schoolmates, whom I at once wrote to, and within a few days got up a
meeting, which, during the whole of my stay in France, was adjourned
from week to week, and any new schoolmate hunted up in the interim was
summoned to attend. Had it been possible to have had a _résumé_ taken
of these meetings, it would indeed have made up a most interesting
volume.
As each member was brought he had to give a history of the last forty
years. Coming from the antipodes I, of course, had the honour of being
“the lion.” Still, some of the others had some interesting incidents
to relate. Several had been in the army, some in the Civil Service;
one—Leon Say—was then Minister of Finance, a post he had held during
the Provisional Government after the Commune, when France, emerging
from the sad trials of the war, lay bleeding and prostrate.
During that sad period the southern provinces had suffered from a most
disastrous flood. Subscriptions had to be made for the victims of this
new disaster. The Government cabled to Australia to get the Consul
in Sydney to obtain contributions from New Caledonia to the fund.
Knowing the poverty of that French colony, an idea came into my head
that if the matter was promptly handled I could raise in Sydney some
substantial assistance.
I accordingly asked the Premier (Sir John Robertson) for leave to get
the use of the cable to Versailles, and from the manager of the Bank
of Australasia leave to remit by cable whatever money I could collect
up to 10 p.m. that day. Having made these preliminary arrangements,
I started a door to door subscription; and such is the kind-hearted
liberality of Australians that I was able to remit £800 that same
night, and £400 more on the following day. 30,000 francs remitted
from the antipodes, actually reaching Versailles within a week after
the occurrence of the calamity—before Paris even had had time to
organise a general subscription—seemed rather startling to the French
Government. When Leon Say met me at our weekly gathering, and found
out that I was the originator of this timely offering, he insisted on
bringing the matter before the President of the Republic—old Marshal
McMahon—who conferred upon me the Legion of Honour, together with his
and the Duchess’ portrait, accompanied with an autograph letter, which
I prize above all other rewards.
[Illustration]
V.
_ANTIPODEAN GRATITUDE._
During the period of the Exhibition, and owing to my having to deal
officially on behalf of the colonies for the international shows to be
held in Sydney and Melbourne in the following year, I had naturally to
come in close contact with many of the leading men of that period. For
a time it was very doubtful whether we could get the assistance of the
European Powers. They all kept aloof; and, in spite of the willingness
of my friend, Leon Say, the Parliament positively vetoed the proposal
made to vote money and send a French transport with the exhibits. Our
opponent was the all-powerful Gambetta, leader of the Opposition and
Chairman of the Budget. He was the sole arbiter of the destiny of our
Exhibitions, and, they said, could not be moved.
We were in despair, when a vote of 5,000,000 francs was proposed for
a cable from Noumea to Cape Sandy. The discussion on that matter was
a long and bitter one; I happened to be in the House at the time.
Gambetta fought hard against the vote. The discussion having been
adjourned, I sought an interview with the great man, and complimenting
him on his brilliant speech and on his evident omniscience, I pointed
out to him that owing to the position of the Middleton Shoal lying in
the way of the proposed cable, its being placed there was a practical
impossibility. Gambetta at once sent for charts of New Caledonia and
the eastern coast of Australia, saw the truth of my statement, grasped
my hand, and acknowledged that I had furnished him with an irrefutable
argument to win his case.
On the spur of the moment he asked me what he could do in return. The
Exhibition vote, of course, was my object. Gambetta went carefully
and minutely into the matter—inquired into the trade, past, present,
and future, between Australia and France—and being fully aware of
the importance of a thorough representation, gave me a short note
for the Minister of Commerce, asking him to move to have the £10,000
credit put again on the Budget. It was one of M. Gambetta’s best
speeches when he recanted all he had said on a previous occasion
against the project, carried the vote, the granting of a transport,
and the appointment of a Commission; and, since then, the subsidy of
the Messageries and the establishment of branches of the Comptoir
d’Escompte in Melbourne and Sydney. To this small matter great results
are due—another instance of the truth of the old fable of the mouse
and the caged lion.
I cannot say that on my return to Australia I found much gratitude for
“services rendered.” During my passage back some good friends (?) had
managed to throw cold water down my back, and on my arrival in Sydney
I found all the offices in connection with the Exhibition filled.
Even the secretaryship of the Agricultural Society was taken from me.
After seventeen years of hard work to make it what it was, I was
politely requested to resign. I had to accept the commissionership of
New Caledonia to secure an official _entrée_ to an Exhibition which I
conceived from the first, and, without boast can say, carried out in
all its details up to its—_failure!_—for, after all, it was a great
financial failure, like all such undertakings when carried out by
Government, tied up in red tape, and bungled by committees.
What I say of the Sydney I repeat as regards the Melbourne show.
Ten years have made Victoria older, but not wiser. The issue of the
Centennial bears out my statement.
To say that I did not feel keenly the ingratitude of New South Wales
would be an untruth. I did feel it most bitterly; and although I
had looked upon that colony as my home, so bitterly did I feel the
treatment that I made up my mind for evermore to leave it. But in
so doing I also resolved that, cost what it might, I would prove
practically the statement I had made, that Exhibitions well managed
could not possibly show a loss. I accordingly waited until the
close of the Melbourne Exhibition to start one in Adelaide, Perth,
Christchurch, and at last one on a gigantic scale in Calcutta—larger
than even that of Sydney or Melbourne.
I will quote Lord Ripon’s words at the closing ceremony of that great
Indian Exhibition:—
“We cannot allow this day to pass without recording publicly the
great obligations that are due to Mr. Joubert for the success of this
Exhibition. I confess that when he first intimated his intention
to hold an Exhibition in the capital city of India I looked upon
it as an impracticable scheme. Mr. Rivers Thompson, however, held
a different opinion, and I am happy to-day to acknowledge that Mr.
Joubert has most nobly redeemed all his promises, fulfilled most
honourably all his engagements, and deserves the thanks, not only of
the Government of India, but of the whole population of this empire.”
Such words are an ample reward for all my trouble and labour. They
have acted soothingly on the sore points which New South Wales had
raised.
My stay in India was a long holiday, in spite of the hard work the
Exhibition entailed; and before I leave the subject I might jot down a
few of the reminiscences of my life and adventures in the East.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CEYLON.
[Illustration]
I.
_GRAINS OF SINGALESE SAND._
I had to make two voyages to India before I took up my quarters there.
In each of these, owing to the exchange of boats at Ceylon, I had to
stay in that delightful island a fortnight on each trip. This delay
anywhere else would be an abominable nuisance, but there is so much to
see in Ceylon, and the people there are so graciously hospitable, that
one does not mind the delay—at least, I did not; far from it.
My first visit was on my way to the Paris Exhibition in 1878. At
that time Galle was the stopping-place, and the delay did not extend
over a couple of days—just time enough to visit Wak-wallah and the
surrounding district; long enough, however, to wish for a more
extended stay in so delightful an earthly paradise.
Like all fresh arrivals in Ceylon we were rather perplexed as to
the _sex_ of its inhabitants. The weather being rather more than
tropical, we proposed, prior to dinner, an adjournment to the various
bath-rooms of the hotel, and gave orders accordingly. When I entered
my bath-room I was rather startled to find there what I considered
a rather prepossessing “young person,” who offered to assist in the
operation contemplated to cool my body after the exertions of the
day. In view of the petticoats, long black hair, high pole-comb, and
effeminate appearance of my bath attendant, I felt inclined to resent
the intrusion, until perfectly satisfied that this individual belonged
to that portion of humanity upon whom the Queen is allowed to confer
the companionship of that distinguished order—_the Bath_.
On my return to Ceylon in 1882 the port of call for nearly all mail
steamers had been removed to Colombo—a great improvement on Galle,
inasmuch as the city is in every sense superior, while the harbour
accommodation is excellent in every respect.
Considering that a trip from Australia barely occupies more than a
fortnight, I am surprised that during the winter months there are so
few who avail themselves of the facilities afforded almost weekly
to spend a month or more in so charming an island. The means of
communication on board the P. & O. and Orient steamers is in itself
attractive, and at the end an earthly paradise—scenery almost beyond
description, a most interesting people to study, and a thorough change
of everything in every sense of the word.
Of all countries I ever visited, Ceylon is one I shall always return
to with pleasure.
On my second stay at Colombo on my way to Calcutta, I was present at
the landing of Arabi Pacha, the Egyptian patriot, whom I often met,
and from whom I elicited many interesting details of the events which
culminated in his exile. Poor Arabi! I often think of him, and of the
harsh cruelty with which he has been treated, not by England, but by
his own people. Had it not been for the countenance he got from the
British Government—and more particularly the talented, warm-hearted
men who undertook and managed his defence—his blood, not his liberty,
would have been the price of his patriotic devotion to his country. In
selecting Ceylon for his exile, England showed her appreciation of the
man’s worth. Besides its loveliness, Ceylon is inhabited by people of
the same faith. But all the gilding one may lay on to the cage fails
to hide the bars. While Arabi moves in apparent freedom in Colombo,
his movements are those of the caged lion.
One cannot be in Colombo many days without feeling an inclination to
see Kandy—a trip which can be accomplished without much inconvenience
or heavy tax on one’s exchequer. In this instance, however, matters
were made even easier. The Colonial Secretary, Mr. (now Sir) J.
Douglas had been requested by His Excellency Sir James Langden, the
Governor, to invite me to pay him a visit in the hills, so that I only
required to pack up my portmanteau and drive to the railway station,
where I met my chaperon.
From the very start to the landing at the station in Kandy the scenery
is without any exception most charming. Every single thing on the
line of road has its charm—the vegetation, the quaint villages, the
scenery, baffles description. I did not go there a novice—I had
already visited nearly every part of the globe—but I humbly confess
the trip to Kandy fairly put the extinguisher on all I had seen until
I visited the Himalayas; and even then I have not yet made up my mind
whether I prefer the latter; they may be grander, but I doubt if they
are better.
[Illustration]
II.
_THE PARAHERRA._
Whilst at Kandy I had an opportunity to witness the Parraherra, which
is the greatest Buddhist religious ceremony.
One of the greatest “lions” of Kandy is the great Buddhist temple,
Delada Maligawa, where the great relics of the god are kept, enshrined
in a richly-jewelled casket, and are made an object of special
veneration by the votaries of Buddha. This festival is the more
attractive by reason of its being made the occasion of a large traffic
in precious stones, with which the island of Ceylon abounds. In this
way the faithful manage to combine “biz” with devotion.
As the day dawned, vehicles of every conceivable form, size, and
shape, streamed into the city. The town became a living hive. All
vestiges of filth and wretchedness in the narrow lanes and round the
bazaars were hidden beneath long strips of white or coloured linen,
garlands of cocoa-nut leaves and flowers, hung around by bands of
bright red cloth. Piles of tempting wares were there; beads, bangles,
and scarfs to decorate; rice, jaggery, and sweetmeats, to eat; and
innumerable liquors to drink, were placed in profusion on every side.
The streets and lanes poured forth long strings of humanity, heated
with the sun, flushed with drink, bedizened with tawdry jewellery and
mock finery; poor tillers of the soil, beggarly fishermen, mendicant
devotees, half-starved coolies; lean, sickly women, and poor, ill-fed
children—passed onward in the motley throng, burying their everyday
misery beneath the wild mirth of a night or two at this great feast of
the Paraherra.
Following this living stream of dusky humanity as closely as the heat,
the dust, and their strange perfume would allow me, I arrived near
the great temple—a grand pile, as it shows half-concealed beneath
the luxuriant foliage of cocoa-nut topes, arekas, plantains, and
banyan trees. An ocean of human heads filled up the space round the
building, from which proceeded the well-known sounds of the reeds
and the tom-tom. Gay flags fluttered from the four corners and the
lofty pinnacle of the temple; wreaths of flowers, plaited leaves, and
ribbons of many colours waved jauntily from roof to door; whilst round
the pillars of the walls and the door-posts clustered rich bunches of
most tempting fruit.
Close to this busy scene, under a vast shed which acts as a sort of
caravanserai, near the temple, other groups were clustered, as closely
as they could well stand.
Forcing my way through the crowd, I found that the attraction
consisted of a company of Indian jugglers, consisting of two men, a
girl, and a child of about three years.
The men were clad in strange, uncouth dresses, with large strings
of heavy beads round their necks; the girl was simply and neatly
dressed in white, with silver bangles and anklets, and a glittering
necklace. It would be impossible to detail all their extraordinary
performances, which, however, surpassed anything I had ever seen in
that art. The quantity of iron and brass-ware which they contrived to
swallow was truly marvellous; tenpenny nails, clasp-knives, and other
such like articles were to these natives as so many pieces of pastry
or confectionery; and I could readily imagine what havoc they could
commit in an ironmongery shop.
Tying up the girl hand and foot with a stout piece of cord, putting
her in a close-meshed net; then thrusting her into a wicker basket,
and poking the basket through and through with a sharp-pointed sword;
then, after a few cabalistic words from the magician, an arm protruded
from under the lid of the basket, handing first the net and then the
cords; a shrill call from the girl, the basket was opened and found
empty!
Such tricks, performed in the midst of a crowd without any apparent
appliances, are simply astonishing.
Near the temple all was noise and confusion. It was with great
difficulty that I forced my way through the dense crowd, and reached
the steps of the sacred shrine. The priest stationed at the entrance
made room for me as well as he could, but the pressure inside was
intense. Hundreds of men and women pressed eagerly forward to reach
the flight of rather steep stone steps which led up to the sacred
repository. The progress was so slow that I had ample time to examine
and admire the fine antique carved work on the pillars and ceiling
of the entrance hall, as well as the pilasters which lined the wide
staircase. There is a beauty and finish in these carvings which could
not be attained in Ceylon in the present day.
Arrived at length at the inner temple or sacred shrine above, I
passed with the crowd between a richly-brocaded curtain, which hung in
heavy folds across the entrance at the top of the stairs, and stood
before the framed relic of Buddha—or, rather, the jewelled casket
which contained it.
Being rather sceptical on the subject of relics, I ascertained
that this casket contained a _tooth_ of Buddha! A small donation
readily obtained for me a closer examination of the article, and I
am now quite prepared to take an affidavit that what I saw had every
appearance of a full-grown, sound _molar_; but at the same time
I must beg leave to add that the great eastern prophet must have
had a spare set or two at his disposal, inasmuch as, to my certain
knowledge, there are several scores of Buddha’s teeth being shown in
various parts of the East or China, and history does not mention, that
I am aware of, that men—even of the calibre of Buddha—were blessed
with more than thirty-two. Archæologists, even, do not tell us that
dentistry was amongst the learned professions of the ante-Christian
era, otherwise it might readily be inferred that this sainted
individual had at a moderate outlay been able to distribute “relics”
amongst the faithful.
Should I ever have the felicity of being canonized, a relic of your
humble servant—similar to that of Buddha—may some day be exhibiting
in Ceylon. It happened in this wise. On the day of my departure from
the island, wishing to get rid of the Indian coins I had left in my
purse, I was bargaining with a hawker for some ebony carvings. His
demand was some six or seven rupees in excess of my change. We were
both anxious to deal, but I was firmly determined _not_ to part with
any more gold. My dressing-case lay open on the table, and in it was—a
front TOOTH, set in gold, which I had long discarded as a misfit! The
metal attracted the native’s keen eye, and he said—“Give me this; you
can have another ‘elephant’ with what you have already selected.” The
bargain was struck, and, as I said, who knows what that tooth of mine
might be turned into? There are many temples of Buddha that may want a
relic. Here, as it is elsewhere, _C’est la foi qui sauve_.
I felt disappointed at the spectacle here, arising, perhaps, from my
taking no interest in the religious ceremony I did not understand, and
looking at it merely as an empty show.
The strong glare of hundreds of lamps; the heat, and crowding of so
many in so small a place; the sickly perfume of the piles of Buddha
flowers heaped before the shrine by the pilgrims; the deafening,
discordant din of a score of tom-toms and vile, screeching pipes—made
me glad enough to descend the stairs, and, giving a rupee to the
priest at the door, to escape once more into the glorious fresh air
outside.
Being bent on a thoroughly religious pilgrimage, I left the votaries
of Saman, and, following another crowd of a slightly darker colour,
I made my way into the Hindoo temple, another gaily decorated and
over-crowded building.
Here, to the sound of much music, and by the light of many flaring
lamps, a group of young dancing girls were delighting the motley
crowd. There were three of them—one a finely-made creature, with
graceful movements; the others younger, stouter, but far less
pleasing. A great deal of pains and expense had evidently been taken
with their dress, which, in embroidery of gold and jewels was, I
am credibly informed, worth some hundreds of pounds! The graceful
little jacket of one of these dancers sparkled and glittered with an
article, to me, quite new in the way of ornament. Along the edge of a
pure white garment shone a whole row of “fire-flies,” which by some
ingenious contrivance had been inserted in the hem of the dress, and
gave a strange but pleasing novelty to the appearance of her attire
as the girl swept gracefully round in slow and measured steps. The
music to which these people dance is anything but pleasing to an
European ear—indeed, there is scarcely any sign of a tune in it—yet
they contrive to measure their mazy and intricate dance by its notes
with admirable precision, singing whilst they dance a monotonous nasal
song, the words being extemporised by the dancer. In this instance,
whilst the girl was twisting and turning before me, a Singalese
gentleman informed me the theme of her song was a welcome to the
white-faced stranger—a compliment which, even in Kandy, implies a
“backsheesh” for the Nautch girl as well as the musicians.
Leaving the dancers and priests, I strolled towards the adjoining
lake and the broad drive which winds round it. It was one of those
lovely moonlight nights of the tropics which baffle description;
the palm-shaded banks of the placid sheet of water stood out in the
sweetest contrast to the noisy revelry I had just left. The moon was
near the full, and rising above the many rich green topes and drooping
plantains, lit up the peaceful scene with marvellous radiance.
The master-hand of our finest painter might attempt to draw such a
picture, but his attempt would be a signal failure.
The next day the bazaars were crowded with dealers in, and buyers of,
precious stones. Thousands of Moormen, Chetties, Arabs, Parsees, and
Singalese were busily employed in the barter, and a more noisy crowd
I never met with—not even at the Paris Bourse, which I always looked
upon as the nearest approach to what I imagine Pandemonium must be
like.
In this crowd I for the first time saw some Hindoo fakirs, most
repulsive objects, depending for subsistence on the alms of the
faithful. One of these wretched creatures, in the fulfilment of a vow,
or as an act of atonement and righteousness, had held his left arm for
so many years erect above his head, that it could not now be moved,
and grew transfixed, emaciated, and bony. It looked more like a dry,
withered stick, tied to the body, than a part of the body itself.
Another fakir had closed one of his hands for so long that the finger
nails had cut through the palm. These miserable objects appeared to do
a good trade to judge from the number of pilgrims who contributed alms
in response to their importunate begging.
[Illustration]
III.
_“HAMLET” UNDER DIFFICULTIES._
On the following day, at the _table d’hôte_ of the Queen’s Hotel, I
was not a little surprised to meet Herr Bandman and Miss Beaudet.
My surprise became still greater when he informed me that he had
come expressly to Kandy to give the good people of that city a
“Shakespearian treat”—Hamlet!!—in the large room of the Town Hall,
under the most distinguished patronage of His Excellency the Governor,
and the noble guests of His Excellency, who were His Highness the Duke
of Mecklemburgh, his Grace the Duke of Portland, and——your humble
servant!
When I enquired from Bandman whom he had to assist him in his play, he
coolly replied—
“Well, you see, I cannot travel with a company; it would not pay.
I trust to what I can pick up on my way. Of course, MY Hamlet is
_unsurpassed_, and Miss Beaudet is THE Ophelia _par excellence_.”
This, I must say, did not prepossess me for the great Shakespearian
treat promised. However, the Governor having purposely advanced his
usual dinner hour, we proceeded with all vice-regal pomp and escort to
the Town Hall, which, of course, in accordance with the liberal amount
of _billing_ the wily tragedian made of the distinguished patronage,
was crammed to suffocation, though the seats were £1 1s and 10s 6d.
Shall I ever forget that night? The proscenium, a raised platform at
the end of the hall; the curtain, several strips of sacking rudely
sewn together; the orchestra, a poor, invalided piano, evidently
suffering from some dreadful inner complaint, and even in that sad
condition tortured by a most indifferent amateur. When the curtain
rose—I might say when “the rag was hoisted up”—the scene displayed a
further supply of the same material, which some native artist had very
late that day attempted to distemper with some very doubtful colouring.