AUSTRALIA.
Quarantined--The Receiver-General of Australia--An Australian
Guidebook--A Death Trap--A Death Story--The New Chum--Commercial
Confessions--Mad Melbourne--Hydrophobia--Madness--A Land Boom--A
Paper Panic--Ruin.
SYDNEY--The Confessions of a Legislator--Federation--Patrick
Francis Moran.
ADELAIDE--Wanted, a Harbour--Wanted, an
Expression--Zoological--Guinea-pigs--Paradise!--Types--Hell Fire
Jack--The Horse--The Wrong Room!
[Illustration]
Wise chroniclers are welcome to the opinion that "the dreaded Cape
Leeuwin was first rounded by a Dutch vessel, 1622." All I can say is
that the Cape has got sharpened again, for there is no roundness about
save the billows of the Indian Ocean, which everlastingly dash against
its side. I'll agree, however, with any chronicler that the cause of the
chronic fury of the Indian Ocean at this point is caused through anger.
To call that grand if barren promontory after a twopenny-halfpenny Dutch
cockle-shell is a gross insult to the thousands of miles of sea between
that point and any other land. Fortunately the little Dutch vessel had a
name which sounds all right if only pronounced in plain
English--_Lioness_ in place of _Leeuwin_--but the vessel might have been
called _Rats_, or _Schnapps_, or some other name even less dignified,
and one that would have been adopted just the same. It is the principle
of the thing that the great sea objects to, and it is not slow to show
its rage, as all who round it know full well. Chroniclers are found who
seem to have agreed that the name is the whole cause of the roaring
winds and waves around Cape Leeuwin, but that the roughness is in
reality the result of satisfaction in bearing one so awe-inspiring, and
that the "Lioness" is trying to live up to her natural wildness and
fury, and fully succeeding in doing it.
I regret that I was in too great a hurry to visit Fremantle, which lies
at the head of the Lioness, particularly as on my journey to Australia I
had cut out the following passage from a description I came across of
that place. I read this, and re-read it, and still continue to read it,
as a choice specimen of the guide-book-maker's delirium:
"The first _coup d'oeil_ of Fremantle is a white scattered township on
an undulating plain fringed by a sea-beach and scant vegetation. As you
land you are struck on all sides with the unusual activity around you.
Long sinuous trains of loaded cargo trucks are coming and going,
locomotive whistles warning the pedestrian to beware, lines of rails
intersecting each other, crowds of lumpers, and the busy air of a large
shipping centre bewilder you, and you are carried back to some old-world
port where ships of all nations call and disgorge their lading."
[Illustration: COALING.]
There! Are you not anxious to go to a place with the assurance that you
will be struck on all sides as soon as you land with unusual activity?
Do you not burn to see what "a long sinuous train" is like? Are you not
willing to brave the dangerous locomotives crossing the intersecting
lines of railways, just to see those crowds of lumpers? Then to be
bewildered by the busy mercantile air, and before you have time to fully
realise all this you are to be "carried back to some old-world port
where ships of all nations call and disgorge their lading."
That last proposal settled my mind; no attractive trains or lumpers,
undulating plains or scant vegetation, or anything equally attractive,
would induce me to arrive at a place, after five or six weeks'
travelling to get there, to find myself at once carried back to some
old-world port before seeing something of the rest of Australia to repay
one for the long and tedious journey. I therefore avoided Fremantle.
There is one attraction to visit that port which the traveller from the
Old World will appreciate, after his experience of the fleecing dues and
charges at Adelaide, Melbourne, and other Australian ports, in which
officials all but tear the clothes off the visitor's back to tax them.
In this port your mantle at least is free.
In spite of the following paragraph from the same source: "Western
Australia has emerged into the full glare of the world's light and
renown, and not to know its golden wonders is to argue oneself unknown,"
I determined to remain in obscurity.
[Illustration]
The guide-books assure us Albany deserves more than "passing notice."
This is true enough, but travellers do not always get a chance of giving
the place its deserts. This was particularly the case with me on my
first visit. Quarantine was then in force, and, with my
fellow-passengers, I was forbidden to land. All I then saw of the people
of Western Australia was limited to a few hours watching the
coal-lumpers at work trucking coal along a plank from an ancient hulk
moored by the side of the P. and O. steamship _Victoria_. After the
animated scenes of coaling at Malta and Aden, and particularly the wild,
indescribable scene at Port Said, coaling at Albany fell decidedly
flat. The only diversion that varied the monotony of the proceedings was
when a truck would capsize in its Blondin-like trip and pitch the coals
into the sea.
[Illustration]
The most interesting personage in Albany is Captain B----, the harbour
master. I call him the Receiver-General of Australia, for he is the
first inhabitant of Australia to receive and welcome the new comer, and
he is also the last to take farewell of the parting guest. Captain B----
has held the post of harbour master at King George's Sound, Albany, for
over thirty years, and, though over seventy years of age, he seems equal
to many years of service yet. Certainly a stranger gets a good
impression of the country if he takes Captain B---- as a sample
Australian, and one wonders, when one sees this fine old salt run up the
gangway with the agility of a youth of seventeen, whether all
Australians are equally active. Chatting with Captain B----, I
complimented him on his youthful physique. "Why, sir," said he, "I can
climb up anything. I can board the ship hand-over-hand on a rope and
never touch the side with my feet." This seemed pretty good for a man of
over seventy, but I did not regard it as an exaggeration. Captain B----
remembered his father and uncle, both naval men, going to the funeral of
King George IV. His reminiscences included the experiences of singing in
a choir at the coronation of the Queen, and also when Her Majesty was
married. When the Captain ran down the gangway shouting orders to his
men, the strength of his lungs was as evident as the agility of his
body. Anyone who took this worthy official as a typical Australian would
be greatly deceived. Diminutive in stature and voluble in speech, he is
in every way the reverse to the average-born Australian. The Australian
is generally tall, not to say lanky, and by no means communicative.
An American walked into the smoking-room of a P. and O. ship outward
bound, as it was leaving St. George's Sound, threw himself down on a
sofa, stuck his feet on to a table, spit, and said to those in the
saloon:
"I thank my stars I am clean out of that one-horse town Albany!"
Another traveller who had joined the ship at the same town and who lay
huddled up in a corner more dead than alive after a severe attack of
typhoid followed by pleurisy, remarked:
"Well, you must admit, sir, it is the healthiest place in Western
Australia."
"Co-rect, stranger--co-rect," replied the Yankee. "Co-rect! guess that's
why I have cleared out. This darned Albany is 90 per cent. of climate
and only 10 per cent. of business."
[Illustration: SLEEPY HOLLOW.]
I visited Albany on my return journey. It struck me that in "Sleepy
Hollow" 90 per cent. of the natives were in bed and the other 10 per
cent. were dozing on the seats on the parade.
When I started for the Antipodes the place that I looked forward to
seeing more than any other was Western Australia. It is the part of
Australia most discussed at home, where it is being boomed with all the
artifice of the promoter's gang. Every ship brings living cargoes to
Western Australia; every newspaper is full of Western Australia. On the
front page are shipping advertisements offering every facility for quick
and cheap transit; in the centre of the paper leading articles appear to
ventilate the wonders of the West; towards the end of the paper--in the
City news--thousands eagerly scan the Stock Exchange for prices of
Western Australia. There is another column still in which one might find
interesting news concerning Western Australia--the deaths column.
When I arrived in Australia the one place that I determined nothing
should drag me to was Western Australia. No, not all the gold in the
mines would get me to that pestilential plague spot. Here is a place
boomed "at home" and abroad at the time of Queen Victoria's Jubilee,
when nightly speeches were made at banquets glorifying the charms of the
speculators' Eldorado, Western Australia--when columns were written of
its boasted civilisation, and cheers were given when "Advance Australia"
was roared out, and bumpers were drunk by the stop-at-home wirepullers.
Just read the following, published at the moment:--
"A WESTERN PLAGUE SPOT.
"HOW FEVER IS RAGING IN PERTH.
"Various visitors to Perth have expressed their opinions upon the
awful conditions, from a sanitary point of view, of the Western
city, and almost daily news is telegraphed across of the ravages
from typhoid, pneumonia, and other diseases in consequence.
"That the state of affairs is in no way exaggerated by prejudiced
outsiders is proved by a full-page account in a recent issue of the
Perth _Herald_, and which is headed: 'Typhoid Fever in Perth; An
Alarming Situation; The Position of Affairs Grows Worse.'
"The opinions of doctors, nurses, experts, and others are
published, all going to show that public and private action is
almost in every case as if the one aim was to increase the
death-rate to the highest possible figures.
"The water supply is contaminated; drainage runs into the catchment
area, and even faecal matter is plainly evident in the samples
analysed; there is no supervision of the milk supply; vegetables
are grown under most dangerous conditions; stagnant drains are in
almost all the streets; about public places of recreation there are
fever beds; many of the population are crowded in small
boarding-houses like rabbits, and ordinary precautions for the
removal of filth neglected, even if that were enough in itself;
houses are built on pestilential swamps; the wind blows the dust
about spots where the typhoid excrement has been deposited to breed
germs by the million; and bread, meat, and other food carts go
about uncovered to collect it, as if to make sure that any who
escaped all other sources of the danger should not be allowed to
escape the plague.
"Even the public esplanade has to be shunned, the silt from the
sewer which is being used for reclaiming being a mass of foul
matter.
"It will interest 't'othersiders' to read this about the conditions
of life:--
"'Many of the dwellings in which the t'othersiders are to be found
huddled together are first-class fever "germinators." The rooms are
small, the ventilation bad, the bed linen rarely changed, while not
the slightest attention whatever is paid to sanitation. It is
estimated that there are at least 400 small tenements, from two to
five rooms, serving as "boarding" and "lodging" houses, and in
these over 3,000 persons are sheltered.'"
Stories of how fortunes are made and lives are lost in the race for
wealth in Western Australia would fill volumes.
A typical story, and a genuine one to boot, is worth recording. A
well-known racing man travelling on a steamer round the coast was
attracted by a seedy, out-of-elbows individual seated all alone. He got
into conversation with him. The seedy stranger was reticent about
himself, but voluble about others, particularly those who were making
their piles in Western Australia--he was going there if he had to walk.
The idea of a man walking was a repulsive thought to a racing man, so he
most generously insisted upon this dilapidated acquaintance accepting
L10 to help him to get to the goldfields. The stranger was to pay him
back some day if he ever struck oil. Time went on, and one morning the
Good Samaritan received a letter with the L10 enclosed and a request to
make an appointment. The two met again. The out-of-elbows
fellow-traveller turned up to keep the appointment he had asked for,
dressed in the height of fashion; he not only looked a millionaire, but
he was one! Yet he was sad and depressed, and recited the history of his
good fortune to the good-natured sportsman in a most dismal tone. Though
his words were full of gratitude and thankfulness, he seemed, strange as
it may appear, somewhat reproachful.
"Yes, thanks to you, I have struck a gold mine, the one the world is now
talking about, and you shall have half of it; that is the reason I asked
to see you."
"Not I," was the reply. "I don't want it; besides, you have relatives."
"I had," said the millionaire, looking sorrowfully away. "I had three
brothers. I was very fond of them, and sent for them when my luck came
and, thanks to you, my fortune also. They arrived in Western Australia
full of life and hope and jubilation, three of the finest and strongest
fellows in the Colonies. They were all dead and buried within a
month--stricken down by the damned typhoid fever."
[Illustration: PROSPECTORS.]
Every day I spent in Australia I had similar stories to these told
me--of how those rushing into the death-trap to dig up gold were buried
themselves instead. Every day I heard of the swindles as well as of the
sewerage. Both the towns and the business stank. Bogus mines were
foisted into the "new chum," and huge companies started to work them;
businesses advertised as big affairs with tremendous capitals were in
reality a paltry village hut or two, with a few pounds of goods flung
into them.
If you are not robbed in England right away by such swindles, you are
invited to sail for Western Australia.
I met the manager of a Western Australian mining property, who was
justly savage at the influx of "new chums" sent out by the directors of
the company he represents. These ne'er-do-wells, of all ages and of all
degrees of stupidity and vice, arrive weekly, with letters of
recommendation from the London directors, and in most cases actual
contracts signed for berths as book-clerks, secretaries, corresponding
clerks, &c., &c.--worthless incumbrances, but, even should they be found
capable, not a berth open for one per cent. sent out: a fault showing
that the directors in London are ignorant of the working of things they
are supposed to direct. A sharp manager, finding himself face to face
with a cargo of these silly "new chums" so landed, after going carefully
over the binding contracts they came armed with, addressed them thus:--
"You, Mr. Nogood, hold a contract made in London by your uncle, a
director of this company, to be engaged on arrival as clerk at L10 a
week. You, Mr. Boozer, are to be engaged at L6 a week as book-keeper;
and you, Mr. Flighty, at L5 a week as an assistant engineer, and so on.
Now, gentlemen, in my position as manager here I may tell you plainly
that your relatives and friends--the directors in London--are not
conversant with the business here in detail. Were they, I am certain,
gentlemen, you would never have signed these contracts agreeing to give
your valuable services to us for such a ridiculously small remuneration.
Things are dearer here than in London, you know; you could not live on
such miserable pittances. Now I am unfortunately in the unhappy position
that whilst here absolutely at the head of affairs and an autocrat, I am
at the same time bound to accept these contracts made in London, and am
therefore powerless to improve your unfortunate acceptances of these
posts assigned to you. However, if you will agree to tear up these
contracts I shall engage you weekly all the same, but at double
salaries. Do you agree to this, gentlemen?"
They all did. The contracts were destroyed, they received double
salaries, for a fortnight, were not asked to do anything, and were all
dismissed with a week's notice by the autocrat, the manager of the
property, who has his picked, tried, and trusted men to do all the work
necessary.
The Western Australian boom is over. The rooks have plucked every
feather they can off the poor pigeon. The Land of Promise, the Land of
Myth, the Land of Sharks and Sharpers, is discovered by the paying
public, and is in disgrace. Truth will out, and the truth about Western
Australia is out of the designing promoter's bag now, never to be caught
in it again. Africa suggests a comparison. In mining there is a great
difference between Africa and Australia. Take, for instance, the Rand in
Africa: it is one long reef of general excellence, divided into mines
all of solid value. Australian mines, with one or two notable
exceptions, do not run so; they are short, broken and erratic.
Each of these when struck may or may not yield the three ounces to the
ton they are boomed as having, but what is not explained to the
investing public is the fact that the mines are limited and
uncertain--they are not continuous, they are most expensive to open and
work, and consequently they are practically worthless, and the
investors' money is swamped and the land shows no return.
A man who has most exceptional experience in mining, in a conversation
with me used an expression _a propos_ of the character of the mining
lodes. He said that they were "patchy." That expresses everything
Australian. Australia is a patchy country. Look at the sheep stations: a
good season or two, property investment, rush, extravagance, no rain,
ruin, despair, exodus. So it is with land, with everything--it is
patchy. The people are patchy. One set, pleasant, refined, kindly,
lovable; the next objectionable, vulgar, low and detestable.
A friend of mine on board the steamer had the following interesting
conversation with an Irish lady moving in Australian society:
"Do you happen to know Mrs. Larry O'B. and Mrs. Mike O'C.?
"Do I know thim? Well, iv course I do. Shure, me darlin', both of their
husbands stood in the same dock wid moi husband on their thrial for
murder--for killin' a process server in Oireland years ago. Moi husband
was acquitted, worse luck!"
"Worse luck?"
"Yis. Maybe y'don't know as how the other two gintlemen got sintinced
and were sent out here as convicts, and both of thim now are
millionaires, and my poor man is still workin' hard for his livin' in
the ould counthry."
Hydrophobia is unknown in Australia. A traveller on arrival has his pet
dog taken from him and the poor animal is thrust into quarantine for six
months. These four millions of inhabitants, spread over the largest
colony in the world, consider themselves so precious they quarantine
everything and everybody but lunatics. Why not quarantine lunatics? Are
they not dangerous? Did not a whole city go mad? Stark, staring, raving
mad--Mad Melbourne--and yet a Maltese terrier is quarantined in the same
port for six months!
[Illustration: QUARANTINE ISLAND.]
Yet lunatics arrive and make lunacy rampant, and a whole city is left
after such a visitation an asylum of melancholia--Mad Melbourne. Lunacy
frequently takes the form of egotism. Peasants imagine themselves
princes; Calibans believe themselves to be Adonises; beggars imagine
themselves millionaires. It is a harmless vanity and hurts no one, but a
mad city may ruin thousands by suddenly imagining itself a gold mine.
Melbourne a few years ago imagined it suddenly became the hub of the
universe. The world and his wife had but one burning desire--that was to
live in Melbourne. Some lunatic started this ridiculous idea, and the
boom spread like lightning. Melbourne was by this magic boom turned into
an Aladdin cave. No prairie fire ever started with such suddenness,
with such fury, burning up, as it leapt and galloped along, all the
reasoning powers and common sense of the people. Those who cleared a
space around them to avoid destruction were tongued by the fire of
speculation, and before they could move away were irreparably lost.
Great and small, old and young, were carried away in the blaze of
speculation. The frightened reptiles and beasts running in front to
escape it were, it was thought, miserable fools who had not the pluck or
sense to aid in setting speculation in Melbourne on fire. A fanciful
picture on paper this? True, so was the great boom of 1887 merely a
fanciful picture on paper. Had it been otherwise banks would not have
failed, nor would families have been ruined wholesale, nor would trade
and speculation have been left charred roots and stubble on the scene of
folly--Mad Melbourne.
It is difficult to say how it began--it is unnecessary to say how it
ended. I am told that at the height of the boom Melbourne went
frantically and absolutely mad. Poor men and women rushed about fancying
that they had suddenly become millionaires. In the few hours between
breakfast and lunch they had bought a piece of land for L1,000, and in a
few hours had sold the same block for L10,000--on paper. They then heard
that the purchaser had re-sold it for L20,000 before dinner, they bought
it back for L30,000, and re-sold it over supper again for L50,000, a
good day's work--on paper. Everyone did the same--all were mad. Money
flowed in from the Old Country in millions, champagne flowed freely all
over Melbourne in gallons, everyone was intoxicated with joy and soused
themselves and their friends in champagne to wash down success. Vehicles
rushed speculators through the streets, trains whisked them to the land
free, luncheons free awaited all at every turn, fortunes at every step.
Melbourne was mad drunk--lost!
Buildings--comfortable, sensible buildings--were pulled down and "sky
scrapers" and mansions were erected in their places. Bridges, good for a
hundred years to come, were pulled down and millions spent in erecting
in place of the old ones others not more serviceable or of more use.
Huge docks, not wanted, were built at fabulous outlays--all these
buildings stand as monuments of Melbourne's Madness.
The extraordinary good spirits of the Melbournites is a healthy sign.
Those who not only lost all their money invested, chagrined by their
folly and left with liabilities that will cripple them for life, smile
and bear their fall right cheerily.
Some of these notes made by me whilst seeing the Kangarooists at home
"in a hurry" may not be received in the proper spirit. All new countries
are sensitive, and resent truths coming from a stranger, while at the
same time their home critics, though far more severe, are tolerated and
unchallenged. Now I met one of the most prominent Australians, a man of
the world, a leading legal light and a Member of Parliament. It was in
the Legislative Chamber I had a conversation with him on matters
Australian. He led off: "This bit of a place here (Sydney), with a
population less than that of a second-class provincial town in England,
has in it people with more cheek than would be found in the capitals of
London, Paris and St. Petersburg rolled into one. Why, these people have
some ingrained vain idea that everything and everybody connected with
them are the most important things and the most important people in the
world. Small-minded people in a large country--that is what they are--a
country the size of Europe with a population less than that of London
with the intellect of a country village. That is Australia."
[Illustration: I AM INVITED TO PRESENT MYSELF.]
"And divided among themselves. Do you believe in Federation?"
This conversation took place in June, 1897, and three years after,
Australian Federation had become a reality. It is therefore interesting
to repeat the opinion of this important Australian on Federation,
exactly as it took place:
"Well--yes and no. I believe in the principle, properly worked, in a
country ripe for it; but here in Australia, my dear sir, we do not know
what federal government means. I have travelled round and round the
world--ha! ha! not in a hurry, my dear sir, but with the object of
seeing and learning all about the political workings of countries as
well as other subjects. I travel so much sometimes that on waking in the
morning I have to rub my eyes to think for a moment whether I am in St.
Petersburg or Ottawa, San Francisco or London. I travel so much, one
country and another to me is like walking out of this room into the
next. I am, in this respect, an exception. This place is provincial, the
minds of the people are essentially provincial, they do not understand
big questions--Federation is a very big question. Now, sir, I am shown a
new machine that you have at home for cutting your hair--good, it is
scientific, a thing of beauty and tremendously costly. I say, 'Yes,
that's all very well, but I cannot see how Mr. Furniss can afford
such a machine for cutting his hair.' Then everyone cries: 'Oh, he
does not believe hair should be cut!' Why, I say nothing of the
sort--hair-cutting is an excellent thing, a necessary thing perhaps, but
why have in a small establishment tremendous machinery to do it?"
At that moment I caught sight of my head in a glass; the same thought
struck me, why indeed?
"That is Federation here," my interesting acquaintance continued. "Here,
in this little bit of a community, not the population of one
city--London--spread over the whole of it want five separate governments
to govern those few millions cut up into States!"
From all I could gather, Federation in Australia might possibly be
realised some day, but it would be in the dim and distant future,
certainly not "in our time"!
There is a good story told _a propos_ of the candidature of "The
Cardinal." Of course, the votes recorded for him were solely Catholic,
the Irish turning up in great force. Two gentlemen from Erin were found
fighting a deadly battle. When separated and the battle changed for one
of words in place of blows, Mike declared that he'd "livil the baste to
the ground for not voting for the Cardinal."
"And who has he voted for?"
"Whoi the blackguard tills me he's voted for Patrick Francis Moran--who
ever heard of Patrick Francis Moran?"
"Oive voted for the Cardinal--iv course Oi have," replied the other,
"and it's glad Oi am that Oive nearly kilt that varmint for Moran's
sake!"
Needless to explain to you Patrick Francis Moran was the Cardinal.
Kangarooists drive engines much in the same way as they drive horses, or
anything else--a reckless, devil-may-care style.
A certain driver in Queensland was told to run the journey through and
make no stoppages--this just suited him. On he went. He found the iron
gates closed at a crossing in a town he passed through; he did not pull
up--not he--he rushed right through, carrying the gates away. Of course,
he was reprimanded for this recklessness.
"You might have killed the passengers."
"Why, we only carried two!"
This satisfied the Enquiry Committee as reasonable--in Australia.
This Queensland driver has his prototype in New South Wales. You will
find him on the express between Melbourne and Sydney, known as "Hell
Fire Jack," a _sobriquet_ he has gained by his dash and daring in
running the express. He had brought us on at a rare rate, and having
completed the middle run, we pulled up to exchange drivers and engines.
The conductor noticed me gazing at the portly form of the engine-driver,
who had just jumped off.
"That is Hell Fire Jack. Jack is a wonder--here we are a quarter of an
hour before time, and Jack had an hour and a half to make up in his
run--he did it--Jack always does--he'd make up anything. It's he as
nearly got the sack for making a splendid run some time ago--160 miles
without a stop. Nothing wrong in that? Well, you see we had four stops
to make in that 160 miles, and he didn't make 'em. Some bookies in the
train wanted to get to the races, and made Jack a handsome bet he
couldn't get 'em there in time--Jack did--that's all--bless you, he's a
wonder--never had an accident neither, not one! He knows all about
engines--can stop and mend 'em on the road if it's wanted. And you ought
to see him pick up his express disc with his train going at 60 miles an
hour. There is a little arm sticks out of the side of the engine, and
the disc is suspended at the station. Jack takes it, as I say, going 60
miles an hour, never eases up--not he--but the disc he has to drop in
its place has fallen off long before! and the next train has to wait an
hour to find it. Oh, Jack is a wonder--good-bye, Jack!"
I returned to the carriage relieved by knowing that Hell Fire Jack was
no longer in charge. Two men were conversing about travelling of a
different kind--one was saying to the other: "Why, the last time we met
was on the Coolgardie Coach--wasn't as smooth going as this, eh? ha! ha!
I shall never forget our driver--don't you remember how drunk he was,
and how we had to tie him into his seat?--and when he did upset us we
went flying a couple of hundred yards away. I saw him as I was landing
on my head on the rock tied to his seat turning over, laughing at us. I
wonder what became of the old lady and gentleman inside--they carried
'em off for dead, you know. He did make those horses fly--they were glad
of the rest, never moved when first down, did they?"
I suppose this was the joke of a Hell Fire Tom. Motor-cars will soon be
introduced into Australia; then we shall hear of Hell Fire Harry--and a
funeral.
The Kangarooists really do not value life as we in the Old Country
do--they certainly do not value horseflesh. You can buy a good horse for
one shilling. Catsmeat in London is dearer than live horseflesh in
Australia. They ride and drive anything and everything.
I recollect visiting the best-known horse-bazaar in the Colonies, and
was shown round by an expert.
"That horse is all right, but I can't recommend it as a stayer. You want
it for harness? Well, I don't like to deceive you; it ain't much good
after going seventy miles--no, it's a rotten-hearted beast. It might go
eighty miles at a stretch, but I won't guarantee more."
"Eighty miles! Good heavens! In the Old Country half that distance at a
stretch would mean cruelty to animals."
"Maybe it would--those English horses have the best barrels in the
world, and they are pretty to look at, but no legs. Why, 120 miles is a
decent run here; rough work through the bush too, but then soft as
tan--no hard roads like in the Old Country, you know."
"Yes, but the bush is the bush, and you have to go up and down ravines
and over trees and obstacles of all kinds."
"Right you are. It frightens you at first, but, like the Irishman who
said his wife didn't mind a beating as she had got so accustomed to it,
these horses are accustomed to the ups-and-downs of the bush, and you
get accustomed to it too after a few hours. You may have it pretty
rough. Lor' bless you, some never stop at anything--there's Jack
Madcapper and Tom Devil McCary, why, they are daisies. They buy their
horses here--well, they work 'em, never stop to open a gate, let the
horses go and clear it, over they go buggy and all. Fences? Well it's a
little relish now and then to jump 'em, and you ought to see the buggies
fly in the air. They always take a rope or two to mend up a bit. If a
horse is injured, they go on with the rest and leave it, and wire us for
another team. Horses ain't worth thinking about out here, and the gates
ain't much use, nor the fences either, now that we have nothing to keep
in them."
I turned to the "vet."
"Valuable race-horses are the best off after all, then?"
"Well, they have neither bits of gates nor fancy fences to negotiate;
they have stone walls and solid five-foot timber jumps. They have to go
over the whole lot clear, or come to grief. I have shot about 1,000
crippled first-class crack racers in ten years on the course alone."
"Then there is no love for the horses here?"
"Nonsense! we love 'em. Why, it is a touching incident, I tell you, when
I come on the scene to save further pain for the poor animal. The boy
who has had it in charge runs over with a cloth to throw over his
favourite. Then he draws me on one side, and says, 'Don't shoot, sir,
till I'm away, I can't bear it.'"
[Illustration: LANDING AT ADELAIDE.]
Adelaide is a charming place when you get there, but you have to get
there first. Getting there is no easy matter if you arrive by sea, as
you must when coming direct from the Old Country. Both for comfort and
effect Adelaide is better approached by land, as when coming by rail
from Melbourne. The railway has to cross the range of hills which shuts
Adelaide in from the east, and some fine views of the city and the
plains are obtained.
From the anchorage at Largs Bay the city is barely visible, and
travellers have to take train through Port Adelaide up to the city, a
journey of about eight miles across the plains. These plains have been
cleared of trees, and the country is bare and uninteresting.
Before starting on this journey, however, the unhappy voyager has much
to go through. In this respect Adelaide compares badly with Melbourne
and Sydney. Sydney harbours the largest steamers in the centre of the
city; Melbourne allows them to come to the back door--at Port
Melbourne; while Adelaide compels them to stay outside in the middle of
the road, or roadstead, and a very rough roadstead it is. When the
weather is at all fresh, the landing is positively dangerous. The steam
launches which come out to the mail steamers are bound round from stem
to stern with huge rope fenders. When the launches are jumping,
wriggling and plunging alongside the steamers, it is no easy matter to
get into them, and anyone but a sailor or a professional acrobat would
find it safest to be lowered over the side in a basket. The voyage to
the jetty at Largs Bay is a brief epitome of the Bay of Biscay, the
Australian Bight, and the monsoons of the Indian Ocean. When you reach
the jetty, you are hoisted on to it by practised hands as the launch
jumps to the right level. Then--splash! and up comes a green sea through
the boards and you are wet to the skin. Bathing, it seems, like
education, is "free and compulsory" at Adelaide. Perhaps this is a part
of the quarantine operations--disinfection by salt water. This sea bath
is, however, the only thing, as far as I am aware, that the traveller
gets for nothing in South Australia. Passengers' baggage is charged for
when it lands at the jetty at the rate of 1_s._ 3_d._ per cwt., and the
same has to be paid on leaving. When at last you get into the
train!--such a train! but perhaps the railway department does not like
the risk of having good carriages soiled by passengers' wet clothes--you
compare this "boat express" with those of Folkestone, Dover, Harwich,
and Southampton. The first-class carriages are not equal to the
third-class on the English lines. Being an express, this train runs more
than a mile without stopping. Then you have to change trains. When you
get along again, you notice that the railway to Port Adelaide runs along
the street without any fence whatever to prevent people from driving or
walking on to the line. Fatalities of course are common, and excite
little notice; bolting horses and consequent accidents are of almost
daily occurrence, and the local residents get quite to enjoy being
pitched out of their buggies. Life here cannot be dull, while it lasts.
Passengers are lucky if they reach Adelaide within an hour and a half
of leaving the steamer, the distance being about ten miles.
The Zoological Gardens of Adelaide are particularly fine. The situation
is lovely, the plan is excellent, and originality shown in the design of
the houses. The specimens are fairly numerous and all excellent of their
kind, and at most points, this is the best "Zoo" in the Colonies. The
most original house is that of the guinea-pigs, which is a huge doll's
house, complete with blinds and even a scraper at the door, and an
inscription outside, "School for Young Ladies--conducted by the Misses
Guinea Pig." The cage that attracted me most was that of Pondicherry
vultures. Mr. Gladstone has often been caricatured as a grand old bird,
but the Pondicherry vulture is a replica of the veteran statesman,
collar and all.
[Illustration: PONDICHERRY VULTURES.]
[Illustration: THE MAID OF THE INN.]
There are many beautiful drives around Adelaide--at least, as beautiful
as is possible when the scenery is marred by a barrenness of soil, a
lack of greenness in the grass, an absence of wild flowers, and a dull
uniform and sombre tint upon all the trees. The hills, which look
somewhat featureless from the city, are riven in a hundred places by
rocky gorges or gullies, and many well-made roads cross the range at
various points. The roads to Belair and Mount Lofty, to Green Hill,
Marble Hill, Moriatta, and a score of other places, give at numerous
points fine views of the hills and the plain, and some of the
waterfalls, notably the one at Waterfall Gully and at Fourth Creek, are
eminently picturesque in a rugged way. I was advised to ignore all these
beauty spots in favour of one--namely, Paradise. The name seemed to
augur well, and my adviser seemed so serious that I determined to make
my way to Paradise. In my mind I conjured up a place of infinite romance
and beauty, the choice of all the pleasant places in a pleasant land;
the Garden of Eden of the Southern Hemisphere. Expectation was at flood
with sunny imaginings as I journeyed over level and dusty roads towards
this land of promise. I drew Paradise as I saw it, and the sketch will
tell more about its beauties than volumes of description. I made for the
hotel, and there I found a lady who took me into the garden and pointed
out a gap in the fence through which I could squeeze my way into
Paradise. I went expecting to be rewarded by a glimpse of the romantic
and picturesque of which I was in search. I had been told of the
wonderful orange groves of this place. There were trees with oranges
growing--about enough to feed an average school-treat; and at last I saw
the point of all the joke--a girl-child was tempting a boy to steal
oranges; the serpent had left, so I made for the hole in the fence and
quitted Paradise for ever, I have looked for the humorist who sent me
there, but we have not met since, which is perhaps as well.
[Illustration: THE WAY INTO PARADISE.]
[Illustration: PARADISE.]
One of the chief characteristics of Australian city life is its lack of
characteristic features. The types of civilised humanity one meets might
be denizens of Islington or Battersea for any distinguishing trait to
stamp them as Antipodeans. There is a certain breezy familiarity and
absence of suavity in their manners and deportment, but otherwise they
are an average lot of mixed Britishers and no more.
[Illustration: ADAM AND EVE.]
As soon as I arrived I went about in search of a type of the Australian
girl for my pictures, and was sketching one from my hotel window as
typical of a real Australian, when the Captain of our ship came in and
said, "Oh, there's that Cockney, Miss So-and-so!"
She came over in our ship second-class, and had never been in Australia
before!
I recollect a similar instance in Ottawa, Canada. I was returning from
Government House, where I had been taken by the Mayor to sign the
visitors' book, and as we were returning in the electric car I sat
opposite a fine, smart specimen of a youth. I whispered to my Canadian
acquaintance, "Is that a genuine type of a true Canadian?"
"Yes, a perfect type."
I made the sketch.
The following evening I was the guest at Government House, and to my
surprise I noticed that one of the servants at dinner was the typical
Canadian I had sketched. He was MacSandy, fresh from Aberdeen!
But if I have been mistaken, others are sometimes mistaken in me, for a
few hours before the surprise recorded above happened I was in my hotel
in Ottawa, the morning after I had appeared in the Opera House in the
"Humours of Parliament." An eminent Canadian divine was ushered into my
quarters, and addressing me said:
"Allow me to introduce myself, and to say that I listened with the
greatest pleasure and profit to your most admirable discourse last
evening."
I bowed my very best.
[Illustration: A TYPE.]
"I must say," continued the rev. gentleman, "that your efforts in the
cause of Christianity in this city are marked by a fervour and
earnestness that cannot fail to convert."
"Really," I said, "you flatter me."
"Ah, no, sir; you are one of the brave soldiers of Christianity who
march through the world addressing huge audiences and influencing the
masses, taking life seriously, and denouncing frivolity and
worldliness."
"Well," I said, "I don't think I do any harm, but I must disclaim for my
poor efforts to amuse--"
"Amuse, sir!" repeated the astonished divine. "Surely I am speaking to
the gentleman whose stirring discourse it was my good fortune to listen
to last evening in Dominion Church?"
"No, sir, I was in the Grand Opera House."
"Then you are not Dr. Munhall, the Revivalist?"
"Bless you, no, sir. I am Furniss, the caricaturist."
"Good gracious! where's the door? Let me out! They have brought me to
the wrong room!"