COMING HOME.
The Sea—Colombo—Arabi—Ceylon Tea—Stoppage in the Canal—Tilbury Docks—The
Future of Australia—Australia as a Field for Emigration.
ONCE more I am afloat. I bid good-bye to a friend who was six months
coming out, and lived on salt beef and pork all the while. In this
respect we have changed for the better. But the sea, is it ever to be
depended on?
According to the Duc de Joinville, when Saint Louis, King of France, was
on his return journey from the Holy Land, whither he had been to fight
the Saracen, off Cyprus the ship ran aground, and all were in deadly
peril. But the King refused to get into another ship, preferring, he
tells us, ‘to entrust to God’s keeping my own life and the lives of my
wife and children, rather than ensure so much hurt to such a large number
of persons as are on board.’ Few of us have attained to such saintship,
and, as a matter of fact, as regards most of us, our trust in
supernatural interposition is that of the old woman of whom Mr. Gough
used to tell us who, when asked how she felt when the horse ran away,
replied that she trusted in Providence till the reins broke, and then she
gave up. Alas, in a stormy sea, in a moment of peril from collision, or
in case of a ship foundering, in the mad struggle for life it seems as
if, in spite of all science has yet achieved, as if there were no power,
human or divine, to ward off that cruel death, which in that hour of
agony seems to ride the whirlwind and direct the storm; and day by day,
and now more than ever, we hear of tragedies at sea which make the cheek
of the landsman, even if he has no loved ones to lament, turn pale, and
his heart to sicken. It is true ships carry boats, but they are smashed
in launching, or they are launched too late, or they are upset; or if
not, they carry no provisions, or are found deficient in oars, and the
chances are if help comes in the shape of a friendly ship that has seen
the signal from afar, only a few survive to tell the sad tale of cold and
wet and hunger and thirst, under the fearful pressure of which their
shipmates have succumbed. In the House of Commons, the other day, an
M.P. suggested that an Act of Parliament should be passed compelling
every ship to carry as many boats as would accommodate all the crew and
passengers—an utter impossibility. Clearly it is not in that direction
that we are to look for help. It consoles one to reflect, however, that
the commanders and officers of our Australian steamers rarely run their
ships into danger, and manage when in it to get out again.
It is in the dark watches of the night that a passenger feels most timid.
A lady assured me, the other day, whenever it was rough she lay awake all
night expecting the ship to go to the bottom. I endeavoured to give her
what comfort I could; but night in the tropics is slightly awful. The
sun drops down into the waters in such a glare of angry red. The clouds
that come, or rather fly, with the early dawn seem so dark and
threatening, and then the ocean has ever a melancholy wail. These almost
leave me sometimes absolutely awestruck. It is not in this case true
that familiarity breeds contempt.
At length I lay down my pen so far as the great country of Australia is
concerned. I have skirted its coast for many a hundred miles. I have
tarried in its cities, have seen some of its best men and women, and have
gone up into the interior, where population is scarce and life is of the
simplest and roughest. I came back by the dear old _Liguria_ from Sydney
to Melbourne, was carried by the _Austral_ to Adelaide, and then left
Adelaide by the _Iberia_, ‘the best ship of the line,’ said an old
Australian to me, with a captain, whose name is Shannon, as fond of a
good game of chess as myself, and who did much to make me and all his
passengers comfortable. The _Iberia_ is not such a grand ship as the
_Orizaba_, and its smoking-room was uncomfortably small, but we managed
to enjoy ourselves after we had left Cape Leeuwin, always washed by a
stormy sea, and found ourselves once more on the Indian Ocean, calm all
the way as a mill-pond, but hot as a furnace in full blast. What a
relief it was to see Adam’s Peak, and green Ceylon, and Colombo; to
exchange my warm clothing for the white suit of clothing the Cingalese
tailor makes up for you while the ship is coaling, and to go on shore and
take a ride along the parks and flower-gardens and cocoanut-groves of the
gem of the Indian Ocean, as Colombo is fitly called! On my return I was
exceptionally fortunate. Mr. John Fergusson, of the _Colombo Observer_,
had seen my name in the list of passengers, and, with a kindness for
which I cannot be too grateful, had sent a native messenger on board to
take me on shore—a brown, slightly-dressed young gentleman, whose broken
English helped at any rate to while away the time, and to make me forget
the awful heat. Mr. Fergusson, after a warm reception—all the more
agreeable as up to that time I had not even known his name—being an
editor and too busy to give me much of his time, handed me over to the
care of his pastor, the Rev. Mr. Durbin, a Baptist minister, whose chapel
is one of the most attractive places of worship in the town, and whose
congregation, I found, was in a very flourishing condition. In company
with this gentleman, I inspected the oldest ecclesiastical building at
Colombo, the old Dutch church, built much after the fashion that prevails
in Holland to this day. Then we did the Law Courts, a pile of white
buildings, forming a perfect square, crowded all day long with natives,
who are never so happy as when at law with each other. The courts were
lofty and airy, and the crowd of half-dressed witnesses and criminals
were kept at a respectful distance. The proceedings were somewhat slow,
as the evidence had to be translated into English for the benefit of the
presiding genius. Native police guarded both the exterior and interior,
and in the library I was introduced to several native barristers—very
fine, manly-looking men—whose manners and appearance were of the most
unexceptionable character. In company with Mrs. Fergusson, I visited the
far-famed Arabi Pasha, in his picturesque place of exile—a well-made
Egyptian, in the dress of his country, who received us politely, but the
conversation we carried on was not of very thrilling character. The
gentleman is shy of interviewers. A correspondent one day had called on
him, and to his disgust the whole conversation was related in a London
newspaper. Consequently, now, Arabi says little, though, perhaps, he
thinks the more. One of our party had taken Mr. Caine, when in Colombo,
to call, but the English M.P. failed to get much out of the wily
Egyptian, though he tried him in every possible way. Nor was Arabi much
more communicative to myself. He seemed to me weary of his exile.
Indeed, he told me he would prefer London to Colombo. ‘He ought not to
dislike the English,’ said a resident in Suez to me. ‘He would have been
murdered had he stopped there. He has no friends in Egypt; the Egyptians
always kick a man when he is down.’ I returned to the _Iberia_ in a
catamaran, and with a box of the finest Ceylon tea, kindly given me by
Mr. Fergusson, and which, for the benefit of my home readers, I may
mention may be procured of Messrs. Swan, Laurence Pountney Lane, London,
dealers in Ceylon tea exclusively.
We had the usual fine, hot weather up the Red Sea. I had a disagreeable
attack of what is called prickly heat—the only consolation, and it was a
real one, being that the weather-wise assured me that if I had not had
it, I should have had something worse. We did not call at Aden, nor were
we sorry for that, as most of us had got rather tired of the long travel
and exhausting heat. Already we had had three deaths on board, and were
eager to be safe at home. One morning the captain pointed to our left,
and told me that on one of the islands far away in that direction the
woman is master, and the man has to take the back-seat. It would have
been interesting if we could have gone there and seen how they got on,
but mail steamers are bound to keep on their proper course. He who would
study the islands and waste places of the Indian Ocean must have a yacht
to himself—and there is a good deal to be learned, which can be got at in
no other way. In due time we were in the Canal—alas! there to remain all
night at anchor, with the lights of old Suez in the distance, which we
were afraid to visit, as we might be off at any moment. The Egyptians,
with their donkeys on the beach, all night long screamed to us to come on
shore and have a ride. At length, the _Katie_, of West Hartlepool, which
had grounded and stopped our passage, was got off, and we made our way to
Port Said, which did not prove more attractive on a second visit than it
did on the first. Of course I went on shore to look at the veiled women
and bearded men, to be attacked by the sellers of cigars and rubbish of
all kinds, and to get very tired of the place, which, however, must do a
good deal of business in the course of the year.
Cooler weather comes to us as we sail through the Straits of Messina, and
pass snow-capped Etna afar off. We stop at Naples to set down the mails
and take up passengers. We are full to suffocation. My cabin, too small
for myself to live in in comfort, has to submit to intrusion: but old
gentlemen who have been spending the winter abroad with their wives and
families have to be accommodated.
At Gibraltar we stop to take up a few more passengers, and to buy Spanish
fans and Moorish trifles. It really does strike one how, as you approach
the Rock from the Mediterranean, it resembles a huge lion, with its back
on Africa, and its face looking towards Spain. In the Bay of Biscay
there is what the meteorologists call a slight depression, which means a
little rolling; all that we have had to encounter since we left Cape
Leeuwin. The rolling, more or less, accompanies us to Plymouth, where we
arrive at night. The knowing ones get out, and proceed to London by
train, as they say we shall catch it in the Channel. As usual, the
knowing ones are wrong. Who but a fool will talk with certainty about
horses, wine, women, or weather? It is fine, beautifully fine, till we
get to Deal, when down come the heavens in waterfalls of rain. It rains
all night as we lie at anchor there, waiting for the daylight to take us
to Tilbury Docks, to be examined by Custom House officers in the huge
shed where all the luggage is landed, and the Queen’s taxes paid. This
is a place where a passenger need have sharp eyes. I found, after a good
deal of trouble, a beautiful fur rug, which happened to be mine, in a
place where it had no right to be. It is hard on the passenger, that
Custom House shed, and by the time the poor fellow is shot out at
Fenchurch Street, where he has to seek his scattered luggage at the
hazard of his life, it is not much to be wondered at if he resolves never
to take an Australian trip again.
I must own, however, that no such feeling entered into my head. The
difficulties which at one time beset the traveller are unknown. He is at
home among friends. It is said the last of the Australian Bush Rangers
now keeps an hotel in San Francisco, so there is little to fear. My
experiences in Australia remain in my memory, and will long remain, as
among the brightest and pleasantest of a life mercifully varied and
protracted more than that of many. I have seen a sunny land, rich in all
that men hold dear, where our brethren have planted another Britain—minus
the State Church, in which few of us believe, and the aristocratic
element, which all the world over has had its day. Democracy has grown
to be the ruler of the world, and in Australia the experiment, so far as
it has been tried, is a success. Material wealth abounds, and statesmen
have provided that ignorance shall be banished the new community; while
the religious of all denominations have shown how churches are to be
built and preachers provided, and Christ’s kingdom advanced better
without a State Church than with it. In many parts, especially in
Adelaide, I was the recipient of a graceful and lavish hospitality
impossible to conceive of at home. There, also, I found a civilization
as refined, an energy it may be greater, a hope—as regards this world, at
any rate—more secure. If we have to mourn over a Paradise Lost, in
Australia we realize a Paradise Regained. Of the Australian, I may
emphatically say that his lines are cast in pleasant places, and that he
has a goodly heritage. Whether he will long remain a colonist I more
than doubt. The colonies, I hold, are prepared for separation; but, when
it does come, it will be not from choice, but necessity. So long as no
practical difficulties arise, matters will remain as they are.
Is Australia a fitting field for emigration? Will it provide our
starving East-enders with good living and good homes? And can the young
man of the middle-class find there the opening for his energies denied
him here? The last question I am rather inclined to answer in the
affirmative—if he has his head on his shoulders—if he does not rate his
own services too highly—if he does not refuse the first opportunity that
comes in his way. Friends he will find in the colony ready to lend him a
helping hand, and in most of the towns there is a branch of the Christian
Young Men’s Association, the secretary of which is generally in a
position to give him suitable advice. It is a fact that people do well
as a rule, and that, thanks to the climate, the tender-chested and
delicate have a better prospect of healthy life than in our damp and
fog-crowned island. In a land flooded with glorious sunshine, poverty
loses some of its bitterness, for in Australia the blue sky and the
bright sun are the heritage of all. As to our very poor—whom we gladly
ship off—as a rule I question whether they would be much benefited by
being shot out into the poor quarters of the great Australian towns and
cities. They are too feeble to stand alone. There is no help for them
as long as they breed as awfully as they do at the East End. Charity
seeks to supply their needs in vain, and as to State interference, the
less we have of that the better. The strong, self-reliant, clear-headed
working-man—the man who can get on at home—will get on out there; as will
also the capitalist who knows how to invest his money. A man who is in a
good position at home, however, would be a fool to throw it up for the
sake of a chance in the land of the Golden Fleece.
* * * * *
THE END.
* * * * *
* * * * *
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
ADVERTISEMENTS.
GREEN’S BLACKWALL LINE
AND
Devitt & Moore’s Australian Line.
CARLISLE CASTLE. MACQUARIE.
COLLINGWOOD. MERMERUS.
DERWENT. RODNEY.
HARBINGER. SOBRAON.
HESPERUS. TAMAR.
ILLAWARRA. Etc., Etc.
These splendid vessels sail regularly to and from Australia, and offer
unequalled advantages to passengers travelling for health or pleasure.
Each vessel carries a surgeon.
* * * * *
F. GREEN & CO.,
13, FENCHURCH AVENUE,
LONDON, E.C.
* * * * *
ORIENT LINE. {237}
FORTNIGHTLY MAIL SERVICE
BETWEEN
England and Australia.
Steam-ships. [Picture: Picture of Steam-ships.
steam ship]
‘AUSTRAL,’ ‘LUSITANIA,’
5524 Reg., 3877 Reg.,
7000 H.P. 4000 H.P.
‘CUZCO.’ ‘ORIENT,’
3898 Reg., 5365 Reg.,
4000 H.P. 6000 H.P.
‘CARONNE.’ ‘ORIZABA,’
3876 Reg., 6077 Reg.,
4000 H.P. 7000 H.P.
‘IBERIA,’ ‘ORMUZ,’
4661 Reg., 6031 Reg.,
4200 H.P. 8500 H.P.
‘LIGURIA,’ ‘OROYA,’
4548 Reg., 6057 Reg.,
4200 H.P. 7000 H.P.
CALLING TO LAND AND EMBARK PASSENGERS AT
Gibraltar, Naples, Port Said, Ismailia, Suez, Colombo, Albany,
Adelaide, Melbourne, and Sydney.
* * * * *
Steamers among the largest and fastest afloat, cuisine of the first
order,
electric lighting, hot and cold baths, good ventilation, and every
comfort.
* * * * *
_FARES FROM £17 17s. to £70_.
* * * * *
_Managers_:—
F. GREEN & Co., 13, FENCHURCH AVENUE,
ANDERSON, ANDERSON & Co., 5, FENCHURCH AVENUE,
LONDON, E.C.
_For Passage apply to the latter Firm_.
Footnotes.
{237} In the printed book this advertisement is before the title
page.—DP.