After visits to Maryborough and some other Australian towns, we presently

took passage for New Zealand. If it would not look too much like showing

off, I would tell the reader where New Zealand is; for he is as I was; he

thinks he knows. And he thinks he knows where Hertzegovina is; and how

to pronounce pariah; and how to use the word unique without exposing

himself to the derision of the dictionary. But in truth, he knows none

of these things. There are but four or five people in the world who

possess this knowledge, and these make their living out of it. They

travel from place to place, visiting literary assemblages, geographical

societies, and seats of learning, and springing sudden bets that these

people do not know these things. Since all people think they know them,

they are an easy prey to these adventurers. Or rather they were an easy

prey until the law interfered, three months ago, and a New York court

decided that this kind of gambling is illegal, “because it traverses

Article IV, Section 9, of the Constitution of the United States, which

forbids betting on a sure thing.” This decision was rendered by the full

Bench of the New York Supreme Court, after a test sprung upon the court

by counsel for the prosecution, which showed that none of the nine Judges

was able to answer any of the four questions.

All people think that New Zealand is close to Australia or Asia, or

somewhere, and that you cross to it on a bridge. But that is not so. It

is not close to anything, but lies by itself, out in the water. It is

nearest to Australia, but still not near. The gap between is very wide.

It will be a surprise to the reader, as it was to me, to learn that the

distance from Australia to New Zealand is really twelve or thirteen

hundred miles, and that there is no bridge. I learned this from

Professor X., of Yale University, whom I met in the steamer on the great

lakes when I was crossing the continent to sail across the Pacific. I

asked him about New Zealand, in order to make conversation. I supposed

he would generalize a little without compromising himself, and then turn

the subject to something he was acquainted with, and my object would then

be attained; the ice would be broken, and we could go smoothly on, and

get acquainted, and have a pleasant time. But, to my surprise, he was

not only not embarrassed by my question, but seemed to welcome it, and to

take a distinct interest in it. He began to talk—fluently, confidently,

comfortably; and as he talked, my admiration grew and grew; for as the

subject developed under his hands, I saw that he not only knew where New

Zealand was, but that he was minutely familiar with every detail of its

history, politics, religions, and commerce, its fauna, flora, geology,

products, and climatic peculiarities. When he was done, I was lost in

wonder and admiration, and said to myself, he knows everything; in the

domain of human knowledge he is king.

I wanted to see him do more miracles; and so, just for the pleasure of

hearing him answer, I asked him about Hertzegovina, and pariah, and

unique. But he began to generalize then, and show distress. I saw that

with New Zealand gone, he was a Samson shorn of his locks; he was as

other men. This was a curious and interesting mystery, and I was frank

with him, and asked him to explain it.

He tried to avoid it at first; but then laughed and said that after all,

the matter was not worth concealment, so he would let me into the secret.

In substance, this is his story:

“Last autumn I was at work one morning at home, when a card came up—the

card of a stranger. Under the name was printed a line which showed that

this visitor was Professor of Theological Engineering in Wellington

University, New Zealand. I was troubled—troubled, I mean, by the

shortness of the notice. College etiquette required that he be at once

invited to dinner by some member of the Faculty—invited to dine on that

day—not, put off till a subsequent day. I did not quite know what to

do. College etiquette requires, in the case of a foreign guest, that the

dinner-talk shall begin with complimentary references to his country, its

great men, its services to civilization, its seats of learning, and

things like that; and of course the host is responsible, and must either

begin this talk himself or see that it is done by some one else. I was

in great difficulty; and the more I searched my memory, the more my

trouble grew. I found that I knew nothing about New Zealand. I thought

I knew where it was, and that was all. I had an impression that it was

close to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and that one went over to it

on a bridge. This might turn out to be incorrect; and even if correct,

it would not furnish matter enough for the purpose at the dinner, and I

should expose my College to shame before my guest; he would see that I, a

member of the Faculty of the first University in America, was wholly

ignorant of his country, and he would go away and tell this, and laugh at

it. The thought of it made my face burn.

“I sent for my wife and told her how I was situated, and asked for her

help, and she thought of a thing which I might have thought of myself, if

I had not been excited and worried. She said she would go and tell the

visitor that I was out but would be in in a few minutes; and she would

talk, and keep him busy while I got out the back way and hurried over and

make Professor Lawson give the dinner. For Lawson knew everything, and

could meet the guest in a creditable way and save the reputation of the

University. I ran to Lawson, but was disappointed. He did not know

anything about New Zealand. He said that, as far as his recollection

went it was close to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and you go over to

it on a bridge; but that was all he knew. It was too bad. Lawson was a

perfect encyclopedia of abstruse learning; but now in this hour of our

need, it turned out that he did not know any useful thing.

“We consulted. He saw that the reputation of the University was in very

real peril, and he walked the floor in anxiety, talking, and trying to

think out some way to meet the difficulty. Presently he decided that we

must try the rest of the Faculty—some of them might know about New

Zealand. So we went to the telephone and called up the professor of

astronomy and asked him, and he said that all he knew was, that it was

close to Australia, or Asia, or somewhere, and you went over to it on——

“We shut him off and called up the professor of biology, and he said that

all he knew was that it was close to Aus——.

“We shut him off, and sat down, worried and disheartened, to see if we

could think up some other scheme. We shortly hit upon one which promised

well, and this one we adopted, and set its machinery going at once. It

was this. Lawson must give the dinner. The Faculty must be notified by

telephone to prepare. We must all get to work diligently, and at the end

of eight hours and a half we must come to dinner acquainted with New

Zealand; at least well enough informed to appear without discredit before

this native. To seem properly intelligent we should have to know about

New Zealand's population, and politics, and form of government, and

commerce, and taxes, and products, and ancient history, and modern

history, and varieties of religion, and nature of the laws, and their

codification, and amount of revenue, and whence drawn, and methods of

collection, and percentage of loss, and character of climate, and—well,

a lot of things like that; we must suck the maps and cyclopedias dry.

And while we posted up in this way, the Faculty's wives must flock over,

one after the other, in a studiedly casual way, and help my wife keep the

New Zealander quiet, and not let him get out and come interfering with

our studies. The scheme worked admirably; but it stopped business,

stopped it entirely.

“It is in the official log-book of Yale, to be read and wondered at by

future generations—the account of the Great Blank Day—the memorable

Blank Day—the day wherein the wheels of culture were stopped, a Sunday

silence prevailed all about, and the whole University stood still while

the Faculty read-up and qualified itself to sit at meat, without shame,

in the presence of the Professor of Theological Engineering from New

Zealand:

“When we assembled at the dinner we were miserably tired and worn—but we

were posted. Yes, it is fair to claim that. In fact, erudition is a

pale name for it. New Zealand was the only subject; and it was just

beautiful to hear us ripple it out. And with such an air of

unembarrassed ease, and unostentatious familiarity with detail, and

trained and seasoned mastery of the subject-and oh, the grace and fluency

of it!

“Well, finally somebody happened to notice that the guest was looking

dazed, and wasn't saying anything. So they stirred him up, of course.

Then that man came out with a good, honest, eloquent compliment that made

the Faculty blush. He said he was not worthy to sit in the company of

men like these; that he had been silent from admiration; that he had been

silent from another cause also—silent from shame—silent from ignorance!

'For,' said he, 'I, who have lived eighteen years in New Zealand and have

served five in a professorship, and ought to know much about that

country, perceive, now, that I know almost nothing about it. I say it

with shame, that I have learned fifty times, yes, a hundred times more

about New Zealand in these two hours at this table than I ever knew

before in all the eighteen years put together. I was silent because I

could not help myself. What I knew about taxes, and policies, and laws,

and revenue, and products, and history, and all that multitude of things,

was but general, and ordinary, and vague-unscientific, in a word—and it

would have been insanity to expose it here to the searching glare of your

amazingly accurate and all-comprehensive knowledge of those matters,

gentlemen. I beg you to let me sit silent—as becomes me. But do not

change the subject; I can at least follow you, in this one; whereas if

you change to one which shall call out the full strength of your mighty

erudition, I shall be as one lost. If you know all this about a remote

little inconsequent patch like New Zealand, ah, what wouldn't you know

about any other Subject!'”

CHAPTER XXVII

Man is the Only Animal that Blushes. Or needs to.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The universal brotherhood of man is our most precious possession, what

there is of it.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

FROM DIARY:

November 1—noon. A fine day, a brilliant sun. Warm in the sun, cold

in the shade—an icy breeze blowing out of the south. A solemn long

swell rolling up northward. It comes from the South Pole, with nothing

in the way to obstruct its march and tone its energy down. I have read

somewhere that an acute observer among the early explorers—Cook? or

Tasman?—accepted this majestic swell as trustworthy circumstantial

evidence that no important land lay to the southward, and so did not

waste time on a useless quest in that direction, but changed his course

and went searching elsewhere.

Afternoon. Passing between Tasmania (formerly Van Diemen's Land) and

neighboring islands—islands whence the poor exiled Tasmanian savages

used to gaze at their lost homeland and cry; and die of broken hearts.

How glad I am that all these native races are dead and gone, or nearly

so. The work was mercifully swift and horrible in some portions of

Australia. As far as Tasmania is concerned, the extermination was

complete: not a native is left. It was a strife of years, and decades of

years. The Whites and the Blacks hunted each other, ambushed each other,

butchered each other. The Blacks were not numerous. But they were wary,

alert, cunning, and they knew their country well. They lasted a long

time, few as they were, and inflicted much slaughter upon the Whites.

The Government wanted to save the Blacks from ultimate extermination, if

possible. One of its schemes was to capture them and coop them up, on a

neighboring island, under guard. Bodies of Whites volunteered for the

hunt, for the pay was good—£5 for each Black captured and delivered, but

the success achieved was not very satisfactory. The Black was naked, and

his body was greased. It was hard to get a grip on him that would hold.

The Whites moved about in armed bodies, and surprised little families of

natives, and did make captures; but it was suspected that in these

surprises half a dozen natives were killed to one caught—and that was

not what the Government desired.

Another scheme was to drive the natives into a corner of the island and

fence them in by a cordon of men placed in line across the country; but

the natives managed to slip through, constantly, and continue their

murders and arsons.

The governor warned these unlettered savages by printed proclamation that

they must stay in the desolate region officially appointed for them! The

proclamation was a dead letter; the savages could not read it. Afterward

a picture-proclamation was issued. It was painted up on boards, and

these were nailed to trees in the forest. Herewith is a photographic

reproduction of this fashion-plate. Substantially it means:

1. The Governor wishes the Whites and the Blacks to love each other;

2. He loves his black subjects;

3. Blacks who kill Whites will be hanged;

4. Whites who kill Blacks will be hanged.

Upon its several schemes the Government spent £30,000 and employed the

labors and ingenuities of several thousand Whites for a long time with

failure as a result. Then, at last, a quarter of a century after the

beginning of the troubles between the two races, the right man was found.

No, he found himself. This was George Augustus Robinson, called in

history “The Conciliator.” He was not educated, and not conspicuous in

any way. He was a working bricklayer, in Hobart Town. But he must have

been an amazing personality; a man worth traveling far to see. It may be

his counterpart appears in history, but I do not know where to look for

it.

He set himself this incredible task: to go out into the wilderness, the

jungle, and the mountain-retreats where the hunted and implacable savages

were hidden, and appear among them unarmed, speak the language of love

and of kindness to them, and persuade them to forsake their homes and the

wild free life that was so dear to them, and go with him and surrender to

the hated Whites and live under their watch and ward, and upon their

charity the rest of their lives! On its face it was the dream of a

madman.

In the beginning, his moral-suasion project was sarcastically dubbed the

sugar plum speculation. If the scheme was striking, and new to the

world's experience, the situation was not less so. It was this. The

White population numbered 40,000 in 1831; the Black population numbered

three hundred. Not 300 warriors, but 300 men, women, and children. The

Whites were armed with guns, the Blacks with clubs and spears. The

Whites had fought the Blacks for a quarter of a century, and had tried

every thinkable way to capture, kill, or subdue them; and could not do

it. If white men of any race could have done it, these would have

accomplished it. But every scheme had failed, the splendid 300, the

matchless 300 were unconquered, and manifestly unconquerable. They would

not yield, they would listen to no terms, they would fight to the bitter

end. Yet they had no poet to keep up their heart, and sing the marvel of

their magnificent patriotism.

At the end of five-and-twenty years of hard fighting, the surviving 300

naked patriots were still defiant, still persistent, still efficacious

with their rude weapons, and the Gove7rnor and the 40,000 knew not which

way to turn, nor what to do.

Then the Bricklayer—that wonderful man—proposed to go out into the

wilderness, with no weapon but his tongue, and no protection but his

honest eye and his humane heart; and track those embittered savages to

their lairs in the gloomy forests and among the mountain snows.

Naturally, he was considered a crank. But he was not quite that. In

fact, he was a good way short of that. He was building upon his long and

intimate knowledge of the native character. The deriders of his project

were right—from their standpoint—for they believed the natives to be

mere wild beasts; and Robinson was right, from his standpoint—for he

believed the natives to be human beings. The truth did really lie

between the two. The event proved that Robinson's judgment was soundest;

but about once a month for four years the event came near to giving the

verdict to the deriders, for about that frequently Robinson barely

escaped falling under the native spears.

But history shows that he had a thinking head, and was not a mere wild

sentimentalist. For instance, he wanted the war parties called in

before he started unarmed upon his mission of peace. He wanted the best

chance of success—not a half-chance. And he was very willing to have

help; and so, high rewards were advertised, for any who would go unarmed

with him. This opportunity was declined. Robinson persuaded some tamed

natives of both sexes to go with him—a strong evidence of his persuasive

powers, for those natives well knew that their destruction would be

almost certain. As it turned out, they had to face death over and over

again.

Robinson and his little party had a difficult undertaking upon their

hands. They could not ride off, horseback, comfortably into the woods

and call Leonidas and his 300 together for a talk and a treaty the

following day; for the wild men were not in a body; they were scattered,

immense distances apart, over regions so desolate that even the birds

could not make a living with the chances offered—scattered in groups of

twenty, a dozen, half a dozen, even in groups of three. And the mission

must go on foot. Mr. Bonwick furnishes a description of those horrible

regions, whereby it will be seen that even fugitive gangs of the hardiest

and choicest human devils the world has seen—the convicts set apart to

people the “Hell of Macquarrie Harbor Station”—were never able, but

once, to survive the horrors of a march through them, but starving and

struggling, and fainting and failing, ate each other, and died:

“Onward, still onward, was the order of the indomitable Robinson. No one

ignorant of the western country of Tasmania can form a correct idea of

the traveling difficulties. While I was resident in Hobart Town, the

Governor, Sir John Franklin, and his lady, undertook the western journey

to Macquarrie Harbor, and suffered terribly. One man who assisted to

carry her ladyship through the swamps, gave me his bitter experience of

its miseries. Several were disabled for life. No wonder that but one

party, escaping from Macquarrie Harbor convict settlement, arrived at the

civilized region in safety. Men perished in the scrub, were lost in

snow, or were devoured by their companions. This was the territory

traversed by Mr. Robinson and his Black guides. All honor to his

intrepidity, and their wonderful fidelity! When they had, in the depth

of winter, to cross deep and rapid rivers, pass among mountains six

thousand feet high, pierce dangerous thickets, and find food in a country

forsaken even by birds, we can realize their hardships.

“After a frightful journey by Cradle Mountain, and over the lofty plateau

of Middlesex Plains, the travelers experienced unwonted misery, and the

circumstances called forth the best qualities of the noble little band.

Mr. Robinson wrote afterwards to Mr. Secretary Burnett some details of

this passage of horrors. In that letter, of Oct 2, 1834, he states that

his Natives were very reluctant to go over the dreadful mountain passes;

that 'for seven successive days we continued traveling over one solid

body of snow;' that 'the snows were of incredible depth;' that 'the

Natives were frequently up to their middle in snow.' But still the

ill-clad, ill-fed, diseased, and way-worn men and women were sustained by

the cheerful voice of their unconquerable friend, and responded most

nobly to his call.”

Mr. Bonwick says that Robinson's friendly capture of the Big River tribe

remember, it was a whole tribe—“was by far the grandest feature of the

war, and the crowning glory of his efforts.” The word “war” was not well

chosen, and is misleading. There was war still, but only the Blacks were

conducting it—the Whites were holding off until Robinson could give his

scheme a fair trial. I think that we are to understand that the friendly

capture of that tribe was by far the most important thing, the highest in

value, that happened during the whole thirty years of truceless

hostilities; that it was a decisive thing, a peaceful Waterloo, the

surrender of the native Napoleon and his dreaded forces, the happy ending

of the long strife. For “that tribe was the terror of the colony,” its

chief “the Black Douglas of Bush households.”

Robinson knew that these formidable people were lurking somewhere, in

some remote corner of the hideous regions just described, and he and his

unarmed little party started on a tedious and perilous hunt for them. At

last, “there, under the shadows of the Frenchman's Cap, whose grim cone

rose five thousand feet in the uninhabited westward interior,” they were

found. It was a serious moment. Robinson himself believed, for once,

that his mission, successful until now, was to end here in failure, and

that his own death-hour had struck.

The redoubtable chief stood in menacing attitude, with his eighteen-foot

spear poised; his warriors stood massed at his back, armed for battle,

their faces eloquent with their long-cherished loathing for white men.

“They rattled their spears and shouted their war-cry.” Their women were

back of them, laden with supplies of weapons, and keeping their 150 eager

dogs quiet until the chief should give the signal to fall on.

“I think we shall soon be in the resurrection,” whispered a member of

Robinson's little party.

“I think we shall,” answered Robinson; then plucked up heart and began

his persuasions—in the tribe's own dialect, which surprised and pleased

the chief. Presently there was an interruption by the chief:

“Who are you?”

“We are gentlemen.”

“Where are your guns?”

“We have none.”

The warrior was astonished.

“Where your little guns?” (pistols).

“We have none.”

A few minutes passed—in by-play—suspense—discussion among the

tribesmen—Robinson's tamed squaws ventured to cross the line and begin

persuasions upon the wild squaws. Then the chief stepped back “to confer

with the old women—the real arbiters of savage war.” Mr. Bonwick

continues:

“As the fallen gladiator in the arena looks for the signal of life

or death from the president of the amphitheatre, so waited our

friends in anxious suspense while the conference continued. In a

few minutes, before a word was uttered, the women of the tribe threw

up their arms three times. This was the inviolable sign of peace!

Down fell the spears. Forward, with a heavy sigh of relief, and

upward glance of gratitude, came the friends of peace. The

impulsive natives rushed forth with tears and cries, as each saw in

the other's rank a loved one of the past.

“It was a jubilee of joy. A festival followed. And, while tears

flowed at the recital of woe, a corrobory of pleasant laughter

closed the eventful day.”

In four years, without the spilling of a drop of blood, Robinson brought

them all in, willing captives, and delivered them to the white governor,

and ended the war which powder and bullets, and thousands of men to use

them, had prosecuted without result since 1804.

Marsyas charming the wild beasts with his music—that is fable; but the

miracle wrought by Robinson is fact. It is history—and authentic; and

surely, there is nothing greater, nothing more reverence-compelling in

the history of any country, ancient or modern.

And in memory of the greatest man Australasia ever developed or ever will

develop, there is a stately monument to George Augustus Robinson, the

Conciliator in—no, it is to another man, I forget his name.

However, Robertson's own generation honored him, and in manifesting it

honored themselves. The Government gave him a money-reward and a

thousand acres of land; and the people held mass-meetings and praised him

and emphasized their praise with a large subscription of money.

A good dramatic situation; but the curtain fell on another:

“When this desperate tribe was thus captured, there was much

surprise to find that the £30,000 of a little earlier day had been

spent, and the whole population of the colony placed under arms, in

contention with an opposing force of sixteen men with wooden spears!

Yet such was the fact. The celebrated Big River tribe, that had

been raised by European fears to a host, consisted of sixteen men,

nine women, and one child. With a knowledge of the mischief done by

these few, their wonderful marches and their widespread aggressions,

their enemies cannot deny to them the attributes of courage and

military tact. A Wallace might harass a large army with a small and

determined band; but the contending parties were at least equal in

arms and civilization. The Zulus who fought us in Africa, the

Maories in New Zealand, the Arabs in the Soudan, were far better

provided with weapons, more advanced in the science of war, and

considerably more numerous, than the naked Tasmanians. Governor

Arthur rightly termed them a noble race.”

These were indeed wonderful people, the natives. They ought not to have

been wasted. They should have been crossed with the Whites. It would

have improved the Whites and done the Natives no harm.

But the Natives were wasted, poor heroic wild creatures. They were

gathered together in little settlements on neighboring islands, and

paternally cared for by the Government, and instructed in religion, and

deprived of tobacco, because the superintendent of the Sunday-school was

not a smoker, and so considered smoking immoral.

The Natives were not used to clothes, and houses, and regular hours, and

church, and school, and Sunday-school, and work, and the other misplaced

persecutions of civilization, and they pined for their lost home and

their wild free life. Too late they repented that they had traded that

heaven for this hell. They sat homesick on their alien crags, and day by

day gazed out through their tears over the sea with unappeasable longing

toward the hazy bulk which was the specter of what had been their

paradise; one by one their hearts broke and they died.

In a very few years nothing but a scant remnant remained alive. A

handful lingered along into age. In 1864 the last man died, in 1876 the

last woman died, and the Spartans of Australasia were extinct.

The Whites always mean well when they take human fish out of the ocean

and try to make them dry and warm and happy and comfortable in a chicken

coop; but the kindest-hearted white man can always be depended on to

prove himself inadequate when he deals with savages. He cannot turn the

situation around and imagine how he would like it to have a well-meaning

savage transfer him from his house and his church and his clothes and his

books and his choice food to a hideous wilderness of sand and rocks and

snow, and ice and sleet and storm and blistering sun, with no shelter, no

bed, no covering for his and his family's naked bodies, and nothing to

eat but snakes and grubs and 'offal. This would be a hell to him; and if

he had any wisdom he would know that his own civilization is a hell to

the savage—but he hasn't any, and has never had any; and for lack of it

he shut up those poor natives in the unimaginable perdition of his

civilization, committing his crime with the very best intentions, and saw

those poor creatures waste away under his tortures; and gazed at it,

vaguely troubled and sorrowful, and wondered what could be the matter

with them. One is almost betrayed into respecting those criminals, they

were so sincerely kind, and tender, and humane; and well-meaning.

They didn't know why those exiled savages faded away, and they did their

honest best to reason it out. And one man, in a like case in New South

Wales, did reason it out and arrive at a solution:

“It is from the wrath of God, which is revealed from heaven against

cold ungodliness and unrighteousness of men.”

That settles it.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them the rest of us could not

succeed.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

The aphorism does really seem true: “Given the Circumstances, the Man

will appear.” But the man musn't appear ahead of time, or it will spoil

everything. In Robinson's case the Moment had been approaching for a

quarter of a century—and meantime the future Conciliator was tranquilly

laying bricks in Hobart. When all other means had failed, the Moment had

arrived, and the Bricklayer put down his trowel and came forward.

Earlier he would have been jeered back to his trowel again. It reminds

me of a tale that was told me by a Kentuckian on the train when we were

crossing Montana. He said the tale was current in Louisville years ago.

He thought it had been in print, but could not remember. At any rate, in

substance it was this, as nearly as I can call it back to mind.

A few years before the outbreak of the Civil War it began to appear that

Memphis, Tennessee, was going to be a great tobacco entrepot—the wise

could see the signs of it. At that time Memphis had a wharf boat, of

course. There was a paved sloping wharf, for the accommodation of

freight, but the steamers landed on the outside of the wharfboat, and all

loading and unloading was done across it, between steamer and shore. A

number of wharfboat clerks were needed, and part of the time, every day,

they were very busy, and part of the time tediously idle. They were

boiling over with youth and spirits, and they had to make the intervals

of idleness endurable in some way; and as a rule, they did it by

contriving practical jokes and playing them upon each other.

The favorite butt for the jokes was Ed Jackson, because he played none

himself, and was easy game for other people's—for he always believed

whatever was told him.

One day he told the others his scheme for his holiday. He was not going

fishing or hunting this time—no, he had thought out a better plan. Out

of his $40 a month he had saved enough for his purpose, in an economical

way, and he was going to have a look at New York.

It was a great and surprising idea. It meant travel—immense travel—in

those days it meant seeing the world; it was the equivalent of a voyage

around it in ours. At first the other youths thought his mind was

affected, but when they found that he was in earnest, the next thing to

be thought of was, what sort of opportunity this venture might afford for

a practical joke.

The young men studied over the matter, then held a secret consultation

and made a plan. The idea was, that one of the conspirators should offer

Ed a letter of introduction to Commodore Vanderbilt, and trick him into

delivering it. It would be easy to do this. But what would Ed do when

he got back to Memphis? That was a serious matter. He was good-hearted,

and had always taken the jokes patiently; but they had been jokes which

did not humiliate him, did not bring him to shame; whereas, this would be

a cruel one in that way, and to play it was to meddle with fire; for with

all his good nature, Ed was a Southerner—and the English of that was,

that when he came back he would kill as many of the conspirators as he

could before falling himself. However, the chances must be taken—it

wouldn't do to waste such a joke as that.

So the letter was prepared with great care and elaboration. It was

signed Alfred Fairchild, and was written in an easy and friendly spirit.

It stated that the bearer was the bosom friend of the writer's son, and

was of good parts and sterling character, and it begged the Commodore to

be kind to the young stranger for the writer's sake. It went on to say,

“You may have forgotten me, in this long stretch of time, but you will

easily call me back out of your boyhood memories when I remind you of how

we robbed old Stevenson's orchard that night; and how, while he was

chasing down the road after us, we cut across the field and doubled back

and sold his own apples to his own cook for a hat-full of doughnuts; and

the time that we——” and so forth and so on, bringing in names of

imaginary comrades, and detailing all sorts of wild and absurd and, of

course, wholly imaginary schoolboy pranks and adventures, but putting

them into lively and telling shape.

With all gravity Ed was asked if he would like to have a letter to

Commodore Vanderbilt, the great millionaire. It was expected that the

question would astonish Ed, and it did.

“What? Do you know that extraordinary man?”

“No; but my father does. They were schoolboys together. And if you

like, I'll write and ask father. I know he'll be glad to give it to you

for my sake.”

Ed could not find words capable of expressing his gratitude and delight.

The three days passed, and the letter was put into his bands. He started

on his trip, still pouring out his thanks while he shook good-bye all

around. And when he was out of sight his comrades let fly their laughter

in a storm of happy satisfaction—and then quieted down, and were less

happy, less satisfied. For the old doubts as to the wisdom of this

deception began to intrude again.

Arrived in New York, Ed found his way to Commodore Vanderbilt's business

quarters, and was ushered into a large anteroom, where a score of people

were patiently awaiting their turn for a two-minute interview with the

millionaire in his private office. A servant asked for Ed's card, and

got the letter instead. Ed was sent for a moment later, and found Mr.

Vanderbilt alone, with the letter—open—in his hand.

“Pray sit down, Mr. —er—”

“Jackson.”

“Ah—sit down, Mr. Jackson. By the opening sentences it seems to be a

letter from an old friend. Allow me—I will run my eye through it. He

says he says—why, who is it?” He turned the sheet and found the

signature. “Alfred Fairchild—hm—Fairchild—I don't recall the name.

But that is nothing—a thousand names have gone from me. He says—he

says-hm-hmoh, dear, but it's good! Oh, it's rare! I don't quite

remember it, but I seem to it'll all come back to me presently. He says

—he says—hm—hm-oh, but that was a game! Oh, spl-endid! How it

carries me back! It's all dim, of course it's a long time ago—and the

names—some of the names are wavery and indistinct—but sho', I know it

happened—I can feel it! and lord, how it warms my heart, and brings

back my lost youth! Well, well, well, I've got to come back into this

work-a-day world now—business presses and people are waiting—I'll keep

the rest for bed to-night, and live my youth over again. And you'll

thank Fairchild for me when you see him—I used to call him Alf, I think

—and you'll give him my gratitude for—what this letter has done for the

tired spirit of a hard-worked man; and tell him there isn't anything that

I can do for him or any friend of his that I won't do. And as for you,

my lad, you are my guest; you can't stop at any hotel in New York. Sit.

where you are a little while, till I get through with these people, then

we'll go home. I'll take care of you, my boy—make yourself easy as to

that.”

Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time—and never suspected that the

Commodore's shrewd eye was on him, and that he was daily being weighed

and measured and analyzed and tried and tested.

Yes, he had an immense time; and never wrote home, but saved it all up to

tell when he should get back. Twice, with proper modesty and decency, he

proposed to end his visit, but the Commodore said, “No—wait; leave it to

me; I'll tell you when to go.”

In those days the Commodore was making some of those vast combinations of

his—consolidations of warring odds and ends of railroads into harmonious

systems, and concentrations of floating and rudderless commerce in

effective centers—and among other things his farseeing eye had detected

the convergence of that huge tobacco-commerce, already spoken of, toward

Memphis, and he had resolved to set his grasp upon it and make it his

own.

The week came to an end. Then the Commodore said:

“Now you can start home. But first we will have some more talk about

that tobacco matter. I know you now. I know your abilities as well as

you know them yourself—perhaps better. You understand that tobacco

matter; you understand that I am going to take possession of it, and you

also understand the plans which I have matured for doing it. What I want

is a man who knows my mind, and is qualified to represent me in Memphis,

and be in supreme command of that important business—and I appoint you.”

“Me!”

“Yes. Your salary will be high—of course-for you are representing me.

Later you will earn increases of it, and will get them. You will need a

small army of assistants; choose them yourself—and carefully. Take no

man for friendship's sake; but, all things being equal, take the man you

know, take your friend, in preference to the stranger.” After some

further talk under this head, the Commodore said:

“Good-bye, my boy, and thank Alf for me, for sending you to me.”

When Ed reached Memphis he rushed down to the wharf in a fever to tell

his great news and thank the boys over and over again for thinking to

give him the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt. It happened to be one of those

idle times. Blazing hot noonday, and no sign of life on the wharf. But

as Ed threaded his way among the freight piles, he saw a white linen

figure stretched in slumber upon a pile of grain-sacks under an awning,

and said to himself, “That's one of them,” and hastened his step; next,

he said, “It's Charley—it's Fairchild good”; and the next moment laid an

affectionate hand on the sleeper's shoulder. The eyes opened lazily,

took one glance, the face blanched, the form whirled itself from the

sack-pile, and in an instant Ed was alone and Fairchild was flying for

the wharf-boat like the wind!

Ed was dazed, stupefied. Was Fairchild crazy? What could be the meaning

of this? He started slow and dreamily down toward the wharf-boat; turned

the corner of a freight-pile and came suddenly upon two of the boys.

They were lightly laughing over some pleasant matter; they heard his

step, and glanced up just as he discovered them; the laugh died abruptly;

and before Ed could speak they were off, and sailing over barrels and

bales like hunted deer. Again Ed was paralyzed. Had the boys all gone

mad? What could be the explanation of this extraordinary conduct? And

so, dreaming along, he reached the wharf-boat, and stepped aboard—

nothing

but silence there, and vacancy. He crossed the deck, turned the corner

to go down the outer guard, heard a fervent—

“O lord!” and saw a white linen form plunge overboard.

The youth came up coughing and strangling, and cried out—

“Go 'way from here! You let me alone. I didn't do it, I swear I

didn't!”

“Didn't do what?”

“Give you the——”

“Never mind what you didn't do—come out of that! What makes you all act

so? What have I done?”

“You? Why you haven't done anything. But——”

“Well, then, what have you got against me? What do you all treat me so

for?”

“I—er—but haven't you got anything against us?”

“Of course not. What put such a thing into your head?”

“Honor bright—you haven't?

“Honor bright.”

“Swear it!”

“I don't know what in the world you mean, but I swear it, anyway.”

“And you'll shake hands with me?”

“Goodness knows I'll be glad to! Why, I'm just starving to shake hands

with somebody!”

The swimmer muttered, “Hang him, he smelt a rat and never delivered the

letter!—but it's all right, I'm not going to fetch up the subject.” And

he crawled out and came dripping and draining to shake hands. First one

and then another of the conspirators showed up cautiously—armed to the

teeth—took in the amicable situation, then ventured warily forward and

joined the love-feast.

And to Ed's eager inquiry as to what made them act as they had been

acting, they answered evasively, and pretended that they had put it up as

a joke, to see what he would do. It was the best explanation they could

invent at such short notice. And each said to himself, “He never

delivered that letter, and the joke is on us, if he only knew it or we

were dull enough to come out and tell.”

Then, of course, they wanted to know all about the trip; and he said—

“Come right up on the boiler deck and order the drinks—it's my treat.

I'm going to tell you all about it. And to-night it's my treat again

—and we'll have oysters and a time!”

When the drinks were brought and cigars lighted, Ed said:

“Well, when I delivered the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt——”

“Great Scott!”

“Gracious, how you scared me. What's the matter?”

“Oh—er—nothing. Nothing—it was a tack in the chair-seat,” said one.

“But you all said it. However, no matter. When I delivered the

letter——”

“Did you deliver it?” And they looked at each other as people might who

thought that maybe they were dreaming.

Then they settled to listening; and as the story deepened and its marvels

grew, the amazement of it made them dumb, and the interest of it took

their breath. They hardly uttered a whisper during two hours, but sat

like petrifactions and drank in the immortal romance. At last the tale

was ended, and Ed said—

“And it's all owing to you, boys, and you'll never find me ungrateful

—bless your hearts, the best friends a fellow ever had! You'll all have

places; I want every one of you. I know you—I know you 'by the back,'

as the gamblers say. You're jokers, and all that, but you're sterling,

with the hallmark on. And Charley Fairchild, you shall be my first

assistant and right hand, because of your first-class ability, and

because you got me the letter, and for your father's sake who wrote it

for me, and to please Mr. Vanderbilt, who said it would! And here's to

that great man—drink hearty!”

Yes, when the Moment comes, the Man appears—even if he is a thousand

miles away, and has to be discovered by a practical joke.

CHAPTER XXIX.

When people do not respect us we are sharply offended; yet deep down in

his private heart no man much respects himself.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Necessarily, the human interest is the first interest in the log-book of

any country. The annals of Tasmania, in whose shadow we were sailing,

are lurid with that feature. Tasmania was a convict-dump, in old times;

this has been indicated in the account of the Conciliator, where

reference is made to vain attempts of desperate convicts to win to

permanent freedom, after escaping from Macquarrie Harbor and the “Gates

of Hell.” In the early days Tasmania had a great population of convicts,

of both sexes and all ages, and a bitter hard life they had. In one spot

there was a settlement of juvenile convicts—children—who had been sent

thither from their home and their friends on the other side of the globe

to expiate their “crimes.”

In due course our ship entered the estuary called the Derwent, at whose

head stands Hobart, the capital of Tasmania. The Derwent's shores

furnish scenery of an interesting sort. The historian Laurie, whose

book, “The Story of Australasia,” is just out, invoices its features with

considerable truth and intemperance: “The marvelous picturesqueness of

every point of view, combined with the clear balmy atmosphere and the

transparency of the ocean depths, must have delighted and deeply

impressed” the early explorers. “If the rock-bound coasts, sullen,

defiant, and lowering, seemed uninviting, these were occasionally broken

into charmingly alluring coves floored with golden sand, clad with

evergreen shrubbery, and adorned with every variety of indigenous wattle,

she-oak, wild flower, and fern, from the delicately graceful

'maiden-hair' to the palm-like 'old man'; while the majestic gum-tree,

clean and smooth as the mast of 'some tall ammiral' pierces the clear air

to the height of 230 feet or more.”

It looked so to me. “Coasting along Tasman's Peninsula, what a shock of

pleasant wonder must have struck the early mariner on suddenly sighting

Cape Pillar, with its cluster of black-ribbed basaltic columns rising to

a height of 900 feet, the hydra head wreathed in a turban of fleecy

cloud, the base lashed by jealous waves spouting angry fountains of

foam.”

That is well enough, but I did not suppose those snags were 900 feet

high. Still they were a very fine show. They stood boldly out by

themselves, and made a fascinatingly odd spectacle. But there was

nothing about their appearance to suggest the heads of a hydra. They

looked like a row of lofty slabs with their upper ends tapered to the

shape of a carving-knife point; in fact, the early voyager, ignorant of

their great height, might have mistaken them for a rusty old rank of

piles that had sagged this way and that out of the perpendicular.

The Peninsula is lofty, rocky, and densely clothed with scrub, or brush,

or both. It is joined to the main by a low neck. At this junction was

formerly a convict station called Port Arthur—a place hard to escape

from. Behind it was the wilderness of scrub, in which a fugitive would

soon starve; in front was the narrow neck, with a cordon of chained dogs

across it, and a line of lanterns, and a fence of living guards, armed.

We saw the place as we swept by—that is, we had a glimpse of what we

were told was the entrance to Port Arthur. The glimpse was worth

something, as a remembrancer, but that was all.

The voyage thence up the Derwent Frith displays a grand succession of

fairy visions, in its entire length elsewhere unequaled. In gliding over

the deep blue sea studded with lovely islets luxuriant to the water's

edge, one is at a loss which scene to choose for contemplation and to

admire most. When the Huon and Bruni have been passed, there seems no

possible chance of a rival; but suddenly Mount Wellington, massive and

noble like his brother Etna, literally heaves in sight, sternly guarded

on either hand by Mounts Nelson and Rumney; presently we arrive at

Sullivan's Cove—Hobart!

It is an attractive town. It sits on low hills that slope to the harbor

—a harbor that looks like a river, and is as smooth as one. Its still

surface is pictured with dainty reflections of boats and grassy banks and

luxuriant foliage. Back of the town rise highlands that are clothed in

woodland loveliness, and over the way is that noble mountain, Wellington,

a stately bulk, a most majestic pile. How beautiful is the whole region,

for form, and grouping, and opulence, and freshness of foliage, and

variety of color, and grace and shapeliness of the hills, the capes, the

promontories; and then, the splendor of the sunlight, the dim rich

distances, the charm of the water-glimpses! And it was in this paradise

that the yellow-liveried convicts were landed, and the Corps-bandits

quartered, and the wanton slaughter of the kangaroo-chasing black

innocents consummated on that autumn day in May, in the brutish old time.

It was all out of keeping with the place, a sort of bringing of heaven

and hell together.

The remembrance of this paradise reminds me that it was at Hobart that we

struck the head of the procession of Junior Englands. We were to

encounter other sections of it in New Zealand, presently, and others

later in Natal. Wherever the exiled Englishman can find in his new home

resemblances to his old one, he is touched to the marrow of his being;

the love that is in his heart inspires his imagination, and these allied

forces transfigure those resemblances into authentic duplicates of the

revered originals. It is beautiful, the feeling which works this

enchantment, and it compels one's homage; compels it, and also compels

one's assent—compels it always—even when, as happens sometimes, one

does not see the resemblances as clearly as does the exile who is

pointing them out.

The resemblances do exist, it is quite true; and often they cunningly

approximate the originals—but after all, in the matter of certain

physical patent rights there is only one England. Now that I have

sampled the globe, I am not in doubt. There is a beauty of Switzerland,

and it is repeated in the glaciers and snowy ranges of many parts of the

earth; there is a beauty of the fiord, and it is repeated in New Zealand

and Alaska; there is a beauty of Hawaii, and it is repeated in ten

thousand islands of the Southern seas; there is a beauty of the prairie

and the plain, and it is repeated here and there in the earth; each of

these is worshipful, each is perfect in its way, yet holds no monopoly of

its beauty; but that beauty which is England is alone—it has no

duplicate.

It is made up of very simple details—just grass, and trees, and shrubs,

and roads, and hedges, and gardens, and houses, and vines, and churches,

and castles, and here and there a ruin—and over it all a mellow

dream-haze of history. But its beauty is incomparable, and all its own.

Hobart has a peculiarity—it is the neatest town that the sun shines on;

and I incline to believe that it is also the cleanest. However that may

be, its supremacy in neatness is not to be questioned. There cannot be

another town in the world that has no shabby exteriors; no rickety gates

and fences, no neglected houses crumbling to ruin, no crazy and unsightly

sheds, no weed-grown front-yards of the poor, no back-yards littered with

tin cans and old boots and empty bottles, no rubbish in the gutters, no

clutter on the sidewalks, no outer-borders fraying out into dirty lanes

and tin-patched huts. No, in Hobart all the aspects are tidy, and all a

comfort to the eye; the modestest cottage looks combed and brushed, and

has its vines, its flowers, its neat fence, its neat gate, its comely cat

asleep on the window ledge.

We had a glimpse of the museum, by courtesy of the American gentleman who

is curator of it. It has samples of half-a-dozen different kinds of

marsupials—[A marsupial is a plantigrade vertebrate whose specialty is

its pocket. In some countries it is extinct, in the others it is rare.

The first American marsupials were Stephen Girard, Mr. Astor and the

opossum; the principal marsupials of the Southern Hemisphere are Mr.

Rhodes, and the kangaroo. I, myself, am the latest marsupial. Also, I

might boast that I have the largest pocket of them all. But there is

nothing in that.]—one, the “Tasmanian devil;” that is, I think he was

one of them. And there was a fish with lungs. When the water dries up

it can live in the mud. Most curious of all was a parrot that kills

sheep. On one great sheep-run this bird killed a thousand sheep in a

whole year. He doesn't want the whole sheep, but only the kidney-fat.

This restricted taste makes him an expensive bird to support. To get the

fat he drives his beak in and rips it out; the wound is mortal. This

parrot furnishes a notable example of evolution brought about by changed

conditions. When the sheep culture was introduced, it presently brought

famine to the parrot by exterminating a kind of grub which had always

thitherto been the parrot's diet. The miseries of hunger made the bird

willing to eat raw flesh, since it could get no other food, and it began

to pick remnants of meat from sheep skins hung out on the fences to dry.

It soon came to prefer sheep meat to any other food, and by and by it

came to prefer the kidney-fat to any other detail of the sheep. The

parrot's bill was not well shaped for digging out the fat, but Nature

fixed that matter; she altered the bill's shape, and now the parrot can

dig out kidney-fat better than the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, or

anybody else, for that matter—even an Admiral.

And there was another curiosity—quite a stunning one, I thought:

Arrow-heads and knives just like those which Primeval Man made out of

flint, and thought he had done such a wonderful thing—yes, and has been

humored and coddled in that superstition by this age of admiring

scientists until there is probably no living with him in the other world

by now. Yet here is his finest and nicest work exactly duplicated in our

day; and by people who have never heard of him or his works: by

aborigines who lived in the islands of these seas, within our time. And

they not only duplicated those works of art but did it in the brittlest

and most treacherous of substances—glass: made them out of old brandy

bottles flung out of the British camps; millions of tons of them. It is

time for Primeval Man to make a little less noise, now. He has had his

day. He is not what he used to be. We had a drive through a bloomy and

odorous fairy-land, to the Refuge for the Indigent—a spacious and

comfortable home, with hospitals, etc., for both sexes. There was a

crowd there, of the oldest people I have ever seen. It was like being

suddenly set down in a new world—a weird world where Youth has never

been, a world sacred to Age, and bowed forms, and wrinkles. Out of the

359 persons present, 223 were ex-convicts, and could have told stirring

tales, no doubt, if they had been minded to talk; 42 of the 359 were past

80, and several were close upon 90; the average age at death there is 76

years. As for me, I have no use for that place; it is too healthy.

Seventy is old enough—after that, there is too much risk. Youth and

gaiety might vanish, any day—and then, what is left? Death in life;

death without its privileges, death without its benefits. There were 185

women in that Refuge, and 81 of them were ex-convicts.

The steamer disappointed us. Instead of making a long visit at Hobart,

as usual, she made a short one. So we got but a glimpse of Tasmania, and

then moved on.

CHAPTER XXX.

Nature makes the locust with an appetite for crops; man would have made

him with an appetite for sand.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We spent part of an afternoon and a night at sea, and reached Bluff, in

New Zealand, early in the morning. Bluff is at the bottom of the middle

island, and is away down south, nearly fort y-seven degrees below the

equator. It lies as far south of the line as Quebec lies north of it,

and the climates of the two should be alike; but for some reason or other

it has not been so arranged. Quebec is hot in the summer and cold in the

winter, but Bluff's climate is less intense; the cold weather is not very

cold, the hot weather is not very hot; and the difference between the

hottest month and the coldest is but 17 degrees Fahrenheit.

In New Zealand the rabbit plague began at Bluff. The man who introduced

the rabbit there was banqueted and lauded; but they would hang him, now,

if they could get him. In England the natural enemy of the rabbit is

detested and persecuted; in the Bluff region the natural enemy of the

rabbit is honored, and his person is sacred. The rabbit's natural enemy

in England is the poacher, in Bluff its natural enemy is the stoat, the

weasel, the ferret, the cat, and the mongoose. In England any person

below the Heir who is caught with a rabbit in his possession must

satisfactorily explain how it got there, or he will suffer fine and

imprisonment, together with extinction of his peerage; in Bluff, the cat

found with a rabbit in its possession does not have to explain—everybody

looks the other way; the person caught noticing would suffer fine and

imprisonment, with extinction of peerage. This is a sure way to

undermine the moral fabric of a cat. Thirty years from now there will

not be a moral cat in New Zealand. Some think there is none there now.

In England the poacher is watched, tracked, hunted—he dare not show his

face; in Bluff the cat, the weasel, the stoat, and the mongoose go up and

down, whither they will, unmolested. By a law of the legislature, posted

where all may read, it is decreed that any person found in possession of

one of these creatures (dead) must satisfactorily explain the

circumstances or pay a fine of not less than £5, nor more than £20. The

revenue from this source is not large. Persons who want to pay a hundred

dollars for a dead cat are getting rarer and rarer every day. This is

bad, for the revenue was to go to the endowment of a University. All

governments are more or less short-sighted: in England they fine the

poacher, whereas he ought to be banished to New Zealand. New Zealand

would pay his way, and give him wages.

It was from Bluff that we ought to have cut across to the west coast and

visited the New Zealand Switzerland, a land of superb scenery, made up of

snowy grandeurs, anal mighty glaciers, and beautiful lakes; and over

there, also, are the wonderful rivals of the Norwegian and Alaskan

fiords; and for neighbor, a waterfall of 1,900 feet; but we were obliged

to postpone the trip to some later and indefinite time.

November 6. A lovely summer morning; brilliant blue sky. A few miles

out from Invercargill, passed through vast level green expanses snowed

over with sheep. Fine to see. The green, deep and very vivid sometimes;

at other times less so, but delicate and lovely. A passenger reminds me

that I am in “the England of the Far South.”

Dunedin, same date. The town justifies Michael Davitt's praises.

The people are Scotch. They stopped here on their way from home to

heaven-thinking they had arrived. The population is stated at 40,000, by

Malcolm Ross, journalist; stated by an M. P. at 60,000. A journalist

cannot lie.

To the residence of Dr. Hockin. He has a fine collection of books

relating to New Zealand; and his house is a museum of Maori art and

antiquities. He has pictures and prints in color of many native chiefs

of the past—some of them of note in history. There is nothing of the

savage in the faces; nothing could be finer than these men's features,

nothing more intellectual than these faces, nothing more masculine,

nothing nobler than their aspect. The aboriginals of Australia and

Tasmania looked the savage, but these chiefs looked like Roman

patricians. The tattooing in these portraits ought to suggest the

savage, of course, but it does not. The designs are so flowing and

graceful and beautiful that they are a most satisfactory decoration. It

takes but fifteen minutes to get reconciled to the tattooing, and but

fifteen more to perceive that it is just the thing. After that, the

undecorated European face is unpleasant and ignoble.

Dr. Hockin gave us a ghastly curiosity—a lignified caterpillar with a

plant growing out of the back of its neck—a plant with a slender stem 4

inches high. It happened not by accident, but by design—Nature's

design. This caterpillar was in the act of loyally carrying out a law

inflicted upon him by Nature—a law purposely inflicted upon him to get

him into trouble—a law which was a trap; in pursuance of this law he

made the proper preparations for turning himself into a night-moth; that

is to say, he dug a little trench, a little grave, and then stretched

himself out in it on his stomach and partially buried himself—then

Nature was ready for him. She blew the spores of a peculiar fungus

through the air with a purpose. Some of them fell into a crease in the

back of the caterpillar's neck, and began to sprout and grow—for there

was soil there—he had not washed his neck. The roots forced themselves

down into the worm's person, and rearward along through its body, sucking

up the creature's juices for sap; the worm slowly died, and turned to

wood. And here he was now, a wooden caterpillar, with every detail of

his former physique delicately and exactly preserved and perpetuated, and

with that stem standing up out of him for his monument—monument

commemorative of his own loyalty and of Nature's unfair return for it.

Nature is always acting like that. Mrs. X. said (of course) that the

caterpillar was not conscious and didn't suffer. She should have known

better. No caterpillar can deceive Nature. If this one couldn't suffer,

Nature would have known it and would have hunted up another caterpillar.

Not that she would have let this one go, merely because it was defective.

No. She would have waited and let him turn into a night-moth; and then

fried him in the candle.

Nature cakes a fish's eyes over with parasites, so that it shan't be able

to avoid its enemies or find its food. She sends parasites into a

star-fish's system, which clog up its prongs and swell them and make them

so uncomfortable that the poor creature delivers itself from the prong to

ease its misery; and presently it has to part with another prong for the

sake of comfort, and finally with a third. If it re-grows the prongs,

the parasite returns and the same thing is repeated. And finally, when

the ability to reproduce prongs is lost through age, that poor old

star-fish can't get around any more, and so it dies of starvation.

In Australia is prevalent a horrible disease due to an “unperfected

tapeworm.” Unperfected—that is what they call it, I do not know why,

for it transacts business just as well as if it were finished and

frescoed and gilded, and all that.

November 9. To the museum and public picture gallery with the president

of the Society of Artists. Some fine pictures there, lent by the S. of

A. several of them they bought, the others came to them by gift. Next,

to the gallery of the S. of A.—annual exhibition—just opened. Fine.

Think of a town like this having two such collections as this, and a

Society of Artists. It is so all over Australasia. If it were a

monarchy one might understand it. I mean an absolute monarchy, where it

isn't necessary to vote money, but take it. Then art flourishes. But

these colonies are republics—republics with a wide suffrage; voters of

both sexes, this one of New Zealand. In republics, neither the

government nor the rich private citizen is much given to propagating art.

All over Australasia pictures by famous European artists are bought for

the public galleries by the State and by societies of citizens. Living

citizens—not dead ones. They rob themselves to give, not their heirs.

This S. of A. here owns its building—built it by subscription.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The spirit of wrath—not the words—is the sin; and the spirit of wrath

is cursing. We begin to swear before we can talk.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

November 11. On the road. This train-express goes twenty and one-half

miles an hour, schedule time; but it is fast enough, the outlook upon sea

and land is so interesting, and the cars so comfortable. They are not

English, and not American; they are the Swiss combination of the two.

A narrow and railed porch along the side, where a person can walk

up and down. A lavatory in each car. This is progress; this is

nineteenth-century spirit. In New Zealand, these fast expresses run twice

a week. It is well to know this if you want to be a bird and fly through

the country at a 20-mile gait; otherwise you may start on one of the five

wrong days, and then you will get a train that can't overtake its own

shadow.

By contrast, these pleasant cars call to mind the branch-road cars at

Maryborough, Australia, and the passengers' talk about the branch-road

and the hotel.

Somewhere on the road to Maryborough I changed for a while to a

smoking-carriage. There were two gentlemen there; both riding backward,

one at each end of the compartment. They were acquaintances of each

other. I sat down facing the one that sat at the starboard window. He

had a good face, and a friendly look, and I judged from his dress that he

was a dissenting minister. He was along toward fifty. Of his own motion

he struck a match, and shaded it with his hand for me to light my cigar.

I take the rest from my diary:

In order to start conversation I asked him something about Maryborough.

He said, in a most pleasant—even musical voice, but with quiet and

cultured decision:

“It's a charming town, with a hell of a hotel.”

I was astonished. It seemed so odd to hear a minister swear out loud.

He went placidly on:

“It's the worst hotel in Australia. Well, one may go further, and say in

Australasia.”

“Bad beds?”

“No—none at all. Just sand-bags.”

“The pillows, too?”

“Yes, the pillows, too. Just sand. And not a good quality of sand. It

packs too hard, and has never been screened. There is too much gravel in

it. It is like sleeping on nuts.”

“Isn't there any good sand?”

“Plenty of it. There is as good bed-sand in this region as the world can

furnish. Aerated sand—and loose; but they won't buy it. They want

something that will pack solid, and petrify.”

“How are the rooms?”

“Eight feet square; and a sheet of iced oil-cloth to step on in the

morning when you get out of the sand-quarry.”

“As to lights?”

“Coal-oil lamp.”

“A good one?”

“No. It's the kind that sheds a gloom.”

“I like a lamp that burns all night.”

“This one won't. You must blow it out early.”

“That is bad. One might want it again in the night. Can't find it in

the dark.”

“There's no trouble; you can find it by the stench.”

“Wardrobe?”

“Two nails on the door to hang seven suits of clothes on if you've got

them.”

“Bells?”

“There aren't any.”

“What do you do when you want service?”

“Shout. But it won't fetch anybody.”

“Suppose you want the chambermaid to empty the slopjar?”

“There isn't any slop-jar. The hotels don't keep them. That is, outside

of Sydney and Melbourne.”

“Yes, I knew that. I was only talking. It's the oddest thing in

Australia. Another thing: I've got to get up in the dark, in the

morning, to take the 5 o'clock train. Now if the boots——”

“There isn't any.”

“Well, the porter.”

“There isn't any.”

“But who will call me?”

“Nobody. You'll call yourself. And you'll light yourself, too.

There'll not be a light burning in the halls or anywhere. And if you

don't carry a light, you'll break your neck.”

“But who will help me down with my baggage?”

“Nobody. However, I will tell you what to do. In Maryborough there's an

American who has lived there half a lifetime; a fine man, and prosperous

and popular. He will be on the lookout for you; you won't have any

trouble. Sleep in peace; he will rout you out, and you will make your

train. Where is your manager?”

“I left him at Ballarat, studying the language. And besides, he had to

go to Melbourne and get us ready for New Zealand. I've not tried to

pilot myself before, and it doesn't look easy.”

“Easy! You've selected the very most difficult piece of railroad in

Australia for your experiment. There are twelve miles of this road which

no man without good executive ability can ever hope—tell me, have you

good executive ability? first-rate executive ability?”

“I—well, I think so, but——”

“That settles it. The tone of——oh, you wouldn't ever make it in the

world. However, that American will point you right, and you'll go.

You've got tickets?”

“Yes—round trip; all the way to Sydney.”

“Ah, there it is, you see! You are going in the 5 o'clock by

Castlemaine—twelve miles—instead of the 7.15 by Ballarat—in order to

save two hours of fooling along the road. Now then, don't interrupt—let

me have the floor. You're going to save the government a deal of

hauling, but that's nothing; your ticket is by Ballarat, and it isn't

good over that twelve miles, and so——”

“But why should the government care which way I go?”

“Goodness knows! Ask of the winds that far away with fragments strewed

the sea, as the boy that stood on the burning deck used to say. The

government chooses to do its railway business in its own way, and it

doesn't know as much about it as the French. In the beginning they tried

idiots; then they imported the French—which was going backwards, you

see; now it runs the roads itself—which is going backwards again, you

see. Why, do you know, in order to curry favor with the voters, the

government puts down a road wherever anybody wants it—anybody that owns

two sheep and a dog; and by consequence we've got, in the colony of

Victoria, 800 railway stations, and the business done at eighty of them

doesn't foot up twenty shillings a week.”

“Five dollars? Oh, come!”

“It's true. It's the absolute truth.”

“Why, there are three or four men on wages at every station.”

“I know it. And the station-business doesn't pay for the sheep-dip to

sanctify their coffee with. It's just as I say. And accommodating?

Why, if you shake a rag the train will stop in the midst of the

wilderness to pick you up. All that kind of politics costs, you see.

And then, besides, any town that has a good many votes and wants a fine

station, gets it. Don't you overlook that Maryborough station, if you

take an interest in governmental curiosities. Why, you can put the whole

population of Maryborough into it, and give them a sofa apiece, and have

room for more. You haven't fifteen stations in America that are as big,

and you probably haven't five that are half as fine. Why, it's

perfectly elegant. And the clock! Everybody will show you the clock.

There isn't a station in Europe that's got such a clock. It doesn't

strike—and that's one mercy. It hasn't any bell; and as you'll have

cause to remember, if you keep your reason, all Australia is simply

bedamned with bells. On every quarter-hour, night and day, they jingle a

tiresome chime of half a dozen notes—all the clocks in town at once, all

the clocks in Australasia at once, and all the very same notes; first,

downward scale: mi, re, do, sol—then upward scale: sol, si, re, do—down

again: mi, re, do, sol—up again: sol, si, re, do—then the clock—say at

midnight clang—clang—clang—clang—clang—clang—clang—clang—clang

—clang—clang—clang——and, by that time you're—hello, what's all this

excitement about? Oh I see—a runaway—scared by the train; why, you

wouldn't think this train could scare anything. Well, of course, when

they build

and run eighty stations at a loss and a lot of palace-stations and clocks

like Maryborough's at another loss, the government has got to economize

somewhere hasn't it? Very well look at the rolling stock. That's where

they save the money. Why, that train from Maryborough will consist of

eighteen freight-cars and two passenger-kennels; cheap, poor, shabby,

slovenly; no drinking water,

no sanitary arrangements, every imaginable inconvenience; and slow?—oh,

the

gait of cold molasses; no air-brake, no springs, and they'll jolt your

head off every time they start or stop. That's where they make their

little economies, you see. They spend tons of money to house you

palatially while you wait fifteen minutes for a train, then degrade you

to six hours' convict-transportation to get the foolish outlay back.

What a rational man really needs is discomfort while he's waiting, then

his journey in a nice train would be a grateful change. But no, that

would be common sense—and out of place in a government. And then,

besides, they save in that other little detail, you know—repudiate their

own tickets, and collect a poor little illegitimate extra shilling out of

you for that twelve miles, and——”

“Well, in any case——”

“Wait—there's more. Leave that American out of the account and see what

would happen. There's nobody on hand to examine your ticket when you

arrive. But the conductor will come and examine it when the train is

ready to start. It is too late to buy your extra ticket now; the train

can't wait, and won't. You must climb out.”

“But can't I pay the conductor?”

“No, he is not authorized to receive the money, and he won't. You must

climb out. There's no other way. I tell you, the railway management is

about the only thoroughly European thing here—continentally European I

mean, not English. It's the continental business in perfection; down

fine. Oh, yes, even to the peanut-commerce of weighing baggage.”

The train slowed up at his place. As he stepped out he said:

“Yes, you'll like Maryborough. Plenty of intelligence there. It's a

charming place—with a hell of a hotel.”

Then he was gone. I turned to the other gentleman:

“Is your friend in the ministry?”

“No—studying for it.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

The man with a new idea is a Crank until the idea succeeds.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

It was Junior England all the way to Christchurch—in fact, just a

garden. And Christchurch is an English town, with an English-park annex,

and a winding English brook just like the Avon—and named the Avon; but

from a man, not from Shakespeare's river. Its grassy banks are bordered

by the stateliest and most impressive weeping willows to be found in the

world, I suppose. They continue the line of a great ancestor; they were

grown from sprouts of the willow that sheltered Napoleon's grave in St.

Helena. It is a settled old community, with all the serenities, the

graces, the conveniences, and the comforts of the ideal home-life. If it

had an established Church and social inequality it would be England over

again with hardly a lack.

In the museum we saw many curious and interesting things; among others a

fine native house of the olden time, with all the details true to the

facts, and the showy colors right and in their proper places. All the

details: the fine mats and rugs and things; the elaborate and wonderful

wood carvings—wonderful, surely, considering who did them—wonderful in

design and particularly in execution, for they were done with admirable

sharpness and exactness, and yet with no better tools than flint and jade

and shell could furnish; and the totem-posts were there, ancestor above

ancestor, with tongues protruded and hands clasped comfortably over

bellies containing other people's ancestors—grotesque and ugly devils,

every one, but lovingly carved, and ably; and the stuffed natives were

present, in their proper places, and looking as natural as life; and the

housekeeping utensils were there, too, and close at hand the carved and

finely ornamented war canoe.

And we saw little jade gods, to hang around the neck—not everybody's,

but sacred to the necks of natives of rank. Also jade weapons, and many

kinds of jade trinkets—all made out of that excessively hard stone

without the help of any tool of iron. And some of these things had small

round holes bored through them—nobody knows how it was done; a mystery,

a lost art. I think it was said that if you want such a hole bored in a

piece of jade now, you must send it to London or Amsterdam where the

lapidaries are.

Also we saw a complete skeleton of the giant Moa. It stood ten feet

high, and must have been a sight to look at when it was a living bird.

It was a kicker, like the ostrich; in fight it did not use its beak, but

its foot. It must have been a convincing kind of kick. If a person had

his back to the bird and did not see who it was that did it, he would

think he had been kicked by a wind-mill.

There must have been a sufficiency of moas in the old forgotten days when

his breed walked the earth. His bones are found in vast masses, all

crammed together in huge graves. They are not in caves, but in the

ground. Nobody knows how they happened to get concentrated there. Mind,

they are bones, not fossils. This means that the moa has not been

extinct very long. Still, this is the only New Zealand creature which

has no mention in that otherwise comprehensive literature, the native

legends. This is a significant detail, and is good circumstantial

evidence that the moa has been extinct 500 years, since the Maori has

himself—by tradition—been in New Zealand since the end of the fifteenth

century. He came from an unknown land—the first Maori did—then sailed

back in his canoe and brought his tribe, and they removed the aboriginal

peoples into the sea and into the ground and took the land. That is the

tradition. That that first Maori could come, is understandable, for

anybody can come to a place when he isn't trying to; but how that

discoverer found his way back home again without a compass is his secret,

and he died with it in him. His language indicates that he came from

Polynesia. He told where he came from, but he couldn't spell well, so

one can't find the place on the map, because people who could spell

better than he could, spelt the resemblance all out of it when they made

the map. However, it is better to have a map that is spelt right than

one that has information in it.

In New Zealand women have the right to vote for members of the

legislature, but they cannot be members themselves. The law extending

the suffrage to them went into effect in 1893. The population of

Christchurch (census of 1891) was 31,454. The first election under the

law was held in November of that year. Number of men who voted, 6,313;

number of women who voted, 5,989. These figures ought to convince us

that women are not as indifferent about politics as some people would

have us believe. In New Zealand as a whole, the estimated adult female

population was 139,915; of these 109,461 qualified and registered their

names on the rolls 78.23 per cent. of the whole. Of these, 90,290 went

to the polls and voted—85.18 per cent. Do men ever turn out better than

that—in America or elsewhere? Here is a remark to the other sex's

credit, too—I take it from the official report:

“A feature of the election was the orderliness and sobriety of the

people. Women were in no way molested.”

At home, a standing argument against woman suffrage has always been that

women could not go to the polls without being insulted. The arguments

against woman suffrage have always taken the easy form of prophecy. The

prophets have been prophesying ever since the woman's rights movement

began in 1848—and in forty-seven years they have never scored a hit.

Men ought to begin to feel a sort of respect for their mothers and wives

and sisters by this time. The women deserve a change of attitude like

that, for they have wrought well. In forty-seven years they have swept

an imposingly large number of unfair laws from the statute books of

America. In that brief time these serfs have set themselves free—

essentially. Men could not have done so much for themselves in that time

without bloodshed—at least they never have; and that is argument that

they didn't know how. The women have accomplished a peaceful revolution,

and a very beneficent one; and yet that has not convinced the average man

that they are intelligent, and have courage and energy and perseverance

and fortitude. It takes much to convince the average man of anything;

and perhaps nothing can ever make him realize that he is the average

woman's inferior—yet in several important details the evidence seems to

show that that is what he is. Man has ruled the human race from the

beginning—but he should remember that up to the middle of the present

century it was a dull world, and ignorant and stupid; but it is not such

a dull world now, and is growing less and less dull all the time. This

is woman's opportunity—she has had none before. I wonder where man will

be in another forty-seven years?

In the New Zealand law occurs this: “The word person wherever it occurs

throughout the Act includes woman.”

That is promotion, you see. By that enlargement of the word, the matron

with the garnered wisdom and experience of fifty years becomes at one

jump the political equal of her callow kid of twenty-one. The white

population of the colony is 626,000, the Maori population is 42,000. The

whites elect seventy members of the House of Representatives, the Maoris

four. The Maori women vote for their four members.

November 16. After four pleasant days in Christchurch, we are to leave

at midnight to-night. Mr. Kinsey gave me an ornithorhynchus, and I am

taming it.

Sunday, 17th. Sailed last night in the Flora, from Lyttelton.

So we did. I remember it yet. The people who sailed in the Flora that

night may forget some other things if they live a good while, but they

will not live long enough to forget that. The Flora is about the

equivalent of a cattle-scow; but when the Union Company find it

inconvenient to keep a contract and lucrative to break it, they smuggle

her into passenger service, and “keep the change.”

They give no notice of their projected depredation; you innocently buy

tickets for the advertised passenger boat, and when you get down to

Lyttelton at midnight, you find that they have substituted the scow.

They have plenty of good boats, but no competition—and that is the

trouble. It is too late now to make other arrangements if you have

engagements ahead.

It is a powerful company, it has a monopoly, and everybody is afraid of

it—including the government's representative, who stands at the end of

the stage-plank to tally the passengers and see that no boat receives a

greater number than the law allows her to carry. This conveniently-blind

representative saw the scow receive a number which was far in excess of

its privilege, and winked a politic wink and said nothing. The

passengers bore with meekness the cheat which had been put upon them, and

made no complaint.

It was like being at home in America, where abused passengers act in just

the same way. A few days before, the Union Company had discharged a

captain for getting a boat into danger, and had advertised this act as

evidence of its vigilance in looking after the safety of the passengers

—for thugging a captain costs the company nothing, but when opportunity

offered to send this dangerously overcrowded tub to sea and save a little

trouble and a tidy penny by it, it forgot to worry about the passenger's

safety.

The first officer told me that the Flora was privileged to carry 125

passengers. She must have had all of 200 on board. All the cabins were

full, all the cattle-stalls in the main stable were full, the spaces at

the heads of companionways were full, every inch of floor and table in

the swill-room was packed with sleeping men and remained so until the

place was required for breakfast, all the chairs and benches on the

hurricane deck were occupied, and still there were people who had to walk

about all night!

If the Flora had gone down that night, half of the people on board would

have been wholly without means of escape.

The owners of that boat were not technically guilty of conspiracy to

commit murder, but they were morally guilty of it.

I had a cattle-stall in the main stable—a cavern fitted up with a long

double file of two-storied bunks, the files separated by a calico

partition—twenty men and boys on one side of it, twenty women and girls

on the other. The place was as dark as the soul of the Union Company,

and smelt like a kennel. When the vessel got out into the heavy seas and

began to pitch and wallow, the cavern prisoners became immediately

seasick, and then the peculiar results that ensued laid all my previous

experiences of the kind well away in the shade. And the wails, the

groans, the cries, the shrieks, the strange ejaculations—it was

wonderful.

The women and children and some of the men and boys spent the night in

that place, for they were too ill to leave it; but the rest of us got up,

by and by, and finished the night on the hurricane-deck.

That boat was the foulest I was ever in; and the smell of the breakfast

saloon when we threaded our way among the layers of steaming passengers

stretched upon its floor and its tables was incomparable for efficiency.

A good many of us got ashore at the first way-port to seek another ship.

After a wait of three hours we got good rooms in the Mahinapua, a wee

little bridal-parlor of a boat—only 205 tons burthen; clean and

comfortable; good service; good beds; good table, and no crowding. The

seas danced her about like a duck, but she was safe and capable.

Next morning early she went through the French Pass—a narrow gateway of

rock, between bold headlands—so narrow, in fact, that it seemed no wider

than a street. The current tore through there like a mill-race, and the

boat darted through like a telegram. The passage was made in half a

minute; then we were in a wide place where noble vast eddies swept

grandly round and round in shoal water, and I wondered what they would do

with the little boat. They did as they pleased with her. They picked

her up and flung her around like nothing and landed her gently on the

solid, smooth bottom of sand—so gently, indeed, that we barely felt her

touch it, barely felt her quiver when she came to a standstill. The

water was as clear as glass, the sand on the bottom was vividly distinct,

and the fishes seemed to be swimming about in nothing. Fishing lines

were brought out, but before we could bait the hooks the boat was off and

away again.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Let us be grateful to Adam our benefactor. He cut us out of the

“blessing of idleness,” and won for us the “curse of labor.”

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

We soon reached the town of Nelson, and spent the most of the day there,

visiting acquaintances and driving with them about the garden—the whole

region is a garden, excepting the scene of the “Maungatapu Murders,” of

thirty years ago. That is a wild place—wild and lonely; an ideal place

for a murder. It is at the base of a vast, rugged, densely timbered

mountain. In the deep twilight of that forest solitude four desperate

rascals—Burgess, Sullivan, Levy, and Kelley—ambushed themselves beside

the mountain-trail to murder and rob four travelers—Kempthorne, Mathieu,

Dudley, and De Pontius, the latter a New Yorker. A harmless old laboring

man came wandering along, and as his presence was an embarrassment, they

choked him, hid him, and then resumed their watch for the four. They had

to wait a while, but eventually everything turned out as they desired.

That dark episode is the one large event in the history of Nelson. The

fame of it traveled far. Burgess made a confession. It is a remarkable

paper. For brevity, succinctness, and concentration, it is perhaps

without its peer in the literature of murder. There are no waste words

in it; there is no obtrusion of matter not pertinent to the occasion, nor

any departure from the dispassionate tone proper to a formal business

statement—for that is what it is: a business statement of a murder, by

the chief engineer of it, or superintendent, or foreman, or whatever one

may prefer to call him.

“We were getting impatient, when we saw four men and a pack-horse

coming. I left my cover and had a look at the men, for Levy had

told me that Mathieu was a small man and wore a large beard, and

that it was a chestnut horse. I said, 'Here they come.' They were

then a good distance away; I took the caps off my gun, and put fresh

ones on. I said, 'You keep where you are, I'll put them up, and you

give me your gun while you tie them.' It was arranged as I have

described. The men came; they arrived within about fifteen yards

when I stepped up and said, 'Stand! bail up!' That means all of

them to get together. I made them fall back on the upper side of

the road with their faces up the range, and Sullivan brought me his

gun, and then tied their hands behind them. The horse was very

quiet all the time, he did not move. When they were all tied,

Sullivan took the horse up the hill, and put him in the bush; he cut

the rope and let the swags—[A “swag” is a kit, a pack, small

baggage.]—fall on the ground, and then came to me. We then marched

the men down the incline to the creek; the water at this time barely

running. Up this creek we took the men; we went, I daresay, five or

six hundred yards up it, which took us nearly half-an-hour to

accomplish. Then we turned to the right up the range; we went, I

daresay, one hundred and fifty yards from the creek, and there we

sat down with the men. I said to Sullivan, 'Put down your gun and

search these men,' which he did. I asked them their several names;

they told me. I asked them if they were expected at Nelson. They

said, 'No.' If such their lives would have been spared. In money

we took £60 odd. I said, 'Is this all you have? You had better

tell me.' Sullivan said, 'Here is a bag of gold.' I said, 'What's on

that pack-horse? Is there any gold?' when Kempthorne said, 'Yes,

my gold is in the portmanteau, and I trust you will not take it

all.' 'Well,' I said, 'we must take you away one at a time, because

the range is steep just here, and then we will let you go.' They

said, 'All right,' most cheerfully. We tied their feet, and took

Dudley with us; we went about sixty yards with him. This was

through a scrub. It was arranged the night previously that it would

be best to choke them, in case the report of the arms might be heard

from the road, and if they were missed they never would be found.

So we tied a handkerchief over his eyes, when Sullivan took the sash

off his waist, put it round his neck, and so strangled him.

Sullivan, after I had killed the old laboring man, found fault with

the way he was choked. He said, 'The next we do I'll show you my

way.' I said, 'I have never done such a thing before. I have shot

a man, but never choked one.' We returned to the others, when

Kempthorne said, 'What noise was that?' I said it was caused by

breaking through the scrub. This was taking too much time, so it

was agreed to shoot them. With that I said, 'We'll take you no

further, but separate you, and then loose one of you, and he can

relieve the others.' So with that, Sullivan took De Pontius to the

left of where Kempthorne was sitting. I took Mathieu to the right.

I tied a strap round his legs, and shot him with a revolver. He

yelled, I ran from him with my gun in my hand, I sighted Kempthorne,

who had risen to his feet. I presented the gun, and shot him behind

the right ear; his life's blood welled from him, and he died

instantaneously. Sullivan had shot De Pontius in the meantime,

and then came to me. I said, 'Look to Mathieu,' indicating the spot

where he lay. He shortly returned and said, 'I had to “chiv” that

fellow, he was not dead,' a cant word, meaning that he had to stab

him. Returning to the road we passed where De Pontius lay and was

dead. Sullivan said, 'This is the digger, the others were all

storekeepers; this is the digger, let's cover him up, for should the

others be found, they'll think he done it and sloped,' meaning he

had gone. So with that we threw all the stones on him, and then

left him. This bloody work took nearly an hour and a half from the

time we stopped the men.”

Anyone who reads that confession will think that the man who wrote it was

destitute of emotions, destitute of feeling. That is partly true. As

regarded others he was plainly without feeling—utterly cold and

pitiless; but as regarded himself the case was different. While he cared

nothing for the future of the murdered men, he cared a great deal for his

own. It makes one's flesh creep to read the introduction to his

confession. The judge on the bench characterized it as “scandalously

blasphemous,” and it certainly reads so, but Burgess meant no blasphemy.

He was merely a brute, and whatever he said or wrote was sure to expose

the fact. His redemption was a very real thing to him, and he was as

jubilantly happy on the gallows as ever was Christian martyr at the

stake. We dwellers in this world are strangely made, and mysteriously

circumstanced. We have to suppose that the murdered men are lost, and

that Burgess is saved; but we cannot suppress our natural regrets.

“Written in my dungeon drear this 7th of August, in the year of

Grace, 1866. To God be ascribed all power and glory in subduing the

rebellious spirit of a most guilty wretch, who has been brought,

through the instrumentality of a faithful follower of Christ, to see

his wretched and guilty state, inasmuch as hitherto he has led an

awful and wretched life, and through the assurance of this faithful

soldier of Christ, he has been led and also believes that Christ

will yet receive and cleanse him from all his deep-dyed and bloody

sins. I lie under the imputation which says, 'Come now and let us

reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet,

they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson,

they shall be as wool.' On this promise I rely.”

We sailed in the afternoon late, spent a few hours at New Plymouth, then

sailed again and reached Auckland the next day, November 20th, and

remained in that fine city several days. Its situation is commanding,

and the sea-view is superb. There are charming drives all about, and by

courtesy of friends we had opportunity to enjoy them. From the grassy

crater-summit of Mount Eden one's eye ranges over a grand sweep and

variety of scenery—forests clothed in luxuriant foliage, rolling green

fields, conflagrations of flowers, receding and dimming stretches of

green plain, broken by lofty and symmetrical old craters—then the blue

bays twinkling and sparkling away into the dreamy distances where the

mountains loom spiritual in their veils of haze.

It is from Auckland that one goes to Rotorua, the region of the renowned

hot lakes and geysers—one of the chief wonders of New Zealand; but I was

not well enough to make the trip. The government has a sanitorium there,

and everything is comfortable for the tourist and the invalid. The

government's official physician is almost over-cautious in his estimates

of the efficacy of the baths, when he is talking about rheumatism, gout,

paralysis, and such things; but when he is talking about the

effectiveness of the waters in eradicating the whisky-habit, he seems to

have no reserves. The baths will cure the drinking-habit no matter how

chronic it is—and cure it so effectually that even the desire to drink

intoxicants will come no more. There should be a rush from Europe and

America to that place; and when the victims of alcoholism find out what

they can get by going there, the rush will begin.

The Thermal-springs District of New Zealand comprises an area of upwards

of 600,000 acres, or close on 1,000 square miles. Rotorua is the

favorite place. It is the center of a rich field of lake and mountain

scenery; from Rotorua as a base the pleasure-seeker makes excursions.

The crowd of sick people is great, and growing. Rotorua is the Carlsbad

of Australasia.

It is from Auckland that the Kauri gum is shipped. For a long time now

about 8,000 tons of it have been brought into the town per year. It is

worth about $300 per ton, unassorted; assorted, the finest grades are

worth about $1,000. It goes to America, chiefly. It is in lumps, and is

hard and smooth, and looks like amber—the light-colored like new amber,

and the dark brown like rich old amber. And it has the pleasant feel of

amber, too. Some of the light-colored samples were a tolerably fair

counterfeit of uncut South African diamonds, they were so perfectly

smooth and polished and transparent. It is manufactured into varnish; a

varnish which answers for copal varnish and is cheaper.

The gum is dug up out of the ground; it has been there for ages. It is

the sap of the Kauri tree. Dr. Campbell of Auckland told me he sent a

cargo of it to England fifty years ago, but nothing came of the venture.

Nobody knew what to do with it; so it was sold at £5 a ton, to light

fires with.

November 26—3 P.M., sailed. Vast and beautiful harbor. Land all about

for hours. Tangariwa, the mountain that “has the same shape from every

point of view.” That is the common belief in Auckland. And so it has

—from every point of view except thirteen. Perfect summer weather.

Large

school of whales in the distance. Nothing could be daintier than the

puffs of vapor they spout up, when seen against the pink glory of the

sinking sun, or against the dark mass of an island reposing in the deep

blue shadow of a storm cloud . . . . Great Barrier rock standing up

out of the sea away to the left. Sometime ago a ship hit it full speed

in a fog—20 miles out of her course—140 lives lost; the captain

committed suicide without waiting a moment. He knew that, whether he was

to blame or not, the company owning the vessel would discharge him and

make a devotion—to—passengers' safety advertisement out of it, and his

chance to make a livelihood would be permanently gone.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Let us not be too particular. It is better to have old second-hand

diamonds than none at all.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

November 27. To-day we reached Gisborne, and anchored in a big bay;

there was a heavy sea on, so we remained on board.

We were a mile from shore; a little steam-tug put out from the land; she

was an object of thrilling interest; she would climb to the summit of a

billow, reel drunkenly there a moment, dim and gray in the driving storm

of spindrift, then make a plunge like a diver and remain out of sight

until one had given her up, then up she would dart again, on a steep

slant toward the sky, shedding Niagaras of water from her forecastle—and

this she kept up, all the way out to us. She brought twenty-five

passengers in her stomach—men and women—mainly a traveling dramatic

company. In sight on deck were the crew, in sou'westers, yellow

waterproof canvas suits, and boots to the thigh. The deck was never

quiet for a moment, and seldom nearer level than a ladder, and noble were

the seas which leapt aboard and went flooding aft. We rove a long line

to the yard-arm, hung a most primitive basketchair to it and swung it out

into the spacious air of heaven, and there it swayed, pendulum-fashion,

waiting for its chance—then down it shot, skillfully aimed, and was

grabbed by the two men on the forecastle. A young fellow belonging to

our crew was in the chair, to be a protection to the lady-comers. At

once a couple of ladies appeared from below, took seats in his lap, we

hoisted them into the sky, waited a moment till the roll of the ship

brought them in overhead, then we lowered suddenly away, and seized the

chair as it struck the deck. We took the twenty-five aboard, and

delivered twenty-five into the tug—among them several aged ladies, and

one blind one—and all without accident. It was a fine piece of work.

Ours is a nice ship, roomy, comfortable, well-ordered, and satisfactory.

Now and then we step on a rat in a hotel, but we have had no rats on

shipboard lately; unless, perhaps in the Flora; we had more serious

things to think of there, and did not notice. I have noticed that it is

only in ships and hotels which still employ the odious Chinese gong, that

you find rats. The reason would seem to be, that as a rat cannot tell

the time of day by a clock, he won't stay where he cannot find out when

dinner is ready.

November 29. The doctor tells me of several old drunkards, one

spiritless loafer, and several far-gone moral wrecks who have been

reclaimed by the Salvation Army and have remained staunch people and hard

workers these two years. Wherever one goes, these testimonials to the

Army's efficiency are forthcoming . . . . This morning we had one of

those whizzing green Ballarat flies in the room, with his stunning

buzz-saw noise—the swiftest creature in the world except the

lightning-flash. It is a stupendous force that is stored up in that

little body. If we had it in a ship in the same proportion, we could spin

from Liverpool to New York in the space of an hour—the time it takes to

eat luncheon. The New Zealand express train is called the Ballarat Fly

. . . . Bad teeth in the colonies. A citizen told me they don't have

teeth filled, but pull them out and put in false ones, and that now and

then one sees a young lady with a full set. She is fortunate. I wish I

had been born with false teeth and a false liver and false carbuncles.

I should get along better.

December 2. Monday. Left Napier in the Ballarat Fly the one that goes

twice a week. From Napier to Hastings, twelve miles; time, fifty-five

minutes—not so far short of thirteen miles an hour . . . . A perfect

summer day; cool breeze, brilliant sky, rich vegetation. Two or three

times during the afternoon we saw wonderfully dense and beautiful

forests, tumultuously piled skyward on the broken highlands—not the

customary roof-like slant of a hillside, where the trees are all the same

height. The noblest of these trees were of the Kauri breed, we were told

—the timber that is now furnishing the wood-paving for Europe, and is

the

best of all wood for that purpose. Sometimes these towering upheavals of

forestry were festooned and garlanded with vine-cables, and sometimes the

masses of undergrowth were cocooned in another sort of vine of a delicate

cobwebby texture—they call it the “supplejack,” I think. Tree ferns

everywhere—a stem fifteen feet high, with a graceful chalice of

fern-fronds sprouting from its top—a lovely forest ornament. And there

was a ten-foot reed with a flowing suit of what looked like yellow hair

hanging from its upper end. I do not know its name, but if there is such

a thing as a scalp-plant, this is it. A romantic gorge, with a brook

flowing in its bottom, approaching Palmerston North.

Waitukurau. Twenty minutes for luncheon. With me sat my wife and

daughter, and my manager, Mr. Carlyle Smythe. I sat at the head of the

table, and could see the right-hand wall; the others had their backs to

it. On that wall, at a good distance away, were a couple of framed

pictures. I could not see them clearly, but from the groupings of the

figures I fancied that they represented the killing of Napoleon III's son

by the Zulus in South Africa. I broke into the conversation, which was

about poetry and cabbage and art, and said to my wife—

“Do you remember when the news came to Paris——”

“Of the killing of the Prince?”

(Those were the very words I had in my mind.) “Yes, but what Prince?”

“Napoleon. Lulu.”

“What made you think of that?”

“I don't know.”

There was no collusion. She had not seen the pictures, and they had not

been mentioned. She ought to have thought of some recent news that came

to Paris, for we were but seven months from there and had been living

there a couple of years when we started on this trip; but instead of that

she thought of an incident of our brief sojourn in Paris of sixteen years

before.

Here was a clear case of mental telegraphy; of mind-transference; of my

mind telegraphing a thought into hers. How do I know? Because I

telegraphed an error. For it turned out that the pictures did not

represent the killing of Lulu at all, nor anything connected with Lulu.

She had to get the error from my head—it existed nowhere else.

CHAPTER XXXV.

The Autocrat of Russia possesses more power than any other man in the

earth; but he cannot stop a sneeze.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

WAUGANUI, December 3. A pleasant trip, yesterday, per Ballarat Fly.

Four hours. I do not know the distance, but it must have been well along

toward fifty miles. The Fly could have spun it out to eight hours and

not discommoded me; for where there is comfort, and no need for hurry,

speed is of no value—at least to me; and nothing that goes on wheels can

be more comfortable, more satisfactory, than the New Zealand trains.

Outside of America there are no cars that are so rationally devised.

When you add the constant presence of charming scenery and the nearly

constant absence of dust—well, if one is not content then, he ought to

get out and walk. That would change his spirit, perhaps? I think so.

At the end of an hour you would find him waiting humbly beside the track,

and glad to be taken aboard again.

Much horseback riding, in and around this town; many comely girls in cool

and pretty summer gowns; much Salvation Army; lots of Maoris; the faces

and bodies of some of the old ones very tastefully frescoed. Maori

Council House over the river—large, strong, carpeted from end to end

with

matting, and decorated with elaborate wood carvings, artistically

executed. The Maoris were very polite.

I was assured by a member of the House of Representatives that the native

race is not decreasing, but actually increasing slightly. It is another

evidence that they are a superior breed of savages. I do not call to

mind any savage race that built such good houses, or such strong and

ingenious and scientific fortresses, or gave so much attention to

agriculture, or had military arts and devices which so nearly approached

the white man's. These, taken together with their high abilities in

boat-building, and their tastes and capacities in the ornamental arts

modify their savagery to a semi-civilization—or at least to,

a quarter-civilization.

It is a compliment to them that the British did not exterminate them, as

they did the Australians and the Tasmanians, but were content with

subduing them, and showed no desire to go further. And it is another

compliment to them that the British did not take the whole of their

choicest lands, but left them a considerable part, and then went further

and protected them from the rapacities of landsharks—a protection which

the New Zealand Government still extends to them. And it is still

another compliment to the Maoris that the Government allows native

representation—in both the legislature and the cabinet, and gives both

sexes the vote. And in doing these things the Government also

compliments itself; it has not been the custom of the world for

conquerors to act in this large spirit toward the conquered.

The highest class white men who lived among the Maoris in the earliest

time had a high opinion of them and a strong affection for them. Among

the whites of this sort was the author of “Old New Zealand;” and Dr.

Campbell of Auckland was another. Dr. Campbell was a close friend of

several chiefs, and has many pleasant things to say of their fidelity,

their magnanimity, and their generosity. Also of their quaint notions

about the white man's queer civilization, and their equally quaint

comments upon it. One of them thought the missionary had got everything

wrong end first and upside down. “Why, he wants us to stop worshiping

and supplicating the evil gods, and go to worshiping and supplicating the

Good One! There is no sense in that. A good god is not going to do us

any harm.”

The Maoris had the tabu; and had it on a Polynesian scale of

comprehensiveness and elaboration. Some of its features could have been

importations from India and Judea. Neither the Maori nor the Hindoo of

common degree could cook by a fire that a person of higher caste had

used, nor could the high Maori or high Hindoo employ fire that had served

a man of low grade; if a low-grade Maori or Hindoo drank from a vessel

belonging to a high-grade man, the vessel was defiled, and had to be

destroyed. There were other resemblances between Maori tabu and Hindoo

caste-custom.

Yesterday a lunatic burst into my quarters and warned me that the Jesuits

were going to “cook” (poison) me in my food, or kill me on the stage at

night. He said a mysterious sign was visible upon my posters and meant

my death. He said he saved Rev. Mr. Haweis's life by warning him that

there were three men on his platform who would kill him if he took his

eyes off them for a moment during his lecture. The same men were in my

audience last night, but they saw that he was there. “Will they be there

again to-night?” He hesitated; then said no, he thought they would

rather take a rest and chance the poison. This lunatic has no delicacy.

But he was not uninteresting. He told me a lot of things. He said he

had “saved so many lecturers in twenty years, that they put him in the

asylum.” I think he has less refinement than any lunatic I have met.

December 8. A couple of curious war-monuments here at Wanganui. One is

in honor of white men “who fell in defence of law and order against

fanaticism and barbarism.” Fanaticism. We Americans are English in

blood, English in speech, English in religion, English in the essentials

of our governmental system, English in the essentials of our

civilization; and so, let us hope, for the honor of the blend, for the

honor of the blood, for the honor of the race, that that word got there

through lack of heedfulness, and will not be suffered to remain. If you

carve it at Thermopylae, or where Winkelried died, or upon Bunker Hill

monument, and read it again “who fell in defence of law and order against

fanaticism” you will perceive what the word means, and how mischosen it

is. Patriotism is Patriotism. Calling it Fanaticism cannot degrade it;

nothing can degrade it. Even though it be a political mistake, and a

thousand times a political mistake, that does not affect it; it is

honorabl—always honorable, always noble—and privileged to hold its head

up and look the nations in the face. It is right to praise these brave

white men who fell in the Maori war—they deserve it; but the presence of

that word detracts from the dignity of their cause and their deeds, and

makes them appear to have spilt their blood in a conflict with ignoble

men, men not worthy of that costly sacrifice. But the men were worthy.

It was no shame to fight them. They fought for their homes, they fought

for their country; they bravely fought and bravely fell; and it would

take nothing from the honor of the brave Englishmen who lie under the

monument, but add to it, to say that they died in defense of English laws

and English homes against men worthy of the sacrifice—the Maori

patriots.

The other monument cannot be rectified. Except with dynamite. It is a

mistake all through, and a strangely thoughtless one. It is a monument

erected by white men to Maoris who fell fighting with the whites and

against their own people, in the Maori war. “Sacred to the memory of the

brave men who fell on the 14th of May, 1864,” etc. On one side are the

names of about twenty Maoris. It is not a fancy of mine; the monument

exists. I saw it. It is an object-lesson to the rising generation. It

invites to treachery, disloyalty, unpatriotism. Its lesson, in frank

terms is, “Desert your flag, slay your people, burn their homes, shame

your nationality—we honor such.”

December 9. Wellington. Ten hours from Wanganui by the Fly.

December 12. It is a fine city and nobly situated. A busy place, and

full of life and movement. Have spent the three days partly in walking

about, partly in enjoying social privileges, and largely in idling around

the magnificent garden at Hutt, a little distance away, around the shore.

I suppose we shall not see such another one soon.

We are packing to-night for the return-voyage to Australia. Our stay in

New Zealand has been too brief; still, we are not unthankful for the

glimpse which we have had of it.

The sturdy Maoris made the settlement of the country by the whites rather

difficult. Not at first—but later. At first they welcomed the whites,

and were eager to trade with them—particularly for muskets; for their

pastime was internecine war, and they greatly preferred the white man's

weapons to their own. War was their pastime—I use the word advisedly.

They often met and slaughtered each other just for a lark, and when there

was no quarrel. The author of “Old New Zealand” mentions a case where a

victorious army could have followed up its advantage and exterminated the

opposing army, but declined to do it; explaining naively that “if we did

that, there couldn't be any more fighting.” In another battle one army

sent word that it was out of ammunition, and would be obliged to stop

unless the opposing army would send some. It was sent, and the fight

went on.

In the early days things went well enough. The natives sold land without

clearly understanding the terms of exchange, and the whites bought it

without being much disturbed about the native's confusion of mind. But

by and by the Maori began to comprehend that he was being wronged; then

there was trouble, for he was not the man to swallow a wrong and go aside

and cry about it. He had the Tasmanian's spirit and endurance, and a

notable share of military science besides; and so he rose against the

oppressor, did this gallant “fanatic,” and started a war that was not

brought to a definite end until more than a generation had sped.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

There are several good protections against temptations, but the surest is

cowardice.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwep is

pronounced Jackson.

—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Friday, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p.m., in the 'Mararoa'. Summer seas

and a good ship—life has nothing better.

Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and sunny and smooth; the sea a

luminous Mediterranean blue . . . . One lolls in a long chair all day

under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless content. One

does not read prose at such a time, but poetry. I have been reading the

poems of Mrs. Julia A. Moore, again, and I find in them the same grace

and melody that attracted me when they were first published, twenty years

ago, and have held me in happy bonds ever since.

“The Sentimental Song Book” has long been out of print, and has been

forgotten by the world in general, but not by me. I carry it with me

always—it and Goldsmith's deathless story.