from Bombay did not permit of our going to Hyderabad, as we had
promised the Nizam to do. We returned to Delhi, and after a short
but interesting visit through old Delhi, started direct from Bombay,
finding most comfortable quarters at the Waverley Hotel. Whilst
Calcutta is essentially an Indian city, Bombay justly claims to be
in many respects more European, owing doubtless to its Portuguese
origin—the very name, both of the province as well as its metropolitan
city, being quite Portuguese—“Bom Bahia”—which in that country’s
language means “good harbour,” as that of Bombay most undeniably is.
This great mercantile centre, inhabited by nearly three-quarters of
a million of people of all nationalities and creeds, has quite a
distinctive aspect from any of the other Indian cities, owing, no
doubt, to the fact that the town is built on what at one time was an
island, which therefore cannot possibly extend in area. The houses
are constructed in numerous flats, most of these dwellings being six,
seven, and eight stories high.
A large majority of the inhabitants, principally in the trading
community, are Parsees, a most thrifty, intelligent race, in whose
hands the commerce, banking, &c., are placed.
This being one of the great Parsee centres, these people have their
temples, and what they term the “Tower of Silence,” which is the place
where the Parsees dispose of their dead. Unlike both Christians,
Buddhists, and Mahomedans, they avoid burial, cremation, or committing
the dead to the sacred waters of the Ganges.
This Tower of Silence is a structure standing over a deep vault, the
summit being an iron grating, upon which the body is deposited high up
in the air. The birds of prey which flock around this charnel house
soon dispose of the flesh, leaving the bones, when decayed, to fall
through the grating into the fosse at the foot of the tower.
There is something terrible in the idea of one’s body being handed
over as food for loathsome condors, hawks, and crows, but this is
intensified when such things happen as that which occurred whilst I
was in Bombay. Madame Follet, the wife of the French Consul in Bombay,
was driving home in her open carriage, and when passing near this
Tower of Silence, an ærial fight was raging between several birds, for
what appeared to be some particular “tit-bit,” the holder of which
dropped the object in the carriage. Horrible to say—it was the forearm
and small hand of an infant!
I think, after all, that cremation is preferable to this mode of
disposing of the dead.
In Bombay, like in other Indian cities, the people do not seem to
take much heed of either cholera or smallpox. On one occasion, whilst
strolling through the bazaar, I came across a gathering of natives. In
forcing my way amongst the crowd, I saw a man writhing in pain on the
footpath. Several natives were busily engaged rubbing him with great
force, whilst others were holding him tightly round both hands and
feet. On inquiry, I was informed that the poor wretch had been seized
with cholera, and that while his friends had gone for a palanquin, he
was being rubbed to keep up the circulation. I need not say that I
made a bee line for my hotel, and inasmuch as several of my children
were suffering from attacks of ague and jungle fever, I thought it
prudent to expedite our departure from Bombay. I accordingly hastened
my arrangements, and within a week we were once more on the “briny,”
comfortably settled on board the good ship Parramatta, on our way to
Australia.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
“HOME, ‘DEAR’ HOME.”
[Illustration]
After nearly two years in India one is glad to be once more amongst
kindred people. Half a century in Australasia leads me very naturally
to look upon it as “home.” All my belongings are Australians; to them,
therefore, it is “home.” Besides—be it in Melbourne, Adelaide, Sydney,
Brisbane, or even in Perth—everyone I meet is a friend, and it is a
comfort to meet friendly faces.
What a change had taken place in Melbourne in two years! Since I had
left it the silver-mining had been brought to light, and the land boom
had fairly set in.
My return in the midst of this feverish excitement, from a country
where all excitement is unknown, was tantamount to a revelation.
Past experience, both in mining or land speculation, made me chary
to enter into either. Still, it is not in my nature to remain idle,
more particularly in the midst of such a lively community as that of
Victoria.
Ere I had been in it three months I began to feel that bank interest
was barely enough to get for my money. The marvellous and rapid
fortunes made on the Stock or Land Exchange gradually thawed the
frigidity of my first impressions.
I need not add that at almost every step I was button-holed by
brokers, offering investments. Land increased in value from day to
day. A block bought for £100 changed hands within a week for £1000,
bought up by a syndicate, floated into a Company for £10,000, and cut
up in allotments. Thus some property realised fabulous returns.
Still, I thought all this would come to an end. I could not be
persuaded to venture in such risky speculations. I thought that
city property would be best. I always had more faith in stone or
brick. Consequently, I spotted a block of land in the very centre of
Melbourne; half an acre at the corner of Exhibition Street and Little
Bourke Street, a piece of land which for the last thirty years had
a most wretched name—one that no one would tackle at any price, and
which accordingly the owner, who derived no revenue from it, would
sell or lease cheap.
Unfortunately, he declined selling, but after long haggling, I secured
the place for thirty years at a very low rental. During the interval
I had matured my plans, so that the day the lease was executed I
commenced the erection of what is now known as the Alexandra Buildings
(a block of thirteen three-storied houses with shop fronts), and in
the centre of the block what is, and will be for a long time to come,
the largest theatre in the Southern Hemisphere.
Alas! I had not reckoned on the many difficulties I would have to
encounter. First of all, the City Surveyors, then the Board of
Health, and ultimately the Local Option.
Buildings which I had reckoned would not exceed £25,000, owing to
the rigidity of the bye-laws of the City Surveyors and Health Board,
involved me in an outlay of £40,000, and after going to an enormous
outlay for hotel, bars, and cafés, in connection with the theatre, the
licence could not be obtained.
Coupled with such disastrous impediments, I had the ill-luck to
open the theatre under very bad management, which almost gave the
death-blow to my venture. I had hardly been back eighteen months in
my Australian home when I had every reason to call it my “dear” home.
Trouble, worry, and loss of money preyed on my mind to such an extent
that my health failed me altogether. Struggle as I would, everything
seemed to go crooked. Doctors and friends vainly tried their skill
or kind words to rouse my fallen spirits and energies. I would have
thrown up the sponge, when the Government initiated the Centennial
Exhibition.
The word “Exhibition” sounded in my ears like the blast of the clarion
to the war-horse. If an exhibition was on the _tapis_ I _must_ be
in it. Naturally I endeavoured to have a “finger in the pie;” made
application to the Victorian Government; laid a scheme before the
Cabinet, showing how the great show could be carried on profitably.
This, however, “did not suit.” The Exhibition, undertaken by a
Ministry flushed with money, was made a political handle to secure
popularity. Money was no object: popularity—favouritism—were. My
prediction that instead of a surplus of at least £100,000, it would
end in a deficit of a quarter of a million, has since been realised,
almost to a fraction.
New South Wales needed a representative. My much esteemed and old
friend, Mr. Burdett Smith, M.P., the Executive Commissioner for the
mother colony, recommended my appointment, so that once again I put
on the harness. The excitement of Exhibition work proved the best
and only cure to my ailments. As my old friend and medical adviser,
Dr. B. Fyffe, had often told my people, “Only take the Alexandra off
his mind and he will soon be cured.” In the turmoil and hard work
attending the Exhibition I forgot the Alexandra and my other troubles.
The wheel of Fortune once more turned in the right direction. After
many vicissitudes and many trials, Simonsen’s opera, Carrie Swain, and
last of all, my old friend, Alfred Dampier, helped to put my theatre
in the right groove. The two former lessees had a short but profitable
season, whilst Dampier, with great wisdom, adopted a system of popular
prices, coupled with excellence of acting and _mise-en-scene_, which
has given him unabated success for the last two years—a success which
there is every probability he will maintain to the end of his lease,
which we have gladly extended for a long period.
Under such able management I had no hesitation to leave the property
under the charge of one of my sons, and under medical advice, have
sought the bracing atmosphere of the South Island of New Zealand, to
complete the cure of ailments which, after all, were more mental than
physical.
The Commissioners for the New Zealand Exhibition wanting a manager, it
was thought that the experience I have acquired in such matters might
prove of service. Combining business with pleasure, I have moved my
camp once more.
What the result of the New Zealand Exhibition will be is as yet a
blank page in the history of the near future, but based, as this
great venture has been, on the soundest of principles—principles that
the Governments of New South Wales and Victoria declined to follow—I
may predict that the New Zealand Jubilee Exhibition will be a most
thorough success, in every way, practically and financially.
Coming back to New Zealand, fifty years after I first landed on its
shores, has been a source of great gratification to me.
I cannot bring this narrative to a close without mentioning a most
extraordinary coincidence, which occurred a few months ago, while on a
visit to Christchurch.
A landslip had occurred at Akaroa a few days previous to my arrival in
Christchurch. This slip unearthed a number of cannon balls, imbedded
deep into the side of a hill, above what is called the “Frenchman’s
Garden.” These 32-pounders were all in a cluster, bar one, which by
some unaccountable reason was found some forty yards off from the
spot, where a target must have been placed, the hypothesis being that
some “duffer” had fired this truant shot.
When I saw the rusty old “ball” I at once recognised the shape (now
obsolete) of the old 32lb. shot used in the French navy. Coupling the
locality with the old familiar projectile, I at once remembered that
in September, 1840, when on board the Aube at Akaroa, Captain Lavaud
had ordered shot practice, and when the target had been placed on the
hillside on shore, he invited me to fire the first shot, which went
some fifty yards off the mark, much to the merriment of the crew, who
very justly pronounced me a “duffer”—the very epithet which I heard
applied to the unknown gunner, after the lapse of fifty years.
This old “friend,” found imbedded in the New Zealand soil at Akaroa,
now stands before me on top of my _écritoire_, and from it I draw many
comparisons.
Here we meet once more after fifty years! I have “rolled” all over the
world. It has remained buried in the earth in New Zealand. Yet we are
both very much alike—old-looking, rusty; still hard, tough, and fit
for service if need be. The rust is only superficial; under it the old
metal has all its natural properties.
This “find” at Akaroa has been a most appropriate one, inasmuch as
it has enabled me to conclude as I began, by the history of a “Stray
Shot,” which really should have been the title of this book.
I will now conclude by giving my readers the history of the crest
which I have placed above my name upon the front page. We (I mean the
Jouberts) do not claim to descend from the “Crusaders,” and although
we must have had some lineal connections with the first inhabitants of
the Garden of Eden, the line cannot be traced quite so far.
I suppose that _we_ must have been lost in the “crowd” for many
centuries, and it is very evident to me that until the sixteenth
century the name has no record. In the year 1550, however, Dr.
Laurence Joubert was appointed Court Physician to Henry III., and at
the death of Rondelet in 1562 he was made Regius Professor of Physic
at Montpellier, where he died in 1582.
Having rendered eminent services to King Henry III., the monarch,
by letters patent, authorised his favourite physician to assume the
Gallic cock _rampant_, with Esculapius’ mythological serpent at its
feet—the motto, “_semper vigilans_” being, I think, a most suitable
one for a “medico.”
The old bird has never been of much service to our ancestor’s
descendants. Still, we have always adhered to it, as an emblem of old
Gaul. Even the Imperial eagle has not deterred us from our allegiance
to the Gallic cock, and as years have rolled on, “_semper vigilans_”
has been our motto. I trust that my sons will never forget its
meaning, which in the vulgar tongue may be translated into “Be always
wide awake,” or, better still, “Keep your weather eye open”—a maxim I
have always endeavoured to follow, and I think verily that it is owing
to this that I have got out of the various “shavings and scrapes” I
have narrated in the foregoing pages.
EPILOGUE.
_My brother “Savages” have induced me to look up my diaries and
publish this book._
_If it proves an infliction, the blame is theirs._
_It has afforded me an opportunity to record gratefully the many
kindnesses I have received during my travels—more especially the
genial hospitality of the “Savage Club.”_
_One of the infirmities of age is garrulity. I have endeavoured to
avoid it._
_One word more to my reader—ADIEU!_
_J.J._
PRINTED BY J. WILKIE AND CO., DUNEDIN.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Others
are noted below.
Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.
Italicized words are surrounded by underline characters,
_like this_.
CORRECTIONS:
Page 4: Augoulême changed to Angoulême (… at Angoulême, one of
the prettiest towns….)
Page 32: Janiero → Janeiro (… Rio Janeiro, and the Bay of Islands….)
Page 51: 1851: altered by hand to 1852.
Page 69: Paramatta → Parramatta (… between the Parramatta and
the Lane Cove rivers….)
Page 70: Archbold altered by hand with the correct name: Cobbold.
Page 80: Illegible characters following … show advertised….
Page 176: diviue → divine (… stripping them of their divine
assumptions….)
Page 191: chrystobil → chrysoberyl (… ruby, sapphire, chrysoberyl,
cat’s-eye….)
Page 193: Hydrabad → Hyderabad (… the Rane of Hyderabad.)
Page 201: Moghul → Moghal (... primitive state at Moghal-Serai.)
Page 225: Burke → Bourke (… little Bourke Street….)
VARIANTS UNCHANGED:
Paraherra and Parraherra, gharries and gharrys, Lilliputian and
Liliputian.