
it was only for a moment, for immediately afterwards we heard a crash.
‘My looking-glass!’ said Matilda, and tears again began to run down
her face. Presently there was another crash. ‘There go the washing
utensils!’ I said; but, before I could tell him how to steer, we heard
some fearful abuse, and he told us he had got into bed again. He
couldn’t steer through a pot-shop in the dark.

“‘Never mind the things,’ sobbed Matilda; ‘do please try and find the
door.’

“‘What will you give me to try?’ said he. ‘You have imprisoned me in a
dark cell for five days, my feet have been cut with trying to get out,
and I am nearly dead from starvation. I shall certainly prosecute you
when I do get out. If you will push £5 through the keyhole, and send
with it a bit of paper, saying that the money is on account of the five
days’ pleasant company I have afforded, I’ll make a try and say no more
about the business.’ There was no doubt but that we were cornered, so,
after a consultation, we poked the five sovereigns and the bit of paper
through the keyhole.

“After he heard the sovereigns fall, he asked us to shine a light
through the hole; and, as you can guess, it wasn’t long before he found
the door.

“When he was gone, and we went to clean up the room, we found the
bedclothes full of the tailings of ham sandwiches and crumbs of bread.
Underneath the bed there were several empty bottles. What the yellow
portmanteau tied up with string had contained was clear; but why a
healthy, strong man should come and camp in a bedroom for five days,
it took us long to discover. We had all sorts of theories. Tilly had a
notion that he was hiding to escape justice.

“Some time afterwards the mystery was solved by some strangers from
Rockhampton laughing over a story that they had seen in one of their
local papers. _It was about a fellow who won a wager of £500 by staying
at an hotel in Newcastle to which he was a perfect stranger, and being
paid £5 for the pleasant company he had afforded._

“I never like strangers to sleep in number sixteen now, sir.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The trade of Newcastle is indicated by its name. Although there are
no collieries in the town, the town has nevertheless a very dingy
aspect. It looked like a town where there ought to be coal--like a
town where there was more business than pleasure. At breakfast the
landlord officiated at the slabs of meat and mounds of steaming chops.
It is a common thing in the Colonies for landlords and landladies to do
the polite at the head of the table. To me they were like watchdogs,
guarding the spoons and forks. When you go away they are usually very
friendly, and shake hands. One landlord, after two hours’ acquaintance,
began to slap me on the back, and commence his sentences with, “Now,
Tom, old boy!” If landlords are jovial, this does not matter very much;
but when they are of a retiring disposition, they make you feel that
they are obliging you by giving you admission to their houses. One
rule for a traveller in Australia is to remember that, in entering an
hotel, he is not necessarily obliging the landlord. While breakfasting
I looked over an old copy of the _Newcastle Morning Herald and Miner’s
Advocate_, where, under the title of “Football on Sunday,” I read about
an unfortunate little boy who had been summoned by the police for
having played football on Sunday in the Royal Park. Oh, you goody,
goody people! How particular you are not to be naughty on Sunday--that
is to say, on the particular twenty-four hours you have set apart to
represent Sunday! When you are roistering, your father and mother in
Britain may be praying; and when your father and mother in Britain
are roistering, you may be praying. You seem to recognise your vices,
and you do what you can to prevent them. On Sunday you close your
public-houses for the whole day, and on week-days you usually close
them at night about ten o’clock. You would not even go to the limits
of a Forbes-Mackenzie. On Sunday you stream to your churches, with the
spires of which many of your towns are fairly bristling, and often
listen to the wisdom of a young man. You look up to him, admire him,
and discuss him. Even if his views are palpably wrong, you tolerate
him and give him support. While travelling in the Colonies I talked on
religious subjects with several persons, all of whom were wealthy--one
was a member of Parliament--who inveighed against all forms of religion
but their own, in a manner which reminded me of the fanaticism of
the Middle Ages. One gentleman, and a high Government official took
me round one Sunday evening to look through the windows of a Roman
Catholic chapel, where we saw a priest swinging incense. “Look at the
idolaters! They are the ruin of the country; they ought to be classed
with savages, and swept off the face of the earth!” was what he
expressed.

Religion of this sort is a religion of all who are partially educated.
They regard themselves as the centre of the universe, and, regardless
of what their own particular views would have been had they been reared
in Mecca, they have the conceit to publicly express the measures they
would adopt to reform the world. In the Colonies there are undoubtedly
many of every denomination who have an education and ideas equally
advanced with the leaders of similar denominations in other parts
of the globe. About these we will say nothing--we only speak of the
generality; and that generality, I must confess, was judged of by a
small experience. One measure of the general uncouthness with regard to
religious ideas is the enormous support the Salvationists have received
in the Colonies. Where is the country in the whole world which has
given a greater support (I reckon support by percentages of the whole
population) to the Salvation Army than Australia? Ranting, raving,
roaring processions of the lower classes may be seen in every town.
A low, uneducated mind apparently finds comfort in a rough form of
worship.

Look, again, at the followers of the Blue Ribbon. I have never yet been
on a steamer where some of these gentlemen desirous of advertising
their principles have not been present. Further, it has but rarely
happened that they have not opened an argument about their views to a
fellow-passenger, who in many cases was perhaps a better exponent of
their doctrines than they themselves. To declare your principles may
be heroic, but it is only the vulgar who make themselves objectionable
when making their declarations. Nearly every Blue Ribbonite I met with
was decidedly vulgar, and, like the Salvationists, bold but ignorant.
When these middle lower classes of Australia are educated, there may
be fewer examples of these primitive kinds of worship. The same may be
said for other countries.

Notwithstanding all the religious parades which continually bumped
against me, I observed that vices were about the same as in other
countries. There was the usual gambling to be seen on steamers and in
hotels, the usual betting and bookmaking, the usual drinking, the usual
games at euchre, and, in short, the usual everything.

The traffic-manager of every railway tries to stop smoking, or at least
to surround smoking with so many discomforts that it will stop itself.
In New South Wales, for instance, you read at every station, “Any
person found smoking on the railway premises is liable to a fine of
£2.” Still you get a smoking-carriage. To call it a truck or van might
be better.

On the suburban lines of Melbourne, between the hours of four and eight
in the afternoon, you get a sort of smoking-box to sit in. It almost
seems to have been intentional to make the smoking accommodation as
filthy as possible. Nowhere in the world--and I have been round it and
round it in many directions--did I ever meet with smoking-carriages
in such a very dirty condition as those near Melbourne. If you got in
quickly, you might possibly get a seat. If you were late, you had to
stand in the middle of the van (for the conveyances are more like vans
with seats round them than carriages). There is a mat, which I always
saw in a state of sop: this was produced by saliva. To drop a parcel
would be to leave it, for it would be too soiled to pick up.

If people are crammed together like pigs, a place has a tendency to
become like a pigstye. Why Victorians are content with the smoking
accommodation provided by the suburban lines at Melbourne is a mystery.

From Newcastle I made a trip to one of the coal-mines, distant perhaps
ten miles. Part of the journey was accomplished on the ordinary
railroad; the remainder of the journey, on a private line, was made in
a locomotive kindly put at my disposal by the proprietors of one of the
mines.

On the Newcastle line I was particularly struck by a large printed
notice at the bookstall, which ran as follows: “Persons _not_ requiring
books at the stall are requested to leave the same alone.” This was in
large type, and the _not_ was underlined. Directions for the guidance
of the public so courteous as this are worthy of record.

My companions in the railway-carriage are also worthy of a note. To
see one lady that is stout and plain is not an unusual occurrence; but
on the memorable day of July 30, 1885, I had no less than ten stout
ladies to admire. Each of them looked cross, and, from the way in which
they glared at me, they were evidently strong-minded. Perhaps I was in
the compartment reserved for ladies; but as the train was in motion
before this dawned upon me, my mistake could not be rectified until I
reached the end of my journey. Once or twice I glanced upwards, just
to see a battery of flashing eyes, a circle of fat red faces, and
bale-like heaps of lace and spangles, each of which extended over the
area usually occupied by two people. While breathing a close atmosphere
of rich perfumery, I made the calculation that as the most fairy-like
of my companions weighed at least 200 lb., the whole ten of them must
have reached the enormous weight of 2000 lb., or nearly a ton. Fancy
being cooped up with a whole ton of female beauty, each unit of the
whole having a strong intellect, and being at the same time fearfully
muscular. I often wondered whether they were on their way to some show.
They looked domestic, and, assuming they were blessed with spouses, the
spouses must have felt blessed too. From these remarks I do not wish
it to be supposed that all Australian ladies are like the remarkable
ten into whose company I unintentionally had forced myself. Australian
ladies are as pretty and as enchanting as the ladies in other parts of
the globe. Abnormalities occur in every country. I only remember seeing
one other stout lady. She was jolly and agreeable, as stout people
usually are. I travelled with her for perhaps two hundred miles. By the
time the first hundred were over we were quite confidential. She was
going to see Parker. Parker was her husband. Her name was Cleopatra,
but her husband called her Cloppy for short. “When I left Parker three
years ago,” said Cloppy, “I was slim as a lath.” At the end of the
journey Parker was standing on the platform. He must have looked at
Cloppy for at least two minutes before he opened his mouth. When he did
open it, he smiled, then he grinned, until finally he couldn’t contain
himself for laughing. We had to pat him on the back. “Why, Cloppy,” he
said, and then he was off in convulsions again; “I hardly knew you. You
are fat!” and he was off again in tears. “Well,” replied Cloppy, who
was commencing to look a little bothered, “if I’d thought you was going
to make a fool of yourself in this way, I’d never have come. There
now, come along;” and she led Parker away with his sides shaking.

There are big men as well as big ladies in Australia. The tall men you
see about the streets and in the hotels they are often quite noticeable.

The coal-mines well repaid the visit. I was shown every courtesy that
could be desired. There was no particular reason why I should have been
shown any courtesy whatever. I visited the coke-ovens and works above
ground, and afterwards walked some miles underground, where everything
that was remarkable was carefully described. On the surface I was
particularly struck with the size of a coal-box. Ordinary coal-boxes
are portable; this coal-box had been made too large to admit of
removal. It held, I was told, upwards of 3,000 tons of coal. If they
had told me that it would have held half the coal in the universe I
should have unhesitatingly accepted the statement, and noted it down as
a fact to be publicly recorded. This box was built of wood. It stood
on legs, so that locomotives and whole trains could run underneath it.
Beneath this particular coal-box--for at other mines there are also
coal-boxes--there were three lines of rails, so that three long trains
could seek the shelter of its wings. These wings were sliding doors.
Open the doors, when, presto! the trucks beneath were full, and three
great trains could start away laden with a cargo of black diamonds
sufficient to supply the British fleet. Unfortunately, the British
fleet never came to be supplied. Newcastle folks have had a mania for
coal loading. At Newcastle itself they have a wonderful arrangement
of hydraulic cranes, which lift whole trucks, much as we would lift
a spoonful of soup, and then tip it into any portion of a ship where
the coals are wanted. In many cases I believe that the supply comes
in more quickly than those in the ship can get it trimmed. It is a
wonderful fact, but skippers say it is a fact, that, in consequence of
this, the coolies of China and the boys and girls of Japan can load
an ocean-going steamer as fast with coals as it can be done with the
hydraulic cranes of Newcastle. At Nagasaki I have been told that the
passing in and passing out of a cargo is a sight to be remembered.
Women or boys stand shoulder to shoulder up the gangways from the
lighter to the steamers. The baskets of coal fly along from hand to
hand, and so rapidly, that no individual ever carries any weight; all
that he does is to give the flying parcel an additional quantity of
momentum. The empty baskets pass back in a similar manner. The general
effect is that of a huge circle of revolving baskets. All this is
accompanied by parrot-like chattering and giggling. The Easterns are a
happy lot. When they have finished coaling they wash themselves.

Underground I was shown where a great fire had occurred. In places the
coal was burnt to a cinder. As you receded you passed places where it
was only coked. The shales that accompany the coal had been baked to
a state of brick or porcelain. This fire had been put out by flooding
the mine with water. This was accomplished by making a huge syphon
out of a 6-inch pipe, and conducting water from a creek which, at the
time of the fire, very luckily happened to be in a state of flood. The
seam I saw was six feet thick. In places it was a bituminous coal;
in other parts it had a stony look--this was splint coal. On one
occasion this splint coal had been returned, the buyers thinking it was
shale. As a matter of fact, it was a better coal than the bituminous
variety. Buyers often grumble about it. One thing of interest was a
contrivance for automatically greasing the wheels of the coal-trucks.
Another striking arrangement was a bar of iron called a “bull,” which
was to stop a truck from running away, supposing it got free when on an
incline.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sydney was the next great city which I visited. There is a daily, or
rather nightly, steamer communication between Newcastle and Sydney.
Before long there will be a railway connection, when the steamers
will have to lower their prices, or to seek their freights in other
ports. It was night when I left Newcastle. On my way to the wharf I
asked a young man the way to the boat for Sydney. His reply could not
even be put in Latin. In all countries which are leading factors in
the world’s advancement, we find the over-civilized, the civilized,
the semi-civilized. The gentleman to whom I spoke on the Newcastle
wharf might out of courtesy be admitted to the last class. I suppose
he belonged to that particular division of the human species known
in Australia as the larrikin, in ’Frisco as the corner boy, and in
London as the loafer. Sydney and Melbourne are the headquarters of
the larrikin. They may, if it is an honour, claim the invention of
this excrescence in Australian civilization. By some, the larrikin
is regarded as a type of humanity which owes its peculiarity to a
redundance of animal spirits. It includes shop-boys and young workmen,
who shriek after couples in the act of spooning: “Heh! why don’t
you marry the girl! I’ll tell your mother what you’ve done!” Young
gentlemen who are impertinent and cheeky. Young men who are given to
larks and larking. Thus their name. The larrikins I have seen have
certainly the above qualification; but, in addition, not only do they
make themselves conspicuous by their wits, but they live by them.
During the day they are apparently idle. They stand at corners, where
they smoke. The better class of them, or rather those whose “wits” are
above the average, adopt black suits, velvet collars, and high-heeled
boots. You see the larrikin in numbers on piers, especially on the
arrival of a steamer. I say they live on their wits, because, like the
policemen, I really do not know how they do live. “Go down Clarence
Street at night with some money, and you will find out,” said a friend
of mine. What he meant I do not know.

The larrikins are the town loafers of Australia. The country loafers
are called sundowners. These are gentlemen who travel with their swag
on their backs, and so arrange their movements that if possible they
reach a station at sundown. Here they take advantage of the hospitality
accorded to strangers, and practically demand shelter and food. To
refuse them might be dangerous, for after their departure fences might
be destroyed, fires might break out, or other little troubles might
occur which would be objectionable and dangerous. The sundowner is a
black mailer, and many of the squatters find his demands a serious
item in their expenses.

An old gentleman whom we suspected as being a sundowner visited our
ship while it was lying at the wharf in Newcastle. He was a tall old
man with a long grey beard. His tattered clothes, his staff, and the
bundle on his back, made him so much like the pictures of Rip Van
Winkle that he attracted general attention. His worn shoes and dusty
appearance indicated that he had travelled many miles. He told Captain
Green, who did the interviewing, that he had walked across the Blue
Mountains from Sydney to Brisbane, and was in search of work. He was an
engineer, but wherever he went, there was always the same answer,--‘Old
men are not employed.’ As he was evidently a man who had interesting
experiences to relate, our Captain asked him on board. His foot was no
sooner on the deck than he saw a Chinaman. “What!” exclaimed the old
man, “you carry wretches like that,--heathens who have robbed me of
honest employment,” and he seemed inclined to leave the ship. A little
persuasion, however, brought him into the cabin, and when a heathen had
given him a steak and a bottle of porter, his bitterness subsided.

It turned out that he had been educated at Bath, and when he heard that
the captain had been in Bath, the old man’s eyes almost filled with
tears. ‘You must know the old church, then?’ ‘Yes, yes; I shall never
forget an inscription on one of the gravestones I read there; forty
years ago now:

  ‘“Life is but a maze of crooked streets,
  Death is the market-place where each man meets;
  If life were merchandise which men could buy,
  None but the rich would live, and only poor would die.”’

Had our captain been able to keep the old gentleman on board, his
quotations, relating of incidents, and above all his mannerism, would
have formed materials for an interesting biography.

Now for Sydney. I must say that when I had passed the barrier of
larrikins, and reached one of the main streets, I was greatly
astonished. The bustle, the omnibuses, the cabs, the people, and the
general business-like flow of vehicles and people, reminded me of a
street in the little village on the Thames. The first hotel I tried
was the Royal. A notice in the smoking-room, which, by-the-bye, could
only be reached by verandas and windows, to the effect that “Any person
leaving cigar ash or ends about the room will be prosecuted as the law
directs,” etc., etc., quite frightened me. Jokes like these are so near
reality in the Colonies, that they ought not to be practised.

Everywhere you tumble on notices and articles inveighing against
smoking, swearing, and other vices, so that a stranger gets nervous,
lest by accident he should be caught tripping. I left that hotel, and
shortly afterwards found myself located at another hostelry, situated
on a hill in the midst of churches. Oh, those sweet church bells! Those
evening chimes. Think of the thousands of sleepless nights you have
caused. An organ-grinder may be ordered to move on by law. Why are you
exempt? You jangle, jangle, jangle, all in discord and without meaning.

I spent some days in Sydney, and all day and every day I walked and
rode about in all directions. One day I strolled through the Botanical
Gardens, enjoying glimpses of Sydney’s beautiful harbour. ‘Oh, have
you seen our harbour?’ is a question addressed to every stranger.
How a stranger who visits Sydney is to avoid seeing the harbour is a
great puzzle. Whichever way you walk you must come to the harbour--its
ramifications extend in all directions. Although it has only one
entrance, and is seldom more than a mile in breadth, often being much
less, it is said to measure round its shore line more than seventeen
hundred miles. Sydney people and Australians, when abroad, are for ever
doing all they can to create a prejudice against this beautiful corner
of creation. Morning, noon, and night the changes that are rung upon
the words, Sydney Harbour and beautiful, at last become as wearying as
the bells. Still, the harbour is beautiful. I went up the Paramatta to
see it.

As you steam along the smooth waters, and gaze at vista after vista
of islands, river-like expanses and rocky promontories, you might
fancy yourself at rest, while acres upon acres of panoramic views were
slowly drifting past you. All you require to complete the illusion
is slow music, and on fête days I presume such a want is supplied in
plenty. The rocks are yellowish-grey sandstone. As you get away from
the town, which looks more like a gigantic watering-place than a city
for business, the hills, instead of being capped with houses, are
capped with scrub. Whales and other marine monsters which have entered
Sydney Roads, must be quite bewildered by the twists and turns they are
compelled to take. Probably many of them get lost. As we progress up
the harbour, we see villas and cottages built on cliff-like slopes or
islands. Many of these have gardens, which of necessity are filled with
mounds and huge rocks. The Britisher residing on the shores of Sydney
Harbour is compelled by nature to have a garden that is picturesque.
His squares, and circles, and complications of geometrical figures,
cut in dirt and marked out with bright flowers or tiles, in which
his mechanical, unartistic soul delights, are here an impossibility.
Here he must content himself with figures and effects carved out by
nature--his own artificial regularities being an impossibility.

Where the harbour was narrow it was spanned by iron bridges. Those
which I saw were perhaps half a mile in length, and of the Warren
girder type. They carry an ordinary roadway. They might carry a double
line of rails.

A young Chinaman who had been studying engineering in Europe was on
board. He told me that he thought iron was cheap when these bridges
were built. It might be cheap to pull them down, and then put up double
the number of bridges with the same material. Of course the heathen
student was wrong. I told him that each bridge should be strengthened,
and should then be restricted to the use of foot passengers.

Another trip that I made was out to Coogee. This was in a steam-tram.
Steam-trams are a great feature in Sydney. They run through the heart
of the town. They consist of a locomotive and two or three carriages.
To send an ordinary train steaming, chuffing, smoking, snorting, firing
off ashes, steam, and dirty water through thickly populated streets,
is more than many towns would tolerate. Sydneyites, however, send
something more than all this through their town--not every hour, but
in places two or three times every five minutes. They send carriages
behind their locomotives as tall as ordinary houses. ‘Great goodness,
what’s that?’ said the major, when he first saw the steam-tram. ‘The
cathedral has escaped----no, it’s a row of houses got loose.’ It was
some time before we ventured on board one of these moving buildings. We
took an outside place, climbing up a ladder to what might correspond
to the tiles of an ordinary two-storied dwelling. One striking notice
was: “It is dangerous to sit on the rails.” We all laughed. We would
as soon think of sitting on the rails used by a Sydney tram as sitting
on the rails of an ordinary railroad. “Directors joking,” said Peter.
“Why, they mean these things,” said Dodd, pointing to some thin rails
corresponding to the tin water gutter on the edge of a roof.

Another prominent notice seen in nearly all the Australian towns
is, “Walk over crossing.” This is usually pendent on a lamp-post.
“Walk over crossing,” said I to myself. “They want us to be killed,
I suppose. I shall run over crossings, if necessity requires it.”
Afterwards I learnt it was a notice to the drivers of chariots.

As we went along we had splendid views into bedrooms, bath-rooms,
store-rooms, top garrets, and generally the upper quarters of the
houses which lined a street. Now and then a hand would suddenly snap
down a blind. This was probably some lady who objected to our seeing
her doing up her hair. Another kind of fun was to watch the private
horses jump. They don’t understand a row of houses tearing along the
street. Coming back, Peter made the major a bet that we should see at
least ten horses not educated up to steam-trams. Peter won. If I lived
in Sydney I should take a season ticket on the steam-trams. Perhaps I
might hire a tram of my own.

Coogee was lovely. In fact, all the country round about Sydney seems
to be lovely. Hill and dale in all directions. A lot of the ground is
sandy. It is covered with bushes and tufts of grass, and in general
appearance is like moorland. On our way out we first saw a big thing
like Cleopatra’s Needle put up in honour of George Thornton, a former
Mayor of Sydney. There are plenty of needles, statues and arrangements
to commemorate great people about Sydney. Those who wish to have
a chance of earthly immortality, let them try to live and die in
Sydney,--only don’t let the candidates for effigies, and other eulogies
in stone, be too numerous. Next we saw the University. We paid a visit
to this place, and were shown a remarkably fine hall--perhaps the best
hall out of Oxford. I am of course talking about halls belonging to
English folks. Then there was a book, “My Journal in the Highlands,”
bound in blue, and put on a monument under a glass case. How many
of these works our gracious Majesty has been pleased to present to
institutions and people in the Colonies I cannot say. I should guess a
good-sized ship-load.

After this there was the race-course and the Zoo. At the Zoo we saw the
usual elephant busily engaged in carrying round a load of children.
There were also some very tame kangaroos. A great feature in Sydney,
as in other Australian towns, are the cabs and carriages. In Sydney
they are hansoms--in Melbourne they are cumbersome things like covered
waggonettes. The most peculiar point connected with these conveyances
is the system on which you are expected to pay for them. It took me a
long time to discover what the system was, and it is more than likely
that what I discovered only applies to visitors. After trying a number
of chariots in various parts of the Colonies, it appears to me that
if you pay one shilling for the first quarter of an hour, you pay
two shillings for the second quarter, four shillings for the third
quarter, and so on at a geometrically increasing rate. If you were to
engage a cab for four hours your bill ought, at the above rate, to
be £1,766 18s. 0d. I was, however, informed on good authority, that,
with a little persuasion, the drivers might compromise with you for
about ten bob. If a man took a cab for the whole day, say of twelve
hours his bill would reach in round numbers the magnificent sum of
one hundred and forty millions of millions of pounds, or in figures
£140,000,000,000,000! A distinguished calculator was employed to make
this estimate, and it may be relied on. I have omitted a few trillions
of pounds some odd shillings and pence in this account, as too much
detail leads to confusion. Is not this a revenue towards which the
Government of New South Wales ought to direct its attention? They
require a loan, why not ask the cabmen? It is true that not many men
survive such an account. The man who had engaged the luxury of a cab
for a day, was, I heard, serving his time in the debtor’s gaol, and as
it would be some time before he had picked sufficient oakum to pay his
score, I was unable to make the acquaintance of this colossal bankrupt.

It was Saturday when I went to Coogee. In the afternoon the preparation
for Sunday commenced. Many shops were closed, verandas and doorsteps
were washed, and door-handles polished. But for a theatre, where I
sought refuge from the religious atmosphere which was closing over
Sydney, I should have been extremely dull. There are two or three
theatres in Sydney, all of which are well patronized. At a theatre
where Boucicault was performing, it was necessary to buy a ticket
several days ahead. I think I should have started for Melbourne on
Saturday, had I not been told that before the train had come to the
end of its journey it would be Sunday. As soon as it is Sunday the
train stops, and as it might stop in the Bush, and I was nervous about
bushrangers, I thought it better to remain in Sydney.

Of course everything is closed on the Sabbath. Should you ramble in the
country, and there, wearied with walking and the sun’s rays, lie down
exhausted on some mossy bank, still feeling that you might open your
eyes to the light of another day, could you obtain one small glass of
beer, do you think you would get it? Experience says No. If you were to
use strong language at this state of affairs, or at any other state
of affairs, do you think that a bobby would not run you into chokee?
The newspapers say they would. Neither liking to risk a horrible death
from thirst, nor the chance of offending the ears of some justice of
the peace, I stayed at home on Sunday. For about an hour I listened to
the jangling of some forty church bells. The enterprising proprietor of
one church made his bells play a hymn tune. These were the sounds from
outside. Inside I was edified by the jargon of forty semi-educated poll
parrots. Each of these birds knew a sentence of English. One of them
would fire off his particular string of words, when all his companions
would guffaw and yell. They began at about three in the morning, waking
me up with an impression that murder was being committed. I should have
liked to have killed them. I felt miserable. The place seemed to be a
mixture of piety, poll parrots, teetotalism, and bad grub.

In the afternoon I met a doctor who was acquainted with Sydney. He
said he would show us some fun. Better go out to Botany Bay, and see
Sir Joseph Banks’s Garden. The suggestion was hailed with joy, and
after lunch, Peter, Dodd, and I were all safely seated on the roof of
a tramcar on our way to Botany Bay. Going to Botany Bay! What room for
reflection--at least that is what those in Britain think. Botany Bay
is looked upon as a home appointed by our Government for murderers
and vagabonds. They think wrongly. Botany Bay is a rural spot which
has been much maligned. It was about nine miles’ ride. On the way we
passed lots of little villas, all with gorgeous cast-iron balconies,
and elaborate fringes of the same material round their eaves. It
is seldom that one sees so much ornamentation in iron. Some of the
designs were made up of so many twists and turns that they looked like
lace. Such elaborate decorations were symphonies in metal; to me they
were like the English geometrical gardens, the result of mechanical
education. I do not like the poetry of foundries.

A very noticeable building in Sydney, which strikes attention partly
on account of its magnitude and partly on account of the magnitude of
its name, is a steam laundry. Notwithstanding the existence of this
palatial wash-house, you pay six shillings a dozen for your washing.

At Botany Bay, we found a huge pavilion in an enclosure of trees and
grass called a garden. The building, which would hold an audience of
several thousands, was used for skating, dancing, and singing secular
songs, on Sunday. At one end there was a stage, and artistes were
singing. We sat down and listened. The songs we heard were “The Little
Hero,” “Hark the Lark,” etc. The audience were remarkably quiet and
well-behaved. Round the sides of the hall there were regulations and
rules about skating and dancing. It was requested that “Gentlemen would
not dance with gentlemen, nor ladies with ladies,” etc.

Many of the ladies were conspicuous from the variety and brilliancy of
their colours. I refer to the colours of their dresses. May not this
have been an example of unconscious imitation? There is a tendency in
the animal kingdom to adopt the colour of its surroundings--Polar
bears are white, insects on sand often have a sandy colour, many that
live in trees imitate the colour of the branches or the leaves. Perhaps
those who live in Australia have a tendency to imitate the gorgeous
plumage of its parrots.

On the return journey, our engine had to drag three carriages, each
containing about eighty people. The seats were occupied, the sitters’
knees were occupied, and the space between the knees of those who sat
upon the sitters was used for standing. One man was very talkative, or,
in plainer English, he was very drunk. This reminds me that at Botany
Bay the hotel refused to sell refreshments.

It was, however, an easy matter to become a member of a club. In half
an hour, or even less, you could pay your entrance fee and be elected.
Being a member of the club you could then revive yourself and your
exhausted acquaintances as often as you pleased. The arrangement was
charming. It reminded me of Kimberly in South Africa, where, after
the Government had put restrictions on ordinary hotels, hundreds of
clubs sprung into existence. I suppose our friend of the trains had
been to a club. After telling us, if we valued our constitution, to
follow his advice and never take a drink between drinks, he gave us a
most interesting lecture on his acquaintanceship with the interior of
prisons. He told us about the broad arrow on his back and the marks
upon his ankles. He invited us all to smash a window and join him. It
was only distinguished personages who were entertained at Government
expense. Amongst the lower classes, to refer to each other’s prison
experiences or ankle marks appeared to be a form of taunting which was
not uncommon.

That night we had tea. On week-days, the hotel being of a class that
was supposed to set the fashion, we had dinner.




_THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF HULLOOMALOO._


There are some very fine libraries in Australia, the one at Melbourne
probably being the best. Talking about books to a Mr. John Smith, with
whom I had once or twice the pleasure of dining at his residence in
Hulloomaloo, I learnt something about the formation of libraries that
may be interesting to record. Not seeing any books in Mr. Smith’s
rooms, I ventured to ask him what he did for reading materials. Did
he never give his mind a little relaxation? ‘Oh yes, I’ve got a
library--keep it in that cupboard,’ said Smith, pointing to something
looking like a sideboard. ‘The mental exercise it affords is sometimes
quite wonderful. Perhaps you would like to see it?’ And before I had
time to reply, Smith shouted out: ‘Eh, Janet, bring in a couple of
tumblers; the gentleman wants to consult my library.’ I won’t say
anything more about Mr. Smith’s collection of books, excepting that a
night’s study of them might possibly result in a headache.

‘But come, Smith,’ said I, ‘now, honest injin, did you mean to say
you haven’t got a book in the house?’ ‘Well, I can’t say that I have.
Once I had a copy of the “Rise and Fall of the British Empire.” I used
to keep it tied with a string to a nail in the wall. But some soul
thirsting after literature absorbed it one evening. I’ve had a sickener
of books.’ Here Smith took a drink and shook his head as if the thought
of his past literary career was too serious for reference. ‘Did you
never hear of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo and its library?’ he at
last inquired. ‘Got it all for nothing. Never paid a sixpence.’

‘That’s interesting,’ I remarked. ‘I should like to know how the
business was managed.’

‘Just take another look at _my_ literature,’ said Smith, passing the
bottle, ‘and I’ll tell you:

       *       *       *       *       *

‘Hulloomaloo was just becoming a place, and some of the influential
residents thought it would be a good thing to have some books; but at
the meeting they held nobody could tell where the money was to come
from. All sorts of suggestions were made, but they were all objected
to on the score that they involved subscriptions, and subscriptions
nobody could afford. The more they talked the more they seemed to want
to read, but they could not stand subscriptions. This was humbug, you
know, for the people in Hulloomaloo were as rich then as they are now.
The idea of having a library was just on the point of being abandoned,
when up jumped a pale-faced little man, who was sitting near the door,
and explained to the meeting that if they constituted themselves into a
society, they might get books given to them for nothing. He told us his
name was Joshua Jenkins, and that he had acted as librarian at one of
the State libraries in America; but who he really was, beyond being a
new-comer there, nobody could tell. A society ought to be constituted
at once, and, if it were worked properly, he would guarantee that
within a year the library of Hulloomaloo would be the wonder and envy
of the Australian Colonies. The brilliancy of Jenkins’s proposition
took everyone by storm, and he was voted to the chair to organize
proceedings for the constitution of the new society.

‘“It is proposed,” said Jenkins, “that this society be called the
Royal Society of Hulloomaloo. Does anyone object to that proposition?
Nobody objects--carried. Please make a note, Mr. Secretary.” Without
drawing breath he continued: “The members of the society shall consist
of ordinary members; honorary members, elected from the distinguished
_savants_ of the world; and co-operative members, consisting of
scientific bodies whom the committee shall decide to elect. Does
anybody object to that proposition? Nobody objects--carried.”

‘And so he went firing off rules, and saying: “Does anybody object to
that proposition? Nobody objects--carried,” until he had fixed up a
constitution before anyone had thought of objecting.

‘After this, he had a committee and a president elected, while he
himself was put into the position of secretary and librarian. To finish
up the meeting, he took down the names of all people in the room, and
collected five shillings a head. This made the audience into members.
After a few remarks, in which Jenkins complimented the residents
of Hulloomaloo on the magnificence of their surroundings, and the
unparalleled opportunities which Hulloomaloo offered for scientific
research, the meeting adjourned. The whole business of making the
Royal Society of Hulloomaloo, and collecting about £45, took, it was
estimated, thirty-five minutes. Jenkins had the £45, and the audience
had the honour of putting F.R.S. after their names. Of course they
omitted the H.

‘As to the details of what happened during the next two years, nobody
seemed to be very well informed, but they know now though.

‘First he began by making honorary and corporation members. He had a
lot of elaborate forms and envelopes printed, looking as if they had
come from Government quarters. Whenever the word Hulloomaloo appeared,
it looked as if it was the capital of Australia. The letters he had for
the _savants_ ran as follows:


    ‘“The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.

  ‘“Dear Sir,

    ‘“I have the honour of informing you that in consequence of
    your distinguished services in the department of” (and here
    came the particular ology of the man to whom he wrote) “the
    Committee of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo have this day
    elected you an honorary member of their body.

  ‘“I have the honour to remain, Sir,
  ‘“Your obedient servant,
  ‘“Joshua Jenkins, Sec.”

‘He always accompanied his form with a note. When he wrote to Darwin,
he said that the society had appointed several special committees;
one was to examine the working of worms, another to investigate the
fertilization of plants, a third to determine the exact relationship
between the higher mammals and the Australian savages. The results of
this work he hoped in the course of the year to have the pleasure of
forwarding to his address. In the meanwhile, he was certain that if
Mr. Darwin would send to the society a complete set of his works, they
would be bound in morocco and highly appreciated.

‘He promised Lubbock a collection of ants. Richard Owen was to
have a complete collection of fossil mammals. Spencer was to have
an exhaustive series of manuscripts on the social status of the
Aborigines. The result of all this was that in about three months we
had the names of almost every living _savant_ in the universe on our
list, and what was better, we had their books in our library.

‘The way he got over the societies after making them into co-operative
members was to promise them a complete set of the “Hulloomaloo
Transactions.” He had letters printed for the kind of society to which
he was writing. Here is an example of letters he sent to all the
Geological Societies in the world,’ said Smith, handing me a document
off the mantelpiece. It ran thus:

  ‘43.          (71-1034).

  XIX.          ‘Department of the Interior of Australia,
  ‘The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.

  ‘Sydney, _June 1st, 1881_.

  ‘Sir,

    ‘I have the honour to send to your address a complete set
    of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo,
    “A Treatise on the Geology of Australia,” with an Atlas of
    Geological Maps.

    ‘As these volumes are sent through the Imperial Government,
    they may not reach you for some time after the reception of
    this letter. Please observe the enclosed receipt. By order of
    the Committee,

  ‘I have the honour to remain, Sir,

  ‘Your most obedient servant,

  (42451-67904)          ‘Joshua Jenkins, Sec.’

The enclosed receipt ran as follows:

  ‘72. CXIX.          (764-31)          41-MDCVXI.

    ‘(_Neglect to return this receipt will be taken as an
    intimation that the Transactions of the Royal Society of
    Hulloomaloo are no longer desired._)

  Date ______________ 188_.

  ‘To the President of the Royal Geological Society of
  Hulloomaloo, Sydney.

  ‘Sir,

    ‘I beg to acknowledge the receipt of the under-mentioned works.

  ____________________
  ____________________

  Yours truly,

  Name____________________

  Present address____________________

  Past address____________________

  Future address____________________

  Permanent address____________________

  Variable address____________________

  City, Town, Village, Hemisphere, etc.

  (7623-731)          (854-901)’




‘To wind up, there was a beautifully printed envelope in which
to return the receipt. This was addressed to the Royal Society,
Hulloomaloo, Sydney.

‘Sometimes he would call the society the Royal Astronomical Society of
Hulloomaloo, next the Royal Linnæan Society of Hulloomaloo; then the
Royal Sociological Society of Hulloomaloo, just according to the people
to whom he was writing.

‘The result of all this was that the society received box after box of
societies’ transactions in all the languages of the world.

‘After a year or so, some of the people to whom Jenkins had made his
promises would write saying that they begged to inform him that the
books he had forwarded never arrived. Jenkins would answer, that he
regretted to hear that the parcel had been delayed, but he would
communicate with the Imperial Government on the subject, and a week or
two afterwards would send them another big envelope, saying that he had
the honour to send to their address another big parcel. The expectation
of sometime receiving something kept a lot of them quiet. To the few,
who were too impatient, he would write that he had been instructed by
the Imperial Government of Australia to inform them that the parcel to
which they referred had been transmitted to their Imperial Governments,
from whom, if they applied, they would undoubtedly receive the same.

‘While all this was going on, the books and presents to the society
had so accumulated that the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo threatened
to become a national institution. A meeting was held, and when the
list of honorary members and societies was read, and the library he
had collected had been inspected, Jenkins received a vote of thanks,
and subsequently a purse containing 500 guineas. After this, he was
made into a permanent secretary of the society, with a salary of
£600 a year. At this time Jenkins said he would add a museum to the
establishment. By dubbing a lot of prominent mine-managers F.R.S., he
managed to get a wonderful collection of gold specimens together, and
these he increased by promising to send to various parts of the world
collections of Australian minerals, which, as he put it, the Royal
Society of Hulloomaloo had instructed him to forward to their address.

‘By this time the letters that poured in upon Jenkins seemed to have
warned him that he was getting to the end of his tether. He said he was
sick, and would the Committee allow the library and museum to be closed
for a month. He thought a run down to Melbourne, where he would get
some of the society’s books rebound, might set him up. The petition was
granted, and away went Jenkins with twenty-six large cases containing
the books which were to be bound.’

‘And I suppose you never heard of him any more,’ I remarked.

‘Never hear of him, indeed; we thought we were never going to cease
hearing about him. During the two months after his departure, the
letters and official documents that poured into the rooms of the Royal
Society of Hulloomaloo would have filled the museum by themselves.
There was Darwin writing for the reports of the committees, Lubbock was
asking for his ants, Spencer was crazy about the MSS. on the social
status of Aborigines, Owen wanted his collection of fossil mammals,
all the societies in Europe and America were wanting our Transactions.
Diamond merchants and jewellers were asking to have the collections
returned, that they had lent for exhibition at our last _soirée_.
Foreign Offices throughout the world had written to our Government,
inquiring about the status of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo. Our
Government instituted proceedings against us for having swindled
creation.’

‘And what was the end of it all?’ I asked.

‘Why, one end was that we had to write five or six thousand letters of
apology, to raise a fund to return the pamphlets and stuff that would
not go into Jenkins’s twenty-six cases, and pay £25,000 damages for
what had gone into them.’

‘And how about Mr. Joshua Jenkins?’

‘Oh, Literary Jos. Well, I don’t know, but I believe he is gone below,
acting librarian at one of the State libraries. If you want to get up
a cheap library in your part of the world, that is his address. He is
charming company, you know.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The streets of Sydney are above the average of streets we see in
Europe. I expected to have found them narrow and crooked. Sydney
is usually described as being old-fashioned, and having a cramped,
crooked, and antiquated appearance. It is not American-like and modern,
like Melbourne; Sydney is English. The streets might certainly be
broader, but in all conscience, although not absolutely straight,
they are straight enough. George Street, Pitt Street, and all the
connecting streets between the two parallel main arteries, are usually
overcrowded. The shops are good, and there are plenty of them. One
shop, where you find everything, from millinery to leather bags, is
extensive, and quite comparable with similar establishments in London.
Here we have a number of excellent banks, and a post-office, which
probably cannot find its equal in any other portion of the British
Empire. Its tower will be a beacon for wanderers in all parts of the
Colony. At the top of Pitt Street, there is a market filled with fruit,
canaries, cockatoos, wallaby, and other Australian productions. Beyond
this is the cathedral. Near here we have a waxwork show, where living
likenesses of distinguished bushrangers may be seen. Amongst the other
sights are the Museum, the Picture Gallery, where there is a large
series of very good pictures, the Botanical Gardens, the Domain, Hyde
Park, and the University.

In going to these places you are continually met by pretty glimpses of
the harbour. Some of the smaller streets, however, are remarkable for
the antiquated appearance of the houses and cottages you see in them.

Of course I fell in love when I was in Australia. It would not be
complimentary to the ladies if I had not. It happened at the theatre.
At the time a somewhat uninteresting farce was being played. This gave
me time to look round. She sat in a box with a typical duenna. Perhaps
she was sweet eighteen, perhaps she was lovely twenty. Her figure was
willowy and elegant. Somehow or other your inner conscience tells you
when you are in love, at least, mine does. My inner conscience, after
looking at this earthly angel for about half an hour, remarked--‘Young
man, you’re in love; your bachelorhood is being compromised.’ Then I
had a short conversation with my conscience. It ended by my being
convinced that my conscience was right, and that I was not simply in
love, but was standing in the slops of an overflowing infatuation. When
I looked at her, I thought she smiled. The duenna certainly frowned.
At last the curtain dropped, and the Major, Peter and Dodd and I were
hustled out upon the pavement. ‘Come on, old chappie. You’ll never
recognise her with a cloak on. To-morrow you may find out where the
charmer lives, and get an introduction to her parents.’ ‘I’ll help
you,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll help you,’ said P. ‘I’ll help you,’ said
D. Then they said, ‘We’ll all help you.’ Before I could thank them P.
had taken hold of one of my arms, D. had taken hold of the other, and
the Major was pushing behind. With their united assistance I quickly
reached the hotel. That night sleep deserted me. Was it not possible
that we might meet in the streets, in the park, in a ferry-boat, or on
the Rialto? Many have met on the Rialto. At daybreak I would inquire
for the Rialto. But again, many have met in crowds. Yes, in crowds,
that meant the crowded theatre perhaps. At night I would again visit
the theatre. During the day I would pace the Domain, the Park, and
all the intricacies of great Sydney’s thoroughfares. Who was she? The
box, the jewellery, the duenna indicated wealth. Perhaps a princess
in disguise? She would be reclining in a chariot drawn by snow-white
steeds. At last I dozed.

Next morning I rose with Aurora, and tramped the streets. During the
day I flattened my nose against the windows of all the confectioners’
and millinery establishments that adorn the leading thoroughfares. I
gazed into all the hansoms. I even raised my eyes at the damsels who
reclined in open carriages. Many fair ones smiled--but mine, where was
she?

That night I was the first to enter the theatre. What anxious moments
passed as the dress-circle and the boxes filled! Suddenly P. nudged
me, and whispered, ‘See over there.’ Oh, heavens! there she was. It
was clear her bosom heaved with reciprocity, and had come to seek me
out. During the day she had probably been chasing round the streets of
Sydney behind my coat-tails. Why hadn’t I stood at a corner? I quickly
hired a pair of opera-glasses, and, gazing through them, brought her
nearer to me. She smiled. The duenna put on an expression of thunder,
and drew behind the curtain. Then she looked through her opera-glasses.
I looked through mine again. We were both near each other. I trembled
with nervous excitement; my glasses trembled. I think they visibly
waggled from side to side. She waggled hers. ‘Will you be best man,
Major?’ I whispered. Then I rushed off to the box-keeper. I told him it
was close and hot. ‘Yes, sir, it’s more than that; it’s dry, fearfully
dry.’ I was quickly his bosom friend. ‘Who’s she--the gazelle in the
second box?’ I asked. ‘’Um, what, her over there?’ said he, putting
down his glass. ‘She’s the manager’s wife; sits up there every night.’

The Major, Peter and Dodd left for Melbourne next morning. I left with
them.

The journey to Melbourne was not nice. We left at five p.m., and
reached Spencer Street Station in Melbourne about noon next day. I took
passage in a Pullman car. A genuine Yank sat near me, and we entered
into conversation. I like Yanks, and if I were eligible I might put up
to become a faithful citizen. After the ordinary preliminaries about
the weather and the autumnal tints, he made some general remarks about
the late President Grant.

‘As a general, Grant just whipped creation,’ I remarked.

‘Dair bet my bottom dollar his name shines like a brilliant
constellation in the military history of this planet until it ceases to
rotate. Saw him some years ago. Was smoking a big havana. His wife was
along. Don’t think she hansoms worth a cent. Good woman though! The way
she looked after her family was just remarkable. If every fellow got a
wife like that, there’d be less hair flying around. You from Boston?’
he inquired.

‘Sir,’ I replied, ‘you have paid me a compliment never to be forgotten.’

At the next depôt my friend invited me to see the refreshment-room.

The little bit of country that was visible before sundown was so like
the rest of the great continental island, that I will not attempt to
describe it.

Somewhere about eight o’clock a conductor commenced the removal of the
arm-chairs in which we had been sitting, and the erection of the berths
in which we were to sleep. During this operation, which lasted one hour
and a half (it sometimes lasts two hours), if you are lucky, you get
one of the four or six seats in the smoking-room, otherwise you have to
stand in a narrow passage. I had to stand.

The arrangement of rods and bars which were put together in building
the berths had the complexity of a Chinese puzzle. If the railway
company ever lose the services of the unfortunate man whose misery
it is to erect these structures, where they will discover a second
individual with a sufficiently retentive memory, and ingenuity to carry
on the work, it is difficult to conceive. Whilst the operation is going
on, the car jerks and swings like a boat upon a choppy sea. Several of
the passengers complained of sea-sickness, and I myself certainly had a
feeling of nausea. The only advice I can give to the directors of that
line is to take their cars and burn them--at least, burn the particular
one in which I had the misery to ride. From friends who followed me to
Melbourne, I heard that there were several other cars which ought also
to be burned.

At about five a.m. we were turned out at a place called Aubury,
where we changed carriages and passed the Customs on the Victorian
border. All the colonies collect duty from each other, and their
mother country. New South Wales alone admires the policy of its _alma
mater_, and adopts free trade. Not only are they at variance in their
commercial regulations, but there exists between them the same feelings
of jealousy that may be found between different nationalities, and
each ‘colonial’ looks upon his own particular colony as superior to
its neighbour. One question which you are often asked is, ‘Do you like
Sydney or Melbourne best?’ Several Victorians spoke of their Melbourne
and its people as being go ahead and smart--quite American you know.
They refer to being American with an intonation of regret--it is sad
and disgraceful to be like Americans; but, as it is true, we must
confess it, and it cannot be helped. Now as Victorians were so fond of
pointing out this particular character of themselves, I imagine that
they are really rather proud of it, and the intonation of regret is
little more than a form of modesty.

So far as I could see, farther than the fact that our Australian
cousins have displayed energy in building up great cities in a short
period of years, I did not observe a single instance of anything
which was American. Australians seem to be intensely conservative
and British. One characteristic of Americans is, to do things in new
ways and invent. When in the Colonies I looked in all directions for
something that was novel, but I must confess that I failed to find
it. Perhaps using single tickets, which after the termination of a
journey, on being snipped, act as return tickets, may be peculiarly
Australian. The hoods to hansoms may be new. Asbestos gas-fires in
hotels, the dispensing with conductors on the ’buses, and a few other
rarities in English life, are common in America. Possibly in farming
and stock-raising operations, Australians may have discovered methods
of procedure unknown in other lands. In their mining operations--and I
visited many mining districts--I cannot say that I saw much that was
new. I certainly saw much that was old, and machines that ought to be
relegated to museums were numerous.

In the morning it was cold enough for ulsters and opossum rugs to
be acceptable. I saw a hilly country, lots of gum trees, some post
and rail fences, one or two vineyards, and a few sheep and cattle.
Australia is a capital place to study gum trees. The first of these
trees were introduced to the country, so a fellow-passenger informed
me, as seeds, in a letter, sent by an affectionate Scotch wife to her
brother--it would remind him of his home at Greenock. I fancy that my
informant had confused Scotch thistles and gum trees.

No wonder the aborigines of Australia were a poor lot. They have no
scenery to stimulate their imagination, to create wonder, and to excite
an inventive faculty. If we except a few hills upon the east coast, all
is flat. Australia is like a pancake, turned up on one side and hollow
in the middle. Rivers are usually represented by strings of stagnant
pools. Some of them flow underground.

At last Melbourne hove in sight. It seemed to be below us. Its
appearance was like that of all large towns when viewed from a
distance--a confused mass of buildings, with here and there a spire,
covered with a canopy of bluish gauze-like smoke. Near the centre a
huge dun cupola formed a nucleus for the whole. It was large, very
large. When we remembered that all before us had risen during forty
years, we could not refrain from joining in the admiration of all
Australians for their mighty and marvellous Melbourne.


A Wonderful Bath.

The first introduction that my friends gave me was to their clubs.
If we except Botany Bay, nearly all Colonial clubs are exceedingly
particular. A guest, until he is elected an honorary member, cannot
pass beyond a guest-room, which is almost on the threshold. Even here
he is not supposed to linger. At one club, the internal arrangements
of which were quite palatial, I saw a bath which would excite the
wonder of a Barnum. It ought to be exhibited. The performances that
this wonderful piece of machinery could go through were perfectly
astounding. If I were rich, I would have a bath of that description
for the amusement of my friends. It was situated in a little room
provided with sliding doors in the walls, and electric bells. Visitors
were told that these doors were for attendants to pass in towels and
cups of coffee. I heard privately that they were really for attendants
to see that the bath did not get loose and damage strangers who were
unacquainted with its mechanism. When I first saw this marvellous piece
of mechanism, I thought it was a new form of organ, and that all the
labelled handles were the stops. The music it played was, however,
different from that of an ordinary organ. Pull one handle and you might
be boiled. Pull another, and you might be annihilated with jets of
water, which would simultaneously hit you in all directions, pounding
you to pieces like a fragment of quartz beneath a battery. Pull a
third handle, and you would be frizzled to a cinder with hot air. To
avoid accidents, there were innumerable notices pasted on walls and
on handles of the various taps. I only remember a few of them. One
said ‘Be careful and see that the arrow points to the left.’ Another
ran, ‘Three turns to the right will give you the douche.’ This was
a thing that flattened you out on the bottom of the bath. A sort of
aqueous thunderbolt. ‘Mind and turn off number three before entering
the bath.’ ‘See that hot is off before turning right hand number two.’
‘Turn on the aquatic gymnasium gently.’ This notice, applied to an
innocent-looking silver knob, which, when moved, set free a jet of
water, which carried the bather up towards the ceiling. Many visitors
had been found clawing and reaching and swearing on the top of this
jet, where they were being revolved, and tumbled about like a pithball
on the fountains which some fishmongers exhibit. Two hours of this
was said to be capital exercise for the muscles and lungs. There were
a whole lot of other notices, but I forget them. A portion of the
apparatus was like an ordinary bath; at the end of it, however, there
was a thing like a second bath reared on end. The resemblance of this
to a sarcophagus was quite appropriate. It was painted blue, and had
aureoles and stars as decorations for its dome-like roof. Standing
in this you might pose as a saint, or as one of the images so common
in the niches of large cathedrals. This was also appropriate, for,
after having met your death, you might remain standing as a martyr to
cleanliness, and as a warning to future bathers.

I got my companion, who described the above, to turn on some of the
fireworks while I looked through one of the holes for cups of coffee.
First there was a hiss, as of escaping steam, then the sullen roar of
a fall like great Niagara. Sometimes it was hot, at other times it was
cold. Oh, conflagrations and volcanoes, where would you be beneath
jets like this? Now and then I could catch a view of my companion
through the clouds of spray and steam. At one moment he was like a
deity surrounded by rainbows. At another moment he was like an imp of
darkness working the machinery of the infernal regions. The thunder
of the douche was appalling. I shrieked to him to retire. The roaring
of the waters prevented his hearing my warning cries. Suddenly the
deluge ceased. He had turned another tap and produced a gentle spray,
like that which waters budding plants in spring. The exhibition was
marvellous, and it made me change my opinion about Australians being
non-inventive. My friend asked me, when all was over, to have a bath.
I felt the satire, and did not answer. The volcanic energy pent up
behind the silver taps of that establishment have produced too deep
an impression ever to be forgotten. To have a bath which will wash
your friends, stretch your muscles, give flexibility and tone to
your larynx, extinguish volcanoes, put out fires, kill your enemies,
create a nervous excitement sufficient to turn black hairs grey, alarm
intruders, amuse the children, flood the streets, is a luxury denied to
all but Victorians.

‘The Russians will never capture this establishment. The bath would
kill them,’ I remarked.

‘They don’t wash,’ replied my friend.

I had forgotten that.

Now do not let it be supposed I have referred to this bath without an
object. I and the maker have a contract, and when he has sold a lot of
them, we are going to buy a castle apiece. I think the Rhine is a good
situation.

       *       *       *       *       *

The great street in Melbourne is Collins Street. Another great street
running parallel to Collins Street is Bourke Street. The latter is like
the Strand in London. The former is like Regent Street. The streets
and their footpaths are wide, and the people in consequence do not
appear to be so numerous as in Sydney. Still, until about six p.m.,
when all the shutters snap to like a lot of clam shells that had been
alarmed, there are people enough.

It is a great treat for anyone fond of seeing nice people and nice
shops to do ‘the block.’ I spent very much time doing ‘the block.’ In
fact I think I could pass a very good examination as to the contents
of the various shops in the leading thoroughfares of Melbourne. There
are also a number of interesting arcades. One shop which I remember
was a monster book shop. It seemed customary to go into this shop,
and loll against any of its hundred stalls, and read. Having turned
down the page, you can come back and finish the story next day. In
Collins Street I was particularly struck with the uniformed satellites,
whose duty it was to parade in front of the large shops, and assist
ladies to alight from their carriages. In neatness they were only
equalled by the cockaded, brilliantly buttoned gentlemen who drove the
carriages. Throughout the colony I observed that many of the younger
ladies cropped their hair like boys, and wore tippets. Sad green was a
favourite colour for dresses. Talking of girls, one thing which annoyed
me was to see nice-looking, stylishly-dressed, gazelle-like creatures,
who looked as if they would hardly condescend to nod at a duke, talking
and walking with ill-dressed young larrikins. You see this all over the
colonies.

Among the public buildings that I visited were the Law Courts, with
their numerous and elaborate courts of justice, several colonial
Banking Palaces, and the Public Library, which probably has one of
the finest collections of books in the East. Attached to this there is
a picture gallery, and a technological museum filled with models of
great nuggets, models of mining machinery, and machinery used in other
industries, and other interesting objects too many for enumeration. I
did not see an Egyptian mummy. I trust that the reverence for antiquity
has an existence in Australia, and that some mummies will be ordered.
At one end of Collins Street I admired the statues of Burke and Wills,
the great explorers, and also the massive public buildings which block
the end of the street. I saw the University, and its Museum of Natural
History. The animals were very tightly packed, and if the accumulation
continues it will shortly become necessary to climb in and out between
the ribs of whales and other monsters before you can see the place.
One whale has already been compelled to take an outside place in the
garden. The decorations, which consist of illuminated scrolls, have
a remarkable similarity to the decorations one sees in churches.
Instead of the Ten Commandments, on close inspection, you find that the
illuminated legends refer to the orders of animals and plants. There
is also a very fine hall to be seen at the University. It is as yet
wanting in internal decoration.

On the other side of Melbourne, the Observatory, which has one of the
largest telescopes in the world, was pointed out to me. Near to this
I saw some exceedingly pretty botanical gardens. Overlooking these is
Government House. It is very large, and more imposing than Buckingham
Palace. Its tower, which has a flagstaff on top, corresponds to what
the tower of the Post Office in Sydney is to be--a landmark for all
who lose their way. Altogether there is much to be seen in and about
Melbourne. There are innumerable parks, racecourses, cricket grounds,
zoological gardens, manufactories, theatres, and other places of
amusement which I had no time to visit. While in Melbourne I made
many journeys on the suburban lines. I have already described the
smoking-carriages on these lines. The ordinary first-class carriages
were on a par with the ordinary second-class car we have in England.
If the directors of these lines wish to be economical, why do they not
simply have one type of carriage? A common wooden-seated third-class
vehicle; place a mat on the seat and it becomes second-class; and, with
an additional mat for the back, it becomes first-class. Let the mats be
in little squares, so that each passenger can hire one, as he passes
from the ticket-office.

Before saying good-bye to marvellous Melbourne, just a word about its
river, which is quite as marvellous as the city on its banks. In its
upper courses the Yarra, with its weeping willows, is a pretty stream.
It is clear, sluggish, and sinuous, still it is anything but ugly. In
its lower courses, where it winds across the flat marshy ground which
divides Melbourne from the sea, it ought hardly to be called a river.
Other rivers might object. It is as sinuous as a snake in spasms. Its
banks are of mud, and its stagnant waters a mixture of sludge and
filth. As you sail down it, almost touching either bank, at one time
you appear to be going towards Melbourne, and at another time to be
going away from it. Then the smells. The variety of these is as great
as at Cologne, but by no means so pleasant. At one moment up goes your
handkerchief for a tallow-boiling establishment, at the next moment
you are knocked over by a soap factory. The worst smell of all is the
Yarra itself. This you get at shallow corners, and when you ground on
mud-banks. O smell of smells! Products of decomposition, sulphuretted
and arseniuretted hydrogen, carbon disulphide, and all the odours of
the chemist! what are ye to this? Still you have your use. Pilots with
good noses can steer by you on the darkest night.

The Liffey makes good Dublin stout. Surely there is something in the
semi-solid waters of the Yarra! Try it for porter, and if it does not
do for that, try it for hair oil; if it fails for both of these, it
will certainly make a good emetic.

The only other places that I honoured in Victoria were Sandhurst and
Ballarat. I went to these two places rather than to others because they
were classical places in the history of Australian mining; in fact,
but for these places, Victoria might never have been invented. The
travelling was done by rail. It is a common thing for distinguished
visitors in the colonies to be provided with free passes. As the
directors of the various colonial lines did not know that I was a
distinguished visitor, I had to travel at my own expense. Almost
every carriage that I travelled in contained a deadhead. The ticket
collector would come, and the two or three deadheads would show
a mysterious little card, a bit of paper, or a medal. One lot of
deadheads I travelled with turned out to be honourable members of the
House of Assembly. From their appearance and speech I should hardly
have suspected their vocation. They seem to be well acquainted with
people on the line, from whom I learnt that the name of one of the
honourable members was ‘Jim.’ The custom of addressing Parliamentary
potentates by an abbreviated surname was, I was told, in imitation of
the farm-labourers near Hawarden, who speak of a distinguished member
of the British House of Assembly as Bill. I should like to describe the
various members of colonial legislative assemblies with whom I had the
honour to converse, but I am afraid. If you are not careful you may
become notorious as a defendant in a suit for libel. While I was in
Australia, the editor of _Punch_ was acting as a defendant in a case
brought against him by a Government official. ‘Better stand official
outside a post-office with his tongue out--he will do for people to wet
stamps on,’ suggested a wag. _Punch_ had cartooned a gentleman in this
position, and thus the row. I think _Punch_ was very wrong.

I travelled up to Sandhurst in the dark. During the latter part of the
journey up to Sandhurst I was entertained by a rough-looking gentleman,
with whom I had entered into conversation, who told me much about his
early experiences when he first came out to Victoria. He seemed to have
tried his hand at everything, from sheep to literature. One of his
literary experiences ran pretty much as follows:


A Circular Story.

‘It was in the early days of Victorian history, when I found myself
in Sandhurst and short of money. A friend in Melbourne had given me
an introduction to Mr. J. G. Boosey, proprietor and editor of the
_Bendigo Scientific Advertiser and General News Agent_. To make my
introduction agreeable to Mr. Boosey, and at the same time pecuniarily
advantageous to myself, I penned a short article on the garden-snail,
which had recently been imported from Europe, and was creating ravages
of no inconsiderable extent in many of the gardens. This I put in my
pocket, when I proceeded to Mr. Boosey’s office.

‘Mr. Boosey was exceedingly agreeable, and after inquiring about his
friends in Melbourne, asked me to read the article I had brought. After
giving a few preliminary coughs I began:


‘SLUGS.

‘“Slugs eat cabbage. They forage at night. In the morning they creep
home. They are afraid of gardeners. Gardeners hate slugs because they
eat the things in the garden. To catch slugs you must get up early. The
captives may be thrown into a neighbouring garden. This annoys the man
next door. The slug is a very quiet animal. Its length is sometimes
three inches. When it is alarmed it is only about half an inch long.
Many slugs have shells. The horns upon their heads are weapons. Slugs
travel very slowly. Once a slug had a race with a hare. The slug won.
Snails are the same as slugs. Once a slug fought with some tailors. The
tailors ran away. They were afraid of the snail’s horns. Snails are
succulent. They make good soup.”

‘“’Twon’t do, ’twon’t do,” said the editor. “’Tain’t my style a bit.
If you want me to insert your articles in the _Bendigo Scientific
Advertiser and General News Agent_, guess you’ll have to be terse. Say
things to the point, and not go wandering along with a regimental
procession of high-falutin, chuckle-headed sentences like what you’ve
stuck down on that paper. Now look at this,” and he held out the papers
I had brought for his approval at arm’s length. “Just look at this!
call this an article on slugs! Why, there ain’t enough in it to make
a decent epitaph for a bumble-bee.” Then he begun to read, “‘Slugs
eat cabbage.’ Um, ‘They forage at night.’ Um, ‘In the morning they
creep home.’ Um, ‘They are afraid of gardeners.’ Um, your ideas ain’t
continuous or elastic. In those four sentences, if they were decently
handled, there is enough to last the _Bendigo Advertiser_ for a week.
You oughtn’t to call a slug a slug. Call him a univalvular molluscous
gasteropod. Describe him in the early dawn cautiously returning from
a predatory excursion upon a cabbage-garden. Picture the thrifty
gardener, with a patch of sunlight illuminating his honest face, the
glory of the early morning, the refulgence of the rising luminary
reflected from the riplets of a neighbouring fish-pond, and all that
sort of thing. Just keep on saying the same thing over and over again
without using exactly the same words. Circulate round and round a bit
with ordinary phrases, and people will catch the hang of your meaning
better than if you go dashing along, plumping fact after fact down
their throats as if you wanted to choke ’em with literature. But above
all things be terse, concise, and to the point.”

‘How I was to be terse and concise, and yet to keep on circling round
and round, saying the same thing over and over again, but with varied
phraseology, was a problem. I thanked the editor for his kindness,
and proceeded towards my lodgings with my head filled with ideas of
a univalvular molluscous gasteropod, a thrifty gardener, a rising
luminary and a fish-pond. I had hard work that evening, but I succeeded
in constructing a circular story about a univalvular molluscous
gasteropod better than I had anticipated. Next morning when I entered
the office, Boosey, who was sitting in his editorial chair, said:
“Well--_hic_--so you think you have succeeded. Just let me hear what
you have written--_hic_. Feel sleepy this morning.” It was clear that
Mr. Boosey was slightly inebriated, and knowing that it would be bad
policy to aggravate an inebriated man, I at once pulled my paper from
my pocket, and began as follows:

‘“The title is ‘The Univalvular Molluscous Gasteropod; or, The New
Colonial Pest.’”

‘“Excellent,” hiccuped Boosey, “mush better than calling it a snail.
It’s a univalvular molluscous gasteropod, just as I told you. Your
language is really very beautiful--_hic_.”

‘Then I started, Mr. Boosey dreamily looking at me and nodding his head.

‘“As a toil-worn univalvular molluscous gasteropod wearily sped
towards its home at early dawn, skirting the western side of a broad
and verdant cabbage-patch, picking its way by the uncertain but
continually increasing light penetrating the cloud-beflecked sky,
till it at last saw in the orient the uprising luminary which might
disclose its presence to the cautious and thrifty gardener, who had
risen early, with a patch of sunlight on his honest face, it watched
the steadily glowing disc and the wide-extended sheaves and pencils,
resplendent with golden light, silvering, gilding, and, it might be
added, magnificently tinting every snowy pile of gauze-like vapour,
etherealizing all the low-lying mist that hid the bosom of the mother
earth, and at length perceived across the yet deserted garden the
rippling waves of a distant fish-pond, stirred by the first gentle
breeze of the early dawn, and the flashing of a broad band of glory,
each ripplet on the distant shore catching up and robbing its neighbour
of the wonderful illumination, each with its handful of beautiful light
passing its transient acquirement to the nearest swell, and in turn
catching new beauty from the passing beams of the god of day, when the
eyes are dazed by the passing sheen, and all the scene is surcharged
with light until glory covered the weary one.”

‘At this point I had come to the end of my manuscript, and I looked
towards Boosey, who was nodding his head towards the desk. When I
said “glory covered the weary one,” he looked up, gave a hiccup, and
asked if that was all. A diabolical idea came into my head. As Boosey
was evidently muddled with what I had read, I would follow his advice
and make my story circulate. Oh no, Mr. Boosey; it continues right
straight along: “the weary one being a toil-worn univalvular molluscous
gasteropod that wearily sped towards its home at early dawn, skirting
the western side of a broad and verdant cabbage-patch, picking his way
by the uncertain but continually increasing light, which penetrated the
cloud-beflecked sky, till it at last saw in the orient the uprising
luminary which might disclose its presence to the cautious and thrifty
gardener, who had risen early, with a patch of sunlight on his honest
face, it watched the steadily glowing disc and the wide-extended
sheaves and pencils, resplendent with golden light, silvering, gilding,
and, it might be added, magnificently tinting every snowy pile of
gauze-like vapour, etherealizing all the low-lying mist that hid the
bosom of the mother earth, and at length perceived across the yet
deserted garden the rippling waves of a distant fish-pond, stirred by
the first gentle breeze of the early dawn, the flashing of a broad band
of glory, each ripplet on the distant shore catching up and robbing
its neighbour of the wonderful illumination, each with its handful of
beautiful light passing its transient acquirement to the nearest swell,
and in turn catching new beauty from the passing beams of the god of
day, when the eyes are dazed by the passing sheen, and all the scene is
surcharged with light until glory covered the weary one.”

‘“Shplendid,--_hic_,--shplendid,” yawned Boosey. “Just stop there,
and say, ‘To be continued in our next.’ Can give you ten dollars
for six similar articles. When you talked about slugs eating
cabbage--_hic_--forage at night--_hic_,--afraid of the gardener, and
the rest of it, I was doubtful about your--_hic_--style. Terseness is
the art of journalism. There is a terseness about what you have just
read--_hic_--which will certainly please the readers of our columns.”

‘How it was that old Boosey had not noticed that I had reiterated
several of my statements in connection with the univalvular molluscous
gasteropod can only be attributed to amiability. That night I
sent in some clean copy, and my article appeared; but as I was a
stranger in Sandhurst I was unable to learn anything respecting the
general impression it had produced. Next day I went to the office,
where I found Mr. Boosey in a worse state than he had been in on
the previous day. All he could do was to giggle inanely, and say,
“Shplendid--univalv--_hic_--ular gasteropod indeed! funny dog--take
a drink, old man. Make you sub-editor next week.” Then inquiringly,
“S’pose you’ve got some more about that gash’opod, eh?” It was clear
that my chance was open, and I did not lose it. That night the readers
of the _Bendigo Advertiser_ had the continuation of the story. It
began: “As a toil-worn univalvular molluscous gasteropod wearily sped,”
etc. In the evening I heard one or two of the guests at the hotel
saying that old Boosey was mad. Snails in the colonies were bad enough,
but his articles were worse.

‘Times were too bad for one to think what people thought of Boosey,
and so long as he remained amiable, I determined to go ahead, sending
the same old story about the univalvular molluscous gasteropod. On the
evening of the fifth day Boosey sent me a cheque for ten pounds, with
compliments and thanks for my interesting communications. His note
indicated that he was sober, and I felt alarmed.

‘The morning after this I heard that a little boy had put his head
inside Boosey’s office, and called the old man a univalvular molluscous
gasteropod. This little incident was followed by an article in _The
Morning Chronicle_, headed, “A Circular Story; or, A New Colonial
Pest,” which tried to prove that Boosey was either mad or perpetually
intoxicated. I saw a crash was coming, and that evening took a train to
Melbourne. A few days afterwards I received a note from Boosey. It ran
as follows:

    ‘“Dear Sir,

    ‘“I have read my back issues, and I trust you will not feel
    annoyed if your children should suddenly become orphans.

    ‘“Yours truly,

    ‘“J. G. Boosey.”

    ‘I never replied.’

Next morning was Sunday. After presenting letters of introduction to
one or two influential residents, I and Dodd strolled about the town.
The streets are wide, with here and there a number of good shops. ‘The
Mechanics,’ which includes a school of mines, is a fine building.
‘The Mechanics,’ the chief feature in which is a reading-room, is an
institution to be found in most colonial towns.

The chief street in Sandhurst is called Pall Mall. Right in the middle
of it there are the poppet-heads of a gold mine. When coal has been
discovered under London, there may possibly be a coal mine in the
original Pall Mall. I saw a lake in the domain and also a fernery.
Ferneries are not uncommon in this part of the world. They consist
of a collection of rockeries covered with tree-ferns, beneath the
fronds of which there is a maze-like arrangement of damp paths. The
only objection to these artificial groupings of natural objects is,
that after having once entered them, you are afraid that it will be
difficult to find your way out. It being Sunday, all was very quiet.
In the afternoon the quietness was disturbed by the howlings of a
Salvationists’ procession.

It started from a large building called the Salvation Army Barracks,
in front of the hotel. At the head of the procession there was a man
bearing a red banner, on which was written ‘Blood and Fire.’ Next came
the band dressed in a militia-like uniform, each man with the name of
his religion labelled on his cap. Behind these came a great number
of women in coal-scuttle-shaped bonnets and blue dresses. They were
labelled like the men. These uniforms can be purchased at the Salvation
Army stores. Behind all there came the riffraff of the town. Mixed up
with the front part of the regiment were a number of young men also in
uniform, who pivoted and pranced about as if imitating David. They led
the procession. To encourage people to join them, the prancers flicked
their pocket-handkerchiefs as if beckoning. It was very interesting,
and more especially so as it was accompanied by lively music. I met
with Salvationists, their barracks, their stores, and their provisions
throughout the colony.

The Salvation Army publishes an organ called the _War Cry_, which
circulates in many parts of the colonies. The only one I saw was
chiefly filled with reports as to the progress of regiments in
different districts. Parts of the reports--but for the spirit in which
we suppose they are put forward--sound like blasphemy, and I refrain
from quoting them. The bulk of them contain numerous ejaculations
about Hallelujah and Salvation, and are filled with contradictory
statements. Much relating to the firing of guns is incomprehensible.

Here are a few specimens of _War Cry_ literature, taken at random from
a copy picked up on an hotel table:--

‘Captain Perry reports from Nelson that one dear man had walked 800
miles to gain salvation. The barracks were packed. Great conviction;
but they went away blinded by the devil’s delusive plaister--“Not to
night.” Lord save them is our prayer. Hallelujah! Cry going up. Look
out, Sydenham! we’re going to flog you! Will do it, too!’

‘Auckland reports that the Marshal held the people spell-bound, and
accompanied the singing with the piano. £13 4s. collected. Hallelujah!’

‘At Lyttelton, one sailor who had been tossing about the ocean of life,
took passage in the Gospel Ship, and shipped right through viâ Calvary,
and all the people said, Amen.’

One article was devoted to a threatened invasion of China.

‘In six weeks the first contingent was to be stationed at one of the
protected ports, Hong-kong, Canton, or Shanghai.’ ‘We shall dress like
Chinese,’ said Marshal Booth; ‘take Chinese food, and try to come down
to the level of the Chinese themselves.’

While I was in New Zealand a Maori army was being organized. In
Canterbury I saw an Army store. Here, works by General and Mrs. Booth
can be purchased. One, by Major Corbridge, is entitled ‘Up-Line to
Heaven, Down-Line to Hell.’ Soldiers’ cards, pray-cards, roll-books,
and cartridges are also sold. I suppose the latter, which cost ten
shillings a thousand, are tracts.

At the outfit department you can buy regulation shields, uniforms, army
pocket-knives containing photos of General and Mrs. Booth, sisters’
jerseys, badges, sergeants’ bannerettes. The Salvation Army are
certainly a powerful body amongst the lower classes in the colonies.
One officer describes his colleagues as ‘Hallelujah gutter-snipes, and
ragpickers on the muck-heap of sin.’ They work amongst those who find
ordinary churches too genteel. It is to be hoped that they are doing
good.

Dodd and I had several good walks and drives about Sandhurst. One
was to Eaglehawk, which is a large mining district. In fact, the
whole district from Sandhurst to Eaglehawk, and, for that matter, for
miles beyond, is covered with poppet-heads. These poppet-heads, which
indicate shafts, extend in lines over an undulating country. From the
length of any of these lines, you can roughly estimate the length
of the lodes or reefs which are being worked. Like Charters Towers,
the reefs are of quartz; but, instead of being in a granitic rock,
they intersect or run through the traditional slate. The distance
to Eaglehawk was four miles, and on the road we counted sixty-four
public-houses, and ten places of worship: that is to say, the
reconverters were to the converters in the ratio of six to one. This
reminds one of the way in which whisky and water is sometimes mixed.

During the evening Dodd and I made several attempts to gain an entrance
to the Salvationist barracks. It was always too crowded. We heard that
the Salvationists had become so popular, that other sects, in order
to draw an audience, had been compelled to adopt similar tactics, and
brass bands had been started at several chapels.

Next day we spent our time in visiting mines and stamping mills. One
mine we visited was lighted by electricity. It was a very nice dry mine
for a visitor, but as it only yielded four or five pennyweights of gold
to the ton of quartz, it paid but small dividends to its shareholders.
Some of the mills we visited were very swagger. They had tree-ferns
growing in the engine-rooms, and everything was clean and neat. Those
who managed the mills and mines were exceedingly courteous, and told us
all that we wished to know.

During the afternoon we saw a crowd in the middle of Pall Mall, and
thinking it was a row going on, we walked towards it. It proved to be
the brokers of the mining exchange doing their business in the street.
This is common at other towns in Victoria.

The next town was Ballarat. The country about was hilly. In the
distance several prominent hills were, I was told, old volcanoes.
Originally this was the great centre for washing gold out of the
alluvium. The deposits of alluvium consist of pebbles and sand, which
at one time formed the bed of a river. These deposits are called leads.
At first it was thought that the leads were only on the surface of the
ground, just as modern river-beds are on the surface. Exploration,
however, proved that there were ancient river-beds which had been
buried by flows of lava, forming what is called bluestone. This led
to deep alluvium mining. In sinking downwards, the miner would pass
through successive layers of gravels, clays, and bluestone, until he
reached the upturned ends of the slate. The slate is the oldest rock,
and over the surface of this rivers ran, depositing their gravels in
the hollows. Then during periods of volcanic activity, the gravel was
buried by bluestone. During a period of repose, rivers flowed over the
bluestone, and there deposited fresh gravels; and so the processes
of nature continued, sometimes laying down a layer of gravel, and
sometimes one of bluestone. The whole arrangement is like a plate of
sandwiches. The plate being the slates, the bread the gravels, and the
ham the bluestone. The gold is in the gravels, and it probably came
there by the wearing away of the upper part of quartz lodes, cropping
out on the surface of the country over which the rivers ran. It is
probable that by the action of solvents percolating through these
gravels, the original character of the gold has been altered. It may
have been made purer, and it may, during processes of preparation, have
been collected together to form large nuggets.

At all events the gold from alluvial washings is usually purer than
the gold from quartz reefs; and further, it is only in the alluvial
deposits that large nuggets have been discovered.

At Ballarat the alluvial deposits have been exhausted, and only reef
mining is to be seen. To see workings in deep leads, we had to take
train to Creswick, and from there a buggy out into the country. On
account of the softness and the water contained in the deep gravels,
peculiar systems have to be adopted for their extraction. The shaft is
sunk through the deposit to be worked down to a hard bed, and a tunnel
is driven in the hard bed beneath the soft deposit as far as the limit
of the property. From this tunnel vertical holes, or ‘jump-ups,’ are
made upwards into the soft gravels, which are then taken out in blocks.
As these are removed the roof is allowed to fall in. On the surface
the gravel is put into a circular iron tank or buddle in which there
are revolving forks. Here it is washed with water, and the big stones
thrown away. The clear gravel is then drawn off into long troughs or
sluices, down which water is flowing. On the bottom of the trough there
are small ledges of wood or iron, behind which the gold collects, while
the lighter gravel is washed away. The country round Creswick is gently
undulating, with here and there a few conical hills--probably old
volcanoes.

On our return to Ballarat we had a good look at the town. The streets
are remarkable for their width. On a windy day you might hesitate
before you crossed them. At the School of Mines we visited a museum.
The school itself was in an old court-house. The condemned cell had
been converted into a room for a professor. The museum was next door,
in a church which has been bought. It is not an uncommon thing to put
churches up for auction in the colonies.

Before I say good-bye to Melbourne, I must tell a story which I heard
about the Yarra, or rather about a man who lived on the banks of that
charming little river. It is called:


Early Days in Melbourne; or, Captain Stringer and the Waters of
Jogga Wogga.

Old Captain Stringer came here in ’54, and, like a lot of skippers who
came to Melbourne about that time, was ruined. No sooner had he dropped
anchor than all the crew, even to the little cabin-boy, made for
shore, bought a swag, and started off for Bendigo. The gold fever was
on everybody, and even £20 a month was not sufficient to keep a sailor
on board his ship. At first Stringer took the matter philosophically,
and was always saying that by-and-by they would be able to get hands
on board for asking. Jack would find that gold-washing and hard tucker
wasn’t exactly Paradise, and very shortly we should see him coming back
to Melbourne like a Prodigal Son. Every day saw new ships in port, and
rushes of new chums off on the road towards Bendigo. Stringer, like
many of the skippers, was part owner of the vessel he commanded, and
this, no doubt, was an inducement for him to stay on board. Those who
had no share in their vessels used to wait a month or two trying to get
a crew. After this they would pack up a swag, leave the ship to take
care of itself, and start off, as they said, in search of men.

In six months Port Phillip, which used at that time to reach nearly up
to Flinders Street, was one dense mass of helpless shipping. It was
ships, ships, ships, as far as the eye could see, and, what was worse,
the number was daily increasing. Many skippers tried to sell their
ships, but buyers were not to be found. Many people thought themselves
lucky if they could find anyone willing to receive a ship as a present.
To be relieved of the responsibility of having a ship to look after
seemed to ease their minds. A good number, rather than give their
ships away, relieved themselves of the responsibility of ownership by
scuttling their property. They were not going to let people have their
belongings for nothing.

It wasn’t long before the blocking up of the river and harbour with
floating and sunken vessels began to have an effect by causing silt to
deposit; and, to make a long story short, after the floods of 1855, if
there were one ship ashore there must have been at least 5,000 of them,
and Captain Stringer’s was amongst the lot. In the following year the
Government had a new channel cleared out for the river and the land
where the ships were became a marsh. One or two who had their ships in
a dry place where grass had begun to grow, clubbed together and started
a farm, using their ships as dwelling-houses and stables. Things were
pretty expensive in those days. Land down where Flinders Street now is
was worth £150 to £200 a foot; and as for dwelling-houses, you could
not get a weather-boarded cottage under £500 a year. The climate, too,
was more trying than it is at present. Every other day we used to get
those hot north winds called brickfielders. When these were blowing it
was like standing in a baker’s oven, and the dust was so thick that you
could not put your nose outside the door. What with losing his ship,
and the effects of rum so long as it lasted, old Stringer seemed to
be dreadfully upset. Still, he kept up a certain kind of style, and
wanted us to believe that he was well off. When we called on board his
boat he would always produce something or other which he said he had
specially ordered from London. Once it was some cigars. He said they
had cost him two-and-sixpence apiece. The duty he paid on them was
very heavy. But anyhow, they were the best Havanas ever made--in fact,
part of a parcel expressly manufactured for the King of Hanover, and
he hoped we should like them. Of course, we all knew that Stringer
couldn’t afford two-and-sixpenny cigars, and what he had so much to say
about were only penny cheroots. All that we could conclude was that
Stringer was proud, and just to humour the old man we told him that the
cigars were the best ever seen in the colony. Another trick he had was
to go about with a few coppers and some keys in his pocket, jingling
as if he were carrying the mint. One thing which he never forgot was
every now and again to jerk out his pocket-handkerchief, and with it
a roll of paper that looked like bank-notes. ‘Dear me, I shall lose
that money yet,’ he would remark, as he stooped to pick up the roll.
At first we thought that they were real notes, but after picking them
up once or twice when Stringer had jerked them a little too far, we
saw then that it was only a roll of tissue-paper. Sometimes, if he
knew that anyone was walking close behind him, he would drop the roll
on purpose for them to pick it up. All that he wanted was for us to
tell him that he ought not to be so careless with such large sums of
money. This would start him off about his ancestors, who had so much
wealth that an instinctive indifference and carelessness for money had
gradually been bred in the family. He could no more help dropping rolls
of bank-notes in the street than he could help breathing. At last it
was generally recognised that Stringer was mad, the particular form of
his madness being an inordinate desire to be thought a millionaire.
This was coupled with such an absurd amount of pride that, although
he was really as poor as a church mouse, and at times on the verge of
starvation, he would never receive a present. The only way we could
keep him alive was to leave things at his ship whenever we knew he was
absent: one man would leave him a sack of flour, another a barrel of
pork, a third some tea, and in this way we managed to keep the old man
going.

Many of us had an idea that Stringer’s madness would gradually wear
away, but instead of that it seemed to get worse. He took to dressing
in a queer way, putting on a red waistcoat with brass buttons, and
a white hat. It wasn’t long before everyone in Melbourne knew old
Stringer as well as they knew Collins Street. Another way in which he
made himself conspicuous was by writing letters to the papers about
his ancestors, and putting in advertisements about rolls of bank-notes
which had accidentally slipped out of his pocket. Some of his
compositions were so peculiar that they were reproduced in the country
papers, and in a short time mad Stringer threatened to become as well
known an Australian institution as Melbourne itself.

Suddenly it was observed that Stringer had a slight limp, and this was
followed by a hacking little cough. He told us it was living on the
marsh--he had rheumatics, and was suffering from malaria. As weeks went
on, the limp got worse and worse, and the case of poor old Stringer
excited considerable sympathy. Even the newspapers took notice of the
old man’s sufferings. One or two doctors who went down to see him said
that his rheumatism was very acute; he was as mad as a hatter, and he
ought to be compelled to leave the marsh.

While we were discussing how old Stringer was to be got out of his ship
on the marsh, it was reported that he had disappeared. This was of
course another fact for the newspapers. Two weeks later a letter came
from Stringer, saying that he was trying some springs which had been
recommended to him as good for rheumatics. His health had not been
good, and he thought a course of waters would perhaps be beneficial.

A month later a note appeared in the _Argus_, giving an account of a
marvellous cure which had been effected upon a well-known resident in
Melbourne, by the natural waters of Jogga Wogga. The details which were
given clearly pointed to Stringer as the patient on whom the wonderful
cure had been effected. The news quickly spread throughout the colony.
Thinking it would please the Captain’s pride to see himself in print,
we sent him up copies of the paper. In a few days we received a long
letter in reply, saying how pleased he was that we had not forgotten
him. The account in the _Argus_ was quite correct, and not only had he
been cured (and he here gave evidence that he was aware that he had
been suffering, not only from rheumatics and malaria, but also from a
brain disease), but that a large number of other people had derived
considerable benefit from the springs. There were several distinct
sources. Some of it, he said, was pure and pleasant to the palate,
whilst the waters of other springs were somewhat nauseous. One man had
been cured of sore eyes; another had had an impediment in his speech
removed; a third had got rid of chronic headaches with which he had
been affected; while he himself had been cured of rheumatism, low
fever, and madness. Shortly after this a letter appeared in the papers
confirming what Stringer had written, and the fame of the Jogga Wogga
springs got noised throughout Australia.

Later on Stringer came back looking quite respectable and well. The
change which the waters had made in the old man was truly marvellous.
He told several of us that he was so certain about the efficacy of
the Jogga Wogga waters, that he had taken out a claim for Jogga Wogga
district. If we would assist him, he intended to set up a factory for
the bottling of the Jogga Wogga waters, in which he clearly believed
that there was a lot of honest money to be made. It was certain that
the waters had already been well advertised, and that they worked
marvellous cures. All that remained to be done was to bottle the waters
ready for customers.

In less than a month, with the help of a few hundreds which he borrowed
from us, Captain Stringer had started a bottling establishment on
the lower part of the Yarra. He must have a wharf for the purpose
of loading steamers. He would have had the establishment at Jogga
Wogga itself, but he showed it was cheaper to send the waters down in
casks rather than to send bottles up to Jogga Wogga, and then cart
them back again. Of course he issued cards, circulars, prospectuses,
put advertisements in all the newspapers, and did what was necessary
and proper to bring the Jogga Wogga waters to the notice of the
health-seeking public. One of his circulars contained testimonials from
bishops and doctors who had known Stringer before his illness. These
were backed by letters and articles from various newspapers.

The waters he sold were of three kinds. No. 1 was described as slightly
acid, containing a fine precipitate of yellow flocculent sulphur,
and a small percentage of sulphuretted hydrogen. It was strongly
recommended in all cases of skin disease, and to patients who were
dyspeptic or suffering from an attack of bile. For locomotor ataxy it
was infallible, and failing appetites were speedily cured. Acidity,
giddiness, headache, drowsiness, and spasms of all descriptions might
readily be cured by a hot bath made from these waters. Small bottles,
2s. 6d. Large bottles for family use, containing one imperial quart, 5s.

No. 2 was described as an alkaline water, which rendered the cuticle
so soft and pliable that it might be called the beautifier. For gout,
rheumatic arthritis, forms of myalgia like lumbago, chronic rheumatism,
relaxation of anchylosed joints and psoriasis, it was unequalled. Short
dry coughs, singing in the ears, vitiated tastes, might be removed by
taking a dose of this water three times a day. Price 3s. a pint. A
large bottle for family use, containing an imperial quart, 7s. 6d.

No. 3 was described as somewhat saline, exceedingly beneficial when
applied either externally or internally. As an alterative in tubercular
diseases and in cases of nervous affections, it was unequalled. It
was particularly recommended to residents in the East, and to all who
indulge in the luxuries of the table; a wineglassful taken after every
meal would arrest the progress of the most virulent disease. Price 10s.
per small bottle. A large bottle suitable for family uses, containing
an imperial quart, one guinea.

In the colonies the sale was enormous; in fact, the orders poured in
so rapidly, that Stringer said he was obliged to decline orders from
people living near him. He would supply them later on. In a few months
orders were received from abroad, and great steamers sailed from Port
Phillip loaded with cases of the Jogga Wogga waters. Now and then
barge-loads of barrels would be seen toiling up the Yarra on their way
towards the Jogga Wogga springs.

For two years the trade had so increased, that poor old Stringer, as
we used to call him, was in a fair way to become a millionaire. About
this time, however, it began to be whispered about that there was some
sort of trickery going on at Stringer’s establishment; the waters were
not of the same quality as at first. One man wrote to the papers,
saying that the Jogga Wogga waters, instead of curing him, had made him
vomit to such at extent that he had to remain in bed for a week. One
or two others addressed letters to the bishops and doctors, to know if
their testimonials about the Jogga Wogga waters were genuine. Of course
they replied that as the Jogga Wogga waters had cured Captain Stringer
of rheumatism, low fever, and lunacy, they must be good. While all this
was going on, old Stringer was raking in the pounds hand over hand.

A crusher appeared at last. A gentleman, who signed himself John
Burdett, M.D., said that as three of his patients who had been in the
habit of taking the Jogga Wogga stimulant had suddenly died, while
many others had been seriously ill, he had been led to make a close
examination of these celebrated waters.

Although he had made numerous inquiries respecting the Jogga Wogga
springs, he had failed to discover their existence. In fact, he was of
opinion that Jogga Wogga had no existence. After careful analyses of
the waters, he concluded that the quantity of organic matter which the
so-called Jogga Wogga water contained, rendered it highly improbable
that it was not of subterranean origin.

The general character of the water was not unlike that of some slowly
flowing, muddy stream.

No. 1 Jogga Wogga water, described as slightly acidic and containing
a fine precipitate of sulphur and a small percentage of sulphuretted
hydrogen, was strikingly similar to the water in the Yarra, at the
point below the bridge where the waters from the gas-works mix with
those of the adjoining tannery.

No. 2 Jogga Wogga water, described as an alkaline solution which
rendered the cuticle soft and pliable, was identical with water
taken from the Yarra below the tallow factory, or near to the second
soap-boilers.

No. 3 Jogga Wogga water, described as saline, Dr. Burdett said he was
uncertain about. It might be from certain parts of the Yarra, or it
might be from the tide-way opposite Captain Stringer’s wharf.

In conclusion, he publicly challenged Captain Stringer to indicate the
position of the Jogga Wogga springs, offering to pay £1,000 if such
springs could be proved to have an existence.

The reply to the attack appeared next morning. It was dated

  ‘Melbourne Heads, S. S. _Hooker._

  ‘My dear Dr. Burdett,

    ‘You are quite right, and as you have discovered the true
    source of the Jogga Wogga waters, you are perfectly free to
    carry on my business during my absence in America. I may not
    return for some time.

  ‘Yours affectionately,
  ‘Captain Stringer.’

We returned to Melbourne by rail. For some distance after leaving
Ballarat the country was hilly, but after that it was flat--dead flat.
It looked like a placid green ocean. Once it had perhaps been a fiery
ocean of lava, which, by the processes of time, had been smoothed over
to an even surface. Crossing the plains, you saw long lines of wire
fencing getting lower and lower until they vanished as a black line
in the direction of the horizon. What opportunities to study space
of two dimensions! What cricket grounds! All the teams in the world
might play upon these plains and not one would know of the existence
of his neighbours. I suppose the flatness of Australia has had much
to do with their success at cricket. Every boy could play. An exactly
similar argument will apply to their success at rowing. The numerous
and magnificent rivers which traverse the Australian continent in all
directions--no, that’s wrong. They have no rivers. They took to rowing
out of perversity.




_TASMANIA._


I made two trips to Tasmania, one of them being from Melbourne to
Hobart. On one of these trips the sea was as smooth as glass, and
looking in the water you could see the reflection of trees and islets
as if looking in a mirror. On another trip, however, it was so rough
that all passengers had to be kept below, and a fourteen-knot boat,
when it did not go backwards, seldom made more than four knots. So much
for the moods in which you may find Bass Straits. When Bass Straits are
amiable, the time taken from Melbourne to Launceston is usually about
twenty-four hours. You commence the journey by going down the tortuous
muddy Yarra. As I have before remarked, there are some people who say
that this river smells. The only things of particular interest which I
remember passing were two steamers which had just arrived with tea from
China. Both of them had seen bad weather, especially one called the
_Airlie_, which had lost her boats and all her live-stock. When we saw
her she looked pretty much like a ship that had been through a naval
engagement. A fellow-passenger told a friend of mine that these ships
carried Chinamen as sailors. The captain and the officers dressed in
white--white coat, white pants, white hats and white shoes. They talked
Chinese. He had heard them saying ‘Chop chop.’ That’s Chinese for
‘Hurry up,’ you know.

At the entrance to Port Phillip, into which the Yarra empties itself,
there are fortifications and a lighthouse. Until quite recently, on
account of the fear of Russians, these lights were extinguished. When
we returned from Launceston in a little boat called the _Pateena_, we
had to heave to at this point, until we had satisfied the officers of a
steam-launch that we were not Russians in disguise.

Amongst our passengers there were, as usual, one or two celebrities.
There were illiterate millionaires travelling for business, and young
Oxonian millionaires travelling for pleasure. One man was pointed
out to me as being worth from £150 to £200 per day; another man was a
bagman carrying samples of the _Airlie’s_ tea. The most remarkable man
with whom I conversed was the heaviest man in the colonies. His name is
Jennings, he is a native of Tasmania, weighs thirty-three stone, and
belongs to a group of stout Tasmanians known as ‘Our Boys.’ He had been
on a trip to Victoria and New South Wales, and being a distinguished
personage, had been presented with ‘free passes’ for the colonial
railways. In other countries he would have paid double. Not being able
to go in an ordinary cabin, he had engaged the ladies’ saloon, where
he had a bed made up on the floor; when once in bed he told me that he
could not turn over, and ‘these ship stewards don’t understand me, you
know,’ he remarked.

After dinner I spent some time in the smoking-room, where a young
gentleman, who was completing his education by voyaging round the
world, entertained an audience by accounts of his own adventures and
the idiosyncrasies of his friends.

In the Red Sea he and his companions had nearly succumbed to the
intense heat. The perspiration ran from them until they both got wet,
and pools of water formed by the drippings from their chins. _The
playing cards were actually sticky._ ‘I brought five guns with me,’
said the young gentleman, ‘and in India I shot seven elephants in one
day.’ ‘Seventeen,’ he means, whispered my neighbour, who gave me a
nudge. After this we were entertained by a long story about one of the
young gentleman’s friends, whom he described as being ‘awfully hard.’
‘You couldn’t knock “the hard” out of him. He was the hardest fellow
he ever knew. Somehow or other he was always down on his luck. Once he
was lost in the bush for five days. When he got back to his station,
all his cattle had died. Then he went to sea for five years, going
round the world ten times. This set him up with money to start another
station. The cattle again died.’ ‘Did he go to sea for five years
more?’ I asked. ‘Oh no, he didn’t go to sea again; he used to make
wagers with fellows that he would drink a cask of beer and nibble up
the staves of wood as he went on. They weren’t large casks, you know.
His great aunt died the other day and left him £60,000 a year. He was
awfully hard, don’tchyerknow.’

Another gentleman, who had a long tawny moustache, told us that he
knew Tasmania better than any other man. He said that he had been
collecting notes for the last twenty-five years for a book he was
writing on Tasmania, and the style in which he wrote was like that of
Artemus Ward.

About this time, there being a change in the amplitude and period of
the ship’s movements, I decided on bed. I was glad that I had done
this, as I afterwards found my health was not altogether reliable.

Early next morning we were steaming up the waters of the lovely Tamar.
The river is fully a mile in width, and is bounded with big bays,
clumps of trees, and hills on either side. The reflections in the water
were so clear, that a photograph of what we saw must have been a double
picture. Here and there along the hills there were lines of clouds,
while at the extremities of the bays there were banks of mist. It is
partly owing to these misty Scotch mornings, which kill off the weakly
ones, that the British race exists. I was told by one passenger that
the trees were red gums, blue gums, and wattles. A second passenger
said they were blue gums, red gums, and wattles. A third said they were
wattles, red gums, and blue gums. I gradually learnt how many names I
required on which to ring the changes when describing the Tasmanian
flora.

Launceston, which is forty miles up this river, is a clean, quiet, nice
little town. From a distance you see several spires of churches, some
tall chimneys belonging to the tin-smelting works, some saw mills,
and a lot of houses, the whole being surrounded by high hills. On one
side of the town is the river Esk, flowing down a rocky gorge from
the Cora Linn. I went to see this, and was very much struck with the
picturesqueness of the wild and rocky canon-like gorge through which
the river flows.

The streets of the town are wide, and contain many good shops.
Victorians call Tasmania ‘sleepy hollow.’ I cannot say that Launceston
was particularly sleepy in its appearance. It was certainly quiet, but
in the leading streets there was always a comfortable amount of traffic
visible.

During the last two years Launceston and northern Tasmania have
been much disturbed with small earthquakes. Many of these have been
sufficient to produce slight cracks in walls, and to disturb stone
ornaments on the parapets of buildings. One small minaret, like a spire
on a church tower, had been partly twisted round. The origin of these
disturbances is supposed to be near the eastern entrance to Bass Strait.


Johnson’s Boy.

I suffered from toothache when I was in Launceston, and was in
consequence led to make inquiries about dentistry. ‘Speaking of teeth,’
said a gentleman at the club, ‘we have a dentist in this town who will
whip spots out of all the tooth carpenters in creation. He came here
about two years ago, and set up as a locksmith and general mechanic.
Everybody said he was pretty clever, but somehow or other he didn’t
succeed as he ought to have done. The only work he could get when he
first came was to mend sewing machines, and now and then a bicycle. But
it is an ill wind that blows no one any luck. Fergusson, the manager of
the Bank of Van Diemen’s Land (that’s a name we hate, you know), was
taking a walk one afternoon near the beach, when he suddenly found a
sack over his head, and, before he could turn round or shout for help,
he was tied to a tree and gagged. The ruffians then took his keys, went
down to the bank, and helped themselves. Of course there was a lot
of talk about the affair, and the newspapers said that bank-managers
who had only one key to their safes ought to be held responsible for
any loss which might occur. The result of all this was that Johnson
got the job of altering a lot of safes, so that they could only be
opened by two keys. Next he got railway work. After this he started
electric bells. The electrical business--which he does very well,
mind ye, and, if you want electrical bells, you can’t do better than
go to Johnson--seems to have started him off in a new line. You have
heard, no doubt, of Pulvermacher’s electrical belts, which are made
of bits of magnets wrapped up in flannel. They say it’s the magnetism
that works the cure, but I think it’s the flannel. Johnson had an idea
that electricity was the thing, and if you could get from time to time
a gentle current passed through your system it might be exceedingly
beneficial. That electrical currents work cures for rheumatism and
other diseases is demonstrated every day in hospitals throughout the
world. The problem which Johnson set himself was how to get a current
passed through a man without using a machine or a battery--the man must
make his own current. At every meal a man took in a certain quantity of
food which, like fuel, gives out heat. Instead of converting the whole
of the food into tissue and heat, Johnson wanted to convert a bit of it
into electricity; and he solved the problem splendidly.’

‘And how did he do it?’ I inquired.

‘Well, when a man takes his food, there is always a certain amount of
salt and acid in his mouth, you know. Now Johnson thought that if a man
had his upper row of teeth made of copper, and the lower ones made of
zinc, a regular battery might be established.’

‘And has he ever tried it?’ I asked.

‘Tried it indeed! He’s tried it in all shapes you could think about,
and, what is more, he has taken a patent out for the arrangement. In a
prospectus he issued, he called it “The New Dentistry, the Curer of all
Diseases and the Improver of the Mind.” Battery teeth were guaranteed
to strengthen the whole muscular system, restore long-lost complexions,
cure headaches, and to rouse into activity the whole physical action
of the human frame. He began with his shop-boy. First he stopped some
holes in his uppers with copper, and then corresponding holes, which
he bored in the lowers, with zinc. The boy was originally one of those
stupid fat-faced youths, without a sequence of ideas in his head.
After the new stopping was in, it was generally remarked that he had
suddenly become intelligent. As this was so successful, Johnson next
experimented by respectively replacing two of his uppers and two of his
lowers with zinc and copper. The effect was astounding. Every time the
boy closed his mouth and made contact, his countenance would light up
with a preternatural glow of intelligence, and he would look at you as
if he was reading your inmost thoughts. When he opened his mouth, of
course the contact was broken, and the expression of wisdom would be
suddenly replaced by the old look of stupidity.

‘Lots of us used to go round to see Johnson’s boy make and break
contact, or, as he called it, turning on the intellect.

‘One thing which was very remarkable, was the boy’s behaviour when,
after lying all night with his mouth shut and the current running, he
first got up in the morning. He seemed to be so full of spirits, that
until he had had a run round the town with his mouth open there was no
restraining him. Johnson was delighted, and to determine the limits
to which the experiment might be carried, he pulled out all the boy’s
teeth, and set him up with his copper and zinc arrangement.

‘The results were more remarkable than ever. Day by day the boy’s
brains got bigger and bigger, until at last his intellect became
perfectly gigantic. When the current was on, one great hobby he took to
was to write poetry, for all of which Johnson secured the copyright.
At times, when he had his teeth arranged in series, the current was
so intense that Johnson was afraid to let him sleep, unless he had a
wooden plug in his mouth just to keep the circuit open.

‘Johnson, however, lost him at last. One night he and the boy were
having pickled salmon for supper (one of those salmon which have
thriven so well in the rivers, you know), when all of a sudden the boy
jumped up with a yell and bolted out of the door. Johnson was after
him, but it was no use--off he went along the road towards Hobart. Some
people who saw him said that his eyes were lighted up like two electric
lamps, and sparks were flying out all over him. Several search-parties
went out to look for him, but without success. In the inquiry which
followed his disappearance, it turned out that Johnson had forgotten
to put his teeth into parallel circuit, which, as he admitted, was the
only way in which persons with metallic teeth ought to sit down to
pickled salmon.’

‘And has there never been any trace of him discovered?’ I asked.

‘Well, there has been no decided trace, but a fellow who read a paper
the other evening at the Mechanics, attributed the electrical state of
our atmosphere to the proximity of Johnson’s boy; and one man who spoke
said that he might be the cause of the red sunsets we have been having.
When folks don’t understand a thing properly they always put it down to
electricity. You ought to go round to Johnson and get him to put some
of his patent stopping into your teeth. It’ll cure the toothache, and
give you an imagination. My teeth were stopped by Johnson.’

I inquired about Johnson, and from what I heard he was a remarkable
man. I, however, should rather recommend him as a mechanist than as a
dentist.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now for a few facts I cribbed out of a book. Tasmania was discovered
in 1642, by Van Tasman. At first it was called Van Diemen’s Land. It
fell into the possession of the English in 1803, and for many years was
used as a station for convicts. For the next twenty years it appears to
have been governed by military orders. There is a remarkable novel on
convict life in Tasmania, called ‘For the Term of His Natural Life,’
by Marcus Clarke. Those who wish to know how brutal and tyrannical
Englishmen may have been, cannot do better than read Clarke’s depiction
of early times near Hobart. I do not suppose that all that is related
in this book is absolutely true, but from documents which I had shown
to me when in Tasmania, from what I heard, and from the testimony of
official records to which Marcus Clarke refers, it would appear that
many of the incidents referred to are by no means pure invention. To
many ladies, and to those who are easily affected by the descriptions
of the trials and misery of others, I would say, Do not read ‘His
Natural Life.’

For many years the aborigines gave considerable trouble to the
settlers. The last of them died in 1876. In early times many of them
were shot, but after they had been subjugated, they rapidly died
off whilst undergoing the process of civilization. Tasmania is a
hilly country, having several mountains over 4,000 feet in height,
and one, Ben Lomond, is 5,000 feet. Between the mountains there are
many picturesque lakes, and round the coast there are several large
harbours, some of which, like Hobart, are not only commodious, but
extremely beautiful. The climate is on the whole mild. In the mountains
it is cold in winter, but the mildness of the summer attracts many
visitors from Victoria.

In the woods there are a number of animals, which are chiefly
marsupial. Amongst them are the kangaroo, wallaby, native devil,
wombat, platypus, the opossum, etc. There are also a number of snakes
and lizards. The flora, like the fauna, is very similar to that of
Victoria.

The animal on which Tasmanians pride themselves is the duck-billed
mole, more commonly known as the ornithorhynchus or platypus. This
is a fierce little animal about twelve inches long. Its body is like
a mole, while its head is like that of a duck. A very good picture
of this interesting creature may be seen on some of the Tasmanian
postage stamps. Not long ago it was discovered that this extraordinary
combination of bird and mammal laid eggs. Their nests are usually
situated in the topmost branches of the highest trees. The eggs, when
boiled hard, are said to be delicious, whilst the animal itself,
when stuffed with sage and roasted, is fit to place before Lucullus.
The plural of platypus is platypuses, platypi, or platypodes. This
interesting little animal is also found on the adjoining continent.


The Smelting Works.

While at Launceston I spent an evening visiting the Smelting Works.
The tin-ore which is treated at these works comes from Mount Bischoff,
one of the largest and most famous tin mines in the world. The
process of smelting is apparently very simple. The ore is mixed with
about one-fifth its weight of powdered coal, and then put into a
reverberatory furnace for about eight hours. To purify the tin after
it is drawn off from this furnace it is kept liquid in a large iron
caldron, fixed at the bottom of which there is a piece of green wood.
The green wood, as it is charred in the bath of molten tin, gives
off gas which rises in bubbles to the surface of the metal. This gas
oxidizes the impurities, which float up as a scum that can be easily
removed. After this the tin is cast into brick-like blocks, which are
carefully stored until the price of tin has risen sufficiently high to
yield a profit to those who own the works.

The manager of the works is a nice old gentleman with grey hair. To
look at, you would think he was made of good-nature and solid facts.
He has a lot of fun in him, however--not common fun, but deep fun. The
jokes he made you had to crack for yourself--about a week afterwards.
When he showed me the works I can honestly say that I saw nothing
even with a veneer of fun upon it. I felt I was getting solid facts,
and it was only about two months afterwards that I discovered that
I had really been looking on and listening to something which was
exceedingly funny. He showed me a chimney at the end of a furnace with
a little hole at the bottom of it. ‘Draw out the plug, Jim,’ said he
to a workman, ‘and let the gentleman look at the flames and feel the
draught.’ One by one we peered into the little hole and looked at the
dazzling white flame, and felt the inrush of the air. ‘Be careful,
be careful,’ said the old gentleman; ‘that draught is something
tremendous. Once a man put his hand to the hole and it was stuck fast
like a sucker on a stone. Before we could get him loose we had to draw
the charge and extinguish the fire. This made us very careful. When
we first started smelting we had the chimney forty feet higher, and
then there _was_ a draught. My eye, how it roared! The first charge
of ore we put in the furnace disappeared right up the chimney. The
directors told us it wouldn’t do, and the shareholders said that
letting all their ore fly up the chimney was bad management, so we
cut it down twenty feet. After this the furnace worked all right, but
the things that happened round about it were quite mysterious. Things
took to disappearing. First a lot of coal was lost, next the workmen
lost their tools, after that there were several complaints made to
the office that clothes had been stolen. Finally, visitors to the
works began to complain, and some of them sent in polite notes saying
that they had accidentally left some of their belongings behind them,
and asked us to be kind enough to send them back. One had lost his
umbrella, another a dog, a third his watch-chain.

‘It was clear that robbery was going on, but how to catch the culprits
was the difficulty. One suggestion was to mark a lot of things, and lay
them about the works. The expense that followed the suggestion nearly
broke us. First we marked a few bank-notes, but these went so quickly
that we took to marking clothes. After that we marked walking sticks,
and finally some pigs of iron. But the whole lot went, and where they
went to nobody could tell.

‘The end of it all was that the directors called in the police to watch
the place. Next morning, for it was only at night we run the furnace,
you know, down came the police to the office, saying that if they
stayed at our works they would soon be bankrupt; several of them had
lost their truncheons, one his pocket-handkerchief, and another his
coat-tails.’

‘And how did it all finish?’ I asked.

‘Well, it finished by a detective coming down.’

‘And did you lose the detective?’ I inquired.

‘No, we didn’t lose the detective; but if that hole’--and he pointed
with his stick at the hole through which we had been peering--‘had been
three inches bigger we might have had to have advertised for him. When
we saw him stuck to that wall like a sucker to a stone, we knew where
all the lost property had gone.’

‘Of course you had to draw the charge and extinguish the fire before
you got him loose,’ I remarked.

‘Take a drink,’ said the narrator. ‘One fact that proves the truth of
history is that it repeats itself. This story has repeated itself, and
therefore it must be true also. D’ye see?’

Having seen these works, I felt that I should like to see Mount
Bischoff, by making the journey to which I might see as much of
Tasmania as by making a journey in any other direction. In consequence
of delays and accidents the trip to Bischoff and back took me seven
days.

I left Launceston next afternoon by train to Latrobe. The first part
of the line is the same as that which takes the traveller to Hobart,
distant 133 miles. The country is undulating. In a few places you see
bush or forest, but the greater portion of the land is laid out in
farms, and is dotted over with country-houses and clumps of furze,
which, at the time of my visit, were in full bloom. In many districts
I was told that rabbits had become so numerous as to be a pest, and it
was necessary to legislate for their destruction. The furze-bushes,
although so pretty and English in appearance, from the rapidity with
which they spread, had also become a pest. What is more, they sheltered
the rabbits. Thus it has happened that legislation is required for the
extermination of the homely furze. To get rid of it, first it is burned
and then grubbed up by the roots. Rabbits are got rid of by shooting,
trapping, but what is more destructive, by the use of phosphorized
oats. I shall say more about the rabbit plague when I come to New
Zealand.

Amongst other importations made by our colonial cousins which have in
places thriven until they have become a nuisance, may be mentioned
Scotch thistles, briar-bushes, sparrows, and brown trout. Sparrows in
the neighbourhood of Melbourne have at times played sad havoc with the
fruit gardens. The brown trout of Tasmania, which runs up to nine or
ten pounds in weight, although being in itself a fish which is good
for the rod and for the table, is accused of devouring all the other
river fish. As we went along I saw many rapid-running rivers, which
would undoubtedly yield good sport to the angler. Near to Perth we
left the main line, and branched off to the westward. In the distance
to the left were the snow-capped hills of Westmoreland. Many of the
counties in Tasmania are named after those in the old country. For
example, you find a Dorset, a Devon, a Cornwall, and a Pembroke. Some
of the stations on the line were so small that they contrived to exist
without any local officials. At Little Hampton, for instance, the only
persons to be seen were those who got out of our train. Their tickets
were collected by the guard. At Longford and Deloraine I saw nice
towns. After this it became dark, and all that I could make out was
that we were passing through a country where there was a great deal
of bush. The last people I saw were two young ladies walking along
a road running parallel with the railway line. The train was moving
very slowly, and I had my head out of the window. The young ladies
curtseyed, kissed their hands, waved their handkerchiefs at me, and
then exploded in a fit of giggles. I wonder what would have happened
had the train stopped!

At Latrobe I found that I had to go on one station farther to Fornby,
to catch a mail-coach which would take me to Emu Bay. The ride to Emu
Bay reminded me of my experiences in New England. It was nine p.m. and
dark at the starting, and I had an outside place on the box. Now and
then I could see tall, white-stemmed trees, standing like ghosts in
the midst of paddocks. These are the trees which had been ring-barked
in order to kill them. The road was hilly, and in many places our four
horses seemed to be charging down into a black abyss. At the bottom
of these valleys we usually crossed a river. One of them, I remember,
was called the Forth, and another one the Leven. A great portion of
the road was along the coast, which, as I found out on my return, was
exceedingly pretty.

It was two a.m. when we reached Emu Bay, and I was benumbed with cold.
The coachman opened a back-door in the hotel, and conducted me to a
box-like bedroom, one bed in which was occupied by a young gentleman,
who woke up and had a conversation with me on the difficulties of
travel. I was too cold to sleep. About five a.m. my companion lighted
a candle, and after spending a considerable time in covering his head
with pomatum, completed his toilet and left me. Shortly after this I
had to rise to catch the train going from Emu Bay up to Waratah, which
is the name of the settlement at Mount Bischoff. The line is a private
one, and is owned by the Tasmanian Land Company, who have bought up
all the land in this part of the colony. There is one train of two
carriages, and perhaps a truck, once a day each way. The general
direction of the line is from the North Coast towards the South,
running right into the heart of the country. Here and there are steep
gradients of about one in forty. The scenery of the bush and valley is
remarkably fine. The bush is much thicker than in Australia. In places
it appeared like a solid wall of green. On all sides as you climb up
you see huge tree-ferns, many of which are twenty to thirty feet in
height. Above these are tall gum trees, whilst beneath them are beds of
common bracken.

All was white with frost, and the fronds of the ferns in many places
sheltered small pools and ponds of water which were covered with a
thick cake of ice. Tree-ferns helped in carboniferous times to make
the coal. In those times we are told that the climate was warm and
damp, and we are asked to picture to ourselves something like a swamp
in Florida. After what I saw and felt in Tasmania I should say that
it was cold and dry. The probable reason why stems of tree-fern-like
plants are so common in the coal measures as compared with the stems
and branches of ordinary phanerogams, is that the stems of tree-ferns
resist decomposition so remarkably well.

Some of the gum trees were very large. One stump was pointed out
to me which I was told was twenty-one feet in diameter. The place
for big trees is in Gipps’ Land, in Victoria. Here there are gum
trees 400 feet in height. One tree was measured as being 480 feet in
height; that is to say, it was fourteen feet higher than the spire of
Strasburg Cathedral. I always regretted that I had not time to go up
to the Dandenong ranges where these big trees are growing. As it is, I
was compelled to take all that I have heard about 400-feet trees as
hearsay.

As the train jogged along, once or twice I noticed a paper parcel fly
past my window. ‘Some fellow having sandwiches for breakfast,’ I said
to myself. At last one huge parcel flew out, struck the bank, and out
of it there rolled a leg of mutton. Then I knew that this was the
method of delivering parcels to the residents up the line.

We stayed a short time at a place called Hampshire Hill. The township
consisted of two rickety-looking houses. The only inhabitants who made
themselves visible were two fat pigs. All the way up the line the soil
seemed thin and poor. It may perhaps have been very good soil, but I
do not understand such matters. Waratah is a village situated on the
edge of a steep valley at the foot of Mount Bischoff. It is about 2,000
feet above sea level, and is therefore always cool. The great trouble
is rain. Sometimes it will rain for twenty or thirty days without
ceasing. Possibly Mount Bischoff may have been the scene of some of
Noah’s adventures. At times I was told that the air appeared to become
so rarefied that it was difficult to smoke when going up the mountain.
On my arrival it was fine, and I was told I was lucky in finding it
so. There are two very small hotels. The one I went to was like a
cottage; the bedrooms or sleeping-boxes being up amongst the rafters.
It was impossible to stand upright in my room, excepting in the centre.
There were no mirrors, shiny sideboards and blue vases, as at Emu Bay,
but there were comfortable beds. The bedsteads were of the smallest
description, which is necessary in most parts of the colonies, on
account of the size of the rooms. As a rule I don’t like feather-beds,
but in spite of my prejudices against such old luxuries, when I heard
the rain and sleet beating on the window-panes and roof above me, after
turning in that night, the feather-bed felt comfortable. It seemed to
fit my shape better than a mattress.

Although the weather at Waratah was considered to be unusually good,
it seemed to me chilly and damp, and I found the open grate and log
fire in the little parlour down below quite acceptable. Here I made the
acquaintance of my host, his family, the domestics, and several of the
residents in Waratah. Everything was extremely homely, and rather than
being a guest at an hotel, you felt that you had been admitted to the
bosom of a family. At meal-time the visitors and the family sit down
together, the maid-servant was called ‘my dear,’ and we all talked with
prismy pruny puckered-up lips. Everything was very old-fashioned and
very nice.

I spent several days at and about Waratah. One day was filled up with
a stroll over Mount Bischoff. This is a hill about half a mile away
from Waratah, which, so far as examinations have yet gone, appears to
be made up of yellow and red earth, through which blocks and grains
of tin are disseminated. The mine is simply a huge yellow-coloured,
quarry-like excavation in the side of this hill. Running through the
hill there are one or two lodes. To test these lodes, but more with the
object of testing the nature of the hill, shafts have been sunk and
levels have been driven.

In many places hundreds of tons of pure tin-stone may be picked out.
The bulk of the earthy material which goes to the dressing-floors
contains about two or three per cent. of the ore. At the dressing-works
this is stamped and washed, until it contains from seventy-two to
seventy-five per cent. of the ore, when it is put up in bags and sent
to Launceston to be smelted.

At the dressing-floors the warm material is stamped, and then
classified according to size. The fine materials and the coarse
materials are then treated separately upon machines called jiggers,
when the rich ore is separated from the poor material. The poor
material then passes through buddles and over revolving tables, where
it undergoes concentration, and more rich material is obtained. To
describe the different machines, and the order in which the material
passes over them, would require the assistance of Mr. Kaiser, the
talented director of these works, who constructed them. To me they
appeared to be the most perfect dressing-works I saw in the colonies.

The last evening that I spent at Waratah, my hostess, who was
entertaining a few visitors, insisted on my learning the game of
euchre. Euchre, nap and cribbage are the games of the colonies. I was
very stupid at learning, but when it came to me to deal I accidentally
obtained for myself Ace, King, the right and left Bower, and the Joker.
For the rest of the evening I felt that I was regarded as a doubtful
character.

On my way back to Emu Bay, I had the company of a reverend Catholic
Father. I found him a good-natured, amusing gentleman.

‘Do you object to smoking, sir?’ said I, shortly after I was seated.

‘Do I object to smoking? faith, give me one of your cigarettes and I’ll
show you how much I object,’ was the reply.

The result of all this was that we smoked and talked until we reached
our journey’s end. He told me a great deal about the land, and the
difficulties which settlers had to contend against. All about here the
only animal which gives trouble is the tiger-cat. This is more foxy
in its face than feline. It has a trick of breaking through the sides
and roofs of buildings in search of hams and other provisions. After
this I heard a great deal about large gum trees, and the sassafras,
an infusion from the bark of which yields a valuable tonic, and other
things which I have now forgotten. When we parted, we did so with the
hope of again meeting, if not on earth, at least in heaven. This is how
my companion put it.

At Emu Bay I fell in with a young engineer who was superintending the
building of a pier, to accommodate the steamers and other boats which
occasionally ply between Emu Bay and Melbourne. Talking of steamers,
not long ago I had a conversation with an engineering friend who had
just started in his profession in London. Knowing how difficult it is
for an engineer to make headway in these days of competition, I asked
him how he was ‘getting on.’

‘Oh, splendidly, splendidly,’ said he; ‘working on a pier 200
feet long.’ This was a capital beginning I thought, and offered
congratulations on such a successful commencement in the great city.
‘Ah, yes,’ continued he, ‘I’m--well, I’m putting twenty feet on to the
end of it.’

I did not make further inquiries, for I might have been told that it
was a gangway or a plank that he was supplying to connect the end of
the 200 feet with the decks of steamers.


The Story of a Post-Box.

During the evening I heard an animated discussion between several of
the Emu Bay residents about the disgraceful manner in which they had
been treated by the postal authorities in that district. ‘You know,’
said one of them, ‘the behaviour of that old woman they’ve made into
post-mistress ought to be reported. The hardest work these post-masters
and post-mistresses have to do is when they get out of bed to draw
their pay. They don’t care for us not a bit. Why, they won’t do
anything on Sundays. When the “brake” comes along at night, why, the
driver has to stop his horses, and take a lamp and sort the mails for
himself.’ That this accusation had some truth in it I can vouch from my
own experience, for over and over again I have had to hold the reins of
the horses while the coachman was manipulating a heap of letter-bags,
which he found in a box outside the post-office. At night-time, when
it was freezing and blowing, I found this very trying. No doubt the
coachman found it more so.

Here a defender of the postal authorities gained a hearing by reference
to the poorness of their pay.

‘How can you expect anybody to do anything when they get nothing for
doing it?’ he remarked.

‘Ah, but remember that new post-box we had--that one down at the
corner. Why, it was perfectly scandalous. When it was put up I stuck a
letter in it for Tom Gadesden, down at the Leven, asking him about some
horses he had to sell. As Tom didn’t write back I sent another, which I
knew was posted because I put it in myself. Still there was no answer.
Three days afterwards Tom came up here, and I asked him if he was short
of ink and paper down at the Leven. “What do you mean?” says he. “Well,
I mean I made you an offer for them two colts you had,” says I. “Did
you?” says he; “the colts is sold, and I never seed any offer from
you.” That set me asking, and I found that there was a lot of people
who had been posting in that box and their letters had never arrived.
You remember, Bill,’ said the speaker, pointing to one of the company,
‘you lost a letter in that box?’

‘Quite true,’ says Bill, nodding his head.

‘So I went to ask the post-mistress how it was, that when we posted
letters at Emu Bay folks never got them--you ought to have heard the
pow-wow that went on in that office. She bristled up like a porcupine,
and said I had accused her of stealing people’s letters--she’d report
me to Launceston. “If ever I’d posted the letters they went in the bag
with the rest of the letters; and what did I mean going about trying to
take away a poor old woman’s character?” After that she called me all
the names she could lay her tongue to, and finished off by bursting out
crying. I can tell you I was sorry that I’d been to make inquiries. I
expected every minute she would have jumped at me and clawed my hair.

‘Well, after that I didn’t know what to do. It got noised round that
I’d been slandering the old woman down at the post-office, and people
were saying I ought to be ashamed of myself.

‘All that I could do was to prove I was right, and after me and six or
seven of my mates talking it over--it was in this very room--we agreed
to post a newspaper to one another, and then see if we got them. Well,
next night, after it had got nearly dark--for we didn’t want it to be
known what we were after--we all went each of us with eight papers
tied in a handkerchief up to the box. You know we were then quite sure
that the papers had been posted. That was sixty-four papers we put in,
do you see? The night after we all met, and what do you think?--Well,
there wasn’t a hanged one of us had ever received a paper.

‘That there was something wrong in the postal regulations at Emu Bay
was pretty certain. Jones suggested that the post-box might have a
hole in the bottom, and a tiger-cat or something had chawed the papers
up. But as the box was bran-new, most of us thought the old woman was
collaring the stamps, but none of us dare say so, and I am certain that
there was not one of us durst go and tell her so.

‘“Let’s try once again,” was a suggestion which met with general
approval. To be quite sure that all the papers were posted, we all
went again in a lump to the box. I’ll never forgot that night; it was
raining and blowing a bit. Six of us had shoved our papers in, and Bob
bad got two of his in, when he says, “Why, hang it, the blessed box
is full!” “Full?” says we. “Yes, full,” says he--and I’m blowed if it
wasn’t full. Do what we could, no more papers would go in. We could
take two or three out, but it was no good trying to get any more in--it
was just chock-a-block.

‘Suddenly Bill says, “I don’t think the box has ever been cleared.” And
that was just it. There was we posting and posting for three weeks, at
a box that was never cleared. When they opened it they found our 114
papers and about 200 letters and parcels.

‘We felt such fools about that box and our 114 papers that we daren’t
say much--but I think the old woman might have put up a notice that the
box wasn’t working.’

       *       *       *       *       *

I returned from Emu Bay to Latrobe by the same road as that on which
I had come. The essential difference between the two journeys was,
that while one had been performed during the night, and without any
particular incidents, the return journey was performed during the day,
and was accompanied by an incident known to colonials as being ‘stuck
up.’

When I got up to start on this journey it was quite dark, and the
rain was pouring down in bucketfuls. Before we were under way day had
dawned, and the rain had changed to a cold drizzle. The coach was of
the ordinary type; that is to say, very like an old stagecoach or a
modern drag. I was the only passenger, and sat outside with the driver,
who had before him a spiked team--or in other words, a leader and two
pole-horses. The driver was a young man of some eighteen summers, and,
as I subsequently discovered, was learning his profession. For the
first eight miles or so, which we ran in an hour, everything went along
satisfactorily. The scenery was charming, the pace of the horses good,
and the only thing to complain about was the drizzle and the cold.
Shortly, however, the road became hilly, and the horses, which had
hitherto run remarkably well, suddenly became obstinate, and, in spite
of the thrashing administered to them by the driver, they refused to
move. In time, young Jehu’s arm became tired, and there was no help for
it but to descend and let me take the reins, while he encouraged them
and ran by their side. The result of this was that the horses started
off, leaving Jehu behind, and leaving me in charge of the coach. With
the help of the brake I eventually stopped them, but no sooner had Jehu
mounted on the box than they again refused to move. There was no help
for it but for him to descend once more and let me take control.

This method of intermittent progress was clearly unsatisfactory, and
something different must be attempted.

‘I’ll change a pole-horse for the leader,’ said Jehu.

After half an hour or so this was accomplished; but no sooner did Jehu
attempt to drive them, than such violent kicking and rearing took place
that we felt ourselves in danger either of rolling over a precipice, or
else having the coach kicked to pieces.

Jehu was fast getting exhausted. ‘The mails are on board, and what
shall I do?’ said he, wiping his forehead.

‘Turn the leader adrift, and let him run loose in front. Two horses can
surely drag us two and an empty coach,’ I suggested.

This was done, and away we went splendidly, the leader running about
fifty or a hundred yards ahead, and the two in the coach trying to
overtake him. At last we came to cottages on the outskirts of the
village of Penrhyn. The people seeing a horse running free, turned out
in force to stop him. This stopped the coach, and we had to explain our
troubles before the leader was turned loose and we could proceed. The
inhabitants of Penrhyn appeared to be highly amused at the device. Some
two or three miles farther on, the leader had gone ahead so far that
it was out of sight, and then to our horror the two horses refused to
move. Whip, coax, pull, lead--it was all in vain. There we were with
the bush on one side, a cliff and the sea on the other side, and no
house within miles--‘stuck up.’ I pitied poor Jehu. He almost wept.

‘It can’t be helped; we shall miss the train at Latrobe, and the mails
will be a day late.’

The chief thing he thought about was the mails. The chief thing I
thought about was myself. He would walk on to the next station for
assistance, if I would look after the coach. After he had gone, I tried
to coax the horses by holding a bunch of grass before them. All that
they would do was to stretch out their necks and get the grass, but
they would not move a foot. As they seemed to have become petrified, I
got inside the coach, and lighted a pipe.

While I was devising means to induce the horses to move, a farmer
came along the road with a cart and a team of three big cart-horses.
Of course he stopped to have a conversation, and at the end of it
suggested that if the pole of the coach were tied to the tail of his
cart, my two horses would have to move. The idea was splendid, and in
less than ten minutes I was sitting on the box steering the mail-coach
behind the farmer’s cart. How far we went I do not know, but we were
travelling along slowly when we were met by Jehu and an ostler with a
fresh team of horses. I expect the towing of the mail-coach will be a
joke for some time to come.

We reached Latrobe at about two p.m. The last part of the journey was
over ground which was flat and swampy. Of course we were too late for
the coach which drives to catch the train at Deloraine, and I made up
my mind for a quiet afternoon and a night’s rest at Latrobe. Latrobe
is a small country town of one street. Its usual dulness was somewhat
increased by all the shops having their shutters partially closed,
the reason being that a woman had died. A tobacconist told me that
he didn’t know who she was, but the shutters would be kept up until
she was buried. At one time you might see two persons and a dog in
the street. The quiet melancholy of a country town in the old country
pervaded not only the street, but even the interior of the hotel. In
one shop I saw penny whistles, apples, cakes, peg-tops, and articles
of ‘sterling silver,’ all together. I had plenty of opportunity to
study my hotel. If I remember rightly, sanded floors, gaudy pictures
representing hunting scenes and the seasons, a lot of advertisements
and leather-covered seats, formed the chief feature in the room where I
spent the evening. In a vase there was a bunch of artificial flowers.
These are invariably of the same kind, and if you give a leaf a knock,
the whole plant whirls round in the flower-pot, at once destroying any
impression it may have made on you as to its reality. The pictures
which you see in small hotels are reproductions of what you see in
small hotels at home. Among the favourites were fox-hunting scenes,
which usually included a man in a red coat holding up a fox, while
a lot of dogs were yelping around him; one or two steeplechases; a
picture of the Derby; a soldier on horseback while sticking a man
through the throat was carrying off a standard; one or two scenes
from farmyards; the village Maypole; a few pictures of racehorses,
all of which to the uninitiated looked pretty much alike; dignity and
impudence looking out of a barrel; the death of Nelson; and a large
collection of the worst type of German lithographs, amongst which were
the royal family sitting in a semi-circle, and the Prince and Princess
of Wales, a ball of wool and a puppy-dog.

Speaking generally, every picture was a reproduction of what you see
in the old country, and I do not remember seeing a single picture of
anything colonial.

In the evening I listened to a discussion as to the relative merits
of loo, euchre and poker. A local paper, referring to the ship which
had brought me to Tasmania, remarked that ‘Tasmanians interested in
sheep-farming will be glad to learn that the steamship _Flinders_ has
safely landed 250 fine stud sheep; there were also some Tasmanian
officials on board.’ Not being able to make out the connection between
the sheep and the officials, I went to bed.

The ride back to Launceston was more pleasant than the ride up had
been. We started before seven a.m. At eight a.m. the sun appeared above
the hills, and the hoar-frost began to disappear as clouds of mist.
Every tree and flower and haystack smoked as if it was on fire. As far
as Deloraine the country on either hand was chiefly an impenetrable
bush; beyond that we were again back amongst the ferns and yellow furze.

That evening I spent in Launceston, being entertained by a number of
gentlemen, who told me many stories about the great Bischoff. It had
been discovered by a man named Smith.

Smith was a man who liked, and I believe still likes, to hide himself
in the almost impenetrable Tasmanian bush. The way in which he lived
necessitated his spending much of his time in thinking, rather than in
talking, and he was therefore called Philosopher Smith. Philosopher
Smith is generous and crotchety. He gave many of his shares in his
discovery away, and finally, disgusted with the system in which the
mine was being managed, eventually threw up his connection with it.
Now he is not the millionaire he might have been. Not long ago the
Tasmanian Government voted him a small pension for the benefits he had
conferred on the colony by his discovery. Mr. Smith, however, I was
told, rejected their offer. He deserves a good big pension, and if
Tasmanians don’t give it to him, they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Other people behaved very differently. Some of the lucky shareholders
drew from £250 to £300 every three weeks. One man who in three weeks
drew £3,000, just to show that he had a soul above worldly dross,
bought an organ and a monkey, with which he amused people in the
streets. How long he continued at this self-imposed employment I was
not told. Another man was so inflated with the importance he expected
to derive from his riches, that he imagined himself a duke, and gave
birth to a drawl.

The usual way of reaching Hobart is by rail from Launceston. The
scenery on the line is said to be very fine, and I regret that I did
not see it. I reached Hobart direct from Melbourne. On this occasion
Bass Straits had put on their best behaviour. The sun was shining and
the sea was smooth. Weather of this sort would induce many to become
sailors. The profession of navigators would be ruined by numbers, and
what would a captain do then, poor thing? It was God’s weather. At the
north end of Tasmania we saw many rocky islands. These islands have the
same general character as the eastern coast of Tasmania itself, which
is high and mountainous.

It was a cold, clear, fine morning when we entered the beautiful
harbour of Hobart. I forgot to say that the people in Sydney when they
wave their hand across their harbour, tell you that it would afford
anchorage for all the navies in the world. I should think that the
harbour at Hobart might do the same.

In all directions there are high hills to be seen. Some of these rise
from the edge of the waters. The summits are rocky, and many of them
were covered with snow. The highest is Mount Wellington. This is at the
head of the harbour, and overlooks the town of Hobart. Between these
hills there are many small bays and smaller hills covered with gums.
On the lowest slopes green fields and farmhouses are visible. Over all
these combinations of mountain, crag, snow, forest, grass slopes and
water, there was a bluish haze, like a film of gauze.

At last we landed, and at once commenced our explorations. The streets
are broad and well laid out. Here and there are some fine buildings.
One is a museum, others are Government offices, and many are,
naturally, the banks. One of the busiest streets, where there were a
few people and some good shops, is called Liverpool Street. In the
other streets all is quiet. Now and then a foot-passenger pauses to
look at you, and makes you feel that you are a new chum. The cabs, some
of which are curious arrangements like milk-carts, stand in rows. Dogs
sleep upon the pavement. All is sunshine, cleanliness, and quiet. The
houses in the suburbs face the street like so many antiquated walls
with rectangular orifices for doors and windows. The brass door-handles
shine like mirrors. The polishing has gone on so long until the paint
around them in the wood-work has been worn away. Even a little brook
that at one time babbled through the town has been constrained. A brook
bustling along over an untidy gravel bed would be out of place in
tidy little Hobart. It now runs over a concrete bed, something like a
pipe. Poor little stream, even you have been compelled to change your
clamorous nature.

At the corners of the streets there are neatly painted notices hung
upon the lamp-posts--‘Keep to the right,’ ‘Walk round the corners.’
What a satire to treat orderly Hobart like a Fleet Street!

Although Hobart is so quiet, its very quietness gives to it a charm
that makes me wish to be one of its inhabitants. About twelve o’clock
I saw a little excitement in one of the main streets which I ought
not to omit to mention. This was a football-match between a number of
shop-boys. I watched it with considerable interest. In the afternoon
I paid a shilling to enter a Juvenile Industrial Exhibition. Inside I
found that I was in a Poultry Show. There were a great many cocks and
hens. Nearly all of them had received a first prize, a second prize,
or a certificate of merit. Some of them were interesting on account
of their size and the nature of their feathers. One old rooster had
feathers down his legs like trousers. This gave him an appearance
of great stability. Some of his neighbours seemed to have very thin
legs as compared with their bodies, which were unusually large. With
the amount of standing they have to do, these latter must often feel
very tired. All the cocks were crowing and the hens were clucking.
The pigeons were in great force. There were Jacobins, runts, rollers,
fantails, Antwerps, baldheads, Hamburgs, carriers, and a variety of
others, the names of which can only be found in special treatises on
this order of birds.

There were also a great number of parrots, which in true parrot fashion
were looking preternaturally wise. The rest of the building was filled
up with sausages, masses of brawn, corpses of animals like pigs and
sheep, of cadaverous heads of cows, cheese, pots of yellow butter, and
canaries.

To me the dead animals, which helped to give the place a
charnel-house-like smell, were very horrible.

The farmers, with their wives and daughters, appeared to find something
very attractive in the exhibition. If I had been brought up as a
butcher, the scraped pigs, covered with rosettes and holding apples in
their mouths, might have been more beautiful than a Turner landscape.

The Museum was more interesting, as it contained many relics and
drawings of the now extinct aboriginals of Tasmania.

       *       *       *       *       *

At this point in my travels I said good-bye to Peter Dodd and
the Major, who went to India, or somewhere, and I picked up new
acquaintances whom I will presently introduce.




_NEW ZEALAND; OR, THE LAND OF THE MAORIS AND MOAS._


Japan and New Zealand are in many respects reflections of each other.
The northern island of New Zealand corresponds in position and shape
to Yezo, while the southern island is like the main island of this
country. Nemuro is represented by Auckland, Hakodate by Wellington,
Yokohama and Tokyo by Lyttelton and Christchurch, and Nagasaki by
Dunedin. I ought to be paid for this suggestion, for it saves the
buying of an atlas.

The northern island of New Zealand is the chief centre for the
aboriginal Maoris, just as Yezo is the home of the aboriginal Aino.
The mountains of New Zealand, like those of Japan, are chiefly on the
western side of the island, and it is on this side of both countries
that there is the greatest precipitation of rain and snow. Mount Cook,
the highest mountain in New Zealand, is approximately the same height
as Fujisan, the highest mountain in Japan. In both countries there are
earthquakes, volcanoes, and hot springs, and each is equally celebrated
for its beautiful scenery. In these and other respects New Zealand
and Japan have a close resemblance to each other. That two distant
countries should have so many points in common is certainly very
remarkable. As with other countries, there are naturally many points
of dissimilarity. New Zealand has an enormous foreign debt, a small
population; it is a country practically without a history, and if we
except the birds, a rat, a bat, and a lizard, it is without vertebrate
animals. In all these and other respects Japan is exactly the reverse
of New Zealand. Notwithstanding all this, the similarities between
these two countries are so abnormally great that the attention of a
resident in either of these lands cannot fail to have his attention
attracted to them. Of course, neither New Zealand nor Japan are like
Africa or Patagonia. For these reasons, and from the fact that many old
residents from this country have settled in New Zealand, I venture to
give an account of what I saw and did in that country. My notes in many
instances may be taken _cum grano salis_.

My experience with New Zealand commenced on board the ship which took
me to that country. This was one of the Union Steamship Company’s
boats, which practically hold the monopoly of the New Zealand trade.
I sailed from Melbourne _viâ_ Hobart. The larger of these boats are
continually making circular trips from Melbourne to the Bluff and
Dunedin, round the New Zealand ports, to Auckland and Sydney, and then
back to Melbourne; or else, commencing at Sydney, they circulate in
the opposite direction. The smaller boats trade hither and thither
along the coast of New Zealand. The Union Company has done much for
New Zealand, and New Zealand has done much for the Union Company. If
you take a ticket for the round trip, which lasts about twenty days,
you pay £21, or about £1 per day; but if you take a trip between
two coast ports, only a few hours distant, you may pay £2 or £3.
Some of the boats are extremely nice in their arrangements, having
electric lights, a fair supply of bathing accommodation, and all the
fixings and appliances found in modern steamships. Some go so far as
Thomson’s sounders and compasses. It was sometimes interesting to hear
discussions on these instruments. One day in the smoking-room, a naval
officer was talking with one of the ship’s officers about Sir William’s
inventions.

‘Oh,’ said the man of war, ‘I know Sir William. Once I was staying
at a house, and they told me there was a very clever man coming. You
wouldn’t think much of him to look at. One of these old men with specs.
But he can do anything, you know. Want a compass? He just takes a bit
of paper and a pencil and invents the best compass ever made; and
does it all with _x_, you know. All the same with the sounder. Want
a good electric light--and he does it with _x_ again, you know. He
can’t do ordinary rule of three and that sort of thing. When he went
to America to calculate about the electric cable, he took an old man
to do his sums for him. The only time he is happy is when he is making
fiddle-holes or chasing.’

This information, coming as it did from the commander of a ship in the
British navy, carried some authority, and was received with silence and
respect.

The day after we left Hobart, where we picked up a few passengers,
we had a beam sea, which caused many of the passengers to seek the
seclusion that a cabin grants. Next morning it was bright and
sunshiny, and as the sea was more aft, the motion of the ship was a
little less. One or two of us indulged in games of quoits, sometimes
throwing them on pegs and sometimes into numbered squares chalked on
the deck. Behind us there was always a flock of albatross, molly-hawks,
and other sea-birds, on the look-out for the leavings of the table.
These companions, which often flew close above our heads, were quite
an interesting study. One great difficulty was to understand how they
managed to fly so fast, and this with little or no apparent motion of
their wings. We were going at a rate of at least ten knots per hour,
and yet from the way in which our feathered friends circled about, and
yet kept up to us, they must have gone at ten or twenty times the rate
at which we were going. All that they appeared to do was to balance
themselves and gently tip their wings up or down--there was no violent
flapping, such as crows go in for when they wish to move. The albatross
were very tame, and would often fly right over our decks until they
appeared to be poised a few yards above our heads. Their build is the
ordinary seagull pattern--a huge white body in shape like a soda-water
bottle, furnished with two enormous angel-like pinions. MacTavish said
that you could often see changes in the expression of their faces. When
the dinner-bell sounded they would come charging up from all points of
the horizon and arrange themselves astern, ready to pounce on the first
fragments thrown from the rich company’s table. At these times we had
the best view of our friends, and you could hear the big ones clucking,
and now and then detect a little smile. They knew that they must keep
pretty close, or some of the relics from the kitchen might sink. I
suggested to Mac that the _menu_ ought to be thrown over a few minutes
ahead of the breakfast. The molly-hawks would certainly be grateful,
and the Union Company would Buddhistically be doing a good turn. If
the theory of Pythagoras is true, the directors of the U.S.S. Co. may
be turned into molly-hawks themselves when they die; and if they are,
they will regret not having instituted this charitable custom. I do
not think that captains and officers of the ships will ever become
molly-hawks. They are too good. But the directors of a company who, in
their scramble for dross, do not hesitate to have four sea-sick people
crammed into a small cabin, ought certainly to prepare themselves for a
hard time in the future. But more about molly-hawks and the directors
of steamship companies by-and-by. I must here tell you that MacTavish,
or, as I shall often call him, Mac, was a Scotchman from South Africa
on a trip to see the colonies. As we did not know each other’s names,
when we first met at dinner, a funny little man, who had seen more
of London or Paris than Scotland, suggested names for the company.
MacTavish was one of these names. MacTougal and MacAlister were two
others. I was called the Major, and a quiet dignified gentleman with
a black moustache, who was my neighbour, was known as the Colonel. In
return, our black little friend, who some remarked might have seen more
of Palestine than Scotland, was called MacCallum More. He was a lively
fellow, and in spite of the weather kept us amused. I liked MacCallum.

The reason that we had so many Scotch names was that about half the
passengers were really Scotchmen, and we were going to Southern New
Zealand, which is Scotch in its looks, Scotch in its climate, and has
a population of Macs. From what I shall say about parts of it, it will
be seen that it is a country where only cast-iron Scotchmen, and a
few other human abnormalities, could thrive. Not long ago tenders for
a Government contract were handed in to the authorities at a town in
the south end of New Zealand. The one accepted was from a Mr. John
MacDougal. When Mr. John MacDougal turned up, he was found to be a
Chinaman. ‘But how is this, John?’ said the authorities; ‘you are a
Chinaman.’ ‘You callee me John, and s’pose I no talkee Mac, no can
catchee contract this side,’ was John’s reply. The Macs are certainly a
powerful clan in their new home.

As we went surging along, one by one, new faces appeared at the top of
the companion. Many of them had a blue bonnet above them. Those who
hadn’t blue bonnets faintly smiled, and then retired again.

On the evening of the second day it was blowing harder than ever.
Sails had to be taken in, and we went along through a seething sea in
the dark. How ever Captain Cook found New Zealand is a mystery. If
an angel had told me where it was, I don’t think I would have gone
to look for it; the irregularities of the approaches to New Zealand
are too unpleasant. It has often been remarked that you do not get
sufficient exercise on board ships; your liver gets out of order, and
you may suffer dyspepsia. On our ship we certainly had considerable
exercise--not so much of the muscles which come into play when walking,
as with those which are used when holding on. When a man goes to New
Zealand, and it is rough, he ought to have claws and long toe-nails.
Rubber shoes, with patent soles for suction, might be good, but claws,
toe-nails, or spiked boots, would perhaps be better.

I had a great deal of exercise in picking up convalescents. One heap
which I sorted consisted of two ladies, a Yank, two ’possum-rugs and
some pillows, several chairs, a couple of cups of beef-tea, sundry
biscuits, a cockatoo, and a lot of bird-seed. This helped me to make
friends with the ladies. I always like ladies to be just a leetle
sea-sick. It gives you a chance of being agreeable. I shall have more
to say about the Yank. He was very droll, and did a little to remind
the officers of the U.S.S. Co. that their directors had failings.
While talking about the inmates of our village, for a Union boat is
always like an overcrowded floating hamlet, I must not forget our
worthy skipper--Captain Popham. Captain Popham was a big man, and he
was never sea-sick; I don’t think he could be sea-sick. He had a good
square head, he wouldn’t stand humbug, and he was always pleasant
and agreeable. I used to sit with Popham when all the rest had fled.
Sometimes he would be raised up about ten feet, and would be looking
down at me. On these occasions I was able to read the inscription on
the bottom of Popham’s soup-plate. The next moment I would be up ten
feet, and looking down on Popham. On these occasions I had to hold
my soup-plate edgeways up, as if it had been a mirror in which I was
examining my back teeth. Everybody liked Popham, and voted him a good
man. There was one exception, however. This was a sea-sick Blue
Ribbonite. Blue Ribbon’s occupation, when not engaged with a bucket,
was to bemoan the immorality of the world. Edinburgh was his pet
aversion. ‘Eh, mon, there are nae bigger slums than in Edinboro. It’s a
fearful place.’ Now and again he would try and convert the ship to Blue
Ribbonism.

By perseverance he managed to stir up a little animosity before he left
us. One Sunday, between his fits of indisposition, whilst prowling
round the ship, he seems to have discovered four passengers playing
cards in one of the ship’s cabins, which he promptly reported to
the captain. As the captain either did not, or else would not, know
anything of the matter, Blue Ribbon promised to report him to the
directors for non-attention to duty--he spent too much time talking
to the ladies on the quarter-deck instead of attending to his duty.
Poor Popham! We supposed Blue Ribbon wanted him to be either reefing
topsails or else snuffing round passengers’ cabins.

The first sight of New Zealand in winter weather was not very inviting.
Here and there were black cast-iron-looking rocks, their summits capped
with clouds, and their bases fringed with foam. After this we rounded
some rough-edged hills, covered with scraggy scrub and dripping rocks.
This was the entrance to the Bluff. There were no trees. Scotchmen
can live beyond the limit of trees. At the head of the bay near to
the waters, there were a few paddocks, two or three cottages, and
clumps of yellow furze. It was so like bonny Scotland, especially the
canopy of fog. You felt that you were on one of the selvages of the
habitable world, and that just behind the hills you might find the
eternal snows of the Antarctic regions. The end of the bay was like
the edge of a Scotch moor with a wharf on the shore of a loch. Matters
certainly looked a little brighter as the day advanced, and the dull
appearance of the Bluff, for it certainly was as bleak as Orkney when
I saw it, may have been due partly to the weather, and partly to my
indisposition. One indication that the Bluff may at times be bright and
shiny, was a number of little bungalows, which I was told were summer
retreats for the Invercargillites. There were also several hotels, and,
of course, a place of worship.

Here MacTavish, MacCallum More, and several of the other Macs, and
myself, took train for Invercargill. The first part of the country was
very marshy, and was covered with great green bushes, called Ti-trees,
and tussocks of grass, any bunch of which would hide a herd of cattle.
There were a number of plants like flags. These a New Zealander, who
gave us much information about the country, whom for variety I will
call Robinson, told us were the New Zealand flax. The Maoris made bags
and string out of it, but Europeans had not yet invented the proper
method of making it clean. The bunches of flax were about as big as the
tussocks of grass. Now and again we saw some tame-looking birds, with
red legs and blue heads, like guinea-fowls. They simply looked at the
train, and either couldn’t or else wouldn’t fly away. Robinson said
that they would fly quickly enough if we went after them with a gun.
A lot of the New Zealand birds, however, are unable to fly. In this
respect they resemble their predecessors, which together constituted
the family of Moas. Robinson said that some of the Moas were forty
feet high, and in speed could eclipse the winner of the Melbourne Cup.
Sometimes they would breakfast at Invercargill and then trot off 565
miles north to the plains of Canterbury for their dinner. Their eggs
weighed fifty-six pounds. They were all dead now, and globe-trotters
often felt disappointed at not getting any sport amongst these animals.
As I don’t believe all that Robinson said, I will reserve my own
observations on these remarkable birds until I come to the place where
I interviewed their remains. I will then tell you the truth.

A curious bird that still exists is the Maori hen, or the Weka. From
its simplicity it might be called the ‘Weak’un.’ It suffers from
inquisitiveness. If you clap two sticks together, it will come to
investigate the reason of the disturbance. To catch it, you place
a bit of red rag on one stick and a noose on the other. While the
‘Weak’un’ is picking at the red rag on one stick you put the noose on
the other stick round its neck. This sounds like the salt dodge, and
although you may not believe it, it is perfectly true. Another bird--a
hairy-looking beast called the Kiwi--suffers from sleeplessness, and
therefore has become a night-walker. There are lots of these birds in
the streets of London. A charming pet for a farmyard is the Kiau. This
dear little bird has retained its powers of flight. Its chief amusement
is to sit on the back of a sheep and pick out its kidneys. It is a
wonderful anatomist, and never fails in striking the spot where it will
obtain its favourite morsel. After the operation the sheep invariably
die, and the kiau flies off to another little lamb to institute a new
investigation.

Everywhere in New Zealand, as in all the South Sea Islands, there are
wild pigs. All of these, or at least their ancestors, were brought out
by Captain Cook.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said MacTavish; ‘he would have required Noah’s
Ark.’ After this, whenever Mac saw a pig, he used to call out, ‘Hello!
there goes Captain Cook.’

Invercargill is a nice town, with one large wide street lined with
good buildings and furnished with tramcars. We saw it at its worst,
for it was drizzling, and the roads were wet and muddy. One puzzle to
a stranger in Invercargill was how so small a place could support such
enormous stores and shops. That all of them did not pay was clear from
an advertisement we saw. It was in big letters, and ran as follows:

  ‘Great Bankrupt.

    ‘Certified copy of telegram.

    ‘Creditors have accepted your offer of 8s. 8d. in the pound.
    Amount, £2,627 12s. 6d.

  ‘(Signed)      J. R. and S. M.’

After this followed sheets of advertisements about the low price at
which you could purchase various articles. If ever I start a store at
Invercargill I shall sell rubber boots, mackintoshes and umbrellas.
Over the door I shall write ‘Great Bankrupt Compulsory Sale.’

As the climate was against an investigation of the suburbs, MacTavish
and MacCallum More found a place where they could play billiards with
tipless cues, while I went off in search of a museum I had been told
about.

‘It’s at the Athenæum,’ said my informant. ‘It isn’t much of a place
just yet--only commencing. You’ll find it very interesting. The second
door in the third block.’

I found it without difficulty; and as future visitors to Invercargill
may possibly like to read up special works on its exhibits, I give the
following catalogue of everything I saw:

    No. 1. was the skull of a gigantic cetacean. This was in the
    hall. Before examining this remarkable relic, students may with
    advantage refresh their memories by again referring to the
    terrible trials of the adventurous Jonah.

    No. 2. Two frowsy deer in a glass case. These were in a passage
    upstairs. The attitude of these animals reminds you of the
    well-known Psalm: ‘As pants the hart for cooling streams.’

    No. 3. A mangy marsupial, probably from Australia. This
    interesting specimen is near the frowsy deer. The skin of this
    creature, which in every respect, bar building nests and laying
    eggs, is a connecting link between the sheep and the ostrich,
    cannot fail to impress the thoughtful visitor that moth and
    rust corrupt the treasures which we lay up for ourselves on
    earth.

A special catalogue of this interesting and valuable collection has not
previously been printed. The council of the institution are at liberty
to reprint my notes in full. Although I have written the catalogue
from memory, I must say that I have often had greater difficulty in
remembering the contents of a shark’s stomach. I trust that there are
no mistakes.

When I meet the gentleman who sent me through the rain to interview
these treasures, it would be well if he had either a suit of armour, or
else a bottle of arnica, or other preparation for the relief of bruises.

From Invercargill we went by train to Kingston, on Lake Wakatipu. The
whole journey was, on account of the drizzly, mizzly, foggy, sleety,
snowy weather, a failure. The Alps of New Zealand in summer-time may
be enjoyable, but in winter they are about as enjoyable as the Arctic
regions. Polar bears might like the trip, but it was even too much for
Scotchmen. The first part of the journey was over swampy brown plains.
Here and there are a few farms and furze fences. The bush we saw was
of a very scraggy second-class description. The trees were stunted,
weather-beaten, covered with moss, and half dead. Beneath them was a
tangle of impenetrable scrub. Mixed in with the latter are tangles of a
vine-like plant called a lawyer, the underside of the leaves of which
are fish-hook-like thorns. It looks innocent, but it is a fearful plant
when it seizes you. I can’t say more, or the profession might institute
an action for libel. The only cheering sight in the murky landscape was
the yellow bushes of furze. There was also a little pleasure derived
from the absence of the monotonous Australian gums. At a place called
Lumsden, big mountains came in sight, the more distant of which were
white with snow. With the exception of a tropical-looking plant called
a cabbage palm, the trees had disappeared. On the hillsides we saw
thousands of rabbits. At one small station we saw a professional
rabbiter with a pack of some twenty dogs, and a horse loaded with
rabbit-skins. A rabbiter may get about twopence for each rabbit-skin.
In the market these skins are worth from 1s. to 1s. 10d. per lb., and
there are about eight skins to a pound. At one station of 80,000 acres
near Lumsden, they employed about 500 dogs, and caught about 300,000
rabbits per year. The total export of rabbit-skins from New Zealand
amounts to several millions per year. In 1881, 8,514,685 skins, valued
at £84,744, were exported.

On the day the first rabbit was let loose in this part of the country,
a great dinner was given to commemorate the successful introduction of
this useful little animal. Shortly after this a law was passed for the
protection of Bunny, whereby it was enacted that any person shooting a
rabbit should be fined--I think Mac said £20. Now the law is that the
man who does not shoot Bunny, but protects and cherishes him, is the
person who is fined. Half the time of the Colonial legislators is spent
in considering how Bunny shall be dealt with. This year the Queensland
Government made a special appropriation of £100,000 to carry on the
rabbit warfare. As a war was imminent with Russia, the same Government
considered that the taxation might be increased £90,000. How indignant
Russians ought to feel if they knew that they had to play second fiddle
to a parcel of rabbits. But what is to be done with Bunny? Bunny in the
Colonies is different to Bunny in the home country. In the Colonies
he can climb walls, run up hollow trees, and swim creeks. Instead of
breeding like the proverbial rabbit, he changes his home habits and
breeds all the year round. He begins when he is six months old, and
continues until he dies.

Any respectable rabbit ought to be ashamed of such a family tree.

One small army of rabbits having started, they breed larger and larger
armies at an increasing rate, which advance like a browsing herd.

‘The rabbits are coming’ is a more alarming cry for the owners of a
station than any cry about a Russian invasion.

In the Cape a question about the vine grub (Phylloxera) threw out
a Government. Rabbits not legislated for would throw out forty
Governments in the Colonies. The Rabbit Nuisance Act of New Zealand
is against poor Bunny, but protects tiger-cats, stoats, ferrets, the
mongoose, native cats, and other vermin, the value of which is doubtful.

In some districts foxes have been introduced to destroy rabbits, but it
is found that Reynard very quickly develops a taste for young sheep.
Weasels and the ichneumon (mongoose) have also been tried, but it is
feared that they may increase like the rabbits, and it is known that
weasels, when in numbers, will even sometimes attack men and horses. In
the Auckland district rabbits have died out partly by natural causes,
a disease called tuberculosis having broken out amongst them. This
has led to the idea that a few rabbits might be inoculated with an
infectious disease, and then turned loose. Pasteur might be consulted
on this point. One way of getting them out of their holes is to smoke
them out with the fumes of certain chemicals ejected by a fan. The
ordinary methods of destruction are, to use phosphorized oats (which
unfortunately kill pheasants and other valuable game), to trap, to
hunt with dogs, and to shoot. To keep back an approaching invasion,
wire-netting partly sunk obliquely in the ground has proved good,
and Government and private individuals have put up lengths of such
barricading only comparable with the Great Wall of China.

We expected to find Kingston, as it was described in a trade report
by an American consul, a flourishing little township. All that we
did find was a solitary house, on the edge of a black-looking lake,
surrounded by precipitous mountains covered with snow. This house was
the hotel. Of course there were no visitors. New Zealanders are wiser
than strangers. At Queenstown, which you reach by a small steamer, the
accommodation is much better. But still, even if you had the Palace
Hotel from San Francisco, Lake Wakatipu is not the place for weather
such as we had. The scenery of ragged peaks whitewashed with snow,
and black cliffs frowning upon a blacker lake, may be fine in summer
weather, but it was sufficient to make us fly away from it at the first
opportunity. At the Kingston end of the lake, there are to be seen some
very remarkable terrace formations marking the ancient level of the
lake. These are cut in glacial moraine, indicating that Wakatipu at one
time may have been the basin of a huge glacier.

In returning, at Lumsden we branched off across the Waiwea Plains, on
a private line. The ground over which we ran was for the most part
flat and uncultivated. To the right and left there were snow-clad
hills. We were now on the way to Dunedin. The farther we went the
more cultivated became the country. There were no forests. All was
laid out in fields, and much of the ground had been turned over by the
plough. I suppose this was for wheat. As we went along the passengers
continued to increase. Most of the men wore long leggings, and were
very muddy. Although our companions were farmerish and muddy, I was
told that some of them were very rich. Scotchmen can make money in any
country. One old millionaire that I heard about was a ferryman. His
name was Fergusson. Wet or fine, Fergusson was always at his post,
ready to pass the time of day with a farmer’s wife, or to answer the
‘Hallo’ of a belated traveller. For a long time it was supposed that
Fergusson was poor, and to add a copper or two, or even a shilling, to
his usual fare was looked upon as quite the proper thing. Fergusson
was always pleasant, and touched his hat to all who came. At last it
got rumoured that every week the postman delivered a big envelope
at Fergusson’s door, and there was a good deal of speculation as to
what this correspondence was about. The big red seal on the envelope
indicated that Fergusson’s business was important. This went on for
two years, and Fergusson’s business was as great a secret as ever.
But there is an end to all things, and so there was to the mystery
of big envelopes. It seems that Fergusson could not read, and being
as desirous of solving the secret of the envelopes as other people,
he called in a friend. Shortly afterwards we heard that the weekly
correspondence was Fergusson’s banking account. How many stations he
owns we are afraid to say, but he still keeps the ferry. People call
him Mr. Fergusson now. Some time before we reached Dunedin, a boy
passed through the carriages, and collected our names to be telegraphed
ahead for the Dunedin papers. It was a long ride of over twelve hours,
and we were glad to find ourselves, about 8 p.m., once more back again
in civilization.


The Rabbit Difficulty Explained.

Seeing and hearing so much about rabbits when in New Zealand
made me anxious to discover the law or laws which governed their
multiplication. When I was in the train on my way to Dunedin, I,
MacTavish, and MacCallum More tried to investigate the question, but I
am sorry to say that we signally failed. MacTavish tried to illustrate
it with a pack of cards he carried, beginning by dealing out a king
and queen to represent a pair of rabbits. Under each of these he
would place six more cards to represent their offspring. But at this
point a controversy arose as to how many should be males and how many
females. But work as we would, we never seemed to have enough cards to
illustrate the thing properly.

After an hour or two of argument, our ideas were so hopelessly
entangled, that for relaxation MacCallum tried to teach us a game he
called poker.

The rabbit question, however, was only dormant. At Dunedin we were
told an intercolonial congress had sat upon the rabbit question.
One outcome of their labours was to recommend the various Colonial
Governments who had found it impossible to legislate against an enemy
they did not understand, to offer a handsome sum to the first person
who successfully placed the rabbit question on an intelligent basis.

The prize was won by a Mr. Macalister, a schoolmaster in Dunedin. His
treatise on the subject, which is known as ‘The Bunnyian Calculus,’ has
since been recommended as a text-book for the junior classes in the
various Government schools.

We called on Mr. Macalister when in Dunedin, who, when he heard that we
were interested in the important question to which he had devoted so
much attention, gave us a pressing invitation to hear the children at
their rabbit exercises.

‘Noo, sir,’ said he, ‘ye wad aiblins like to hear the laddie bairns dae
their Bunnyian Calculus; it’s jist wonnerfu.’

We said we ‘aiblins would.’

‘Well, ye maun ken then,’ continued he, addressing himself, chalk in
hand, to his blackboard, ‘that a guid deal depends on the assoumptions
even in the exawct scieences. Ane is that the doe rabbit litters aucht
times in the twalmonth; and anither, that her feemly consists o’ twa he
and four she anes. Monnie mae assoumptions maun be made that it wadna
jist a’ thegither dae to explain to the callants. Ho’someever, we’ll
reckon the term o’ life to be sax years, and start wi ae bonnie winsome
doe rabbit. It is evident there will be--

  (1 + 4) she rabbits at the end of the first term.
  (1 + 4)²    ”      ”      ”      ”   second term.
  (1 + 4)⁴⁸   ”      ”      ”      ”   sax years.

Here we should soobtrawct ane, for the auld doe will e’en
noo dee, while the first four o’ her offspring’ll be hirplin, and maun
be deducted at the end o’ the next term, belike. But as we maun ca’
cannie wi’ the bairns, an’ no ding them doited a’ thegither, we’ll just
pay no kind of attention whatever to the deed anes; for weel I wat, it
maks sma’ difference in the result, those that dee by natural means,
and won’t affect the first few significant figures. Nae doot ye see,
that it’s jist compownd interest payable aucht times in the twalmonth,
and if we further aloo’ for the deed anes, that is exactly as if a
brokerage, as it were, were soobtrawcted at the end o’ each payment
after the aucht and twa score. I’ll just show ye the exact formula wi’
r for the number o’ she rabbits and R: r the ratio of total rabbits to
she ones at a litter, n being the number o’ years that elawpsed.’

And consulting his book, this is what he wrote on another board:

       R
  N = ---(1 + r)⁸ⁿ⁻¹ [(1 + r){(1 + r)⁴⁸ - 8n - 1} + 8n]
       r

with the most evident satisfaction, and artistically chalking the
whirrlies with the greatest care. It gave me a twinge of toothache, I
must say.

He then completed his numerical example, saying:

‘At the end o’ a score o’ years the number of rabbits descended frae
one doe is

       6
  N = ---(1 + 4)¹⁶⁰
       4
    = 684 × 10¹¹².’

‘No wonder,’ says my friend to me, who seemed to understand
it--‘aiblins,’ ‘hirplin,’ ‘doited,’ and all--‘no wonder the Society for
the Protection of Rabbits congratulated themselves; and,’ he added,
‘all the unnatural ways since tried to decrease these rabbits don’t
affect the practical result either.’

All the time Macalister’s demonstration had gone on, Mac and I were
giving significant nods, and grunting assent to all he said.

‘Noo,’ says Macalister, ‘the children will do a few practical
exercises.’

We were rather tired, and, as it was nearly one o’clock, somewhat
hungry; but not wishing to offend the scholar, we said we were
delighted.

‘Jock,’ said he, pointing to the board, ‘hoo mony muckle is that?’

‘Six hundred and eighty-four,’ said the boy.

‘Sax hunner an auchty-four, my braw bairn; but whaat? Tell me whaat?
dinna be blate and skirl a’ thegither.’

With that each child drew a long breath, clutched the back of a bench,
shut his eyes, and began, ‘Of millions of millions of millions of
millions of millions,’ as if they were never going to stop.

Suddenly the schoolmaster lifted his hand, and the noise ceased.

‘How many times did ye say millions of millions of millions?’ asked the
teacher.

‘Five score and twelve times,’ was the answer.

‘Quite correct, you see,’ said Macalister. ‘It’s only an application of
the formula. The rabbits which die don’t affect the answer.’

It was now one o’clock, and Mac was shuffling his feet to get away.

‘Just one more problem,’ said Macalister; and before we had time
to make any excuse about catching our steamer, Macalister said to
the school: ‘With the same conditions as before, assume that Captain
Cook had landed a pair of rabbits in New Zealand instead of a pair of
pigs, how many would there now be in the country? Before stating the
answer, half of you can go to your dinners, but mind and be back by two
o’clock.’

Half the school had no sooner gone than the remainder of the children
commenced saying, ‘Millions of millions of millions of millions,’ in a
monotonous sort of rhythm. When they were going to stop we could not
tell.

At two o’clock those who had been to their dinner came back, and as
they dropped into their places struck up the millions of millions
tune. The detachment who had commenced the answer, being in this way
relieved, retired to their dinners.

‘It’s a gey lang answer,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘isn’t it?’ Mac
looked black. ‘Better take a seat; you will appreciate the children’s
intelligence much better.’

It was then close on three o’clock, and still the children kept on
singing ‘Millions of millions of millions.’

‘Wonderful children,’ I remarked. ‘How many more times will they say
“Millions of millions of millions”?’ I inquired.

‘Oh,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘the number of times they will say it will
be millions of millions of millions of millions of millions.’

Mac looked furious. Millions of millions of millions. ‘The old fool’s
mad,’ he whispered.

‘Civility costs nothing,’ I replied; ‘his tongue will get tired in
time.’

But still the schoolmaster kept repeating, ‘Millions of millions of
millions.’

‘Ask him how many years he will be before he gets to the end of his
answer?’

As it was now four o’clock, and the lamps were being lighted, I
ventured to ask the schoolmaster how many days it would be before he
had finished his answer.

His face lighted up with a smile, and he said, ‘Well, perhaps in
millions of millions of millions of millions,’ and there he was off
again.

‘How many years will it be before the children have finished?’ I broke
in.

‘Oh, in millions of millions of millions,’ he again went on.

‘Well, then, we’ll come and hear some more of the answer to-morrow,’
said Mac.

‘Thank you very much for your entertainment, Mr. Macalister; your
children are very intelligent, and so are you. Good-bye, Mr.
Macalister, good-bye.’ But said I, at the door, ‘What were the other
assumptions you alluded to?’

‘Well, well,’ says he, ‘these rabbits maun hae nae haevings at a’,
sic as scruples o’ conscience or regard to the laws o’ the Kirk o’
Scotland.’

The landlord of our hotel was delighted when he heard that we had
interviewed Macalister on the rabbit question. Some of the members of
the legislature who have not been blessed with the gift of the gab
have found the schoolmaster’s calculations quite valuable. When they
want to block proceedings one of them asks a question about rabbits.
It doesn’t matter much what it is. How many tons of phosphorus will it
require to clear the rabbits out of New Zealand? How many tons of grass
do the rabbits in New Zealand eat every year? How many rabbits would it
take to fill the Pacific Ocean? Anything will do.

No sooner is the question asked, than up jumps a member, and from an
equation in the Bunnyian Calculus, which he shows to be correct, begins
to say ‘Millions of millions of millions,’ until everybody has left the
house.

They have now brought forward a Bill compelling those who speak on
rabbits to express time intervals as geological periods.

After our experiences at Dunedin, Mac and I were cautious when we asked
questions about the rabbit plague.

Dunedin is a fine city, and is in every way creditable to its founders.
It is certainly hilly, but these difficulties are overcome with
tramcars moved by an underground wire rope similar to that which has
been for so many years successfully used in San Francisco. The banks
and churches are of course noticeable, and so are the shops.

At the meeting of four streets in the centre of the town, there is a
miniature of Sir Walter Scott’s monument in Edinburgh. This is to the
memory of a Mr. Cargill, an energetic gentleman and pioneer in the
earlier days of Dunedin.

On the night of our arrival we were entertained with a torchlight
procession, and the howlings of the Salvation Army.

At the Museum Mac and I had our first interview with the remains of the
moa. We saw some of their feathers, and a mummified larynx of one of
these animals. I am not sure whether the moa could sing, but anyhow he
had a larynx. What was more, he had a gizzard. In one corner of a glass
case there were about a coal-scuttleful of white pebbles, which had
been removed from the gizzard of a moa. The moa had therefore a taste
for mineralogy.

‘We shall get some valuable facts about this animal before we have
done,’ remarked Mac.

Then, turning to the director of the Museum, who kindly accompanied
us round the show, he blandly inquired whether the moa ever attacked
travellers.

‘It is an extinct bird, sir,’ said the director, looking very much
disgusted at Mac.

‘Oh, it’s extinct, is it?’ was the reply.

Birds are in great force in the Museum, especially the extinct ones.
One blue-looking fellow, almost as big as a small goose, fetches £250
apiece at the British Museum.

Besides the birds there were the usual lot of stuffed sharks and
whales which museums provide themselves with. I really believe that a
good-sized whale is the best bit of furniture that can be bought for
a juvenile museum. You get such a lot for your money, and it’s very
attractive to visitors, especially to the nursemaids and children.

There was certainly enough in the Dunedin Museum to occupy a student
for a lifetime, and the curator deserves great credit for what he has
done towards educating the young New Zealanders about the animal
kingdom. A New Zealander, if left to himself, must necessarily conclude
that the inhabitants of the world, are few in number. All that New
Zealand possessed prior to the introduction of ‘Captain Cook’ was a bat
and a rat.

There are no snakes in the country, and if ever any man introduces
one he is threatened with an immediate lynching. One felt inclined to
tell the Iceland story when I heard that there were no snakes, but I
judiciously refrained. It might make a New Zealander cross.

Another interesting place to visit is the University; but the best of
all things is to take a ride in a tramcar to the top of one of the
mountains, and have a look at the panorama of bay and island down
below. Everywhere we went--to railway stations, to hotels, in trains or
on trains--we were sure to see half a dozen people called Mac. This led
my friend at every opportunity into conversation with his neighbours as
to whether there were many Scotchmen in New Zealand.

‘Eh, no, mon; maybe thurs a wee sprinkle o’ Scotus,’ was a typical
reply.

This always enabled Mac to tell them that was what he thought. He had
been looking out for his countrymen, and was sorry to find that they
were so poorly represented. One or two of the casual acquaintances saw
the joke, and gently snorted.

We joined our ship at Port Chalmers, which is about eight miles’ ride
in the train from Dunedin. Looking back, we saw the hills and valleys
of the city we were leaving. One thing which was very striking, was the
number of houses built on the top of the highest hills. Judging from
the thousand-foot climb that the people who live in these houses must
often indulge in, they cannot be very lazy. To live on a pinnacle is
indicative of a romantic nature, and I thought Scotch folks were only
practical.

At Port Chalmers we began to load up with passengers and assume the
character of a coaster. The wharf was crowded, and so were our decks.

‘Good-bye, Mac. Tell Maggie I’ll be up by next boat.’ ‘Mind that hawser
there.’ ‘Give my love to Charlie, and send me word how baby is,’ and a
thousand other private communications, mixed up with the blustering of
sailors, was what we heard. Then there was a lot of crying, and a great
deal of kissing. Mac wanted to know how it was that the girls never
kissed us when the steamer left.

At seven o’clock next morning, we were steaming between the high
grassy hills, about 2,000 feet in height, which bound the harbour
of Lyttelton. Everything looked big and grand. A passenger who had
travelled said it looked like Madeira. Instead of trees there were a
few patches of snow.

Lyttelton is a quiet little town on the side of a steep hill. From here
you go by train to Christchurch. You are hardly out of the town before
you drive into a tunnel, which is a mile or more in length. Before
making this tunnel, which cost a fabulous sum of money, the good folks
of Christchurch could only reach their harbour by climbing the high
hills, which we saw as we steamed into Lyttelton. These hills consist
of volcanic rock, and the driving of the tunnel through them proved
that they were not so solid as they appeared, for here and there large
cavernous spaces were met with.

On emerging at the other side, we were amongst the green fields and
furze fences of the famous Canterbury Plains. Christchurch is a large
town conducted on strictly moral principles. Its streets are wide and
numerous. Notwithstanding the existence of steam-trams, good shops, and
a fair amount of traffic, it appeared to be dull. Perhaps it was the
general flatness which created this impression. The only shop which
had unusual attractions was an establishment for the sale of music and
musical instruments. It seemed to contain everything, from a Jew’s harp
to a church organ. It must be a musical depôt for the Colonies.

Christchurch has many churches and a cathedral. From the spire of
the latter, which you are allowed to ascend on paying a shilling, an
extensive view of this portion of New Zealand may be obtained.

The pride of the place is, however, the Museum, which is reckoned by
its energetic curator, Dr. Von Haast, to rank amongst the best in
the world. It is certainly the best museum within a radius of many
thousands of miles. It contains something of everything, from the
autograph of Nelson to a sewing-machine. There is a fine gallery of
paintings and statuary. Antiquities, from mummies to mediæval armour,
galleries of geological specimens, rooms full of birds and stuffed
animals, other chambers filled with bones, a Maori house chock-a-block
with Maori treasures, and finally a room full of moas. In the Moa room
we met a Chinaman.

‘Good-morning, John,’ said Mac; ‘you live at Christchurch?’

‘No, I come this side all samee you; my wantchee see moa. S’pose can
catchee moa, can catchee plenty dolla.’

‘Um, how’s that?’ asked Mac.

‘You never hea?’ inquired John; ‘no man talkee you about Mr. Haast? Mr.
Haast dig garden one day, find plenty moa bones. Then he send letter
all country: “Suppose you send me twenty piecee mummy, 400 piecee
papyros, two sphinxes, one smalla pyramid,” he talkee Egyptian man, “I
sendie you one piecee moa.”’

John then said that the Egyptian Government were delighted with the
offer, and sent the twenty piecee mummy, 400 piecee papyros, two
sphinxes, and the small pyramid, and then received their allowance of
moa.

‘Next time he write that man live top side North Pole.’

I suppose John meant that he entered into communication with the
Esquimaux.

‘“You sendee two piecee polar bear, and one piecee iceberg, you can
catchee all same Egypt man.”’

Of course the Esquimaux were delighted. Next, John told us he wrote to
the British Government.

‘“I wantee five piecee steamer, four piecee outside walkee can see, and
another piecee inside walkee no can see; I pay you plenty moa bones.’”

And according to our friend he went on swapping moa bones all over the
universe, obtaining in exchange Turner’s masterpieces, button-hooks,
anchors, relics from ancient Rome, specimens of small volcanoes,
pumpkins, and, in short, almost everything you see in the Museum.
These the talented and energetic director has classified and reduced to
the orderly system in which they are now presented to the visitor.

Although Christchurch has been a centre from which moa bones have been
distributed throughout the world, the best collection of them has
remained in their old habitat. There were big moas and little moas, and
each of them had a different name. The first bit of moa that went home
was a thigh-bone. The uninitiated would have pronounced it as belonging
to an elephant. Professor Owen, however, said it was the relic of a
gigantic bird. People smiled; now the Professor smiles.

The biggest moa had a neck like a giraffe. When he straightened and
stood on his toes, he might have picked a weather cock off the top of
a church spire. Naturalists say that the moa could not fly, but an old
Maori, who I think was a king, told me that they could fly beautifully.
Sometimes you could flush a dozen in a morning, and the shooting was
grand. When they dropped they shook the ground like an earthquake. The
best were roasted. I quite believed the latter statement, as their
singed bones could be seen by the basketful in every museum we went
to. They were pretty tough, and strangers, after once partaking of the
delicacy, often refused to take any ‘moa.’ Thus the name of the animal.

Mac had not a soul for the anatomy of an extinct animal, and said it
was dry.

This took us from the Museum to an hotel, where we found a bar supplied
by an overflowing artesian well. Many of the people in Canterbury
get their water from artesian wells. A hole is bored, and up shoots
the water. Geologists say that this is due to hydraulic pressure
communicated from the hills through inclined strata. These theories may
be true where inclined strata exist, but it does not explain the coming
up of water, when the strata are horizoned by flat river plains, which
is the case in many parts of the world. The artesian-well theory wants
considerable amplification in our mind.

At the railway station we found a little boy in uniform who wanted to
insure our lives! The reason for his anxiety was that we might suffer
harm in the tunnel. ‘It’s only a penny, sir, and we insure nearly
everybody.’

In the Colonies they will insure you against a heartache. At the
book-store I observed a notice that anyone found after a railway
accident with a copy of the _Daily Chronicle_ (if I remember rightly),
issued on the day of the disaster, in his possession would receive £500.

After a rough-and-tumble night, crammed in a small cabin with three
sick passengers, I was not sorry to find that we were steering into
Wellington. On all sides there were high and irregular hills. Some of
them on the left were capped with snow. The view was by no means so
smooth in its outlines as on entering Lyttelton. The hills, instead of
being round and green, were ragged and brown. Wellington is situated at
the foot of these hills at the head of the bay. The position seemed to
be snug and quiet, but we soon discovered it was quite the contrary.

Wellington seems to have been built in a sort of natural funnel,
through which there is a perpetual gale of wind. You can always tell
a man from Wellington, for wherever he goes he will grip hold of his
hat on turning a corner. When we got ashore we found that we had to
grip our hats, and could quite understand how a prolonged residence
at Wellington might lead to an instinctive desire to save your hat on
turning a corner.

We had a talk with a resident about the winds of Wellington.

‘Wind, indeed! Why, it’s only a week or so ago when a whole girls’
school was blown clean out to sea. Now they have invented a way for
reefing their petticoats. Too much sail doesn’t do in these parts. All
the nursemaids and children never turn out now without carrying a small
kedge and a few fathoms of chain hooked to their perambulators.’

‘Good for windmills,’ I remarked.

‘Yes, we thought so, until we tried them. One was blown away and landed
somewhere up amongst the Maoris, who refused to return it, saying that
it had been presented to them last year by a gentleman from Australia.
The other mill we anchored down, but when it once commenced to move, we
were never able to stop it.’

‘And how was that?’ said I, and I was told the story of


Dickey Adams.

‘It was a sad affair, that was. It was Dickey Adams who thought he
could make a fortune out of the Wellington winds. We told him to let
them alone.

‘“Look,” Dickey, said I, “nothing can stand against these Wellington
winds. You’ll find your blessed windmill up amongst the Maoris the day
after you put it up, and they’ll say it was given to them last year by
a gentleman from Australia. Don’t you remember that train which was
blown backwards right through the terminus, and landed the passengers
forty miles in the opposite direction to what they had started?” says
I. “Dickey, Dickey, it’ll never do to fight against the Almighty. The
Almighty has made these winds, and we must bear them.”

‘But Dickey wasn’t to be persuaded, and it just ended by his being
ruined and breaking his heart and then dying. It was just like pulling
at a pig’s tail to talk to Dickey. The more you pulled back the more
Dickey went ahead.

‘Well, we watched Dickey’s mill being put up with considerable
interest. Every stone he stuck in he had dovetailed into those below
it, for all the world like a lighthouse. At last he got the top on, and
then, waiting for a fine day when the breeze slackened a little, he put
up the sails. These he held fast with chains and anchors.

‘At last the mill got finished, and Dickey invited us all up to see him
slip the anchors, and give the machinery a turn, just to ease it a bit,
you know, for it was all new. Of course we all went, and Dickey was as
happy as a skylark. There he was, hopping about and chirping away to
everyone about the way he had built his mill. Dickey’s smiles did me
good. It was certainly a red-letter day for him. Some of the old hands
shook their heads, and called the mill Dickey’s Folly.

‘At last the inspection was over, and then came the loosening. He had
had his chains nicely arranged by a sailor man, he said, but no sooner
was one cast off than the old thing gave a groan and a heave, and away
she went carrying the other three chains with her. My word, how we
scattered as the sails went flying round quicker and quicker, and at
every turn three great chains came beating on the ground. People down
below thought there was an earthquake. By-and-by, as the chains didn’t
come off, some of us ventured back, and Dickey said he would go inside
and put on a patent friction brake which he had invented, and show us
how it stopped.

‘But what do you think we found? Why, we found the blessed sails, with
their twenty fathoms of iron tassels, were lashing round and round
right in front of the mill door. Of course Dickey couldn’t get inside.
“But the wind may shift a bit by-and-by,” said he, and he looked quite
cheerful. So we sat down and watched it.

‘All that night the thumping of the chains and the rattling of Dickey’s
machinery stopped a lot of us from sleeping. Next morning we found that
Dickey, who had been sitting up watching his machine all night, as was
natural, was looking a bit anxious.

‘This went on for fully a week, until, instead of being a curiosity,
Dickey’s mill became a nuisance, and several who lived near him said
they had earthquakes enough about the place without his starting a
perpetual one. Next they began to hint that their window-frames were
getting loose, and the children couldn’t sleep, and that Dickey’s mill
must be stopped somehow. A few who sympathized with Dickey’s bad luck
suggested that they need not trouble, it would wear itself out in a
week or so. Others, however, said Dickey had built it so strong that it
might go thumping and turning for a lifetime, and proceedings ought to
be taken against it as a public nuisance.

‘Well, all this ended by the Town Council sitting to discuss how
Dickey’s mill was to be got rid of. Some suggested blowing it up with
powder, others said we ought to get the artillery to come down from
Auckland; but the suggestion which found the greatest favour was to
pump on it with the fire-engines and then try if the thing would rust
up solid. The fire-brigade had a fine time of it; the more water they
pumped into Dickey’s mill, the quicker the hanged thing seemed to
go--it just acted like oil.

‘By this time Dickey was getting pretty low in spirits, and with
sitting up all night had got quite thin. Many’s the time I walked up to
the hill to see Dickey sitting on a bank of stones with his face in his
hands and great tear-drops trickling down his face. What with building
the thing, paying compensation for new window-frames, making presents
to the women all round just to keep their tongues quiet, and paying the
bill presented to him by the fire-brigade, unless the mill stopped,
Dickey was a ruined man.

‘Then the cold weather came on, and yet Dickey would never leave his
mill. He was always hoping the wind might change, and he could get
inside.

‘It finished him at last, however. One cold frosty morning the children
who used to take him his tucker came running back, saying Dickey
was dead. It was true enough; there was poor old Dickey lying out
stiff and cold, on the frosty grass. We were all sorry about Dickey.
Wellington wind killed a good man when it carried off poor old Dickey.’

‘And how did the windmill finish?’ I asked.

‘Why, a man fenced it in, and used to take visitors up to see it at a
shilling a head. One night, however, a heavier gale than usual blew,
and carried it right away.’

Here Mac broke in, ‘I suppose a Maori has got it, and says it was
presented to him last year by a gentleman from Australia.’

Our communicative acquaintance was evidently a little piqued by Mac’s
query, and replied that he didn’t know; but anyhow, after Dickey’s
windmill, no wonder people talked about ‘windy Wellington.’


About Earthquakes.

Another thing that Wellington is famous for is its earthquakes. Many
of these have been sufficiently violent to become landmarks in New
Zealand history. It has often happened that the coast-line to the west
of Wellington has been permanently raised several feet by earthquakes.
Wellington has been a gainer by these upheavals, and houses which were
once on the sea-shore are now some distance back.

Any year may bring the announcement that Wellington has taken another
upward start, and what is now the quay may be a street with houses
on either side. Events like these, together with the minor shakings
which are of continual occurrence, very naturally alarm many of the
Wellingtonians. At one time nearly every person in Wellington felt it a
duty to have all loose articles like ornaments on shelves fastened in
position by wires.

The greatest proof that Wellingtonians fear these disturbances is the
fact that nearly all their houses are built of wood. The Government
buildings are spoken of as the largest wooden buildings in the world.
Wellington is certainly wooden as well as windy. I met with quite a
number of people who had seismological experiences to relate. Some
apparently did not mind the shakings--just tremors, they said. These
people were, for the most part, new chums, who had not yet been imbued
with a due respect for plutonic force. Others told me that they did
not mind earthquakes so much as at first, but that they had gradually
come to have a great antipathy for them; they alarmed their wives and
children so much.

There is a feeling of insecurity with these phenomena; you feel you
can’t stop them, and you expect after a thing has begun, the next shake
may be like that of 1855, when all the buildings came down.

‘The last good shake we had,’ said a gentleman, ‘gave a terrible fright
to my neighbours, who are married people living in a two-story house.
Every night they were very particular to see that things were locked
up safely. I suppose they were afraid of their servants getting out at
night. When they went upstairs they always took the keys with them, and
put them under their pillows. One night a shake came on pretty smart,
and they both bundled out of bed and bolted downstairs. It wasn’t until
they had got to the bottom and tried to open the front door that they
remembered that unless they went back to get the keys they were fast
prisoners. Now, will you believe me, there they stood shivering in the
cold at their front door, both afraid to go upstairs and get the keys,
until the motion finished. They leave the keys downstairs now.’

‘What did you do?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I, well--I bolted through the front parlour window, and landed on
my stomach on a flower-bed. It is as true as I am here that I could
feel that flower-bed palpitating as if it were alive.

‘Oh, there were some funny things happened that night. The old man
who is supposed to study these things up at our observatory was found
by his wife standing in his nightshirt out in the snow, with the
window-sash round his neck. You know, the old ass had bolted head first
through his window without stopping to open it. When his wife asked him
what he was doing, he told her that he had just stepped out to make an
outside observation; “I wanted to see if the chimneys moved very much,
my dear,” he stammered.

‘Down at the club there were a lot of our boys and some naval officers
playing poker. You don’t know that game, I suppose? It is a game where
they have a pool, and this keeps getting bigger and bigger as the game
goes on. They call this pool a Jack Pot. Well, when the shake came on,
the pot was reckoned to be worth about £45. People never thought about
money when they felt the movement and heard the timbers creaking; they
just looked at each other and then stampeded. Some went for windows,
some for doors, and others, who did not know the place, got jammed in
the kitchen, and the ends of blank passages. One man landed in the
bath-room, another found himself a prisoner in the lavatory.

‘When the thing was over, one of the party was missing. Now just guess
where they found him. Why, shaking and shivering in a cupboard.

‘Well, after a laugh and a drink--for it needs something to square your
nerves after a good earthquake--they sat down to finish their game. But
do you think they found the Jack Pot on the table? No, sir, not a bit
of it; and what was more, they never did find it.

‘It was, however, observed that the man that was shaking in the
cupboard, and at whom they had laughed for being in such a funk, bought
himself a new watch that week. General opinion held that he had never
been in a funk at all, but had just stayed behind until his friends had
cleared, and then nobbled the pool, after which he quietly walked into
the cupboard.

‘You ought to have seen the mess our town was in next morning. All the
chimneys were slewed round, tiles were shaken off the houses, plaster
was down everywhere. It just looked as if the Russians had been in and
bombarded the place. It cost us on an average £100 apiece to put things
straight.

‘Up in the churchyard all the gravestones were turned round, but the
curious thing was that they had all gone in the same direction. The
disturbance gave us conversation for a fortnight.

‘You know, when we go to call at a house in Wellington it is just as
common to begin the conversation by--“That was a nasty shock last
night,” as to begin by telling people “the weather is getting a little
colder.”’

‘Which way do these earthquakes come?’ I asked.

‘Why, some folks say they come one way, and others say they come
another. They go by their senses, you see, and half of them lose their
senses when an earthquake comes.

‘Our old observatory man says they come from the sea, and that the
motion we feel may be in all directions, twisting and squirming about,
first one way, then another. Then again, you’re not moved so much if
you’re up on high ground, as you are down on the soft stuff.’

To gain as much information as possible, I asked if there were any
theories about how these things start.

‘Theories, why, yes, plenty of them. Some say they are
volcanic--explosion of steam in fissures--others say they are caused
by the rocks suddenly breaking, adjusting themselves to a position
of equilibrium, the observatory man calls it. I don’t believe in the
theories. I think earthquakes are just electrical phenomena, and kind
of subterranean lightning and thunderstorm.

‘Just to show you what I mean, the other day I was out having dinner
with Harris up the hill, when one of the hanged phenomena came along
and shook the house as if it was going to fetch it down. I knew if it
was so bad up there, down below I might expect at least to find my
chimneys through the roof.

‘As I knew the state my wife and daughters would be in, I didn’t stop
to finish dinner, but went off as hard as my legs could carry me home.

‘When I got in, what do you think I saw? My wife was knitting, with her
toes on the fender, and my daughters were playing with a little cat
they had.

‘“Good gracious, Tom!” said my wife, “we thought you were dining with
Mr. Harris. What’s the matter? You look too frightened to tell us. Is
it serious?”

‘“Thank God you’re safe,” said I, holding myself against the door-post,
and panting for breath, for I had run the last mile or so.

‘“Safe!” they all said, “of course we’re all safe. What’s the matter?”

‘“Oh, Tom, Tom!” said my wife, rushing up and putting her arms round my
neck, “don’t keep us in suspense. Is it something dreadful?”

‘“Why, the earthquake,” said I.

‘“Earthquake!” said they, “there hasn’t been an earthquake.”

‘“You’re crazy, Tom,” said my wife.

‘“Why, Harris’s house has been nearly shaken down, and I came to see
how you were getting on.”

‘Then they laughed, and told me I had been dreaming. Well, to be
called crazy, to be accused of dreaming, and to miss my dinner, set me
thinking.

‘That very afternoon I made inquiries from all my friends in the town
about the disturbance, and what do you think I found? One thing I found
out was, that it had just gone through the town in a straight line. It
had worked just like the subtle fluid works; it had travelled along
the shortest distance between two points. It hadn’t gone to the right
or the left, but it had gone as electricity goes, in a straight line,
and therefore I say that earthquakes are electricity. And what is
more, when we get some railroads through the country, the stuff will
gradually escape along the metals, and these underground thunderstorms,
as I call ’em, will stop. Now what do you think of that for a theory?’
said he.

He finished up by telling me the following story about Soft Sammy.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘In many countries when an earthquake takes place,’ he began, ‘the
land goes down. At Lisbon it went down so suddenly that it buried a
whole lot of people. In our country, so far as I can make out, the land
appears to have a habit of going up. In ’55 about 4,600 square miles
of land rose in some places nine feet, and the breadth of the beach
increased more than 100 feet.

‘All this, you know, occurred near Wellington, and it has kept on
occurring, off and on, ever since. The trouble and litigation these
earth-jerks have cost us have been something terrible.

‘After the first jump-up, people were for a time too scared to know
what they ought to do. Most of them, when they recovered a bit,
began to scratch about amongst their ruins, trying to root out their
property. Most of the things had got so flattened that it was difficult
to tell what was yours and what was somebody else’s.

‘One man sued another for having been digging in the wrong ruins. The
plaintiff deposed that the defendant had not only trespassed, but had
stolen his kitchen-clock. The article was produced in court, and the
defence held it not to be a clock, but a warming-pan.

‘If it was a clock, the judge remarked that he should give the case in
favour of the plaintiff; but if it was a warming-pan, he should be
compelled to side with the defendant.

‘Do you know, the thing had been so flattened, that there wasn’t a
jury in Wellington could decide whether the thing was a clock or a
warming-pan. One man stuck to it that it was a frying-pan, and from
the smell of it should say it had last been used to cook beefsteak and
onions.

‘While all this was going on in the town, the people who lived along
the quay were speculating as to when the water was coming back. There
were all the ships lying high and dry, and, as far as you could see,
there was a broad beach covered with rocks and seaweed. It wasn’t so
many days before the mussels and stuff began to putrefy, and when the
breeze set in from outside, the smell was horrible.

‘One day, as we were walking along the new beach, we observed that
here and there some pegs had been driven in, just as if somebody had
been staking out a claim; and when we came to inquire, we found that
somebody had been staking out a claim.

‘The fellow who did it was a man who lives up there,’ and our
acquaintance pointed up the hill to one of the biggest houses in the
town. ‘At that time he was a new chum, and because we thought he was a
bit soft, we called him Soft Sammy.

‘Sammy, however, took the wind out of our sails this time. Instead of
pottering round his ruins like the rest of us had been doing, he had
quietly staked the new ground which had been lifted up.

‘At first they told him that land between high and low water-mark was
the Queen’s property, and he couldn’t hold possession. Billy, however,
showed that the judge had a bit of land on which there was a ship
stranded. When it came there no one knew, but that it was a long time
ago there was no doubt, as there was then a tree growing out of it.

“The tree didn’t walk there,” was Sammy’s argument; “and if that land
belongs to you, then the land I’ve pegged out belongs to me.”

‘The judge decided in Sammy’s favour.

‘As soon as Sammy got possession, he sent round notes to the masters of
all the ships which were lying on his ground, politely informing them
that unless they moved off his patch within the next twenty-four hours,
he should be compelled to take action against them for trespass. He
wanted to build on the ground, and they were in the way, he said.

‘As there was no moving the ships, they were put up to auction, and
Sammy pocketed half the proceeds. This enabled him to undertake the
building he talked about, and now the whole of those buildings facing
the water are Sammy’s property.

‘It’s not many people that can make money out of earthquakes, but
Sammy managed it, you see. Of course everybody was praying for a
second jump-up, so that Sammy’s property would be converted into a
back street, and they might get a sea frontage. Sammy had successfully
jumped some of the Queen’s property, and why shouldn’t they?

‘When the cold weather came on--for that is the time that earthquakes
are frequent--the excitement used to be pretty great. Everyone expected
to get a prize some day. A lot of them got the old fellow up at the
observatory to calculate the chances of an earthquake coming, and on
the days he fixed for the jerk-up to come off, you’d see hundreds of
people sitting along the beach, with pegs and mallets ready to block
off their new possessions.

‘Some of them, to be right there when the phenomenon came along, would
stand half the night up to their middles in water, ready to drive in a
peg directly they felt the lift.

‘We had all sorts of rules given us to tell when to expect an
earthquake. They were pretty plentiful when the moon was near to us, so
they said.

‘Then there were lots of rules connecting the frequency of shakes and
the position of planets, the height of the barometer, the phase of the
tide, or the temperature of the air. Some of us would work on one rule,
and some on another; but so far as we could make out there was no rule;
anyhow, there was no decided rule which would help us to make money.
Applied science didn’t work right.

‘I often read about professors prophesying when there will be an
earthquake. Some of them fix a day for the event. Sometimes it comes
off, and then they are all cock-a-whoop; but when it doesn’t come off,
they just lie close.

‘It stands to reason that they must be right sometimes, because in some
countries there are earthquakes every day.’

‘Well, and was there never any more jump-ups after the one when Sammy
made his money?’ I inquired.

‘Oh yes, there was one a bit down the bay some years ago.’

‘And was there a scramble for it?’ I said.

‘My word there was!’ he answered; ‘if you had seen the cartloads of
pegs, and people and buggies all crowding along, each trying to get
ahead of his neighbour, you would have thought Wellington was mad. When
they got there, what do you think they found? Well, they found it had
all been pegged out by Sammy.’

‘What, Sammy again?’ I said.

‘Yes, it was Sammy again, and as far as we could make out he had pegged
out the ground before the earthquake came, and as his pegs were below
water we could not see them. We don’t call him Soft Sammy any more. We
call him Seismic Sammy now.’

       *       *       *       *       *

Amongst the many sights of Wellington we visited the Museum.

Mac kicked against this, and said he didn’t want any _moa_ moas. The
compliment I paid him on his pun caused him to go.

The collections, although by no means so extensive as at Christchurch,
are certainly worth a visit. There were the usual assortment of
minerals and fossils, a rusty-looking moa, a freshly-imported mummy,
and at the doorway a diagram showing the districts where an approaching
eclipse might be seen.

One afternoon was spent at an exhibition of New Zealand productions,
which was then being held. Amongst other things we saw many pictures
and photos by local artists, tons of woollen goods, a number of
agricultural implements, and a telpher line made by Mr. Fletcher, of
Dunedin.

The remainder of our time was spent in interviewing the shops and
streets, which were well worthy of inspection.

On one jeweller’s shop I read, as well as I can remember, words like
these:

  ‘_Hiki piki waki saki,_
  _Hoki poki rapi taki._’

I suppose it was Maori, and meant to inform the natives that watches
and jewellery would be repaired on the shortest notice.

Mac said I might safely offer £50 to the Maori who could translate it
properly. We felt we were getting near to Maori-land at last, and we
saw several of them in the street.

The Governor of New Zealand lives at Wellington, this being considered
a tolerably central position for carrying on the public affairs of the
Colony. At the time of our visit Parliament was sitting, but as we were
not distinguished strangers we were not invited to a debate. We were
very sorry about this, for it would have been interesting, especially
if some of the Maori members had spoken.

Maori speeches are, I am told, characterized by their terseness. Once
there was a great meeting of the Maoris, which had been called to
discuss an important action to be taken in their relations with the
white man. All the chieftains spoke except their greatest orator--the
Maori Disraeli. M. D. remained silent, and sat with his eyes cast upon
the ground until the third day, when at last he rose. There was a
death-like stillness, and everyone was anxious not to lose a single
syllable of the great chieftain’s wisdom.

Had not Solomon pondered for three days and heard the opinions of his
brothers?

The burning points at issue were to be defined, and the action to be
taken for everlasting Maori happiness would be declared.

For a moment the monarch of the woods gazed round the assemblage of his
brothers, then, stretching forth his hand solemnly, he slowly said:

‘My brothers, the potato is boiled.’

After this he drew his cloak around him, and sank back into his
original position.

For many days even the Maoris pondered over the chieftain’s words. That
they must be the embodiment of great wisdom was universally admitted,
but who could unravel the enigma?

To me and to all who read these lines the solution of the monarch’s
wisdom is so clear that I fear it could only be regarded as trifling
with intelligence were I to offer an explanation.

Another speech which I saw reported in one of the New Zealand papers
occurred while I was in the country. This took place in the Legislative
Assembly at Wellington. I may here remark that the Maoris are all tall,
well-built men, and although many of them have their faces tattooed
in curly blue lines, they have a commanding appearance. Members of
the Legislative Assembly, as well as many others, appear in European
clothes, and some of them even sport chimney-pots. The cannibal rose--I
assume him to be a cannibal because it is quite possible that a few
years ago he may have been one. Then with deliberation he addressed his
white brothers:

‘The English are a great people. The Maoris are a great people. The
Queen of England is endowed with wisdom. The Maori chieftain has
wisdom. The Maori wants his rights.’

I do not pretend to give the speeches I have quoted _literatim_--my
only endeavour is to give their general character.

The Maoris yet retain about half the Northern Island, their country
being known as the King Country. Here they live partly in a state of
civilization, and partly in their original primitive Maori manner. They
are fine intelligent people, but from what I heard and what I saw, are
extremely lazy. Many of them are wealthy, their wealth being chiefly
derived from ground-rents paid to them by the white adventurer who
wishes to occupy portions of their territory. Thus it comes that there
are Maoris worth from £20,000 to £200,000. When papa dies, the property
goes to the daughters. No wonder that Maori maidens secure Caucasian
mates.

From Wellington we had considerable variety in our fellow-passengers.
There were examples of a new-born aristocracy, the democracy, and the
Maori.

Amongst the former, there was an elderly gentleman who had a dislike to
plurals.

His wife and daughter spoke of him as ‘Poo’ papa.’

‘Was you sick then, Mary?’ said poo’ papa to his daughter Mary.

‘Yes, pa,’ said the daughter.

‘Now, was you then?’ said he.

‘Poo’ mamma’ was stout, covered with black satin and lace, and
scintillating with diamonds and precious stones--four rings on every
finger. ‘Poo’ papa would have had a poor time of it with poo’ mamma,
had she used her knuckle-dusters on him. The daughter seemed to be a
little ashamed of poo’ papa and poo’ mamma.

The funniest people on board were a group of five who hung together
like a bunch of grapes. Three of them were men and two of them ladies.
They were all exceedingly short and thick, and had fat flattish round
faces. I never learnt how to distinguish one of the men or one of the
ladies from another. Each of the men had a bushy, dirty, unkempt beard,
and a huge Tam o’Shanter blue bonnet. Their clothes were coarse, dirty,
and ill-fitting. On their feet they had long boots. The two ladies had
each an imitation sealskin jacket and a round pork-pie hat, and when
they went ashore they each carried a small cotton umbrella made of
a gaudy chintz. This peculiar group were peculiar enough to attract
general attention and they were a puzzle to all of us.

One day Mac announced that he had discovered their occupation. The men,
he declared, were carpenters--he had seen them all carefully examining
a carpenter’s shop.

‘I was just about to say,’ said our old friend the Yank, ‘that they
were butchers--when I was going down the street, I saw them at the
butcher’s shop examining a leg of mutton.’

The Maoris were, I believe, members of the Legislative Assembly
returning to their homes. They were all fine, big men, with grey
beards. But for the tattooing they might have been called handsome.
They were certainly by no means the burlesque of a European.

That afternoon the Yank found that these three Maori legislators had
been stowed in his cabin.

‘Look here, Cap,’ said he, addressing our brass-buttoned commander, ‘I
ain’t going to be bunked in with your native Injins. S’pose I see that
tattooed-face looking down at me to-night, I’ll think the devil’s got
me. Tell you now, you can just get Buffalo Bill and Texas Jim cleared
out of that. Just now I went into my cabin, and there I saw that
consumptive-looking one, him with the sulphury-green face, lying on his
back staring straight up--heaving and sobbing--taking a plan of the
roof.

‘“Suppose your digestion ain’t good?” says I to him, while wiping
myself.

‘“No,” says he; “the sea tries me.”

‘“Sorry to hear it,” says I; “excuse me leaving you, but I want a
little fresh air.”

‘Now, Cap, I’m not going to bunk in with your native Injins, don’t
you believe it. That’s straight, isn’t it?’ said he, appealing to the
company.

Whether it was straight or not, the Maoris retained the cabin; and our
Yank, I am sorry to say, had to camp on a sofa in the saloon. These
little facts may be of value to future travellers by the monopolist
line of steamers.

At the next port our American friend saw some sheep coming on board,
and at once asked the ‘Cap’ whether they also were to have berths in
the saloon.

‘I guess everything counts here,’ he remarked.

This was at Napier. Napier is situated on a peninsula, at the end of
which there are high whitish-grey bluffs.

Many of our passengers went ashore in a little steamer called the
_Boojum_, and of course landed on the opposite side of the peninsula to
where the town is built.

The passengers now became thicker and thicker. In every cabin there
were at least four, and all of them, at least those in my cabin,
through their habits, were disgusting. For some days I was unable to
open a portmanteau, and had to continue without a change of clothes.

The next port was Gisborne, where we again anchored several miles from
the shore. Here I was told there were a great number of Maoris, the
remainder of the population being chiefly composed of lawyers, who get
considerable practice by advocating the rights of their tattooed-faced
clients.

I was told that Gisborne boasted of forty full-fledged practitioners,
and a number of fledgelings; and from one or two specimens who came on
board our vessel, they must be exceedingly good talkers.

I have seen a lawyer’s signboard. It gave the gentleman’s name,
followed by barrister and solicitor. After this there was a translation
of what was above in Maori. It finished up with ‘Roia,’ which I suppose
is their way of writing ‘lawyer.’

Mac and I had the intention of getting out at Gisborne, and going
thence, viâ the Hot Lakes, overland to Auckland.

When we heard that this was the place where the intelligent Maoris
murdered all the whites on one occasion, that the stages by the coach
averaged about fifty miles each, and finally that we might possibly
fall into the hands of the Roias, we thought we would continue on where
we were, and approach the Hot Lakes from the other side.

While lying at Gisborne, we saw a sight to which colonials are probably
accustomed. This was the shipment of about 400 sheep. They came
alongside in barges. At first the sheep were put in iron cages six or
seven together, and then, by means of a steam-winch, hoisted up to the
deck. This, however, was not quick enough, so a number of thin pieces
of cord, very like log-line, were arranged with slip-knots. Each sheep
to be lifted was secured by fastening the slip-knot round its stomach.
Six or seven cords, each with its sheep, were then taken and fastened
to the hook which before had raised the cages. As the chain with its
hook tightened by the lifting of the winch, the six or seven sheep were
dragged sprawling across the deck until they were suspended--when up
they went, heads and tails, a living, swinging, twirling mass, bumping
against the side of the ship until they reached the deck. Here they
were released, and kicked and thumped until they moved to their proper
quarters.

The whole performance was sickening, and all of us, who were not
accustomed to see the handling of sheep, regarded it as brutal. Several
of them died after this.

The Yank, who was always straightforward with his opinions, ‘guessed
that these fellows’ (meaning those who were doing the torturing) ‘would
figure in the _Police News_ in his country.’

Maybe we were tender-hearted and our sympathies for the sheep arose
from ignorance. Anyhow, its effect on me was sufficient to disturb my
night’s rest. I dreamt I was in a big ship (it wasn’t in New Zealand),
and all the officers on board were sheep. There were the little sailor
sheep with blue shirts, and officer sheep with gilt buttons.

Presently a load of stout old gentlemen, some of whom seemed as if they
enjoyed a glass of port wine and an easy-chair after their dinner, came
alongside. These were directors of the steamship company.

When the sheep saw them, they were delighted, and skipped about on
their hind-legs; for you must remember they were walking about and
looking just like little men. After looking through his glasses at the
cargo, the sheep-captain said:

‘Here are some directors. Get out the thin rope, boys. Thin rope, mind.
Yes, that will do. Put it round their stomachs. Now hoist away--head
and tail.’

Then all the sheep laughed and grinned, whilst the directors, who were
coming up swinging against the side of the ship, shrieked for mercy.
Then they were dumped down on the deck like a heap of big ripe grapes,
unhooked, and kicked into pens. One or two of them died.

These proceedings, which caused a great deal of merriment amongst the
crew, were hardly over, when there was a fearful squealing and cawing
heard at the back of the ship, and all the sheep ran aft to see what
was the matter.

‘Why, it’s only a lot of molly-hawks and albatrosses crying,’ said the
captain.

To mop up their tears some of them held little bits of seaweed and
bladder-wrack in their claws.

‘That’s funny,’ said the commander, looking at the birds through his
telescope.

‘Very funny,’ said the first mate, who liked to keep in with his chief.

‘Very, very funny,’ said the second officer.

Then everybody laughed.

‘Let us ask them why they are so sad. Where is my speaking-trumpet?’
said the captain.

The trumpet was brought, and a big sheep, holding it up to his face,
after several preliminary ‘Baas,’ shouted out, ‘Ahoy, my feathered
friends! why these drippings?’

‘You’ve killed our friends, our best friends, our very dear friends!’
replied the sobbing molly-hawks; ‘we can never fly after your ships any
more.’

At this point the tears came pattering down like rain, as if there had
been a thunderstorm.

‘Be more explicit, companions of the pastures,’ yelled the big sheep
through the trumpet. ‘We do not wish to lose your pleasant company.’

‘Why,’ said the molly-hawks, ‘the gentlemen you have been stringing up
practised economy. They allowed the cooks to buy bad butter, so that
the passengers would not eat the beefsteak-pies and pastry they made,
which were therefore all thrown overboard to us. All the birds in the
South Pacific knew this, and it can’t happen any more.’

Then they wept until the sheep had to put on their oilskin coats for
fear of spoiling their uniforms.

The day after we left Gisborne, we steamed into Auckland. Auckland
harbour is decidedly pretty, and well sheltered. On one side of it
there is an island-like promontory, covered with volcanic cones and
villas, and at one end are several batteries. Now that the batteries
have been made, the Aucklanders feel that cruisers cannot lie off the
town and dictate terms.

On the opposite side, where the steamers lie against the wharf, is the
town. The ground on which it is built is irregular. Behind it rises
Mount Eden, another old volcano. There are volcanic cones even in the
town itself.

When you walk along a street in Auckland, you are as likely to find
yourself climbing up an old volcanic slope as not. People live in
volcanoes, sometimes even in their craters. You can hear people
discussing the price of certain volcanoes.

‘You know, £4,000 is what I could give for little Pluto,’ says one man.

‘Well, I only wanted the crater,’ says another.

There is certainly a novelty in buying and selling these slumbering
giants. Of course the buyers and sellers trade in them on the
understanding that they are dead. We hope they are.

There has been great competition for some of these phenomena on the
north shore, a moderate-sized one selling for £5,000. The price,
however, varies with the size and the shape. If it has a good crater,
it may be very expensive. Of course, when buying a volcano, it is well
to see that it is in a good position, for they are very difficult to
move.

At night-time the streets of Auckland are dull and badly lighted,
but during the day they are lively, and there is much to engage
the attention of a stranger. Amongst the shops I was particularly
struck with one of the book-stores, where the free-reading custom
was licensed. To add a charm to the book you were studying, a piano
discoursed lively music.

Auction-rooms were a great feature in the Auckland streets. At one of
them I saw a man trying to sell a counterpane. His face was red, and
his voice was hoarse. It was always ‘going, going!’--then he would
pause, and appeal to his audience, which was one man and a boy:

‘Really, gentlemen, this fine counterpane for one and sixpence.’ Then
persuasively: ‘Make it two bob.’

‘Well, two bob,’ says the man, and it was promptly knocked down as a
cheap bargain.

There were many hoardings and advertisements in the street.

‘It will pay you to cross the street and look over our stock,’ was hung
over one shop; but right before me, on my side of the street, there was
a counter-blast:

‘It will pay you to walk twenty yards farther on, and look at our
stock.’

The stocks in many of the shops were large and expensive.

Most of the shops were faced with verandas, extending quite across the
sidewalk. These verandas were all different in design, helping to make
the buildings appear very unsymmetrical.

A great problem for the stranger in Auckland is to discover why so many
baggage-carts, which are called ‘expresses,’ stand the whole day long
in certain parts of the town.

In Victoria Street, which commences as a long hill, you see these carts
standing, one behind the other, in a line too long for the eye to
carry you to the end of it. I discovered that the secret lay in their
charges, for if you engage one of them, the driver will make enough
money to keep him for the next week.

The meat-shops were pointed out to me as a speciality, but, as I have
said before, I dislike exhibitions of dead bodies. Certainly one of the
shops was beautifully decorated, and all the lambs and other creatures,
which were hung up by their hind-legs, were ornamented with rosettes
and bouquets. These additions possibly toned down the appearance of the
shambles, but they looked as much out of place as a blue ribbon does
round the neck of a statue.

To me a butcher’s shop is as pleasing as a dissecting-room or a morgue.

With a little training we shall have public windows in which to exhibit
the operations of the slaughterhouse. Butchers’ shops ought to have
screens before them.

Besides the shops there were the theatres, public gardens, an embryonic
University, and a Museum to be seen. At the Museum there was the usual
collection of Maori productions, implements, and weapons, mineralogical
and geological specimens, a good collection of pictures, and, not to
do the place an injustice, a little moa.

‘A little moa what?’ said Mac.

This was the second time he made his moa joke, so I remained silent.

I gazed at the rusty-looking little animal for some time, for I knew
it might be years before I should again have the opportunity of
interviewing this extinct giant of the feathered world.

In and about volcanic Auckland a common sign is, ‘Ash, lapilli, scoria,
lava, bombs, etc., on sale.’ When you order a load the vendor asks how
you like it--vesicular, amygdaloidal, pumiceous, crypto-crystalline, or
how?

Walking about Auckland made me very tired. Coming down a hill you have
your toes jammed in the end of your boots, while going up a hill you
have your body hanging over your toes. Boots with elevating toes and
heels would be a valuable boon to those who live in Auckland.

One climb we made was up Mount Eden. It was a pleasant walk, and the
view of the crater filled with browsing cattle, and then of the town
and the surrounding country, well repaid the trouble. When on the
top we could easily count some twenty other volcanic cones, many of
which were accompanied by streams of lava. At one time the district of
Auckland must have been bubbling like a porridge-pot.

‘Pretty hot business in Auckland some years ago,’ said Mac, as he wiped
his forehead after the climb, and looked down on the twenty extinct
porridge-pots.

When returning, we took a look at the Cemetery. From the ages
indicated on the tombstones it would appear that the climate of New
Zealand is good for the human species. One noticeable thing was the
number of people who had been killed by falls from horses. Is there
more riding in New Zealand than in other places, or are the horses more
frisky, or are the people more clumsy? No doubt there is a reason, if
it could be discovered.

One afternoon I went to see a review of the various rifle corps
which have been raised in Auckland. There were six companies, all in
different uniforms, with a grizzly old general commanding the lot. For
a long time they stood in rows doing nothing. The old general, however,
kept capering up and down, while two aides-de-camp struggled to keep
behind him. Now and then a man would gallop across the field with his
sword up and his horse’s tail whirling round and round, as if it was
the motive power that made it go.

I thought he was going to have a sham fight with the general; but when
he reached him he suddenly put his sword up to his nose, then stuck it
in his sheath, whirled round, and went scampering away to where he had
come from.

It was a nice warm afternoon, and as I had nothing to do, I did not
object to these military manœuvres.

By-and-by they began to move. The idea was to make the six companies
march in oblique lines until at certain points they stopped and wheeled
to form one long line. They tried it a lot of times, but the line they
made had always big gaps left in it.

The crowd said it was the fault of the sergeants, who had to run ahead
and mark out the wheeling-points.

The number of Volunteers is about 300, and as that is a number which
history tells us can get back safely from the jaws of death, we hope
they may do well. The Aucklanders are proud of their Volunteers, and
they may well be so.

After this I took a cruise in the domain, where I saw a lovely cricket
ground, where eighteen cricket-matches can be played simultaneously.
Outside the cricket ground two or three football-matches were going
on. I sat down upon the side of a volcano to watch them. The place
where the play was going on was in the hollows between several small
volcanoes, or, at least, volcanic slopes. It was all fresh and green,
and round the sides of the grounds were clumps of oaks and other trees
bursting into summer costume. Beyond this arcadian scene came islands,
islets, more volcanoes, and then the ocean.

With Italian scenery and warm sunshine I felt as comfortable as a
tom-cat sunning itself on a red-tile roof.

On the most distant island, away out in the blue ocean, Sir George Grey
lives. Sir George is a great man in New Zealand, a lover of the Maori,
and generally original in his conceptions. Anyone would be original if
they lived the Robinson-Crusoe-like life that Sir George endures. They
say that he does not get many callers.

Everything in Auckland was very nice, excepting my hotel. I was told
that it was the best in the place, but the statement made it no better.
The bedrooms were like boxes, and everything was untidy and badly
managed. The arrival of some passengers by the American mail quite
demoralized the establishment. The waiters were bewildered with the
orders, and to get anything to eat you had to forage for yourself. I
remember that I contented myself with a salt-spoon to stir my coffee.

I spent one afternoon on the north shore, where there is a race-course
and some pretty walks. I was rather struck with one house, called
Rangitoto View. Rangitoto is a volcanic island lying off Auckland, the
view of which is exceedingly striking. Any house that faces Rangitoto
has before it a picture. Now, this house faced a stone quarry on the
side of a hill, Rangitoto being out of sight.




_TRIP TO THE HOT LAKES._


There are several ways by which a visitor from Auckland can reach the
Wonderland of New Zealand. The quickest way is by steamer to Tauranga,
and then in coach to Ohinemutu, where you are at once amongst the hot
springs. By starting on certain days in the week, when coaches and
steamers are arranged to meet, the journey takes twenty-four hours.

Mac and I went viâ Cambridge to Ohinemutu, and returned by the Thames.
These routes are much longer, but that was not to be objected to, as it
gave us better opportunities for seeing the country.

We left for Cambridge by the 11.15 a.m. train, reaching the end of our
journey at dark. Travelling with us there was a gentleman who knew the
Maoris, spoke their language, and who gave us much information about
Maori-land.

A few miles after starting we passed close to a place called Onehunga,
where there are some large works for the conversion of iron-sand
into iron. The sand is collected on the sea-shore, then dried, and
passed through a magnetic arrangement by which the black sand is
separated from earthy impurities with which it may be mixed. Next it
is mixed with charcoal and deoxidized in retorts. From the retorts,
where it ought not to come in contact with the air, it is passed into
reverberatory furnaces, where it is puddled and made into blooms. After
this it passes through shingling machines, steam-hammers, and rolls, as
in ordinary ironworks.

On the beach where the ore occurs, an old Maori cooking-stove was
turned up. The method of cooking was to heat stones, which were then
put into a small pit and covered with a few ferns. The food was placed
on the ferns, and after being moistened to cause the generation of
steam, the whole was closed in with more ferns and a cloth, and allowed
to sweat.

Eight or nine human skeletons gave a clear idea of the nature of the
joints. At one time Maoris were in great force about Auckland. This is
indicated by the remains of many old fortifications or Pahs.

The top of Mount Eden is terraced and embanked all round its summit
with the remains of such fortifications. The number of old shell-heaps
or kitchen-middens which cover the mountain also points to a former
population.

For sixteen miles or so, we ran along between green fields and green
volcanic cones. Here and there moss-covered black stones indicated
the line of a lava stream. Many of the fields were walled with blocks
of lava, whilst the line on which we ran was ballasted for miles with
volcanic ash and scoria. At Mercer we struck the Waikata River, and the
country became undulating and swampy. Parts of it were covered with Ti
bush, and the whole looked like a brown moorland.

Our average rate of travelling was about ten miles an hour, a pace
which might have delighted Stephenson, but which we found tedious. When
we arrived in Wonderland, as the lake country is called, our companion
wished us to go some 120 miles in the bush to interview the Maori
king, to whom he kindly offered a letter of introduction. As Mac and I
didn’t hanker after copper-coloured royalty, we politely declined the
invitation. The reason that the lake district is called Wonderland is
on account of visitors wondering why they were ever induced to pay it a
visit.

At one of the small stations an untidy little man, with a shock head, a
fuzzy beard, and a pair of spectacles, joined us.

‘One of our traffic managers,’ whispered our Maori-speaking friend;
‘I’ll have a talk to him.’

‘Good-morning, Mr. Smith,’ said Maori.

‘Good-morning, good-morning, Mr. Maori,’ was Mr. Smith’s reply.

‘You’re getting things to work very nicely on your line this year. Very
few of the other lines can beat what you’ve done up here.’

It may here be mentioned that the carriages were dirty, curtainless,
and uncomfortable; the average pace was, as I have said, about ten
miles an hour, and there were only two trains each way per day.

Smith felt Maori’s compliment, and replied with a sigh--‘Yes, yes,
it has cost me a lot of thought. You can’t imagine the anxiety and
scheming I have gone through to get things as they are.’

Then he passed his hand over his little brow, as if he wished us to
imagine that his brain was yet feeling the effects of the strain that
had been imposed upon it.

‘Everything fits to a nicety, and I think--the employés are satisfied,
and the public are pleased.’

‘You’re quite right,’ said Maori, with a twinkle in his eye; ‘the very
fact that no one grumbles shows that things are satisfactory. It’s
impossible to improve on what you have done, Mr. Smith.’ Mac afterwards
suggested to me that walking would be a great improvement.

It was dark when we reached Cambridge. After some tea at an hotel
called Kirkwood’s Cottage, at the recommendation of our landlady, we
adjourned to the Town Hall to witness the spiritualistic performance
of Professor Baldwin. The performance, which was clever and amusing,
consisted of many rope-tying tricks after the manner of the original
Davenport Brothers, finding a pin hidden amongst the audience,
and finally an exhibition by Mrs. Baldwin of her powers as a
thought-reader. In the latter performance you wrote a question on a
piece of paper which you placed in your pocket. Mrs. Baldwin undertook,
while in a trance, to tell you what the question was, and to give the
same an answer. How she succeeded to the extent she did was a mystery.
All we could do when we got outside was to say, ‘Well, it’s a trick, do
you know.’

When I went to my bedroom that night, I observed standing on my
dressing-table a spherically shaped blue flask, with a corrugated
surface. When I first went into the room on my arrival, I had seen this
same bottle, and thought it was a scent-bottle or something or other
which had been left in the room by accident. As I undressed I could
not keep my eyes away from the queer-looking bottle, which I observed
was corked and had evidently not been opened. Some sort of schnaps,
perhaps? No, I know what it is; we are getting near the hot springs,
and there is some sort of mineral water put up here as a sample just to
induce strangers to buy. It might, however, be whisky, I said to myself
on reflection; but whatever it was, if I opened it, I must pay.

So, blowing the light out, I jumped into bed, congratulating myself
on having escaped from a dodgy old landlady. Still, I could not help
thinking about the blue bottle. It was so very different to all bottles
that I had seen before. It’s a funny way of forcing business by
exciting the curiosity of people who want to go to sleep, I thought.
And so I kept on thinking, and thinking, and speculating as to the
contents and _raison d’être_ of the blue bottle. I suppose it must have
been two hours before I went to sleep.

When I awakened, the first thing I saw was the blue bottle. The
prominent position it occupied upon the dressing-table, together with
its oddness of shape and colour, made it an object from which I could
not remove my eyes. The more I looked at the thing the more I desired
to solve the riddle.

My curiosity at last escaped control. Schnaps, whisky, scent, mineral
water, bomb-shell, or whatever you are, I must investigate, even if
it cost the expenses of a funeral. I could not stand the mystery any
longer, so with a one, two, three, I tumbled out of bed and picked up
the bugbear. _Semper paratus_, it said on the top. Yes, it’s always
been ready. Then on the neck were directions as to how I could break
it and throw it on the fire. By jingo, it’s only a hand-grenade, and
here I’ve been fooling round thinking it might be whisky. As I put the
bottle down I saw a rope peeping out from beneath the dressing-table.
Looking underneath, I found a new rope with knots in it fastened at one
end to the wall. This was a fire-escape. When a fire occurs you shy the
bottle at the conflagration, and then bolt in your _robe de chambre_ to
the window, and slide down the rope into the garden.

Mac’s room had similar furniture. If I had known of all these
precautionary measures before I went to bed, I might not have slept at
all. In time I got accustomed to knotted ropes and blue bottles, for I
found them in almost every house where we stayed.

In some hotels I heard that from time to time they had a fire drill.
They usually, so my informants said, chose a night when there was a
guest with a red head staying in the house. At about 2 a.m. ‘_Fire!
fire!_’ is shouted through the building; the guests all rise, shy the
bottles at the red-headed visitor, and slide down the ropes. The ladies
object to the performance, as they consider that they do not look well
dangling on a rope. However, as the people wish to stick to the _semper
paratus_ motto of their bottles, the fire drill is not neglected. If
the man with a red head is not killed, he receives profuse apologies
for his hair having been mistaken for a conflagration. I did not see a
fire drill.

We left Cambridge very early next morning. The conveyance was of the
usual stagecoach type. Mac and I had inside seats, I being on the
weather-side and he on the lee-side of the vehicle. By lee-side is
meant the side that was usually leaning over a precipice.

Shortly after starting we dived down a steep slope at the end of the
town, and crossed the Waikata River. All the country was open and
brown. Here and there a lonely cabbage-tree reared its green round
head. Ti-trees, which in height are anything between six inches and six
feet, occurred in patches. They looked like sage-bushes, and from their
twiggy character might possibly make good besoms.

Next in importance to the Ti-tree comes bracken. The Maoris eat young
bracken, that is, when they can get nothing else. When Ti-trees and
brackens find some useful application, New Zealand will have the means
of speedily reducing her public debt. The public debt of New Zealand is
per head greater than that of any other country, the population of the
country being about 500,000, and the debt about £30,000,000.

Sir Julius Vogel, a New Zealand Disraeli, has much to answer for as
author of the incubus.

The defence for having such a debt is that with the money they build
railways and other public works, and as these pay, or are destined to
yield huge profits, it is a good thing to have a debt.

The most wonderful things up the Waikata River are the terraces. When
you look ahead you see the river like a long bright band surging down
towards you, between high perpendicular banks. Above these banks on
either side there is a strip of flat ground, perhaps fifty, perhaps
two hundred yards in width, and then two more steep banks. Above these
there is more flat ground, and another set of banks--each flat strip
representing an old flood plain of the river. In some places five or
six of these terraces could be counted, each of them being beautifully
defined. They had the appearance of so many parallel roads cut in the
hills on either side the river gorge.

The first sixteen miles of our road was very clayey, in fact, places
were so extremely sticky and puddle-like that we were in danger
of being stuck fast. In summer-time the driver said it was like a
billiard-table. What we crossed was like a brick-field.

After twelve miles’ driving we stopped at a post-office. There were no
houses. The country looked like open moorland covered with bracken. The
post-office was a square box about as big as a tea-chest. It stood at
the side of the road on four stout legs in amongst the bracken. It was
painted sky-blue, and on it was written, in very large letters, ‘V.R.
Matanabe Letterbox.’

The V.R. brought such vivid pictures to my eyes of the chairs in a
British Consulate, that I had to turn my head from Mac and hide my
sorrow.

A great deal of the land along the road is wire fenced. If it was
put upon wooden posts or electrically insulated tests would tell the
squatter where it was broken.

This would be convenient for travellers who had lost their bearings.
They might break a wire and then sit down until a shepherd came to
repair the damage.

Inside the fences I saw a lot of fat cattle. They were all red and had
white faces. Ti-trees and bracken appear to suit cattle.

After twenty-one miles we stayed at a solitary inn, where there was
an Irish landlord, and many pictures of O’Connell, Parnell, and other
Hibernian celebrities.

When we looked at Dan with his thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat,
we thought of his famous address to a mob of his supporters:

‘Will ye live for yéer Dan?’

‘We will, we will.’

‘Will ye fight for yéer Dan?’

‘We will, we will.’

‘Will ye run when the cavalry come?’

‘We will, we will.’

If our host had not been so jovial we should certainly have looked
under the table for a box of dynamite. I did not note the name of
this place because, as I told Mac, it would probably be one of those
heathen names with forty-three _hiki pikis_ and _rapi tapis_ which we
could neither pronounce nor write correctly. That evening I learnt that
it was called Oxford. It is either at Oxford or the place next to it
where there is a _lusus naturæ_, which for many years has attracted the
attention of the medical faculty. This is a boy who has the attributes
of a small bull. When a stranger arrives he comes and snuffs, then he
stares and snorts and ‘moos’ like an ox. When a gate or door is shut,
instead of opening it with his hands he will stand in front of it and
paw the ground. If it is not opened he lowers his head and butts. It
is expected that some day he will smash his skull, and this remarkable
phenomenon will be lost to science.

The last and worst part of our journey was through sixteen miles of
what is known in these parts as ‘the bush.’ At the entrance to it there
were some pretty steep precipice-like slopes, about 1,000 feet in
depth, from the edges of which our wheels often did not have more than
six inches clearance.

Mac, who was on the hanging or lee-side of the coach, said he did not
like it.

To describe the sixteen-mile bush I must ask you to imagine the Suez
Canal lined on either bank with tall trees, and an undergrowth so thick
that it formed a dense black wall. Next imagine the Suez Canal, instead
of being straight, to be curved. Finally, imagine the Suez Canal to be
filled with from six inches to two feet of stiff clay and water-holes.
When you have done this, you will have a picture of something not very
much like the Suez Canal, but very much like the sixteen-mile bush.

Some of the fern leaves were big enough to thatch a haystack. A
botanist collecting specimens of these plants would require twenty-four
foot screens in which to press his specimens. Many of the trees were
covered with things which Mac called orchids, and which he said were
worth from £5 to £20 apiece. I expect he thought I should stop the
coach and begin to climb.

The trunks of some of the trees were completely buried by these
parasites, while their heads were bowed down by the weight they had to
carry.

If a tree was cut down, the grass, or whatever it is which grows upon
it, ought to fodder a herd of oxen for several months.

Vine-like climbers are very common in this bush. There is one called
the Rata, which grows to a larger size than the tree it embraces. Many
tall, straight trees which were being slowly compressed to death by the
rata, looked like huge maypoles clasped by monstrous centipedes.

I don’t know how the rata grows, whether it commences at the top of
the tree and grows downwards, or whether it commences below and grows
upwards. Perhaps it does both; anyhow, if you cut a rata off near the
ground it will send down roots and re-establish communication.

A guide-book we had said the road was extremely interesting, calling
our attention to the rata-trees and £20 orchids.

The chief interest which Mac and I found was with regard to our hats,
which were continually in danger of being smashed on the roof of the
coach. The bumps and rolls that we experienced along the Suez Canal
were perfectly awful. Every moment you expected the vehicle either
to capsize or else roll down a precipice. Most of the time you were
holding on to an upright or a strap, like a cat to a waterspout. And
all this time you could hear the driver telling a fellow outside that
in summer it was as smooth as a billiard-table. Interesting indeed!
Yes, it was full of interest, but the man who wrote that book ought to
be hung.

The sun was setting when we emerged from the bush and descended
towards Lake Rotorua. A short drive brought us round to the village of
Ohinemutu. The hills near the lake are moderately high, and of a sad
green colour.

This particular bit of Wonderland will not appal anyone by its beauty.
But for the steam rising from numerous hot springs all is still and
dead. The faint smell of the springs is not pleasant.

There are several hotels here for the convenience of visitors wishing
to enjoy the baths. There are baths for everything; one will cure the
gout, another the rheumatism, another the toothache.

One of the baths is called the Priest’s Bath, another one the Lobster,
another Madame Rachael. The quantity of water and the temperature of
many of the springs vary considerably with changes of the wind.

When you want a bath, you find that you have at least to cross a road,
and generally to wander through the scrub to some wretchedly-built
shanty open to the heavens at more places than its windows and doors.
Here you undress in the cold, and if it is wet in the rain.

After a trial of one of these primitive baths, the arrangements for
which are hardly comparable with those which savages would provide, it
seems astonishing that invalids are not killed rather than cured. The
whites of New Zealand have come into a legacy which they have not yet
learned to use. When in a bath, put up your hands, and you are cool;
put them down, and you are hot; always go home with your wet towel
round your neck, and you cannot catch cold, are amongst the many other
wonderful things which the new owners of the springs have discovered.

There were one or two visitors at the hotel. One of them told us that
he had been out all day exploring mud-holes and hot springs.

‘Took a hammer, a magnifying-glass, and a bottle of vitriol acid, you
know.’

‘And what was that for?’ we asked.

‘Just a lark, you know. Testing the waters.’

He only wanted a pair of spectacles to become a complete _savant_.

Another visitor told us of his experiences. The Lobster bath was a
terror. But according to him everything was a terror--the roads were
terrors, the lake was a terror, some of the women were terrors (I
believed this). Terror is a New Zealand adjective. Shilling knives are
advertised as ‘perfect terrors.’ You can’t go wrong if you call a thing
a terror.

A young Englishman, however, called everything and everybody ‘a
Johnny.’ Mac thought him as big an ass as the other visitors.

That night it was cold, and in the morning the ground was white with
frost.

There are many Maoris at Ohinemutu, and we had good opportunities to
see both them and their houses. They are physically fine, but with
coarse, broad features. They are tolerably honest, fearful beggars,
consummate liars, and dreadfully lazy.

Their hardest work is to plant and dig potatoes, smoke, and
occasionally go in search of kauri gum, which they sell to foreign
merchants.

The Government built them a mill at Wairoa, but the Maoris did not
think well of it, so they took out the machinery, and now use it as a
dwelling-house. It was too hard work to grind corn.

Their homes (_wharis_) are, to look at, like the roof of a thatched
cottage minus the side-walls. At one end there are usually a number of
elaborately carved pieces of wood, many of the figures on which are
highly indecent.

They have churches, where they pray and sing according to formulæ
taught them by the missionaries.

In the afternoon we had an eleven miles’ drive over to Wairoa, the
headquarters from which one visits Rotomahana and the terraces--_the
glory of Wonderland_.

The drive was over a pretty country, past two crater lakes. One
of these, with a white bottom, has an exceedingly beautiful blue
appearance. The other is dark green.

Part of the way is through bush, very similar to what we had seen on
the way up from Cambridge. If we except skylarks, which are everywhere
in New Zealand, the country appears to be entirely without bird life.
In the sixteen-mile bush, a road-mender told me that in three months he
might have seen six birds.

We stayed at the Terrace Hotel. Here there is a large quantity of
sweetbrier. You meet with the plant in many parts of the northern
island. It is said to have been introduced by a missionary. It is now a
pest.

At Wairoa we were introduced to a curiosity in the form of an
animal-plant, or true zoophyte. The animal is undoubtedly a
caterpillar; but the plant, which appears to grow out of one end of the
caterpillar, may be anything. It is usually from six inches to two feet
in length, and looks like a flexible root or piece of a vine.

Our host said it was a young rata-vine, and the way in which the
combination of plant and animal came about was as follows. The
caterpillar lives beneath the rata-tree, and when the seeds are shed
they fall upon the caterpillar beneath. Most of the seeds roll off the
caterpillar’s back, but it sometimes happens that one will lodge in a
particularly large crease at the back of the caterpillar’s neck. Here
it germinates, and the caterpillar, being irritated by the process,
digs into the ground, where it dies while struggling to release itself
from the parasite. The parasite then grows, and the natives seeing the
shoot, carefully dig it up, dry it, and keep it as a curio to be sold
to the guileless tourist.

Our coachman who was there said:

‘No, that’s not it. I’ve found plenty of them; the root sticks in the
ground, and the caterpillar is on the end of it, standing up like
fruit on a tree. The caterpillar sees the young rata-tree sprouting,
and swallowing the end of it, gets stuck fast--the end of the plant
swelling in its mouth. The plant goes on growing, and the caterpillar
gets shoved up in the air end on.’

A tourist who was there said that a Maori told him that the caterpillar
ate the seed, and then it germinated.

Here Mac broke in with the remark, that if it chewed the seed, the seed
could not germinate.

The tourist seemed annoyed, and said:

‘Well, sir, it doesn’t eat it, but it swallows it like a Cockle’s
pill, and then it germinates. The body of the caterpillar becomes
a flower-pot for the plant, which grows until it has exhausted the
contents of its friend, and then both of them die. The caterpillar is
neither up nor down, but it lies horizontally with the plant sticking
out of its mouth.’

Here we appealed to the specimens, and pointed at the fact that the
plant might come out of the tail of the animal or the back of its neck;
but it was certain that it did not come out of its mouth.

‘Everybody gets mixed about them inseks,’ said a gentleman in a flannel
shirt, who had been listening to the argument. ‘The way they comes to
be as they is, is because they’ve been stuck in when you sees them.
It’s a sandpiper as does it. The sandpiper builds in rata-trees, and,
just to ornament the surroundings, fills up its spare time in sticking
caterpillars on the branches. I’ve seen a sandpiper and its mate in
two hours cover a tree so thick that you couldn’t see the sky for
caterpillars.’

By this time I had learnt that a caterpillar did something with the
rata-seed, or else the rata-seed did something with a caterpillar, or
else a sandpiper----here I got mixed.

But rata-trees begin to grow from the tops of other trees! Perhaps
our zoophyte was found suspended in the air like fruit. Altogether it
was as mysterious as a mermaid. Somehow or other, I don’t think it
has anything to do with rata-trees. Caterpillars do not take pills.
Possibly they may take in the spores of a fungus which use the stomach
of their host as a flower-pot.

Another curious object for the naturalist was a plant called _Pisonia_
something or other. A friend of mine had one in his garden, and he gave
me some seeds. The peculiarity of this plant is that it catches birds.
The way in which this is done is by its having seed-pods covered with a
kind of birdlime. Insects stick on the birdlime, and sparrows and other
feathered pets coming for a feed, get stuck themselves. Cats then go
round and catch the sparrows. I never heard of the tree catching cats.
I am sorry I never made inquiries.

Next day we went to see the terraces--the hub of Wonderland. Our guide
was a Maori called Sophia. Sophia and Kate are historical characters in
Wonderland, and everybody who visits this district passes through the
hands of one of these ladies.

Kate, who is decorated with a medal for having saved life--I think it
was the life of a bishop--was away on her twenty-fifth honeymoon, so we
fell into the arms of Sophia. Sophia is a big woman, and it would be
a big man who ever escaped should he ever fall into her arms. I don’t
know her age, but I should guess it at being about forty-five.

Although Sophia is masculine, she speaks English with the affectation
of a well-bred duchess. She is always merry, and has a twinkle in her
eye, indicating that she is continually on the _qui vive_ for fun. She
wore a short dress like a Welshwoman, black stockings, and buckled
shoes.

From the hotel we walked a mile or so down to the lake, where we all
embarked in a whale-boat. Here we had a row of a mile and a half down a
river-like arm of the lake before we were fairly launched in the lake
itself. Before us were the rugged rocky heights of Mount Tarawera, a
volcano after which the lake is named. On the opposite side of the lake
there are hills covered with trees.

It was a pull of nearly eight miles against a stiff breeze, before we
came to the top of the lake. On the way we made one stoppage. This
was to interview a fisherman in a dug-out. Sophia told us that to buy
craw-fish from the fishermen of Tarawera was the correct thing, and
as we could not oppose the wishes of a lady, we stopped. Luckily the
fisherman had not caught any craw-fish. We were very cold and a little
wet when we reached the head of the lake.

A walk of a mile and a half up the banks of a small creek, which was in
many places steaming, and we were on the shores of Lake Rotomahana and
at the foot of the White Terrace. At a distance the terrace looked like
one side of a pyramid which had been made by piling together rows of
white wash-hand basins.

Another comparison is to liken it to a huge white marble staircase on
the side of a hill, each step being rounded in front and hollowed out
above. These steps, or wash-hand basins, are from one foot to twelve
feet in height, and they are all filled with water, which is hotter
and hotter the higher you ascend. At the top there is one large basin
filled with water that is boiling. When the wind is in a certain
direction (north-east, Sophia said), this may be entirely empty.

When we saw it, it was twenty feet or so in depth, and overflowing. The
water was running down from basin to basin, getting cooler and cooler
and depositing silica as it descended. One exceedingly striking point
connected with the marble-like basins of limpid water is that the water
appears to be of a brilliant light-blue colour--so blue that it often
looks unnatural.

The pool at the top looks like a crater that had been breached on one
side, and from the breach a lava stream had descended to the lake. The
terraced arrangements of basins have been built on the lava stream.
In many places, especially at the foot of the terraces, you could see
basins in the process of formation. As a stream of water flows over an
inclined surface, it spreads out to form a fan-like film.

At a certain distance from its origin it has become sufficiently
cooled to deposit the silica which, while hot, it holds in solution.
The deposition takes place on a curved ridge, the curvature of which
corresponds to the curvature of the flowing fan-like film of water.
In time the ridge grows higher and higher, until finally it becomes
a basin in which water does not cool so rapidly as it did when the
formation commenced.

We spent a considerable time paddling about the White Terrace. At
one pool Sophia showed us some sparrows which she had placed in the
water to petrify. Strangers are not supposed to remove the stalactitic
formations and various petrifactions which are met with on the
terraces, but a few shillings will usually enable you to procure a few
specimens.

A short distance from the White Terrace we saw several boiling
caldrons, which every now and then would shoot up columns of water
twenty or thirty feet in height.

Farther on, we met a dug-out canoe and two boatmen who had brought our
lunch. The potatoes had, of course, been boiled in a hot spring.

Sophia told us that the last party she had the honour of conducting
were missionaries. One old man had given her a drink of brandy, and
when in the dug-out, where you have to sit fore and aft, had placed
his head in her lap.

‘I told the old gentleman,’ said Sophia, ‘that drinking brandy and
putting his head into the lap of an unmarried girl did not go well with
a white necktie. What do you think he said? why, he whispered, “Never
mind, Sophia,” and he gave me a squeeze.’

Sophia in talking to us always called us ‘poor boys.’ Mac, who was
getting bald, did not like it.

After lunch, we carefully balanced ourselves in the dug-out, Mac
putting his head in Sophia’s lap, and set sail on Rotomahana. This is
a little round lake bounded on all sides with low hills. Most of them
are steaming with hot springs, the water from which comes down into the
lake, so that the lake itself is hot.

Although the water is quite warm, and has a nasty taste, some sort of
beetles appear to live in it. The trip across the lake is one where
everything depends on the accuracy of your balance. There is no turning
round, and Mac having once put his head in Sophia’s lap, he had to keep
it there, or else run the risk of overturning the boat.

The Pink Terrace on the other side of the lake is far more pink in
description and books than it is in reality. On the top there is a
boiling pond, and below this comes the staircase of basins just like
the White Terrace. We had a bath here. We unstripped in a grove of
Ti-trees, and then had our first dip in a pool which was moderately
warm. From this we ascended, step by step, to other pools which were
warmer.

It would take a long time to describe all we saw. One little valley
we went up was filled with small mud volcanoes, one of which was
called the Porridge-Pot. This contained a beautiful bluish-grey creamy
mud which was gently simmering. All of these had certain medicinal
qualities attributed to them. The Porridge-Pot was good for dysentery.
I took a spoonful of it. It was smooth, warm, and inky.

Many visitors have written a description of these wonders. One man, who
describes the place in blank verse, speaks of the waters as a ‘lithic
lymph.’ But about all this I will speak more fully in my Guide-book to
New Zealand.

Another man, struck by the quantity of steam, the pits, the bubbling
and snorting, the ponds of steaming mud, and the sulphurous burning
hillsides, entitled his description ‘An Introduction to the Devil; or,
The Vestibule of Hell.’ I could not get a copy of his work.

The activity is continually shifting. One day you find a steam-hole in
the scrub, and next day it has gone. Some of these holes are big enough
to receive a bullock, and we were told the story of a herd of bullocks
falling into a hole, and their coming up out of another about a mile
distant from the place where they had disappeared. The subterranean
activity of Wonderland is a kind of public works which are difficult to
inspect. Mac said he would not live there at any price; he was afraid
the whole thing might blow up.

On our way back Sophia gave us a lot of information about the terraces
and their visitors. Several American speculators had from time to time
paid Rotomahana a visit.

One old gentleman, who had a craze for natural phenomena, tried to
buy up the terraces; what he wanted to do with them we never properly
learned. One idea was that he was going to cut them up in sections,
and then ship them to New York; another idea was that he intended to
light them up with the electric light, and show them through variously
coloured glasses to visitors; a third notion was that he intended
to convert the heat into electricity, and send it down by wire to
Auckland; but what the old man really wanted was never known.

‘What did he offer for your Wonderland, Sophia?’ asked Mac.

‘He offered us a yearly rental of five shillings, or £10 down.’

We reached Ohinemutu on Saturday afternoon. In the evening we paid a
shilling to get entrance to a Maori dance, which was going on in a shed
opposite the hotel.

There were a great many persons present--half-whites, and half-Maoris.
I reckon the half-castes, some of whom were very pretty, in with the
Maoris. The ladies sat in benches round the sides of the room. Five
or six of these ladies were white. Many of the Maori girls, who were
dressed in European dresses, with French boots and plaited pig-tails,
spoiled their appearance by having tattooed lips.

The music, consisting of a concertina, at length commenced, and a young
Englishman, desirous of dancing with a live Maori, asked a young lady
for the pleasure of her hand.

‘You play schottische?’ said she.

‘Waal, no; but can try, you know.’

So they commenced. The Maori pranced, and the poor young man acted like
a brake.

‘You no play schottische?’ she again inquired; and while he was looking
at her, searching for a reply, she gave him a push, and rushed off to
her seat, saying:

‘Horrible! horrible!’

He did not solicit the hand of any other princess. The Ohinemutu
whites, with their dark-skinned friends, danced grandly. All the
quadrilles and country-dances were of an old type.

The gentlemen would cavotte and shuffle about by themselves in the
centre, then rush in and whirl their partners with vigour.

A schottische was superb; everybody danced all over the room, throwing
up their arms, cutting little capers, and yelping in true Highland
fashion.

Mac was enraged. He looked upon all this as an insult to his country.
Why should white people lower themselves by hob-nobbing with, and even
marrying, what he called ‘female cannibals?’ If he were ruler, he would
begin by making them pay taxes, like other people; and if they would
not pay, he would have the country cleared.

With all his raillery I observed that he did not seem so hard on the
flounces and French boots.

All Sunday was spent in exploring Ohinemutu. At one place the
Government have built a hospital, and covered in some of the baths. All
the Maoris go to their churches. When the Wesleyans are having service,
the Catholics sit outside playing cards in the porch; and when the
Catholics occupy the buildings, the Wesleyans play cards in the porch.
They are passionately fond of cards.

By the afternoon all the hot springs and cooking-holes had been
examined, and life at Ohinemutu became a burden. This resulted in
all the guests taking a nap. Ten miles away I heard that a big Maori
funeral was going on. These funerals are conducted on the principle of
a wake. The visitors eat, drink, and mourn. They may last two weeks.

We left Ohinemutu next morning at seven, in the coach for Cambridge.
When I came to take my seat, I found that the box-seat had been
occupied by Mac and a gentleman with a red beard. Inside there was a
Maori lady, evidently the wife of the gentleman with the red beard.

I felt a little annoyed at having an inside place, and I showed my
annoyance by sitting on a narrow seat opposite to my Maori, rather than
on the broad and relatively comfortable seat by her side. But having
taken my seat, I was stupid, and preferred discomfort to giving in and
shifting.

I succeeded in getting discomfort fairly well. For thirty-three miles
I was dragged, with my back to the horses, looking at rows of trees,
cart-ruts, sticks, pebbles, and puddles, all appearing to chase each
other and run backwards.

Inside, however, I could study my tame savage. She had a dark olive
complexion, black flashing eyes, and white incisors. She did not wear
feathers on her head, but a Sultana plush hat, turned up on one side,
_à la_ Madam Rousby, and decorated with ostrich plumes. Round her neck
she had a ‘masher’ collar. Her dress was a tight-fitting gabrielle,
ornamented with bretelle, the fronts apparently opening over a long
plaited vest, which had an effective extension over the entire front.

The skirt was draped and trimmed with gore plaiting, the ornamentation
being soutache embroidery. I estimated the garment as containing
eighteen yards and three-eighths of twenty-four inch stuff. The
double-breasted polonaise and pointed basque were particularly
attractive. Behind, she carried a bouffant bow, and feather-trimming
tastefully draped below the waistband.

One point to which I would draw the attention of all ladies, was the
deep box-plaiting round the collar. The redingote, which she cast aside
shortly after taking her seat, was a plain sacque, shirred around the
neck and shoulders, giving the effect of a circular yoke and Spanish
flounce.

The general appearance was that of a graceful and elegant combination
of twenty-four inch goods, suitable for boating, yachting, bathing,
archery, the seaside, the drawing-room, the tropic of Capricorn, the
ballroom, the dining-room, for both hemispheres, and for all seasons.
Her boots were high-heeled number sixes. I had a good view of these,
because she put them up on the seat by my side. Her gloves were number
five brown silks.

The only indication of savage restlessness which she exhibited at
being cooped up and jolted was now and then to eject saliva. This
she did with a neatness and precision which would excite the envy of
a professional. Some people splash or slobber, others guffaw as an
introductory accompaniment to their performance.

Behaviour like this is intolerable, and it ought to be suppressed. My
Maori friend, who found spitting a necessity, expectorated with grace.
First she puckered up her lips to a pretty point, as if about to take
the soprano at a whistling show. Then placing the tip of her tongue in
juxtaposition with her teeth, she gave a sudden gentle, but decided
contraction of her facial muscles. The only sound was a gentle click.
From the initials S. M. upon her trunk, her name may have been Susan
Macintosh. Susan could spit with grace. The sparkling thin spheroid,
as it pursued its paraboloidal course, glittered in the sunlight with
a meteoric brilliancy. But for Susan’s performance I should have felt
dull and miserable.

Outside I could hear that Mac and Red Beard were becoming quite
chummy, obtaining information from each other and the driver. This
conversation, and an occasional ‘Git ep,’ addressed to the horses, was
all that I could hear.

After about twenty-five miles Susan, who had been watching my attempts
to write, asked me what I was noting. I felt that I was suspected of
describing objects belonging to my companion. I replied:

‘I’m writing, madam, on the trajectory of a fluid projectile passing
rapidly through a yielding but non-viscous medium.’

Madam glared, gave another spit, and wiping her mouth with the back of
her hand, said:

‘Do you mind showing me your book, young man?’

My writing was never good, and the jolting of the coach had made it
worse, so I passed it to my companion. She looked at it a moment, then
remarked that the road was very rough, and handed it back.

This is the only time that I ever felt thankful for having cultivated
an illegible hand. Had it not been illegible, Susan might have
slaughtered me.

Shortly after this, at the driver’s request, I sat on the same seat
with Susan, who, keeping her feet on the opposite seat, propped her
back against me and fell asleep. I now recognised why Red Beard sat
outside. When she awoke I offered her a cigarette. She replied with
a look. The reference to the customs of her uncivilized sisters had
evidently given offence, and she did not speak again.

The distance to Cambridge was fifty-five miles, and it cost thirty
shillings a head each way.

Maoris are very susceptible to insult. In speaking to them you must be
particular. To a common man you may call a pig a pig; to a swell you
ought to say a porcine animal; but to a duke you can only refer to a
pachydermatous quadruped, or one of the Suidæ. This joke is very old.

At Cambridge we again put up at Kirkwood’s Cottage. On the opposite
side of the road there is Kirkwood’s Hotel. During the evening we
picked up a little information about the Good Templars and Blue
Ribbonites. Sometimes they are elected on a licensing committee, when
they at once proceed to refuse all licences, even to houses which the
police report as being well kept.

At some of the New Zealand hotels the landlords are compelled to be
very strict. If they hold a licence for liquors to be drunk at the bar,
even if you are a guest at the house, you may have to leave your dinner
and go to the bar to obtain a drink, at least that is what we were
told.

We returned to Auckland viâ the Thames Gold Fields. First, we went by
train to Hamilton, where there is a very small town and two or three
hotels. From here we crossed an exceedingly flat country in the train
to Morrinsville, where the only buildings are the sheds at the station
and two hotels. I suppose the landlords take turn about at each other’s
houses.

A twelve-mile drive in a coach brought us to Te Aroa, where there are
one or two hot springs, and at a place three miles distant some gold
mines. Te Aroa is a straggling street situated at the foot of a steep
range of hills parallel to which is the River Thames. Twice a week
there is a steamer on the river down to a town called Thames. We went
in the coach. Distance, thirty-five miles; price, 9s.

For the first six miles our road was along the foot of the hills
overlooking Te Aroa. The open plain of the Thames, brown with Ti-trees,
was on our right. After this came a pass through the mountains. The
most noticeable tree was the tree-fern. Some of these were of immense
size, and they waved their fronds like the plumes of a gigantic hearse.

The driver pointed out a kauri-tree to us. This is the tree which
yields gum. Much gum is, however, found buried in marshes where
kauri-trees once flourished. The natives search for it with pronged
forks, much in the same way that fishermen catch eels.

When descending the other side of the hill, I saw what I took to be a
field filled with troughs at which to feed cattle or sheep. It turned
out to be a bee farm, and what I saw were the hives.

Near the Thames I noticed what I thought was a second bee farm. This
turned out to be a cemetery.

Beyond the hills we passed the village of Piroa, and entered a flat,
swampy country. The roads were fearfully muddy and irregular. At one
time the coach was running on two wheels, and the next moment we were
out on the road helping it out of a clay-pit.

The Thames is a large place with better hotels than Auckland. The
people here appear to be chiefly Irish. We spent a day at the Thames,
walking round the gold mines. At one end of the town the gold which
occurs in quartz reefs is only near the surface, while at the other end
it is deep. The gold is alloyed with silver, and is pale in colour and
very poor. Some of it is only worth £2 17s. per ounce, while gold in
other districts has fetched £4 5s. per ounce. The method of extraction
is by mercury plates and blankets.

At one mine we were shown some heavy pumping machinery. We had often
heard of this machinery before reaching the Thames. By-and-by it will
be sent to a museum.

Great excitement prevailed in this part of the world about some
new furnaces which were being put up to extract gold and silver by
smelting. They had been used very successfully in Victoria and New
South Wales.

From the Thames we returned to Auckland in a dirty little steamer
called the _Enterprise_. There were two notices in the saloon. One was
for passengers to take off their boots before lying on the cushions.
The cushions were strips of dirty carpet. The second was, that smoking
was strictly prohibited.

The steward enforced the first regulation, but he and the captain
disregarded the second notice by smoking and expectorating all over the
cabin.




_A SYSTEMATIC GUIDE-BOOK._


When I was in New Zealand I commenced to write a guide-book for the
country. My objects were manifold. I wished to increase the traveller’s
pleasure by pointing out to him the sights best worth visiting. I
was desirous of placing in the hands of those who had visited this
Wonderland the means of reviving their impressions. I wanted to give
to those who live in distant countries, and are not blessed with the
ways and means of journeying to New Zealand, an accurate and faithful
account of all its marvels. In short, I wanted to benefit mankind. I
did not want to sell thousands of editions of my work. I did not want
to induce people to go by steamers or stay at hotels in which I had an
interest. All that I wanted was to be purely and ideally philanthropic.

I regret to say that my noble intentions have been frustrated. Others
have been before me in the field, and authors have already launched
upon the traveller’s world many a _vade mecum_ to New Zealand. I
have read these books with the greatest interest, and their accurate
and vivid descriptions have made an indelible impression on my mind.
The phraseology of these works, among which ‘Maori-land’ stands
pre-eminent, have entered so deeply into my soul, that I feel I shall
in future be continually in danger of jeopardizing my reputation by
plagiaristic quotations.

If therefore, in the following brief samples of what my guide-book
would have been, quotations from ‘Maori-land’ and other books are
recognised, I trust that the authors of these monuments of literary art
will grant me their forgiveness.

All that I can claim for my notes is that they are a _faithful_ and
_systematic_ description of my impressions. The charge of overcolouring
the pictures I have endeavoured to present has been studiously avoided.
Ethereal nothingness has been carefully suppressed. The only fault
of which critics can accuse me, is that I have unavoidably presented
pictures in tints which are too subdued. I have endeavoured to curb
imagination, and to describe things as they really are; and in this I
feel that I have admirably succeeded.

To be systematic, I have constructed my book on a plan--the
descriptions are numbered, and they run in the following order:

1. All that it is impossible to describe by the medium of words.

2. All that strikes the stranger dumb with admiration.

3. All that exceeds the wildest flights of Eastern imagination, and
holds the wanderer spell-bound with enchantment.

4. All natural creations which can never be obliterated from the
feeblest memory.

5. All that you can only sigh and gush about.

6. Tableau and revelations of beauty.




_THE JOURNEY TO NEW ZEALAND._


1. By the medium of mere words it is impossible to convey an adequate
idea of the grandeur--the surprising loveliness we may say--of the
elegant and palatial-like appearance of the steamers which carry the
wanderer to New Zealand.

(New Zealand being an island surrounded by water, it is necessary to
approach it by boat or balloon. I went in a boat.)

2. When a stranger stands for the first time before a New Zealand
steamer, and views the magnificence and completeness of the
arrangements, he is struck dumb with admiration.

(These steamers are managed entirely for the benefit of the public,
and not as a source of revenue. The round trip costs £21, wines not
included.)

3. The lawn-like evenness of the ocean, the incomprehensibility of the
surrounding space, and the changing constellations in the heavens,
surpass the wildest flights of Eastern imagination.

(Prussic acid is not a good cure for sea-sickness. It is poison.)

The elegance of the cabins, which by day are princely parlours, and
by night gorgeously furnished couches for repose, hold you spell-bound
with enchantment.

(We think it is well to undress when you go to bed. Some travellers
sleep in their boots.)

4. The prodigality in the equipment, the skill in construction, the
perfection of management, are creations of gigantic intellects which
can never be obliterated from the feeblest mind.

(Never tell the captain that he is going the wrong way, or the engineer
that there is a rat in the cylinder.)

5. Oh! electric luminosity! Oh! soft and downy couches! Oh! Lucullian
food, what are ye to the lamps, and beds, and dinners on board vessels
going to New Zealand?

(Bar closes at 10, and lights are put out at 10.30 sharp.) You struggle
over tables in the dark, and end by reaching the wrong cabin. A cry of
_thieves_ awakens the whole ship, and you make a public apology to a
lot of people dressed in long white clothes.

6. Tableau: what revelations of beauty!




_COACHING IN NEW ZEALAND._


1. By the medium of mere words it is impossible to convey an adequate
idea of the grandeur--the surprising loveliness we may say--of a New
Zealand coach. (Children free.)

2. When a stranger stands for the first time before a New Zealand
coach, and views the mechanism of its marvellously constructed wheels,
he is struck dumb with admiration.

(From the movement I once experienced in one, I had the vehicle stopped
and got out to see if the wheels were square.)

3. As you roll along in these palaces on wheels, the prodigality of
unalloyed pleasure which the traveller experiences surpasses the
wildest flights of Eastern imagination.

(I recommend the traveller to take one or two good-sized feather-beds
along. They may save the expense of a doctor’s account.)

The vast museum of natural wonders and marvellous panoramic effects
which pass before the traveller’s eyes, hold him spell-bound with
enchantment.

(If you should tumble out of the vehicle the panoramic effects that
will cross your eyes for the next fortnight are truly marvellous.)

4. The gigantic insects which cross your path, the cataracts descending
from the clouds, the marvellous sensational and grand effects
challenging the attention of the two hemispheres, are natural creations
never to be obliterated from the feeblest memory.

(When it rains, the cataracts which come through the roof, or in at the
sides of the vehicle, are quite appalling.)

5. Oh! velvet roads! Oh! luxuries undreamt of! Oh! marvels of creation!
What are ye to a trip in a square-wheeled coach?

In the evening you apply _arnica_ to your bruises, which gives to your
body an appearance not unlike that of a leopard.

6. Tableau: what revelations of beauty!




_THE HOT LAKES._


1. By the medium of mere words it is impossible to convey an adequate
idea of the grandeur--the supreme loveliness we may say--of the
enchanting and ravishing beauty of the Hot Lakes of the Northern
Island. (You can cook potatoes in them.)

2. When a stranger stands for the first time before the White Terrace
he is struck dumb in admiration.

3. The wonderful lithic incrustation before him surpasses the wildest
flight of Eastern imagination.

The delicate tracery and champfered fretwork of the stony drapery hold
him spell-bound with enchantment.

He sees before him foaming cascades that have been mesmerized into
marble. The tiers of snow-white basins, like steps of alabaster or
Parian stone, are creations of nature never to be obliterated from
the feeblest mind. (A friend suggests that they may be partially
obliterated by a whisky cocktail.)

4. Each basin with its limpid contents, more delicate and iridescent
than the shades of opal, appeals to the senses as a petrologic poem. As
a background you have the battlements of a craggy mountain, looming up
with awe-inspiring majesty, also reminding one of natural creations
which can never be obliterated from the feeblest mind. What revelations
of beauty! N.B. If so disposed, the visitors may take a bath in the
cerulean depths of Te Terata. (Before doing so, we privately advise him
to make his will, for he will be boiled ‘as sure as eggs is eggs.’)

5. Oh! pinky white terraces where you lay in marble bows, ‘which are
described as sensuous heavens.’ Oh! polished walls of alabaster and
powdered silica, like the finest silver sand. In a glade, Nature has
supplied a dressing-room sheltered from the luminosity of the heavenly
orb.

(I undressed in a small clearing amongst almost leafless shrubs. It was
wet and dirty underfoot, and open to the wind in all directions. It was
even open to the gaze of our guide Sophia. The alabaster wall of the
bath took so much skin off one of my knees, that for the next fortnight
I had to pay my devotions standing.)

(When we had finished, Sophia had a bath.)




_THE COLD LAKES._


1. By the medium of mere words it is impossible to convey an adequate
idea of the grandeur--the surpassing loveliness we may say--of the
enchanting and ravishing beauty of the Cold Lakes of the Southern
Island. (Don’t bathe unless you can swim.)

2. When a stranger stands for the first time in the land of the
mountain and flood--the home of the ice-king--all of which are within
easy reach of the Cold Lakes, he is struck dumb with admiration.

3. The barren desolate grandeur of the haggard jagged pinnacles, which
fringe the shore of the Cold Lakes, surpass the wildest flights of the
Eastern imagination.

The everlasting snows, the culminating peaks, the primeval forests,
hold him spell-bound with enchantment.

4. Lakes of enormous depth, and pinnacles of enormous height, are
creations of Nature, the memory of which will never be obliterated from
the feeblest mind.

5. Oh! crashing thunder, which reverberates from crag to crag. Oh!
avalanches that hurtle in the air! Oh! light of laughing flowers;
what are you to the Cold Lakes of New Zealand? (A small avalanche
costs 2s. 6d. A large one 5s. The visitor ought to secure an example
of this remarkable _lusus naturæ_. They make an effective addition to
an ordinary rockery.) A township that has been squashed flat by an
avalanche has a peculiar appearance.

Tableau: What revelations of beauty!




_SUNRISES AND SUNSETS._


1. By the medium of mere words, it is impossible to convey an adequate
idea of the grandeur--the surprising loveliness we may say--of the
enchanting and ravishing beauty of the sunsets in New Zealand.

(Good lodgings at the neighbouring hotel for 20s. a night. Try dry
curaçoa.)

2. When a stranger stands for the first time before a New Zealand
sunset, and views Nature in her wildest moods for colouring, he is
struck dumb with admiration.

(The application of a pin will often relieve the trouble.)

3. The waning light, the deepening shadows, the varieties of crimson,
opal, and sapphire, surpass the wildest flights of Eastern imagination.

(The rising moon, held up by Nature’s fingers, in the departing glories
of a setting sun, holds him spell-bound with enchantment.)

4. Glittering like serpents with golden scales, the scarlet canopy
above, the waving flames of clouds, mottled like drifting fleecy wings
of angels, are natural creations never to be obliterated from the
feeblest memory.

5. Oh! molten rubies. Oh! golden veils and red flamingoes; what are ye
to the sunsets of New Zealand?

(I have not referred to sunrises, being always asleep at that time of
night.)

6. Tableau: What revelations of beauty!




_THE GENERAL ASPECT OF NATURE IN NEW ZEALAND._


1. By the medium of mere words, it is impossible to convey an adequate
idea of the grandeur--the supreme loveliness we may say--of the
enchanting and ravishing beauty of the general aspect of nature in New
Zealand.

2. When a stranger stands for the first time before the general aspect
of nature in New Zealand to interview its fairy nooks, filled with
umbrageous ferns, he is petrified with admiration.

(Don’t stand too long, or you may get your feet damp.)

3. The green glory of the mountain’s bosky brow, the streamlets
gleaming like diamonds, surpass the wildest flights of the Eastern
imagination.

(If it rains put up your umbrella.)

The silver sheen of waterfalls, the merry laugh of bubbling brooks,
hold the traveller spell-bound with enchantment.

(If you linger too long, the guide may become impatient; an extra
shilling will cure the complaint.)

4. The palaces of nature--lakes clasping islets in their arms and
wasting themselves away in kissing pebbly shores--are natural
creations never to be obliterated from the feeblest mind.

5. Oh! drops of sparkling diamonds. Oh! awe-inspiring magnitudes of
Alpine greatness. Oh! unsullied crowns of snow, stupendous cliffs, and
gossamer-like films of poetic mist; what are ye to the general aspect
of nature in New Zealand?

(The round trip will cost you about £50. The best place at which to buy
your bowie-knife and general outfit will be found by reference to the
newspaper. I’m not interested in the transaction, but suppose my books
were examined?)

Tableau: Oh! what revelations!


THE END.


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Philistia.


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  Matt.
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The Shadow of a Crime.


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Paul Foster’s Daughter.


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Hearts of Gold.


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Port Salvation.


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A Castle in Spain.


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  Our Lady of Tears.
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  Felicia.
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Archie Lovell.


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  Olympia.
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  One by One.
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_Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE._

Pandurang Hari.


_BY EDWARD GARRETT._

The Capel Girls.


_BY CHARLES GIBBON._

  Robin Gray.
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  What will the World Say?
  In Honour Bound.
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  The Flower of the Forest.
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  The Braes of Yarrow.
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_BY THOMAS HARDY._

Under the Greenwood Tree.


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Ivan de Biron.


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The Lover’s Creed.


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  Thornicroft’s Model.
  The Leaden Casket.
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Fated to be Free.


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The Queen of Connaught.


_BY HENRY KINGSLEY._

Number Seventeen.


_BY E. LYNN LINTON._

  Patricia Kemball.
  Atonement of Leam Dundas.
  The World Well Lost.
  Under which Lord?
  With a Silken Thread.
  The Rebel of the Family.
  “My Love!”
  Ione.


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Gideon Fleyce.


_BY JUSTIN McCARTHY, M.P._

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  Linley Rochford.
  A Fair Saxon.
  Dear Lady Disdain.
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  Maid of Athens.
  Camiola.


_BY GEORGE MACDONALD._

  Paul Faber, Surgeon.
  Thomas Wingfold, Curate.


_BY MRS. MACDONELL._

Quaker Cousins.


_BY FLORENCE MARRYAT._

  Open! Sesame!
  Written In Fire.


_BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY._

  Life’s Atonement.
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Whiteladies.


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Gentle and Simple.


_BY JAMES PAYN._

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  Put Yourself in His Place.
  A Terrible Temptation.
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  A Woman-Hater.
  Readiana.
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  Bound to the Wheel.
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  The Lion in the Path.


_BY KATHARINE SAUNDERS._

  Joan Merryweather.
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  Sebastian.


_BY T. W. SPEIGHT._

The Mysteries of Heron Dyke.


_BY R. A. STERNDALE._

The Afghan Knife.


_BY BERTHA THOMAS._

  Proud Maisie.
  Cressida.
  The Violin-Player.


_BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE._

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  Marion Fay.
  Kept In the Dark.
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  Like Ships upon the Sea.
  Anne Furness.
  Mabel’s Progress.


_BY IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c._

Stories from Foreign Novelists.


_BY SARAH TYTLER._

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_BY C. C. FRASER-TYTLER._

Mistress Judith.


_BY J. S. WINTER._

Regimental Legends.




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_BY EDMOND ABOUT._

The Fellah.


_BY HAMILTON AÏDÉ._

  Carr of Carrlyon.
  Confidences.


_BY MRS. ALEXANDER._

  Maid, Wife, or Widow?
  Valerie’s Fate.


_BY GRANT ALLEN._

  Strange Stories.
  Philistia.


_BY BASIL._

  A Drawn Game.
  “The Wearing of the Green.”


_BY SHELSLEY BEAUCHAMP._

Grantley Grange.


_BY W. BESANT & JAMES RICE._

  Ready-Money Mortiboy.
  With Harp and Crown.
  This Son of Vulcan.
  My Little Girl.
  The Case of Mr. Lucraft.
  The Golden Butterfly.
  By Celia’s Arbour.
  The Monks of Thelema.
  ’Twas In Trafalgar’s Bay.
  The Seamy Side.
  The Ten Years’ Tenant.
  The Chaplain of the Fleet.


_BY WALTER BESANT._

  All Sorts and Conditions of Men.
  The Captains’ Room.
  All in a Garden Fair.
  Dorothy Forster.
  Uncle Jack.


_BY FREDERICK BOYLE._

  Camp Notes.
  Savage Life.
  Chronicles of No-man’s Land.


_BY BRET HARTE._

  An Heiress of Red Dog.
  The Luck of Roaring Camp.
  Californian Stories.
  Gabriel Conroy.
  Flip.
  Maruja.


_BY ROBERT BUCHANAN._

  The Shadow of the Sword.
  A Child of Nature.
  God and the Man.
  Love Me for Ever.
  Foxglove Manor.
  The Martyrdom of Madeline.
  Annan Water.
  The New Abelard.
  Matt.


_BY MRS. BURNETT._

Surly Tim.


_BY HALL CAINE._

The Shadow of a Crime.


_BY MRS. LOVETT CAMERON._

  Deceivers Ever.
  Juliet’s Guardian.


_BY MACLAREN COBBAN._

The Cure of Souls.


_BY C. ALLSTON COLLINS._

The Bar Sinister.


_BY WILKIE COLLINS._

  Antonina.
  Basil.
  Hide and Seek.
  The Dead Secret.
  Queen of Hearts.
  My Miscellanies.
  Woman In White.
  The Moonstone.
  Man and Wife.
  Poor Miss Finch.
  Miss or Mrs.?
  New Magdalen.
  The Frozen Deep.
  Law and the Lady.
  The Two Destinies.
  Haunted Hotel.
  The Fallen Leaves.
  Jezebel’s Daughter.
  The Black Robe.
  Heart and Science.
  “I Say No.”


_BY MORTIMER COLLINS._

  Sweet Anne Page.
  Transmigration.
  A Fight with Fortune.
  From Midnight to Midnight.


_MORTIMER & FRANCES COLLINS._

  Sweet and Twenty.
  Blacksmith and Scholar.
  The Village Comedy.
  You Play me False.
  Frances.


_BY DUTTON COOK._

  Leo.
  Paul Foster’s Daughter.


_BY C. EGBERT CRADDOCK._

The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.


_BY WILLIAM CYPLES._

Hearts of Gold.


_BY ALPHONSE DAUDET._

The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation.


_BY JAMES DE MILLE._

A Castle in Spain.


_BY J. LEITH DERWENT._

  Our Lady of Tears.
  Circe’s Lovers.


_BY CHARLES DICKENS._

  Sketches by Boz.
  Pickwick Papers.
  Oliver Twist.
  Nicholas Nickleby.


_BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDES._

  A Point of Honour.
  Archie Lovell.


_BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS._

  Felicia.
  Kitty.


_BY EDWARD EGGLESTON._

Roxy.


_BY PERCY FITZGERALD._

  Bella Donna.
  The Second Mrs. Tillotson.
  Polly.
  Seventy-five Brooke Street.
  The Lady of Brantome.
  Never Forgotten.


_BY ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE._

Filthy Lucre.


_BY R. E. FRANCILLON._

  Olympia.
  One by One.
  Queen Cophetua.
  A Real Queen.

_Prefaced by Sir H. BARTLE FRERE._

Pandurang Hari.


_BY HAIN FRISWELL._

One of Two.


_BY EDWARD GARRETT._

The Capel Girls.


_BY CHARLES GIBBON._

  Robin Gray.
  For Lack of Gold.
  What will the World Say?
  In Honour Bound.
  The Dead Heart.
  In Love and War.
  For the King.
  In Pastures Green.
  Queen of the Meadow.
  The Flower of the Forest.
  A Heart’s Problem.
  The Braes of Yarrow.
  The Golden Shaft.
  Of High Degree.
  Fancy Free.
  By Mead and Stream.


_BY WILLIAM GILBERT._

  Dr. Austin’s Guests.
  The Wizard of the Mountain.
  James Duke.


_BY JAMES GREENWOOD._

Dick Temple.


_BY ANDREW HALLIDAY._

Every-Day Papers.


_BY LADY DUFFUS HARDY._

Paul Wynter’s Sacrifice.


_BY THOMAS HARDY._

Under the Greenwood Tree.


_BY J. BERWICK HARWOOD._

The Tenth Earl.


_BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE._

  Garth.
  Sebastian Strome.
  Ellice Quentin.
  Dust.
  Prince Saroni’s Wife.
  Fortune’s Fool.
  Beatrix Randolph.


_BY SIR ARTHUR HELPS._

Ivan de Biron.


_BY MRS. CASHEL HOEY._

The Lover’s Creed.


_BY TOM HOOD._

A Golden Heart.


_BY MRS. GEORGE HOOPER._

The House of Raby.


_BY VICTOR HUGO._

The Hunchback of Notre Dame.


_BY MRS. ALFRED HUNT._

  Thornicroft’s Model.
  The Leaden Casket.
  Self-Condemned.


_BY JEAN INGELOW._

Fated to be Free.


_BY HARRIETT JAY._

  The Dark Colleen.
  The Queen of Connaught.


_BY HENRY KINGSLEY._

  Oakshott Castle.
  Number Seventeen.


_BY E. LYNN LINTON._

  Patricia Kemball.
  The Atonement of Leam Dundas.
  The World Well Lost.
  Under which Lord?
  With a Silken Thread.
  The Rebel of the Family.
  “My Love”
  Ione.


_BY HENRY W. LUCY._

Gideon Fleyce.


_BY JUSTIN McCARTHY, M.P._

  Dear Lady Disdain.
  The Waterdale Neighbours.
  My Enemy’s Daughter.
  A Fair Saxon.
  Linley Rochford.
  Miss Misanthrope.
  Donna Quixote.
  The Comet of a Season.
  Maid of Athens.


_BY GEORGE MACDONALD._

  Paul Faber, Surgeon.
  Thomas Wingfold, Curate.


_BY MRS. MACDONELL._

Quaker Cousins.


_BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID._

  The Evil Eye.
  Lost Rose.


_BY W. H. MALLOCK._

The New Republic.


_BY FLORENCE MARRYAT._

  Open! Sesame.
  A Harvest of Wild Oats.
  A Little Stepson.
  Fighting the Air.
  Written In Fire.


_BY J. MASTERMAN._

Half a Dozen Daughters.


_BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS._

  Touch and Go.
  Mr. Dorillion.


_BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY._

  A Life’s Atonement.
  A Model Father.
  Joseph’s Coat.
  Coals of Fire.
  By the Gate of the Sea.
  Val Strange.
  Hearts.
  The Way of the World.
  A Bit of Human Nature.


_BY ALICE O’HANLON._

The Unforeseen.


_BY MRS. OLIPHANT._

Whiteladies.


_BY MRS. ROBERT O’REILLY._

Phœbe’s Fortunes.


_BY OUIDA._

  Held In Bondage.
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  Chandos.
  Under Two Flags.
  Idalia.
  Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage.
  Tricotrin.
  Puck.
  Folle Farine.
  A Dog of Flanders.
  Pascarel.
  Signa.
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  Two Little Wooden Shoes.
  In a Winter City.
  Ariadne.
  Friendship.
  Moths.
  Pipistrello.
  A Village Commune.
  Bimbi.
  In Maremma.
  Wanda.
  Frescoes.


_MARGARET AGNES PAUL._

Gentle and Simple.


_BY JAMES PAYN._

  Lost Sir Massingberd.
  A Perfect Treasure.
  Bentinck’s Tutor.
  Murphy’s Master.
  A County Family.
  At Her Mercy.
  A Woman’s Vengeance.
  Cecil’s Tryst.
  Clyffards of Clyffe.
  The Family Scapegrace.
  Foster Brothers.
  Found Dead.
  Best of Husbands.
  Walter’s Word.
  Halves.
  Fallen Fortunes.
  What He Cost Her.
  Humorous Stories.
  Gwendoline’s Harvest.
  £200 Reward.
  Like Father, Like Son.
  A Marine Residence.
  Married Beneath Him.
  Mirk Abbey.
  Not Wooed, but Won.
  Less Black than We’re Painted.
  By Proxy.
  Under One Roof.
  High Spirits.
  Carlyon’s Year.
  A Confidential Agent.
  Some Private Views.
  From Exile.
  A Grape from a Thorn.
  For Cash Only.
  Kit: A Memory.
  The Canon’s Ward.


_BY EDGAR A. POE._

The Mystery of Marie Roget.


_BY E. C. PRICE._

  Valentina.
  Mrs. Lancaster’s Rival.
  Gerald.
  The Foreigners.


_BY CHARLES READE._

  It Is Never Too Late to Mend.
  Hard Cash.
  Peg Woffington.
  Christie Johnstone.
  Griffith Gaunt.
  Put Yourself in His Place.
  The Double Marriage.
  Love Me Little, Love Me Long.
  Foul Play.
  The Cloister and the Hearth.
  The Course of True Love.
  Autobiography of a Thief.
  A Terrible Temptation.
  The Wandering Heir.
  A Simpleton.
  A Woman-Hater.
  Readiana.
  The Jilt.
  Singleheart and Doubleface.
  Good Stories of Men and other Animals.


_BY MRS. J. H. RIDDELL._

  Her Mother’s Darling.
  Prince of Wales’s Garden-Party.
  Weird Stories.
  The Uninhabited House.
  Fairy Water.


_BY F. W. ROBINSON._

  Women are Strange.
  The Hands of Justice.


_BY JAMES RUNCIMAN._

  Skippers and Shellbacks.
  Grace Balmaign’s Sweetheart.


_BY W. CLARK RUSSELL._

  Round the Galley Fire.
  On the Fo’k’sle Head.


_BY BAYLE ST. JOHN._

A Levantine Family.


_BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA._

Gaslight and Daylight.


_BY JOHN SAUNDERS._

  Bound to the Wheel.
  One Against the World.
  Guy Waterman.
  The Lion in the Path.
  Two Dreamers.


_BY KATHARINE SAUNDERS._

  Joan Merryweather.
  Margaret and Elizabeth.
  The High Mills.


_BY GEORGE R. SIMS._

  Rogues and Vagabonds.
  The Ring o’ Bells.


_BY ARTHUR SKETCHLEY._

A Match in the Dark.


_BY T. W. SPEIGHT._

The Mysteries of Heron Dyke.


_BY R. A. STERNDALE._

The Afghan Knife.


_BY R. LOUIS STEVENSON._

  New Arabian Nights.
  Prince Otto.


_BY BERTHA THOMAS._

  Cressida.
  Proud Maisie.
  The Violin-Player.


_BY W. MOY THOMAS._

A Fight for Life.


_BY WALTER THORNBURY._

Tales for the Marines.


_BY T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE._

Diamond Cut Diamond.


_BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE._

  The Way We Live Now.
  The American Senator.
  Frau Frohmann.
  Marion Fay.
  Kept in the Dark.
  Mr. Scarborough’s Family.
  The Land-Leaguers.
  The Golden Lion of Granpere.
  John Caldigate.


_BY FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPE_

  Like Ships upon the Sea.
  Anne Furness.
  Mabel’s Progress.


_BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE._

Farnell’s Folly.


_BY IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c._

Stories from Foreign Novelists.


_BY MARK TWAIN._

  Tom Sawyer.
  An Idle Excursion.
  A Pleasure Trip on the Continent of Europe.
  A Tramp Abroad.
  The Stolen White Elephant.


_BY C. C. FRASER-TYTLER._

Mistress Judith.


_BY SARAH TYTLER._

  What She Came Through.
  The Bride’s Pass.
  Saint Mungo’s City.
  Beauty and the Beast.


_BY J. S. WINTER._

  Cavalry Life.
  Regimental Legends.


_BY LADY WOOD._

Sabina.


_BY EDMUND YATES._

  Castaway.
  The Forlorn Hope.
  Land at Last.


_ANONYMOUS._

  Paul Ferroll.
  Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife.


POPULAR SHILLING BOOKS.

    Jeff Briggs’s Love Story. By Bret Harte.

    The Twins of Table Mountain. By Bret Harte.

    Mrs. Gainsborough’s Diamonds. By Julian Hawthorne.

    Kathleen Mavourneen. By Author of “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s.”

    Lindsay’s Luck. By the Author of “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s.”

    Pretty Polly Pemberton. By the Author of “That Lass o’
    Lowrie’s.”

    Trooping with Crows. By Mrs. Pirkis.

    The Professor’s Wife. By Leonard Graham.

    A Double Bond. By Linda Villari.

    Esther’s Glove. By R. E. Francillon.

    The Garden that Paid the Rent. By Tom Jerrold.

    Curly. By John Coleman. Illustrated by J. C.
    Dollman.

    Beyond the Gates. By E. S. Phelps.

    An Old Maid’s Paradise. By E. S. Phelps.

    Doom: An Atlantic Episode. By Justin H. MacCarthy, M.P.

    Our Sensation Novel. Edited by Justin H. MacCarthy,
    M.P.

    A Barren Title. By T. W. Speight.

    The Silverado Squatters. By R. Louis Stevenson.


J. OGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHN STREET E.C.




Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69580 ***