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_Shavings
&
Scrapes_
_FROM MANY PARTS_
BY
Jules Joubert
There was a time when meadows, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight, to me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light—
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore,
Turn wheresoe’r I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen are now no more.
WORDSWORTH’S “_Recollections of Early Childhood_.”
DUNEDIN
J. WILKIE AND CO.
PRINCES STREET
1890
_Dedicated to_
_The Members of the Savage Club_,
_Dunedin, N. Z._,
_1889_,
_BY_
_The Author_.
CONTENTS.
EARLY SCRAPES.
A Stray Shot 1
Peep of Day 4
Chips from an Old Log 9
First Lesson in Finance 15
Robinson Crusoe Realised 20
Maoriland 25
EARLY AUSTRALIAN SHAVINGS.
Sydney in 1839 32
The Gold Fever 37
Some Bushrangers I Have Known 41
How Money Used to be Made 49
NEW CALEDONIA.
Taking Possession: “Tit for Tat” 53
“He who Fights and Runs Away” 56
Another Narrow Squeak 60
A South Sea Trip 63
NEW SOUTH WALES.
A Few Old Identities 69
A Land Speculation 75
A Hard Knock 79
Home, Sweet Home 83
Antipodean Gratitude 88
CEYLON.
Grains of Singalese Sand 92
The Paraherra 96
“Hamlet” Under Difficulties 103
An Elephant Hunt 106
A Matrimonial “Scrape” 113
The Tree of Life 131
A Water Party in the Garden of Eden 145
INDIA.
Madras 155
The Ganges 158
Calcutta 162
The Denizens of the Jungle 169
Sanctimonious 173
The Calcutta Exhibition 180
A Tramp Through India 184
Benares—the Sacred City 196
Through the Central Provinces 200
Princely Hospitality 206
Indian Sports 211
HOME, “DEAR” HOME 224
The Christening.
[Illustration]
In one of the first chapters of Charles Dickens’ “Nicholas Nickleby”
he gives a very amusing description of the family conclave held to
decide upon the name of the newborn infant.
I am now in the same dilemma.
It is very well to say that “A rose will smell quite as sweet,” &c.,
&c., and that there is nothing in a name. On this point I must agree
to differ.
When I wrote this book I had fixed upon “Ups and Downs”—my publisher
tells me that there is already in existence a book under that name.
“A Random Shot” met with a similar objection. A score more attempts
proved equally fruitless—“Too long,” “Too short,” “Won’t do”—until I
made up my mind to translate it into French and call it “Sans nom,”
which after all would be most appropriate.
Owing no doubt to perplexity, a homicidal fit came upon me. My fire
was being lit: my M.S. laid before me. It struck me that after all it
would serve admirably to kindle a flame.
My servant entered with the coal scuttle and some shavings. This saved
my paper. “SAVED”!! I cried. I had a name at last: “Shavings and
Scrapes”—original, though slightly _Barber_ous. “Shavings” it is, and
“Shavings” it shall be.
As you see, the christening was a private affair, settled _au coin du
feu_.
But for this timely assistance the book would have made a blaze, it is
true, and my literary effort would have ended in SMOKE.
J. J.
[Illustration]
EARLY SCRAPES.
[Illustration]
I.
_A STRAY SHOT._
What is life? A perpetual see-saw with fortune—man at one end, the
fickle jade at the other.
A feather at times turns the balance. In my case, an ounce of lead has
disturbed the equilibrium of the fortunes of many lives.
Descended from men of war, I have become most essentially a man of
peace.
Still, when that most popular of all toasts, “The Army and Navy,” is
proposed, it stirs up the old leaven which still permeates the blood
that came to me with the name I inherited from my sires.
My paternal grandfather had two sons, one a soldier, the younger a
sailor. The latter is answerable for my sins—if I have ever committed
any.
The vicissitudes of life are strange, bordering at times on fiction.
During the war France had to wage against almost every other nation
in Europe to defend her soil from the invasion instigated by a fallen
monarchy against the Republican element which originated in 1789,
an army, spontaneously raised from her “people,” crossed the Alps,
carrying the tricolor flag into Italy, where many hard battles were
fought.
These strangely composed, ill clad, badly fed, ragged hordes of French
soldiers were led to victory by two young, inexperienced generals—both
ambitious, energetic men—the younger, General Bonaparte, in whom
the “Directoire” possessed a dangerous enemy of the Republic; the
senior, my uncle, whose special mission was to watch the impetuous
Corsican and counter-balance the evident sway and influence he was
daily gaining over the young army by the daring of his actions and
electrifying effect of those short, pithy allocutions he invariably
made to the soldiers whom he sometimes so rashly led to death—but
always to victory. During the Italian campaign the two young leaders
vied with each other in their efforts to drill and train the
undisciplined battalions, recruited and enlisted on the Champ de Mars,
in Paris, during the terrible period so graphically termed the “Reign
of Terror.”
From the victories gained in Italy originated that wonderful army
whose glorious deeds have placed France foremost as a military Power.
During one of the most decisive battles on the fields of Novi, after a
days’ hard fighting, and when the victory once more had smiled on his
flag, my uncle fell, shot through the heart. When his body, carried
reverently by his staff, was brought to his tent, a sealed packet was
found on the General’s camp-table—a packet containing an official
order from the “Directoire” to assume the supreme command of the
French army!
What changes in the destinies of Europe have resulted from this
stray shot! Two men then ruling the armies of France—one a staunch
Republican, seeking only the welfare of his country; the other an
ambitious _parvenu_, ever ready to sacrifice the lives of hundreds of
thousands to his own aggrandisement. Who can say what might have been
the result had Bonaparte fallen instead of his brother officer?
I only refer to this episode in the early history of the family whence
I spring because I consider that it very likely had to a great extent
a direct influence on my after life, even though it occurred a quarter
of a century before I made my first appearance in this wicked world.
It gave rise to a jealous feeling in my father’s heart and led him to
leave the navy.
Soon after Napoleon became the ruler of the French Empire, my father,
like the Roman of old, exchanged the sword for the plough. Instead
of making a name in the naval engagements of Aboukir or Trafalgar he
devoted his life to a quieter and perhaps better purpose—the drainage
of the then pestilential morasses of Medoc, which have since acquired
a world-wide fame for the production of some of the best wines in the
south of France.
In some of the libraries of my native country some useful works are to
be found on the culture of the vine, the drainage of land in the south
of France, as well as a treatise on artesian wells, which was one of
my father’s hobbies—the first of these useful perforations having been
made in Medoc, and ultimately the great artesian well of Grenelle, in
Paris.
II.
_PEEP OF DAY._
Having so far established the genealogy of the author, it might be
as well to bring him to the fore, and to state that on the 31st day
of July, 1824, I made my _entrée_ at Angoulême, one of the prettiest
towns in France—a town now seldom visited by tourists, owing to
its peculiar position on the summit of a sugar-loaf-shaped hill,
almost surrounded by the river Charente—too steep for a railway.
The engineers who planned the iron road in that locality avoided
Angoulême, so that even in this age of progress my native town is,
I may say, what it was when I left it many, many years ago—a quiet,
unpretentious city, merely known by the paper mills, which afford the
principal item of trade of its inhabitants. These mills, in the early
part of the present century, belonged to my grandfather; and to this
day the water lines on the paper manufactured at Angoulême bear the
names “Laroche-Joubert,” the former family having intermarried with
ours.
Earlier than it is usual now to put a youth to school, I was
sent to Bordeaux, and made to plough up Latin and Greek under a
most strict and overbearing taskmaster. In those days the easy
hours and lazy system of education now in vogue were unknown.
Strict discipline—such, indeed, as would now cause a mutiny in a
penitentiary—was considered the right and proper treatment in the best
regulated schools. Even Dickens has been mild in his description of
scholastic comforts.
I confess that I little relished the scanty food, the corporeal
punishment, and long dreary hours spent at my first school at Bordeaux.
The system of schooling now in vogue may—and I feel sure, does—bring
about quite as good a result as far as education is concerned; but I
still think that the discipline and hardship of the old system had
its beneficial effects. I have still a strong impression of those
old days, when the first bell used to wake us at 6 A.M., winter
and summer; ten minutes allowed to dress; marched to a trough of
iced water, in winter, for ablutions; then into a cold, dreary
schoolroom—each boy provided with a tallow dip to lighten the darkness
of his desk—where, with fingers benumbed with cold, he had to dive
into “Æsop” or “Cornelius Nepos,” translate Homer and Virgil on an
empty stomach, and with heavy eye-lids, until 8 o’clock, when a slice
of dry bread and very much christened milk of doubtful origin would
be handed over on our way to the playground. Thus fortified we had to
wait till 11 for a _déjeuner à la fourchette_, worse than that I have
often seen placed before vagrants in the soup kitchens of Sydney or
Melbourne. Such treatment, however, was “quite the thing” fifty years
ago. It not only sharpened the appetite—it sharpened the “wits” of
young “gentlemen.”
Being one of the youngest and smallest of boys in Mons. Worms’ school,
I had to submit to the will of my seniors. The private store of our
schoolmaster was in a large room on the upper floor. The skylight of
our dormitories enabled us to have access to the roof, and by dint
of a clothes line a small boy could readily be lowered through the
chimney into this receptacle of jam pots, tinned sardines, and other
delicacies.
What my elders (whose _education_ was more advanced) conceived, I had
to execute. Being lowered into the store-room to secure “goodies” for
my mates seemed quite a heroic achievement. This systematic burglary
we carried on for some time, until one fine evening the line snapped.
I dropped into the fireplace with a crash which brought in one of the
ushers. A trial—when, all attempts to make me disclose the names of my
companions having proved fruitless, I was sentenced to expulsion from
the school.
This scandalous beginning in the world, and ignominious exit from my
first school, though very disgraceful, have not been altogether devoid
of good results. I have ever since been fully impressed with several
important facts—First, that burglaries in the long run don’t pay;
second, that it is safer to get into a room by the door than through
the chimney; third, it is always better to lower someone else after
“goodies” than to be lowered one’s self; and last, though not least,
that it is not safe to trust one’s body to a hemp rope. It may have
been the means of keeping me from more mischief—who knows?
I, however, hailed with delight my removal to the College Bourbon in
Paris, where, as a day pupil, I could enjoy the comforts of “home”
when my day’s college work came to an end.
It was there that I became personally acquainted with many whose
names have since become famous in French history, having for several
years sat on the same form with A. Dumas (_fils_), Clavel, Leon Say,
Phillipeaux Brénier; and, at the annual examinations, the sons of our
monarch, Louis Philippe—the Ducs d’Aumale and Montpensier—schoolmates
whom I had the good fortune to meet again in Paris in 1878, after many
years of a rambling life in the Southern Hemisphere.
My eldest brother took it into his head to start for Australia in
1837. I was much engrossed by the fuss all our friends made with him
when he left for what was then considered the confines of the world;
his letters describing the voyage, his landing, and the prospects of
this new world so preyed on my mind that I at once decided to follow
in his tracks.
Communications, however, were not quite as frequent in those days
as they are now. Instead of a thirty-five days’ passage on board a
floating palace, a trip to Australia meant close imprisonment for
eleven or twelve months in a wooden tub of three or four hundred tons,
with hard biscuit and salt junk, and perhaps an occasional meal of
tinned beef and preserved potatoes, washed down with a draught of
putrid water, often doled out in very minute portions. All these were
thoroughly put before me to cool down my travelling proclivities. But,
on the other hand, most of the visitors at home were old shipmates
of my father’s—Dumont-Durville, Laplace, Berard—all eminent French
navigators, who had followed Cook and Lapeyrouse’s ships in the
Pacific—so that, whilst one ear listened to the words of caution and
“Home, Sweet Home,” sung to me by the female portion of the household,
the other, like gentle Desdemona’s, heard our visitors tell
Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent, deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery. . . .
And of the cannibals that each other eat—
The Anthropophagi— . . .
In faith ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange.
The more welcome tales of adventures across the sea became prominent
in my mind and eventually carried the day. Once my mind was set on
going, I left no stone unturned to make a start. At the instigation
of our sailor friends, and with their assistance, I obtained from
the then _Ministre de la Marine_, also a friend of my father—Admiral
Duperré—a passage on board the corvette Heroine, which was going to
make a voyage round the world, and, _en passant_, to carry to the Bay
of Islands some Church ornaments and ecclesiastical garments sent
by the Queen of the French—the sainted wife of Louis Phillipe—to
Monseigneur Pompallier, Catholic Bishop of New Zealand.
[Illustration]
III.
_CHIPS FROM AN OLD LOG._
On the 1st of May, 1839, before daybreak—having only been a few hours
on board the Heroine—an unusual noise and turmoil gave me the first
idea of the life of a “_passager civil_” on board a man-of-war.
My hammock was hung close to the gun-room in the gun-deck, where 32
caronades and 250 Jack-tars shared with me that rather close and murky
dormitory, which at a given signal from the boatswain’s whistle had to
be cleared of hammocks, washed, holystoned, and mopped—all before 5
A.M.
This, I may say, was an operation commenced on that first morning an
hour earlier than usual, owing to the fact that “Saint Philippe” being
the patron saint of the King of the French, and the first of May being
the birthday of the said saint (a fact I am not prepared to vouch
for), the whole of the fleet at anchor in the port of Brest would
thunder a royal salute at sunrise, in which our ship could not take
part, as in those benighted days it was thought that the firing of 21
guns might cause a deviation of the chronometers.
It appears that an order received during the night—to clear out before
daylight—had to be obeyed, so we weighed anchor and put out to sea.
It was a rough, miserable day. I had hardly managed to hurry on my
clothes before the Heroine commenced to toss and pitch as only a
heavily-gunned frigate can do in a short, heavy sea with half a gale
blowing in her teeth.
I shall never forget an eventful night in the Bay of Biscay, when
the frigate was rolling heavily from side to side. One of the racks
between the caronades gave way under the weight of the eight or ten
thirty-two pound shots it held. These cannon balls were of course sent
rolling from starboard to port with increased velocity, threatening
in their progress to knock the sides of the ship into splinters. The
watch was piped down to stop this mischief, but the task was not
an easy one. The men had only the dim light of lanterns to see the
very lively balls, and stopping them in their mad career was fraught
with much danger; indeed, before they were all secured, several poor
fellows had to be carried into the hospital with bruised and broken
limbs.
I must confess that had it been possible on that and the following
few days to have changed places with the only brother I had left
comfortably quartered under the paternal roof, these pages would never
have been penned in New Zealand, and he, poor fellow, would have
escaped the tragical death he met with in the trenches at Sebastopol
during the Crimean war, where he fell mortally wounded at the head of
his company, the 11th Artillery.
Youth and a healthy constitution soon overcame the effects of the _mal
de mer_. The Heroine was the smartest sailer in the French navy. Our
orders were to keep in the wake of an admiral’s ship—“La Gloire”—sent
to Rio de Janeiro to arrange matters in connection with the intended
marriage of the Prince de Joinville with the sister of Don Pedro,
Emperor of Brazil. Whilst tossing in the Bay of Biscay, and in order
to keep at a respectful distance astern of the admiral’s ship, our
commander—a knowing old salt, well versed in seamanship—well aware
that the best qualities of his frigate were under easy sail, crammed
on as much canvas as she could stagger under. This manœuvre brought
out a signal from La Gloire to reduce sail and “rendezvous” at the
entrance of Rio harbour. This, happening at sunset, was at once acted
upon. During the night, under reduced sail, we forged ahead, so that
when daylight came the admiral’s ship was almost hull-down astern of
the Heroine. A quarter-master came to the skipper saying that the
Gloire had hoisted our number, and was signalling fresh orders. “Who
told you to look astern, sir?” said the captain. “You deserve to lose
a week’s grog for being so officious. Go on the fore-castle and see if
there are any breakers ahead; leave it to me to watch the admiral’s
signals!” The fact is the old boy wanted to call at the Azores to take
in a supply of wine for his and the gun-room table; he knew well that
as soon as the heavy pressure of canvas was taken off, the gallant
ship would displace less water under her bows, and could give the
flag-ship one mile in three.
Thanks to this dodge, we spent a few days at Madeira and Teneriffe,
where I received my first idea of semi-tropical climate, vegetation,
and manners.
By this time, though not much of a sailor, I had got over the nauseous
feeling, and got somewhat used to the “hard tack” called food, served
twice a day to the midshipmens’ mess, where I was quartered.
Two meals of half a kilogramme of biscuit, as hard as cast-iron and
quite as dark in colour; half a pint of haricots or broad beans
alternately, which, I should think, were bought at the sale of surplus
stores of Noah’s ark after she stranded on Mount Ararat; salt beef
or pork, quite as ancient; and oh! such water!—the stench of it made
the washing of one’s hands in it a punishment. Yet we had to drink
it, together with the _Vin de campagne_—a bluish mixture which would
have been most acceptable to Messrs Day and Martin for the dilution
of their celebrated blacking, but certainly rejected with contempt by
Cross and Blackwell for pickling purposes.
What a treat it was to land at Funchal and Teneriffe! Shall I ever
forget the delicious treat to rush into a cook-shop and “tuck in” a
regular “burster” of white bread, fresh meat, and fruit. Of the latter
I made, of course, an ample provision—returning on board with baskets
of oranges, bananas, &c. Alas! I had to learn that in a man-of-war,
in the year _A.D._ 1839, a passenger was a kind of incubus—looked
upon as a nuisance—an object everlastingly in everybody’s way—without
a cabin, a locker, a place to resort to, barring the hammock devoted
to his use from 8 p.m. till 6 a.m. next day. The consequence was that
all my stores of “goodies” were summarily seized by, and devoured in,
the midshipmens’ mess, who, less favoured, had not been allowed even
a scamper on shore.
Prior to embarkation my father’s last words were—“A few months on
board one of His Majesty’s ships will give you an idea of the world.”
Most truly had he spoken. Barely one month from the parental roof, I
had already acquired some experience. I already found out that a sea
life was not _couleur de rose_, as I had painted it in imagination.
The petty tyranny of my messmates soon knocked out of me all boyish,
nursery, and even college notions of self-importance.
The Peak of Teneriffe was soon lost in the far horizon; the gallant
ship, once more under canvas, sped her course through lovely weather,
shaping a direct course for the South American coast. Gradually
getting accustomed to what at first seemed a hard life, making good
friends in the gun-room—more especially with our portly head surgeon
and the purser, to whose kindness I was indebted for leave to use the
surgery and the clerk’s room, as well as the free run of the ship’s
library—time hung less wearily. Besides, we were nearing the Brazilian
shores. The land breeze every evening wafted to sea the balmy-scented
air of orange groves; all eyes strained throughout the day to follow
the varied indentations of distant ranges. We passed daily a number of
quaintly rigged vessels and coast boats.
At last we reached our rendezvous with the Gloire, and paid the
penalty of our treachery. She was not there, and for five dreary long
days we had to tack off and on in view of one of the most lovely
harbours in the world, scanning the blue line of the sky for the
pennant of the old admiral. He came at last—his pride in finding
the Heroine newly painted, scrubbed, and in every plank, spar, or
rigging—a perfect picture of neat, trim beauty—made him overlook the
otherwise unpardonable sin of having out-sailed his old boat.
[Illustration]
IV.
_FIRST LESSON IN FINANCE._
We sailed into port together, simultaneously fired our royal
salute, and cast anchor among several scores of ships of war of all
nationalities, with whom visits of naval etiquette were exchanged
for several days, keeping our poor gunners busy from daylight till
dark. As I often thought at the time, if our chronometers could not
withstand 21 guns on the Saint Philippe’s day two months before, their
condition after our firing at Rio must have been sadly affected. But I
suppose, like myself, they had by this time got their “sea-legs,” and
consequently did not mind a slight jerking.
The captain did me the honour of taking me with him when he made
a call on board the Gloire—to my great delight I found that the
admiral was a friend of my father’s. I was kept on board to dine
with the “great man,” and from that day got my “promotion” amongst
my messmates and the gun-room officers of our own ship. Ahem! the
friend of the admiral! The sequel was, that wherever our captain went
this individual followed—aye, even to that most lovely of all royal
palaces, the Emperor’s country house at San Cristopho, where the
despatches of the King of the French were delivered to H.I. Majesty
Don Pedro—then a fat boy of twenty odd years—who received “Us” most
graciously, and introduced us to his two lovely sisters—one the
Duchesse de Joinville _in prospective_. From that day until our
departure from that charming country, every hour of the day—even
very, very late at night—was taken up by parties, balls, pic-nics,
excursions, visiting—a perfect and endless carnival of gaieties, on
shore or on board the ships of the station.
I must not omit two incidents which even now I recall with a certain
amount of amusement. It seems but yesterday that in order to seal
for ever the truce my friends the middies had granted on my return
from the first visit to the admiral, I invited our mess—nine young,
hairbrained, jolly fellows—to dine with me on shore at Faroux’s
hotel, the crack place in Rio in those days. I had still in my bag a
few hundred francs left from the small store of pocket money given
to me at the start. This—the largest amount of cash I had ever been
blessed with—gave me sufficient _aplomb_ to order a first-rate dinner,
a variety of choice wines—even that forbidden luxury to our mess,
champagne—liqueurs, coffee, and cigars!
This grand feast was a decided success—until the head waiter placed
before me “the Bill,” with a total showing FIVE figures in its first
column! If ever a poor boy’s digestion after a good dinner received a
disturbing shock, it did on that occasion. I sat in a perfect state
of amazement! As the dinner progressed I had gradually risen in the
estimation of my guests, until I had with the “pop” of the last bottle
of “fizz,” reached the apogee of glory. What could be done? Appeal to
my guests to pay for the feast?—there was no other alternative. I put
on as bold a front as I could, and went through with it. My appeal
_in forma pauperis_ was received with apparent good grace. It was
proposed, seconded and carried that I should order a bedroom to be
prepared and a breakfast for say five next morning, when four of the
middies would attend, bringing with them the necessary funds to pay
_all_ expenses.
Relieved of my first monetary embarrassment, I retired to my solitary
chamber to meditate on the extravagance of a fast life. After a
long night of mature cogitations—and many grateful mental thanks
to my generously-disposed messmates—the four young rascals made
their appearance to share the delicate breakfast prepared at their
instigation. When coffee was served, the youngest, E. Dubois (now
a hoary-headed old professor of mathematics at the Naval School
at Toulon) rose, and in—to them—a most amusing speech, gave me to
understand that _mil reis_ represented only 2f. 75c. (£0 2s. 3d.), so
that the dinner, the bed, and the breakfast we had just despatched
with true midshipman’s appetite, only absorbed a portion of my
pocket-money (£6)! But, as he said in conclusion, “Dear boy, you can
still face the world boldly. Though ignorant of the value of foreign
coins—which proves that your mathematical education has been sadly
neglected—you can pay all your creditors twenty shillings in the
pound; and you have the satisfaction to think that you have treated
your mess royally.” This, and the amount of “chaff” I was met with
on board, had to be got over. It was soon done in the turmoil of
festivities I have already mentioned.
My young madcap friends, however, having once tasted of the forbidden
fruit—a dinner at a swell hotel—decided upon calling a meeting of all
the middies in harbour to get up an “International Farewell Dinner.”
Alas! my last coin had to be parted with. But had I not to keep up an
appearance? If you can imagine a large banquet hall—between sixty-five
and seventy young scapegraces, ranging from 14 to 17 years of age,
promiscuously sitting around a handsomely decorated table—English,
French, Germans, Americans, Dutch, Italians, Spaniards, Greeks,
Egyptians—all mixed up together, not two out of the lot able to
understand a word of his neighbour’s language on either side of him.
For the first half hour it was very much like a Quaker’s meeting.
Nothing was heard beyond the clatter of knives and forks, broken by
occasional calls from one to another across the board. But what a
strange power champagne has on the human intellect! We sat down at
7 sharp; at 8.30 we were all talking to one another; at 11 I was
strolling down the Rua del Ovidor arm-in-arm with a Russian on the
right and a Dutchman on the left, exchanging ideas on the most knotty
points of international naval legislation; and next morning woke up in
the swing cot of a Dutch frigate, whilst my Russian friend had somehow
got into my hammock on board the Heroine.
We all suffered from intense headaches—owing, no doubt, to the great
pressure on the brain caused by the “polyglot” experiment of the
previous night.
The two incidents have, however, had a beneficial effect. I have
learned the comparative value of the various foreign coins, and have
never since attempted to understand more than _one_ foreign language
at one time, even with the assistance of Moet’s champagne.
Our stay in this lovely Brazilian capital at last came to and end. A
few days after our international “spree” we were coursing for the Cape
of Good Hope, where we made a stay of only three days—just enough to
visit the Table Mountain and spend a night at Mr. Cloetê’s celebrated
vineyard. From Cape Town to Madagascar we had it about as rough as
they make it. I often thought the poor old Heroine would be swallowed
up in the trough of the mountainous seas we met with, but the good old
boat made pretty good weather of it on the whole.
Madagascar, being the first real “nigger” country I had seen, was
a source of great interest to me; and I have often regretted that
time did not admit of visiting the interior or hilly portion of that
magnificent island. Unfortunately, a man-of-war’s route is mapped
out in the offices of the _Ministre de la Marine_, and when the
hour sounded for us to weigh anchor and up with the “jib” there was
no “jibbing” against it; and a few days later we sighted the twin
islands—Mauritius and Bourbon—and visited both.
Strange to say it struck me even then, and more so on the several
visits I have paid to the two countries, the former, which has been
a British possession for nearly half-a-century, is to this day more
French at heart than the latter. Both charming islands, for scenery
and the free-handed hospitality of their inhabitants. I doubt if they
can possibly be out-done in any part of the globe.
V.
_ROBINSON CRUSOE REALISED._
One of the principal articles of food for the black and mulatto
population of these islands being salt fish, which has to be imported
at great expense from Europe and Newfoundland—principally the
latter—Mons. Jules de Rontaunay, a wealthy planter and shipowner in
Bourbon, originated the idea of establishing on two small islands
in the Indian Ocean (St. Paul and Amsterdam) a fishing and curing
station; and at his instigation the Governor of Bourbon requested
our captain to make a thorough hydrographic survey of those islands.
We accordingly sailed straight for this small group. My friends, the
doctor and purser of the Heroine, and I, being of course of no service
whatever for the scientific work, applied for leave to land with a
view to explore the island of St. Paul, which, besides being the most
accessible of the two, was reputed to abound in wild goats and sea
birds, not to mention hot springs and curious volcanic formations.
Duly equipped and provided for a few days’ stay, we landed in a small
basin on the lee side, where a rough cabin was in a few hours cleaned
and made habitable by the doctor’s man-servant—an able seaman, expert
at such work. Having made the place snug and comfortable, we started
for a voyage of discovery, which in my eyes savoured much of that
most enticing story of Robinson Crusoe I had so often gloated upon.
Like most youngsters, I had become imbued with an ardent wish to
experience the delightfully romantic notion of a life on a desert
island.
Here, then, was the long-wished-for realisation of my dream. Our first
day’s excursion proved most interesting. Whilst Dr. Roland botanised,
cracked rocks with his geologist’s hammer, studied to his heart’s
content the floral and mineral productions of that unknown spot in
mid-ocean, the purser exercised his skill on the wild goats and sea
birds; my boyish propensities, assisted by the more mature knowledge
of Jean, the doctor’s servant, led me to bird’s-nesting. In a few
hours we made such a raid among the crags on the lee shore that we
gathered as many eggs as would have fed the ship’s company. At Jean’s
suggestion we turned our attention to fishing. There also we had a
marked success—Monsr. de Rontaunay’s scheme was evidently based on
undeniably correct information. The place abounds with fish of all
descriptions and the small bay we had settled on was swarming with
them. A spring of warm water trickles into this miniature harbour,
which at low tide is closed by a sand-bar. At that particular time
the swarms of fish it is filled with rush to the outer bank to escape
the palpable change of temperature of the water. It then becomes
comparatively an easy matter to haul out as much as one wishes to
capture, with even the rudest appliances.
When we all met for dinner we had a stock of provisions which might
have afforded a meal for the whole of our ship’s company. Being
also supplied with an ample store of “medical comforts,” and having
enjoyed the tough yarns so admirably told by Dr. Roland, we rolled
ourselves in our blankets near the fire and slept soundly till
daylight. After a bath in the tepid waters of the bay, a hearty
breakfast, and a peep at the good old ship laying quietly at anchor
a mile or so from the shore, we all started on our varied avocations
for the day. The weather in that locality is, however, given to sudden
changes. Although everything appeared calm and bright at daybreak,
clouds began to rise, and before noon a strong breeze sprang up,
heavy rollers broke with a roaring noise on the weather side of the
island; pelting rain followed, which drove us back to our quarters. We
found our faithful “tar” in a great state of excitement. He informed
us that a couple of hours after our departure a gun had been fired
from the frigate, a signal hoisted which he could not make out (the
doctor having taken with him the spy-glass), and that shortly after
the hoisting of the signal the ship had weighed anchor, and was now
completely out of sight!
In spite of the encouraging words of my companions, I confess that
I did not feel quite happy in my mind—the romance of the desert
island seemed to assume too much reality. I would then with great
pleasure have exchanged our well-filled larder for the hard biscuit,
the mess of beans, and piece of salt junk of the Heroine. The idea
which haunted me—that we were left deserted on the island of St.
Paul—deprived me of both sleep and appetite. I was up before daylight
scanning the cloudy horizon. Neither the cheering words nor the
chaffing of my companions prevailed. They went their way as if nothing
had happened—the only thing which seemed to prey on their minds was
the short stock of biscuit and small supply of rum left in the bottle.
The same climatic influence which had caused the change for the worse
in the state of the weather, brought back calm and sunshine.
At about 8 p.m. we heard the distant boom of a thirty-two pounder!
Never in this world did a sound produce sweeter music in my ears. Had
I been alone I would certainly have left all my belongings to rush
to the shore where the pinnace came to rescue us from our solitary
picnic grounds—I would have embraced in one fond, grateful “hug,” the
midshipman and the twelve brave fellows who came to fetch us back
to the dear old ship. It appears that owing to a sudden fall in the
barometer, and the threatening aspect of both wind and sea, it had
been deemed prudent to stand off and on, rather than ride out the gale
at anchor; this was conveyed to us by the signal we had failed to see.
Of course, the qualm I had experienced remained buried in that most
sensitive portion of my body, whence it arose. I entertained my
messmates with wonderful tales of sport—stretched to the uttermost.
When any doubts were evinced as to the veracity of my statements, they
were at once dispelled by an appeal to dear old Jean, whom I shall
always declare to have been the very best “affidavit Jack” I ever met.
Having, ever since Dr. Roland gave me the free run of his surgery,
surrendered to Jean my daily allowance of grog, the dear old fellow
would have endorsed on oath that the sun rose in the west and set
regularly in the east on the island we had just left behind us in the
mist of an October night, if I had ventured upon such an assertion.
[Illustration]
VI.
_MAORILAND._
Leaving these two solitary islands, we had to settle down to the
more protracted part of our journey, and I may also add, the most
uncomfortable one. We were bound for New Zealand, therefore had to
go south of Van Dieman’s Land. A merchant-man would naturally have
shaped her course for the latitude of Cape Lewin. Not so, however,
a man-of-war, whose sailing directions are based on “bureaucratic”
prudence, so that we had to go well into the S.W. wind, and heavy seas
of the low south. These instructions we followed most religiously.
The poor old frigate had a rough time of it; for seven or eight weeks
she rolled most unmercifully under close-reefed courses, until the
long-wished-for day came, when we began to steer north, and gradually
got into warmer and finer weather.
“Land ho!” That most welcome shout from the fore-gallant-top brought
us all to the fore-castle—a speck to leeward gradually emerging from
the blue waters—the long-looked-for mountain ranges on the New Zealand
coast.
A few days’ coasting brought us safely in to the Bay of Islands.
We dropped anchor opposite the small unpretending residence of the
Catholic Mission, a short distance from the Flag-staff Hill, since
rendered famous by the outbreak of Kawiti and Honi Heke. The whale
boat, which brought on board the Maori pilot, was manned by Natives,
all more or less tattooed—my first insight into real savage life. I
had heard and read of the Maori race. Now, I, for the first time, had
an opportunity to study it from life. Monseigneur Pompallier, the head
of the Mission, was well acquainted with my brother in Sydney, who
was acting agent and purveyor for the Catholic missionary stations in
the Pacific. At his request I became a guest at the Mission, where
the Native chiefs—Rewa, Kawiti, and Pomare—were daily visitors, so
that I soon became a fast friend of the two former. Pomare, though
friendly, was always looked upon as an unreliable neighbour, and
tolerated rather than welcomed at the Mission. His pah was situated on
the summit of a sugar loaf hill at the bottom of the Bay of Islands,
some miles from Kororareka, being a fortified pah, accessible only by
a ladder, which, when removed, rendered the stronghold impregnable.
We made up a party to visit the warrior in his fortress. Having sailed
up the bay, we ascended the rough approach, and were courteously
ushered by Pomare into his residence—a large bee-hive-shaped
structure, with only a small, low opening to admit visitors. A huge
fire, even at that time of the year, burning in the centre, filled
the place with smoke, and rendered the temperature almost tropical.
The Chief, his warriors, and wives appeared quite as much taken up
with our appearance as we were with theirs. The conversation, as
one may well imagine, was not over lively, considering our utter
ignorance of each other’s language. Art, however, came to the rescue
of science; one of our officers pulled out of his game bag an album,
some pencils, and other drawing materials. He made Pomare understand
that he would like to sketch him and his wife as a remembrance of
our visit. The Chief, evidently flattered, brought to the centre of
the whare a keg upon which he sat in state, holding a carved paddle
in one hand, whilst the other rested on the shoulder of a handsome
Native female—wife or daughter, I never knew which. The other Natives,
following the Chief’s example, formed a group round the fire, each one
on a keg of his own.
The sketch was proceeding most satisfactorily, so were our attempts at
conversation, until, prompted by curiosity, I endeavoured to elicit
from Pomare, who did understand a few words of English, what were the
contents of the barrels they were sitting upon.
“Rum?” said I.
“Kahori rum,” said he.
“Water?”
“No.”
“Pork?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Boom! Boom!” retorted the Chief.
When he perceived that I failed to understand him, he quietly pulled
out the wooden plug which closed the bung-hole; a stream of black,
shiny powder ran out, falling within a few inches of the burning
embers. Without ever exchanging a word, or a wink even, officers,
midshipmen, and sailors made a bold rush on all fours through the
aperture of the whare, down the ladder, helter-skelter to the ground
below, much to the amazement of our Native hosts, whose portrait
remains unfinished to this day. Had one grain of powder reached the
burning coals, I doubt much if Pomare and his pah would have troubled
Colonel Despard, or the 99th Regiment, in 1845.
I have had many dealings with Natives of the South Seas, as well as
New Zealand, since then, and have often marvelled how they escape
gun-powder explosions, considering how careless they are in the
handling or storing of that dangerous compound.
Amongst the sealed orders given to the Commander of the Heroine, one
was, as I said before, to bring to the French Mission in New Zealand,
Church ornaments and ecclesiastical vestments. Here, also, he was to
open a sealed despatch, giving him further instructions—which were to
proceed to China, and there take orders from the admiral in command.
Having been sent for, I was asked whether I would stay on board, and
trust to finding in China an Australian bound vessel to reach Sydney.
I had heard at the Mission-house that an Australian schooner—the
Deborah—was at Hokianga, trading with the Natives for spars. Looking
at the map, the distance across did not seem to me to be very great; I
therefore decided upon crossing the Island to seek a passage on board
the Deborah. The Captain and Bishop Pompallier made vain efforts to
dissuade me from undertaking what they considered a most dangerous
trip. My friend Rewa—the next door neighbour of the bishop, and senior
chief of the locality—offered to place one of his children on board
our ship as hostage until a messenger from Hokianga came back to
Kororareka with the news of my safe arrival at Hokianga.
This settled the matter. I started, bag and baggage, never for
one moment reflecting that I was trusting my life in the hands
of uncivilised cannibals, who were carrying on their shoulders
valises full of articles which, in their eyes, were treasures—the
appropriation of the fowling-piece I had on my shoulder, or the powder
flask slung round my neck, a sufficient inducement to wring that neck,
and make a meal of the small mite I then was. The idea of danger never
for a minute entered my head. I had spent a couple of weeks amongst
them, and had implicit faith in their hospitality and kindness.
To this day I believe firmly that with very, very few exceptions,
Natives of this or any other island in the Pacific are to be trusted
by those who deal fairly and kindly with them.
At all events, I must speak of the Maoris as I found them, and say
that had I been in the hands of my own countrymen, I could not have
been treated more kindly. When I became wearied and footsore, they
carried me as if I had been an infant, as I really was when compared
to those copper-coloured giants, most of them over six feet high.
We usually managed to make for some well-known Native villages at
night time. When we got to the Hokianga river, I noticed an animated
conversation between my escort and the Natives in whose whare we
camped; at almost every alternate word they pointed at me, and often
repeating the words “Oui Oui,” which I knew meant “Frenchman.” At
last I was given to understand that there was in the neighborhood
a “Rangatira Oui Oui”—a great French chief—and that I certainly
should go and pay my respects to him. Accordingly, after our evening
meal, and by a glorious moonlight, I started with a numerous escort
to interview this great countryman of mine, Baron de Thierry—whose
name is, I daresay, still remembered amongst the old residents of
the North Island of New Zealand—as true a specimen of the _Vieille
Noblesse_ of France as one could find in the aristocratic Faubourg St.
Germain. Like many other scions of noble lineage, poor de Thierry had
to flee from his beloved country to save his head from the implacable
guillotine. I spent the whole night with the Baron, who told me that
he was going to be recognised shortly as Sovereign of New Zealand.
He strongly advised me to remain with him, when he would, on his
ascension to the throne, confer an office of trust upon me.
Poor, dear old gentleman, he was perfectly guileless; he thoroughly
believed in all he said, and I am quite sure was quite happy in his
demented notions of coming grandeur. I often heard from him since that
night, but never again met with him.
On my arrival at Hokianga, I met with a sad disappointment. The
Deborah had left for the Bay of Islands, so that I was compelled
to turn back. The journey, however, had lost all its novelty, and
certainly was anything but a treat. I brought back to the Bay the news
of my own safety, and released the hostage, who had enjoyed his stay
on board much more than I did my second trip across New Zealand.
A small brig from Sydney—the Martha—having called at the Bay, I
embarked on board after a most affectionate parting from my old
messmates, and the dear friends I had made on board the Heroine.
Every thing in this world is judged by comparison. I did certainly
find the Government fare furnished to the midshipmen’s mess “hard
tack” as compared with my father’s epicurean _menus_. But there was
even a more palpable difference between the Heroine’s ordinary and
that of the Martha. The captain (poor fellow, he has since been
murdered and eaten by the Natives at Tanna) was perfectly unconscious
of the privations of his passengers. He was drunk from the day we
left the Bay until we took in the pilot at the Heads of Port Jackson,
after 28 days at sea, 20 of which we spent the best way we could on a
biscuit and a cup of water a day—fresh pork _a discretion_, the brig
being loaded with the unclean animal. It is now fifty years since I
left the Martha, and I have never broken the vow I made in 1839 never
again to touch pork. If I “_saved my bacon_” by eating it during those
28 days, I have given it best ever since, and intend to follow the
Mosaic law to the end of my days.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
EARLY AUSTRALIAN SHAVINGS.
[Illustration]
I.
_SYDNEY IN 1839._
Even amongst Australians the Sydney people are daily “chaffed” for the
pride they on all occasions evince about what they call “Our Harbour.”
I must say that after Brest, Cork, Rio Janeiro, and the Bay of
Islands—even the far-famed Bay of Naples, all of which I have visited,
and in turn admired—I did not anticipate any very great surprise at
the first glimpse of Port Jackson.
But when, at daybreak, on that beautiful summer morning, I came on
the poop of the brig Martha, and, for the first time, saw as we
turned round the inner South Head this vast expanse of placid blue
water—North Harbour and Manly on the right, Middle Head and Middle
Harbour facing us, and Port Jackson on the left, with the Blue
Mountains in the distance—all other harbours dwindled down to almost
insignificance. As we sailed towards Farm Cove, and each succeeding
bay, inlet, or head-land were passed, my admiration increased.
I have spent many years in Sydney; very many days boating; have
visited every nook and corner of that immense bay, and I must confess
that the natives of Sydney have every reason to be proud of their
“Harbour.”
Sydney in 1839 was, as compared to its present condition, a very
small village. It was a quaint, old-fashioned township, principally
occupied by Government officials—military and civil—troops and
convicts—some already rich and arbitrary, the others still serving
their sentence—obedient, even cringing—but holding their rich “pals”
in perfect abhorrence.
It was in those days quite a common occurrence to hear of a woman
arriving in the Colony as an emigrant, claiming her husband—a
convict—as her assigned servant, and _vice versa_. Couples re-united
in this wise have, in many instances, begun the world over again in
Australia, and ended their days in affluence and respectability.
Officers, public servants, in those days, when the male sex
predominated, in many instances married their assigned servants,
picked at random at the “factory” in Parramatta.