Transcribed from the 1890 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Cover]
AN
AUSTRALIAN RAMBLE
OR
_A SUMMER IN AUSTRALIA_
* * * * *
BY
J. EWING RITCHIE
(_CHRISTOPHER CRAYON_)
* * * * *
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1890
* * * * *
_TO_
_THE HONOURABLE EDMUND WEBB_,
_BATHURST_, _NEW SOUTH WALES_,
_THE FOLLOWING PAGES_, _MANY OF THEM WRITTEN_
_UNDER HIS HOSPITABLE ROOF_, _ARE_
_GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED_
_BY_
_THE AUTHOR_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
OFF TO AUSTRALIA.
PAGE
The _Orizaba_—Reasons for Travelling—The Bishop—Soda and 1–28
Whisky—The Spanish Coast—Heroic
Memories—Gibraltar—Wickedness of Naples—Port Said
CHAPTER II.
EGYPT TO COLOMBO.
Coaling in Port Said—The Suez Canal—England the Main 29–49
Support—Donkey-drivers—The Electric
Light—Ismailia—Suez—Aden—The Red Sea
CHAPTER III.
COLOMBO TO ALBANY.
Prosperity of Colombo—Native Extortioners—Buddhist 50–65
Temple—Life in the Streets—On the Indian Ocean—Stormy
Seas guard Australia—English Coolness—Western Australia
CHAPTER IV.
IN THE COLONY OF VICTORIA.
Melbourne Gleanings—Dr. Bevan—Night at a Bungalow—Cole’s 66–108
Book-shop—A Day at Sorrento—White Cruelty to the
Aborigines—Coffee Palaces—Dr. Strong—The Presbyterian
Church in Collins Street—The Late Peter
Lalor—Ballarat—Romance of Gold Mining—Sydney and
Melbourne compared—Australian Rogues—Suburban
Melbourne—Victorian M.P.’s—Victorian Politics
CHAPTER V.
A LITTLE ABOUT NEW SOUTH WALES.
Sunny Sydney—Public Buildings—Educational 109–138
Establishments—Sanitary State—Its Climate—Bathurst—The
Blue Mountains—Romish Aggression—Botany Bay—Old Days—A
Wonderful Change—New South Wales Scenery
CHAPTER VI.
AMONGST THE BANANA BOYS.
Collision in Sydney Harbour—Brisbane—Queensland—The 139–146
Banana Boys—Sir Samuel Griffith
CHAPTER VII.
SOUTH AUSTRALIA.
Holy Adelaide—Its Situation—Its Public Buildings—Its 147–165
Mining-market—Dr. Arnold—Australian Plagues—Fleas and
Mosquitoes and Serpents—Sunday Observance—The Macleay
Mission—Number of Churches
CHAPTER VIII.
LIFE AT A STATION.
Mr. Dooleete’s Station—Sheep-shearing—Patriarchal Life 166–172
Improved—Snakes—Drought
CHAPTER IX.
THE HEATHEN CHINEE.
His Persecution—His Usefulness—His Intellectual Ability 173–183
CHAPTER X.
THE LARRIKIN IN AUSTRALIA.
What the Larrikin is—A Social, Moral, and Political 184–191
Danger—A Natural Foe of the Chinaman
CHAPTER XI.
IN AN AUSTRALIAN VINEYARD.
Fruit Supply—Tintarra Wine—Mr. Thomas Hardy—The 192–205
Temperance Question
CHAPTER XII.
AN AUSTRALIAN MILLIONAIRE.
Mr. James Tyson 206–211
CHAPTER XIII.
AUSTRALIAN FACTS AND FIGURES.
Increase of the Colonies—Further Emigration required—New 212–223
South Wales and Free Trade—The Australian Type
CHAPTER XIV.
COMING HOME.
The Sea—Colombo—Arabi—Ceylon Tea—Stoppage in the 224–235
Canal—Tilbury Docks—The Future of Australia—Australia as
a Field for Emigration
CHAPTER I.
OFF TO AUSTRALIA.
The _Orizaba_—Reasons for Travelling—The Bishop—Soda and Whisky—The
Spanish Coast—Heroic Memories—Gibraltar—Wickedness of Naples—Port Said.
I SEND this from the _Orizaba_, one of the finest, if not the finest, of
the fine steamers of the Orient Line that keep open the communication
between this country and Australia; and this is how it came to pass. One
day last summer I was standing on the deck of a steamer, when a gentleman
remarked to me, ‘I come from a country where they have had no rain for
nine months.’ ‘Where is that?’ said I. ‘Australia,’ was the reply; and
immediately I made up my mind to go there. As is the custom of most of
us, I talked the matter over with my friends, some of them in the first
rank of the medical world. ‘You can’t do better,’ was the unanimous
reply; ‘you will come back ten years younger,’ said they all. Well,
surely it is worth taking a little trouble and incurring a little
expense, for a man—not to put too fine a point on it—presenting daily a
more venerable appearance, to put back the clock, as it were, and to
regain somewhat of his manly prime. ‘What can I do for you?’ said the
family doctor to the mother of the Rothschilds, when he was summoned to
her side; ‘I cannot make you grow young again.’ ‘No,’ was her ladyship’s
reply; ‘I know you can’t, doctor; but I wish to continue to grow old.’
And here, just by taking a trip to Australia, and escaping the hardships
of an English winter and spring, actually I shall achieve what the mother
of the Rothschilds did not dare to hope for. Surely the attempt is worth
an effort, especially when, owing to the kindness of a certain firm of
publishers who shall be nameless, the question of expense was
satisfactorily solved.
In these days of school-boards and universal travel a good deal has yet
to be learned of our colonies. When I was younger, people in this
country were in the most ludicrous state of ignorance as respects the
size, area, wealth and value of what it is now the fashion to term the
fifth quarter of the globe. At that time, say about 1830, there were not
much more than 70,000 in all the land. Then Sydney Smith was writing of
it as a region ‘in which Nature has been so capricious, that she makes
cherries with the stones on the outside, and a monstrous animal, as tall
as a grenadier, with the head of a rabbit and a tail as big as a bedpost,
hopping along at the rate of five hops to a mile.’ Listen to Charles
Lamb, as he writes, in his ‘Essays of Elia,’ to a friend in New South
Wales: ‘What must you be willing by this time to give for the sight of an
honest man? You must have forgotten how _we_ look. Do you grow your own
hemp? What is your staple trade—exclusive of the national profession, I
mean? Your locksmiths, I take it, are some of your great capitalists.’
It was at that time the popular belief was embodied by Tom Hood as
follows in ‘A Letter from a Settler for Life in Van Diemen’s Land,’
wherein Susan Gale writes to her old friend and fellow-servant in Mount
Street, Grosvenor Square: ‘As soon as ever the Botes rode to Land I don’t
aggrivate the Truth to say their was half duzzen Bows apiece to Hand us
out to shoar; and sum go so far as to say they was offered to through
Speeking Trumpits afore they left the Ship-side.’ There is still a
legend of a Missionary Society at home sending out a representative to
Australia, and so carefully planning his route that he was to preach at
Adelaide on the Sunday morning, and at Melbourne, some hundreds of miles
away, in the afternoon, and that was before they had a railway. There
are many who still think that a colony is a place where men are
fortunate, as a late colonial governor remarked, if they enjoy three
meals a day and a place to sleep in, where the inhabitants sit down to
dinner in their shirt-sleeves, and think it a hardship if they take off
their boots when they go to bed. But the greatest fallacy of all is the
supposition that in a colony anyone can get a living, no matter how
incompetent he may have proved himself at home. We laugh, but are we
much wiser now? In Fleet Street last week, as I bade good-bye to a
friend, he said to me, ‘I have a boy who will be coming home just as you
land. I sent him out with the best introductions. He has been six
months in Melbourne and Sydney and elsewhere, and can find nothing to do,
and now I have to get him home again.’ It will be something if, in the
course of my letters, and as the result of my inquiries, I shall be able
to save fathers and mothers at home the trouble and expense and pain of
such fruitless ventures, and it will be better still if I can help men
and women at home to understand and realize what is being done by our
fellow-subjects on the Australian Continent to plant that great land with
Anglo-Saxon civilization and freedom and religion—if I can duly describe
its cities and their people, their wealth and intelligence, their general
activity and enterprise, their inner and public life. According to all
accounts a good deal is yet to be told. Even Mr. Froude has omitted much
that would interest the reader, and Dr. Dale has left something for the
individual who may chance to follow in his steps. The fact is, the
subject is too big for any one man.
I have said I send this from the _Orizaba_, one of the finest, if not the
finest steamer of the Orient Line. Then there are the P. and O., who do
not carry third-class passengers, and French and German steamers in
abundance, to say nothing of other firms, who are always sending out
steamers and sailing-vessels as well. As regards the latter, the firm of
Devitt and Moore, of Fenchurch Street, deserve special mention, as they
are the oldest people in the trade. Tourists who have the time to spare
say there is nothing like a sailing-vessel for an Australian trip, and of
the ships that sail in that direction, from all I hear, there are none
that can equal the _Sobraon_ (Captain Elmslie), and the _Macquarie_, in
the Sydney trade (Captain Goddard, late of the _Paramatta_). All the
fleet of this firm, however, bear a high character, and passengers,
whether as regards accommodation or the commissariat, have no occasion to
complain. The special objects of the managers of the Orient Company are
to increase the facilities for the interchange of communication, and to
promote the speed, safety, and, it may be added, pleasure of the passage.
They are under contract with the Governments of New South Wales and South
Australia to convey the mails fortnightly between England and Australia
by way of Suez, and also run occasional steamers by the Cape of Good
Hope. Since the Line was opened in 1877, upwards of 150,000 passengers
have been carried to and fro, with all but total immunity from accident
to life or limb. It cannot be doubted that the facilities thus afforded
have added alike to the welfare and happiness of both the old world and
the new. At home we are supplied with Australian produce, and Australia
is a good customer in the English market. The service is performed by
some eleven first-class steamers, varying from 3,000 to 7,000 tons. An
old stager gave me the hint to choose one of the smaller vessels, on the
plea that I should have better attendance on board. However, I prefer to
follow the crowd, and have secured my berth on board the _Orizaba_, named
after one of the highest mountains, somewhere, they tell me, in South
America. Already she has carried the largest number of passengers ever
taken by one vessel to Australia. She was built and engined by the
Barrow Shipbuilding Company, the builders of the far-famed _City of
Rome_. In the saloon there are chairs for 130 first-class passengers.
The ship’s company numbers 200. There are second-class and third-class
passengers on board. Apparently there is little danger of starvation, as
the provision-chambers of the ship are sufficient to supply fresh
provisions for 1,000 persons from England to Australia. The promenade
deck is grand; and as to the saloons and drawing-rooms, they are fitted
up in palatial style, and the electric light by night makes the interior
look like fairyland. I ought to be happy with all the provision made for
comfort on board. But who can say what may happen when I am in the Bay
of Biscay, or even after I have set foot on _terra firma_? Strange
things are constantly occurring. The other day I heard of a good man in
Essex, in one of its small towns, who, as duty required, went to his
favourite chapel on the Sunday morning; on his return to his Sunday
dinner he was rather astonished to find that in his temporary absence his
wife and daughters had packed up and started to join the Mormons on the
other side of the Atlantic. It is to be hoped that no such calamity may
happen to me. As to myself, there is little danger of my doing anything
rash, for ‘he that hath wife and children hath given hostages to
fortune,’ as the great Lord Bacon told the world long ago.
It was not till Sunday morning that we left Plymouth, instead of
Saturday. The fact was we had a tremendous addition in the shape of
passengers and luggage to take on board, as all the people from the North
come _viâ_ Plymouth, besides the London passengers who are glad to escape
the dangers of the Channel. On Sunday morning we had a short service in
what is termed the drawing-room. The bishop, of course, was a colonial
(you never go to sea without meeting one), and wore his official robes,
though his reading-desk was but a small table, which was covered by the
British flag. The bishop followed up the prayers with a five minutes’
address, in which he said that a ship was like the world. In the world
we were exposed to temptation, and so it was on board a ship. We were
exposed to temptations from our fellow-passengers—an unkind reflection on
some of us, I thought. Asking the purser what, from his wide experience
of life on a ship, the peculiar form of temptation to which we were
exposed was, his reply was ‘whisky and soda’—a form of temptation of
which, apparently, the bishop had nothing to say. The bishop does not
interest me greatly, though he has kindly volunteered to read prayers
every morning. The air of the bishop’s lady is slightly subdued, as if
the weight of her dignity were too much; _she_ reads Church papers,
whilst _he_ evidently enjoys his novel.
But let me leave the bishop alone, and turn to things of a more worldly
character. Poor Edgar Poe writes: ‘There are four conditions of
happiness in life, and one of them is life in the open air.’ In this
respect we are especially fortunate. We are no sooner out of the
Devonshire mists than we are in the Bay of Biscay, calm as an infant on
its mother’s breast. We live in the open air. Passed Cape Finisterre
after dark on Monday night, and steamed pleasantly down the Spanish
coast, having an especially fine view of Cintra and the mouth of the
Tagus. All along the coast were dotted, amongst the foliage, white
villages, and towns, and villas, all basking in the summer sun. Heroic
memories come to us as we pass over the seas where the _Captain_ was
lost, in consequence, it is to be feared, of defective seamanship, with
her crew of picked men and some of our finest lads of noble birth. All
along that coast, when Old England was fighting for pre-eminence and
power, and on those far-away hills has the noise of battle rolled, and
not in vain, for the struggle that ended with Waterloo placed England in
the first rank among the nations of the earth. From Tilbury’s ancient
fort to Gibraltar we are reminded how England, with her wooden walls and
hardy sons, proudly swept the seas, and was a terror to the despots and a
deliverer of the slave. Plymouth especially calls up a host of glorious
names, as we think of Drake, and Hawkins, and Frobisher, and the Pilgrim
Fathers. It was from Plymouth that Cook and Vancouver sailed, to give us
New South Wales in the East and British Columbia in the West. As soon as
we cross the Bay of Biscay we think of Corunna and Sir John Moore. Afar
off are the heights of Torres Vedras, celebrated in the Peninsular War.
Cape St. Vincent, a bluff 260 feet high, having a convent, on which is
the lighthouse, reminds us of the brilliant victory won by Sir John
Jervis, with Nelson and Collingwood fighting under his flag; and in a
little while we are at Trafalgar, to which sailors still look as the
greatest sea fight in the history of our land, and as the one which saved
our national existence. And we step on shore at Gibraltar, which rises
out of the water, with its endless rows of barracks and its few scattered
villas, and make our way to the lightning-struck tower known as O’Hara’s
Folly—the O’Hara who was the friend of Johnson, and who ought to have
married either Fanny Burney or Hannah More.
But it is idle to call up what to most of modern readers must be bare
names, so soon, in this age of reading and writing and universal
progress, do we forget the past. History in these mechanical days is
getting as much out of fashion as theology. Let me write of living
people; of men and women, poor creatures as they are at the best, to be
brushed away as gossamer. There are just upon a thousand of us in the
shape of passengers on board the _Orizaba_, and almost all are happy.
The dark figure in the shape of Black Care we have left behind, as we
have slipped out of English fog and cold into the region of cloudless
nights and starry skies. We smoke, or read, or talk, or walk the deck,
in a climate brighter even than that of an English summer in the leafy
month of June. The ladies crochet or knit all day long in their
lounging-chairs on deck, while the little ones play as if they had no
fear or thought of the sea and its everlasting hunger for precious human
life, and its cruel storms. What we should do with this unmanageable
mass if anything were to go wrong no tongue can tell. All we can do is
to hope for the best, for no Parliament will ever go so far as to order
that no ship should leave an English port without its sufficient
complement of boats; and if they did, no shipowner could carry on a
profitable passenger trade. It ought not to be so, I know. What can one
do? We are bound to travel, and we take the risk, whatever that may be,
and trust to our sailors and captains, who are not half paid for the work
they have to do. As it is, there is no life so pleasant as that of life
on board one of our great passenger steamships. The _Orizaba_ never
rolls—well, only a little. The saloons are beautiful, the living is
first-rate, the waiting is excellent, and the sleeping-berths are all
that can be desired. By night, with the electric light all along the
deck, the scene reminds you of the Arabian Nights, and mirth and music
are everywhere; I pity the poor people who have to spend their winter at
home. It is now a real pleasure to live. The only thing one misses are
the newspapers and the old familiar faces. Well, I am not sorry to be
out of the way of the papers; they only make me sick and sore as one
reads the daily chronicle of poverty with which no one can grapple, and
of crime which it seems impossible to repress, and the twaddle which
envelops all. And as to the familiar faces, the further one travels the
more one realizes all their loveliness and charm. For once the poet is
right; absence does make the heart grow fonder.
‘How do you like our little town?’ said an Englishman to me as I was
about to leave Gibraltar for our good ship, the _Orizaba_. ‘Well,’ said
I, ‘for a place to spend an hour in I like it amazingly.’ ‘Oh, that’s
about it!’ was his reply. It seems to me, however, as I plough my way on
the blue waters of the Mediterranean—not bluer, however, at present than
what we have on the English coast—that a couple of days may be agreeably
spent at the far-famed rock, of which, however, you get a very fair idea
without stepping on shore. As your eye rests on the harbour you see it
full of steamers, which seem to come and go at all hours. As I write a
French steamer slowly glides by with the yellow flag denoting sickness of
some kind on board. Before us is the town, on our left the old Moorish
fort—the oldest building in the place—and on our right the hospital, with
houses reaching almost to the end. All the space between is filled with
yellow or white houses, save where a thick grove indicates the existence
of the Alameda, a public garden, where the band plays, where the
townsfolk promenade, and which, with its cactuses and geraniums in full
bloom, looks bright and gay even in December. The company have so
arranged that you can step into a boat and get rowed to shore and back
for a shilling each way—an example which I recommend to the corporation
of Gravesend.
I land, and declining a carriage drawn by mules amid the loud
vociferations of the Spanish owners, turn to my left, and find myself in
the main street, the only ugly building in which is the red-brick mansion
in which the British Governor resides. All the houses are shops—full of
the little trifles of Morocco manufacture, such as pipes and jewellery
and gay mats and carpets, with which we are familiar at home. There are
20,000 Spanish residents, and the place swarms with them. There are some
5,000 British soldiers here, and they are _en evidence_, as was to be
expected. They have five years to stop here at a time, and they
evidently think that—as indeed it is—too long. One of the first things
to interest you is the little graveyard on your right, in which the
heroes of the siege were buried—shaded by trees, especially by a fig-tree
of gigantic size and very old, as you can tell by the smallness of the
leaf. A building which attracts your eye just before you enter the busy
street is that of the Soldiers and Sailors’ Institute, which is erected
on a freehold site, and comprises on the ground floor a coffee and
refreshment-bar, dining-room, bath-room, and lavatories; on the first
floor a reading, writing, and recreation-room, with a small library; and
above is a large hall for mission services, public meetings, Bible
classes, and mothers’ meetings. The soldiers and sailors, I fear, do not
appreciate the advantages as they might, though Mr. Holmes, the
superintendent, tells me at times the hall is more than filled. It is in
the streets—or rather in the people that crowd them—the chief charm of
Gibraltar lies.
The life of the place is _al fresco_; everyone seems out of doors. Carts
drawn by mules or donkeys, with country produce, bright little carriages
to hold two or four persons as the case may be, the English officer on
horseback—all these block up the middle of the street; whilst on the
narrow sideway you wind your difficult way amongst monks and nuns and
dark-eyed Spanish women with the national head-dress, and Moors who
shuffle along bare-legged, with slippers to their feet, their whole
person enveloped in their ample, hooded brown or blue cloak, while some
wear the picturesque turban, and others simply rejoice in the well-known
fez. As I contemplate the motley group a black-eyed and black-bearded,
aristocratic-looking Moor makes a dart at me with a couple of fowls; but,
as I decline to purchase, he manages to ask me for a penny—and, let me
add, in vain, for I could not think of insulting such a gentleman by
offering him so ridiculously small a sum. But I see no beggars, and if
the common people look dirty, at any rate they appear to be well fed. I
fancy a good deal of British gold, somehow or other, finds its way into
their pockets. There are no ragged scoundrels to be seen, such as infest
our London streets and are the terror of suburban residents. As you
pass, the shopkeeper stands at his door and bids you look at his
miscellaneous wares.
Of British manufactures I see little, except the biscuits of Huntley and
Palmer or Peek and Frean. I see no shops with books except the depôt of
the British and Foreign Bible Society—but the people manage to live,
nevertheless. Meat is but sixpence a pound. You buy beautiful oranges
at a shilling a hundred. The only dear thing in the place is house-rent.
Not a room is to be had under five shillings a week. Some of my
fellow-passengers dined at the leading hotel, and they think, and I agree
with them, that the charge was rather high. Only goats’ milk is to be
had, but as to cheap wine and low-priced spirits, they are to be procured
in abundance, as two of our steerage passengers find out to their cost,
as we leave them behind, and some who do manage to return may be termed
rather fresh. The one great drawback of Gibraltar, as regards the
resident, is the absence of fresh butter. Alas! ‘man never is, but
always to be blest.’ Of what avail are cheap cigars and wine and meat
without fresh butter? Many have their bread buttered on both sides, and
surely the humblest of us have a right to its being buttered on one, at
any rate. But I may not linger, as I know the _Orizaba_ will sail at the
appointed hour; but we seem long in getting out of the crowd of boats,
full of oranges and cigars, the proprietors of which are doing a roaring
trade with the steerage passengers, who let down the money from the deck
and receive in exchange oranges that will set them up for the rest of
their journey, and away we go, leaving the Rock, at the bottom of which
nestle the yellow rows of streets and houses, all with green or white
lattices, whilst on its lofty head rests a drizzly cloud worthy of
Devonshire itself. On the other side of us are the brown African
mountains—we steer between them as the day closes in, and early in the
morning I open my eyes to see afar on our left, the rocky outline of
Spain, and then we lose sight of land, and can see nothing but the
Mediterranean till early on Saturday morning we pass the first lighthouse
on the coast of Sardinia. We are now coming to ancient history, but for
that I refer the reader to Rollin, the terror of British youth in an age
of which the present reader, intelligent though he may be in his way, has
but a faint idea.
People who believe in Italian skies and summer seas ought not to trust
themselves in the Mediterranean in December. We had what the captain
calls ‘a very heavy gale of wind,’ after we left the ‘Rock,’ which lasted
till we were almost in the Bay of Naples—a gale that sent all the ladies
to bed, and damped the spirits of everyone on board. I had the full
benefit of all the discomfort, as, instead of choosing a berth for
myself, I left it to the officials, believing that in fine weather any
berth is pleasant, and in bad weather all are equally disagreeable. But
at any rate I should not have chosen the one allotted me, the very last
of the berths forward (you are aware that in the boats going through the
Red Sea the best berths are all forward, on account of the heat), but in
my case, unfortunately, every wave that fell on the deck all night long
came with a heavy thump overhead, which did not exactly secure me a good
night’s rest. However, all was forgotten as we steamed on Sunday morning
past rocky Ischia into the famous Bay of Naples, which is far fairer than
that of Swansea—in spite of all that gallant little Wales may say to the
contrary. As I write the view is simply charming. All Naples is before
me. On my left rises the lofty hill on which stands the Castle of St.
Elmo. On my right are two high mountains—one of them, by the cloud of
smoke hanging over it, and the flame of fire issuing from it, renders it
quite unnecessary that I should ask anyone its name. You can tell
Vesuvius at a glance. All the low land gradually rising away from the
sea between them forms the site of delightful but dirty Naples.
I land as soon as the necessary formalities have been gone through—for
they are very particular at Naples, and our purser and medical officer
have first to go ashore in order to satisfy the authorities, a work
sometimes extending over two hours. Fortunately, however, in a little
while they are back, and we crowd on board the company’s tender, which
for half-a-crown conveys the passengers on shore and returns them safe
and sound as late as eleven or twelve o’clock at night. Boats of all
kinds are around us. One contains a bold swimmer, who performs all sorts
of wonderful exploits; others are laden with straw hats and baskets, and
vendors of oranges and cheap jewellery and pipes, lava match-boxes, and
amber mouthpieces. As I board the tender a pretty, smiling Italian
flower-dealer puts a small camellia in my coat, which, however, I am
ungallant enough to return. I fear she is like the flower-girls of Paris
of whom Tom Moore writes, that they spoil a romance with pecuniary views.
In a few minutes I am on shore amid a crowd of dirty black-haired and
black-eyed Italians, who offer me carriages and guides with an intensity
of verbosity (recalling that of a certain Grand Old Man) sufficient to
appal the stoutest heart.
I am rather disappointed at first. Cook’s agents were to come on board,
and one of them did put in an appearance, but that was all, which was a
pity, as many of us were trusting to Cook as a tower of strength. In one
respect I was especially disappointed. Cook was to take us all to
Pompeii, give us lunch there, and bring us back for 12s.; but, alas! the
King’s uncle had died, and Pompeii was shut up, and so was the Museum.
What a misfortune it is that royal personages should trouble us so much!
While alive, of course we must do all we can for them; but surely, when
dead, when they have fairly passed to where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest, it is hard that they annoy us still.
Many of us may never again have a chance of seeing Pompeii. But I steer
clear of the guides and start off for a three hours’ prowl. What strikes
the stranger is the loftiness of the houses, the narrowness of the
streets, and the number of people. Locomotion in some is almost
impossible, so dense is the crowd; while it is the same in others in
consequence of the number of equipages, chiefly open carriages drawn by
black horses quite overdone with heavily-plated harness. To add to the
difficulties there has been a slight shower of rain, and as the scavenger
seems to be unknown, the streets are very slippery; I saw one little
child run over in consequence. Another difficulty of the pedestrian is
the number of stalls on each side, for the sale, apparently, of
everything that can be brought into the street to tempt the purchaser.
Judging by the number of bookstalls, the Neapolitans must be very great
readers, for I never saw so many anywhere else. In many of the streets
that run between the leading thoroughfares, the passage is so narrow that
it would be almost easy to shake hands across. All the lofty houses are
yellow, with green latticed windows and balconies. In many of the
churches into which I peeped Mass was in progress, and the attendance was
large of men as well as women. In some of the streets the shops were
handsome, though quite small, while in the great arches between were
caves, as it were, where carriages and horses waited, apparently for
hire, while in others the cave had been fitted up as a _café_. The
further one got from the harbour, the finer were the shops and streets.
In one I saw a statue of Petrarch, and in another of Dante. The place is
like a rabbit warren, and just as populous. Priests and policemen were
everywhere. Here and there was a religious painting on the side of a
house, before which tapers were burning, and in one street I observed a
crucifix, to which the passers-by took off their hats. I went into a
_café_ and watched some play at a billiard-table, much smaller and with
much bigger balls than those in use among us. Omnibuses and tramcars
abounded. Perpetual motion seemed to be the order of the day. Some of
my friends patronized the English hotels, where the charges seemed to me
dear. One thing, and one thing only, amused me; I stumbled on a kind of
eating-house; on the outside was inscribed, _Déjeuner à la fourchette_,
which was Englished underneath as follows: ‘Breakfast to the fork.’ I
did not enter. I feared, as the English was so bad, that the cooking
might be worse. Altogether, my impression is that Naples looks best at a
distance and by moonlight, when a halo of soft light is thrown over bay
and street and mountain far away, and the hoarse cry of its thousand
street-sellers and cabmen and guides is unheard; when even the distant
tinkling of the bells of its many churches no longer reaches the ear;
when between you and the crowded city is a world of water calm and still.
At Naples we took up more passengers and more mountains of luggage. Our
captain is in despair. That luggage question is the terror of his life.
He says that there would be no need of it if the company would but
establish a laundry on board; and why should they not? It would be a
great convenience to everyone, and save a vast amount of trouble. The
cabins are choked up with packages. It would be as pleasant again for
the passengers if they could have their clothes washed on board.
I fear I did injustice to a dead royalty. I find, after all, it was
simply the fault of the company’s agent at Naples that most of us spent
an idle day in that far-famed city. The distinguished representative of
the distinguished Cook informed us that the Museum and Pompeii were
closed that day, because the agent of the company with whom he came on
board informed him such was the case. I find that they were not, and
that a small party of our fellow-travellers visited both places; had
lunch on shore, returned to the ship to dinner, and paid a visit to the
theatre in the evening for a sum under £1 per head. As you may suppose,
most of us were highly indignant at the conduct of the company’s agent,
and described him in terms that, with the fear of the libel law in view,
it may be dangerous for me to report. I mention the fact that travellers
may not be deceived by what they hear on board, but go on shore and act
for themselves. Many of my fellow-travellers are Scotch. The Scotch,
Mr. Charles Reade tells us, are icebergs with volcanoes underneath, and
we had quite a volcano on board as we summed up the experiences of the
unfortunate day. I own it served me right, for, as a rule, I only
believe half that I hear. I ought to have started for Pompeii—by myself,
trusting to luck to get into the place. I am glad, however, to be able
to do justice to Cook and Sons, the friends of the traveller in every
part of the world. It is seldom that they make a blunder, or their
agents either.
In another respect I am not disappointed. ‘The grand object of
travelling,’ wrote Dr. Johnson, ‘is to see the shores of the
Mediterranean. On those shores were the four great empires of the
world—the Assyrian, the Persian, the Grecian, and the Roman. All our
religion—almost all our laws—almost all our arts—almost all that sets us
above savages has come to us from the shores of the Mediterranean.’ To
sail down the Mediterranean, past Capri—a sunburnt rock—past Stromboli,
through the Straits of Messina, over the far-famed Scylla and Charybdis
of the ancients, past Etna, though unfortunately hidden from our vulgar
gaze by the clouds of night, is undoubtedly an immense treat. But the
rest of the journey is rather monotonous, though we were favoured by fine
weather, a fortunate circumstance, as this part of the Mediterranean is
particularly liable to sudden storms; and if it were not for sea-quoits,
and the still more popular game of dumps, which consists in throwing
small flat balls with lead inside on to a white-painted square board, on
which numerals from one to ten are inscribed, it would be rather hard
work to get through the weary hours. At Naples an agent came on board
with the London morning papers four days old, which sold readily at half
a franc each, and the perusal of them has helped to kill an idle time,
and, besides, afforded topics for general conversation. For pedestrian
exercise the _Orizaba_ is admirably adapted, as eleven times round the
promenade deck is supposed to be a mile, and at certain hours every one
is supposed to be doing his or her ‘constitutional;’ thus, what used to
be considered one of the bad effects of life at sea, its confinement, is
entirely got rid of. Captain Conlan, our commander-in-chief, when off
duty, has a friendly word for us all; but I must say, if tobacco be a
slow poison, some of us are in a bad way, for I think without exception
all the male passengers smoke; and at Gibraltar, where tobacco and cigars
are cheap, most of them replenished their exhausted stores.
The principal event after leaving the Straits of Messina is the
appearance of Crete, by the side of which, with her snowy-capped
mountains, we steamed for about five hours. From her rocky foreground,
resting on the blue waves, rise three mountain ridges, the chief of which
‘is many-founted Ida,’ towering 8,000 feet above the sea. As a caution
to travellers, let me assure them how much one of Smith’s dictionaries
would be appreciated. Smith, it may be, is correct, but he is pedantic.
Lemprière would, perhaps, be better; in the home of legendary lore it is
not wise to be over-critical. The Orient Company publishes a guide-book,
but it is of little practical use, though it contains an immense amount
of information, some excellent maps, and is a marvel of cheapness. You
rarely get in such books what you really want to know. We have a
professor on board, but professors nowadays are somewhat common. Men who
shave and cut corns—men who examine your head, who risk their necks in
parachutes, who excel in gymnastics, are called, or call themselves,
professors; and I, perhaps because I know no better—probably it is so—may
be a little sceptical as to the class. I always think of Barry
Cornwall’s lines in which he speaks of
Professors of hall and college,
With a great deal of learning and little knowledge.
And, alas! I have known many such. It amuses me more to talk to some of
the third-class passengers. ‘Ah, sir,’ said one of them to me, as we
steamed out of Naples Bay—‘ah, sir, that is a very wicked city; it allus
reminds me of Nineveh.’ I was compelled to admit that I did not know
much of the wickedness of either; but that I did happen to know that,
excluding Jack the Ripper, there were not a few wicked people left in
London. I always like to look at home before I begin censuring other
people. There is a good deal of truth in the remark of the old
Californian, when Sir Charles Dilke told him ‘Californians in the Empire
City were called the scum of the earth.’ ‘Them New Yorkers,’ was the old
man’s reply, ‘is a sight too fond of looking after other people’s
morals.’
Just as we are nearing the lowlands of Africa, and Port Said—a wretched
place, where we stop a few hours to coal—is in sight, a death occurs on
board; a tiny babe, weary of the world of which it knows so little,
refuses to live any longer. In the drawing-room few of us know of the
event, and the gaiety goes on much as usual. I rush on to the deck, and
see a dark cloud of passengers at one end, and there is the Bishop
standing at a red kind of box or reading-desk, repeating that grand
burial service which is nowhere more impressive than when heard in the
ocean’s solitude, with nothing but the wide, wide sea below, and the
clear, moonlight sky above. The parents are, of course, there to mourn,
and the bearing of the little crowd is sympathetic. The poor little
corpse, covered by the British flag, is placed on an inclined board,
which is tipped over when the sentence ‘we commit this body to the deep’
is reached, and the sea receives its dead. I had only asked the doctor
that morning what was the state of health on board the ship, and his
reply was that it was as well as could be. Perhaps steerage passengers
don’t count, especially when babies. At any rate, the funeral is over,
and we are taking our evening tea as if nothing of consequence had
occurred—as if no tender mother’s heart had been torn with anguish as she
saw her babe fall a victim to the Reaper whose name is Death. Not for a
moment did the ship slacken her career, and we press on to Port Said with
all our might.