ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).
NORTHWARD AND SOUTHWARD—THE AUSTRALIAN STATION.
The Port of Peter and Paul—Wonderful Colouring of Kamchatka
Hills—Grand Volcanoes—The Fight at Petropaulovski—A Contrast—An
International Pic-nic—A Double Wedding—Bering’s Voyages—Kamchatka
worthy of Further Exploration—Plover Bay—Tchuktchi
Natives—Whaling—A Terrible Gale—A Novel “Smoke-stack”—Southward
again—The Liverpool of the East—Singapore, a Paradise—New
Harbour—Wharves and Shipping—Cruelties of the Coolie Trade—Junks
and Prahus—The Kling-gharry Drivers—The Durian and its
Devotees—Australia—Its Discovery—Botany Bay and the Convicts—The
First Gold—Port Jackson—Beauty of Sydney—Port Philip and
Melbourne.
Many English men-of-war have visited the interesting peninsula of
Kamchatka, all included in the China station. How well the writer
remembers the first time he visited Petropaulovski, the port of Peter and
Paul! Entering first one of the noblest bays in the whole world—glorious
Avatcha Bay—and steaming a short distance, the entrance to a capital
harbour disclosed itself. In half an hour the vessel was inside a
landlocked harbour, with a sand-spit protecting it from all fear of gales
or sudden squalls. Behind was a highly-coloured little town, red roofs,
yellow walls, and a church with burnished turrets. The hills around were
autumnly frost-coloured; but not all the ideas the expression will convey
to an artist could conjure up the reality. Indian yellow merging through
tints of gamboge, yellow, and brown ochre to sombre brown; madder lake,
brown madder, Indian red to Roman sepia; greys, bright and dull greens
indefinable, and utterly indescribable, formed a _mélange_ of colour which
defied description whether by brush or pen. It was delightful; but it was
puzzling. King Frost had completed at night that which autumn had done by
day. Then behind rose the grand mountain of Koriatski, one of a series of
great volcanoes. It seemed a few miles off; it was, although the wonderful
clearness of the atmosphere belied the fact, some thirty miles distant. An
impregnable fortress of rock, streaked and capped with snow, it defies
time and man. Its smoke was constantly observed; its pure snows only hid
the boiling, bubbling lava beneath.
With the exception of a few decent houses, the residences of the civil
governor, captain of the port, and other officials, and a few foreign
merchants, the town makes no great show. The poorer dwellings are very
rough, and, indeed, are almost exclusively log cabins. A very picturesque
and noticeable building is the old Greek church, which has painted red and
green roofs, and a belfry full of bells, large and small, detached from
the building, and only a foot or two raised above the ground. It is to be
noted that the town, as it existed in Captain Clerke’s time, was built on
the sand-spit. It was once a military post, but the Cossack soldiers have
been removed to the Amoor.
There are two monuments of interest in Petropaulovski; one in honour of
Bering, the second to the memory of La Perouse. The former is a plain
cast-iron column, railed in, while the latter is a most nondescript
construction of sheet iron, and is of octagonal form. Neither of these
navigators is buried in the town. Poor Bering’s remains lie on the island
where he miserably perished, and which now bears his name; while of the
fate of La Perouse, and his unfortunate companions, little is known.
In 1855, Petropaulovski was visited by the allied fleets, during the
period of our war with Russia. They found an empty town, for the Russian
Government had given up all idea of defending it. The combined fleet
captured one miserable whaler, razed the batteries, and destroyed some of
the government buildings. There were good and sufficient reasons why they
should have done nothing. The poor little town of Saints Peter and Paul
was beneath notice, as victory there could never be glorious. But a
stronger reason existed in the fact, recorded in a dozen voyages, that
from the days of Cook and Clerke to our own, it had always been famous for
the unlimited hospitality and assistance shown to explorers and voyagers,
without regard to nationality. All is _not_ fair in war. Possibly,
however, reason might be found for the havoc done, in the events of the
previous year.
In August, 1854, the inhabitants of Petropaulovski had covered themselves
with glory, much to their own surprise. On the 28th of the month, six
English and French vessels—the _President_, _Virago_, _Pique_, _La Fort_,
_l’Eurydice_, and _l’Obligado_—entered Avatcha Bay. Admiral Price
reconnoitred the harbour and town, and placed the _Virago_ in position at
2,000 yards. The Russians had two vessels, the _Aurora_ and _Dwina_, to
defend the harbour, and a strong chain was placed across its narrow
entrance. The town was defended by seven batteries and earthworks,
mounting fifty guns.
It was not difficult to silence the batteries, and they were accordingly
silenced. The townspeople, with their limited knowledge of the
English—those English they had always so hospitably received, and who were
now doing their best to kill them—thought their hour was come, and that,
if not immediately executed, they would have to languish exiles in a
foreign land, far from their beautiful Kamchatka. The town was, and is,
defended almost as much by nature as by art. High hills shut it in so
completely, and the harbour entrance can be so easily defended, that there
is really only one vulnerable point, in its rear, where a small valley
opens out into a plot of land bordering the bay. Here it was thought
desirable to land a body of men.
Accordingly, 700 marines and sailors were put ashore. The men looked
forward to an easy victory, and hurriedly, in detached and straggling
style, pressed forward to secure it. Alas! they had reckoned without their
host—they were rushing heedlessly into the jaws of death. A number of
bushes and small trees existed, and still exist, on the hill-sides
surrounding this spot, and behind them were posted Cossack sharp-shooters,
who fired into our men, and, either from skill or accident, picked off
nearly every officer. The men, not seeing their enemy, and having lost
their leaders, became panic-struck, and fell back in disorder. A retreat
was sounded, but the men struggling in the bushes and underbrush (and, in
truth, most of them being sailors, were out of their element on land)
became much scattered, and it was generally believed that many were killed
by the random shots of their companions. A number fled up a hill at the
rear of the town; their foes pursued and pressed upon them, and many were
killed by falling over the steep cliff in which the hill terminates.
The inhabitants, astonished at their own prowess, and knowing that they
could not hold the town against a more vigorous attack, were preparing to
vacate it, when the fleet weighed anchor and set sail, and no more was
seen of them that year! The sudden death of our admiral is always
attributed to the events of that attack, as he was known not to have been
killed by a ball from the enemy.(96)
The writer has walked over the main battle-field, and saw cannon-balls
unearthed when some men were digging gravel, which had laid there since
the events of 1854. The last time he passed over it, in 1866, was when
proceeding with some Russian and American friends to what might be termed
an “international” pic-nic, for there were present European and Asiatic
Russians, full and half-breed natives, Americans, including genuine
“Yankee” New Englanders, New Yorkers, Southerners, and Californians,
Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, and one Italian. Chatting in a babel of
tongues, the party climbed a path on the hill-side, leading to a beautiful
grassy opening, overlooking the glorious bay below, which extended in all
directions a dozen or fifteen miles, and on one side farther than the eye
could reach. Several grand snow-covered volcanoes towered above, thirty to
fifty miles off; one, of most beautiful outline, that of Vilutchinski, was
on the opposite shore of Avatcha Bay.
The sky was bright and blue, and the water without a ripple; wild flowers
were abundant, the air was fragrant with them, and, but for the mosquitoes
(which are _not_ confined to hot countries, but flourish in the short
summer of semi-Arctic climes), it might have been considered an earthly
edition of paradise! But even these pests could not worry the company
much, for not merely were nearly all the men smokers, but most of the
ladies also! Here the writer may remark, parenthetically, that many of the
Russian ladies smoke cigarettes, and none object to gentlemen smoking at
table or elsewhere. At the many dinners and suppers offered by the
hospitable residents, it was customary to draw a few whiffs between the
courses; and when the cloth was removed, the ladies, instead of retiring
to another room, sat in company with the gentlemen, the larger proportion
joining in the social weed. After the enjoyment of a liberal _al fresco_
dinner, songs were in order, and it would be easier to say what were not
sung than to give the list of those, in all languages, which were. Then
after the songs came some games, one of them a Russian version of “hunt
the slipper,” and another _very_ like “kiss in the ring.” The writer
particularly remembers the latter, for he had on that occasion the honour
of kissing the Pope’s wife! This needs explanation, although the Pope was
his friend. In the Greek Church the priest is “allowed to marry,” and his
title, in the Russian language, is “Pope.”
And the recollection of that particular “Pope” recalls a well-remembered
ceremony—that of a _double_ wedding in the old church. During the ceremony
it is customary to crown the bride and bridegroom. In this case two
considerate male friends held the crowns for three-quarters of an hour
over the brides’ heads, so as not to spoil the artistic arrangement of
their hair and head-gear. It seems also to be the custom, when, as in the
present case, the couples were in the humbler walks of life, to ask some
wealthy individual to act as master of the ceremonies, who, if he accepts,
has to stand all the expenses. In this case M. Phillipeus, a merchant who
has many times crossed the frozen steppes of Siberia in search of valuable
furs, was the victim, and he accepted the responsibility of entertaining
all Petropaulovski, the officers of the splendid Russian corvette, the
_Variag_, and those of the Telegraph Expedition, with cheerfulness and
alacrity.
The coast-line of Kamchatka is extremely grand, and far behind it are
magnificent volcanic peaks. The promontory which terminates in the two
capes, Kamchatka and Stolbevoy, has the appearance of two islands detached
from the mainland, the intervening country being low. This, a circumstance
to be constantly observed on all coasts, was, perhaps, specially
noticeable on this. The island of St. Lawrence, in Bering Sea, was a very
prominent example. It is undeniable that the apparent gradual rise of a
coast, seen from the sea as you approach it, affords a far better proof of
the rotundity of the earth than the illustrations usually employed, that
of a ship, which you are supposed to see by instalments, from the
main-royal sail (if not from the “sky-scraper” or “moon-raker”) to the
hull. The fact is, that the royal and top-gallant sails of a vessel on the
utmost verge of the horizon may be, in certain lights, barely
distinguishable, while the dark outline of an irregular and rock-bound
coast can be seen by any one. First, maybe, appears a mountain peak
towering in solitary grandeur above the coast-line, and often far behind
it, then the high lands and hills, then the cliffs and low lands, and,
lastly, the flats and beaches.
It was from the Kamchatka River, which enters Bering Sea near the cape of
the same name, that Vitus Bering sailed on his first voyage. That
navigator was a persevering and plucky Dane, who had been drawn into the
service of Russia through the fame of Peter the Great, and his first
expedition was directly planned by that sagacious monarch, although he did
not live to carry it out. Müller, the historian of Bering’s career, says:
“The Empress Catherine, as she endeavoured in all points to execute most
precisely the plans of her deceased husband, in a manner began her reign
with an order for the expedition to Kamchatka.” Bering had associated with
him two active subordinates, Spanberg and Tschirikoff. They left St.
Petersburg on February 5th, 1725, proceeding to the Ochotsk Sea, _viâ_
Siberia. It is a tolerable proof of the difficulties of travel in those
days, that it took them _two years_ to transport their outfit thither.
They crossed to Kamchatka, where, on the 4th of April, 1728, Müller tells
us, “a boat was put upon the stocks, like the packet-boats used in the
Baltic, and on the 10th of July was launched, and named the boat
_Gabriel_.” A few days later, and she was creeping along the coast of
Kamchatka and Eastern Siberia. Bering on this first voyage discovered St.
Lawrence Island, and reached as far north as 67° 18’, where, finding the
land trend to the westward, he came to the conclusion that he had reached
the eastern extremity of Asia, and that Asia and America were distinct
continents. On the first point he was not, as a matter of detail, quite
correct; but the second, the important object of his mission, settled for
ever the vexed question.
A second voyage was rather unsuccessful. His third expedition left
Petropaulovski on the 4th of July, 1741. His little fleet became dispersed
in a storm, and Bering pursued his discoveries alone. These were not
unimportant, for he reached the grand chain of the rock-girt Aleutian
Islands, and others nearer the mainland of America. At length the scurvy
broke out in virulent form among his crew, and he attempted to return to
Kamchatka. The sickness increased so much that the “two sailors who used
to be at the rudder were obliged to be led in by two others who could
hardly walk, and when one could sit and steer no longer, one in little
better condition supplied his place. Many sails they durst not hoist,
because there was nobody to lower them in case of need.” At length land
appeared, and they cast anchor. A storm arose, and the ship was driven on
the rocks; they cast their second anchor, and the cable snapped before it
took ground. A great sea pitched the vessel bodily over the rocks, behind
which they happily found quieter water. The island was barren, devoid of
trees, and with little driftwood. They had to roof over gulches or
ravines, to form places of refuge. On the “8th of November a beginning was
made to land the sick; but some died as soon as they were brought from
between decks in the open air, others during the time they were on the
deck, some in the boat, and many more as soon as they were brought on
shore.” On the following day the commander, Bering, himself prostrated
with disease, was brought ashore, and moved about on a hand-barrow. He
died a month after, in one of the little ravines, or ditches, which had
been covered with a roof, and when he expired was almost covered with the
sand which fell from its sides, and which he desired his men not to
remove, as it gave him some little warmth. Before his remains could be
finally interred they had literally to be disinterred.
The vessel, unguarded, was utterly wrecked, and their provisions lost.
They subsisted mainly that fearful winter on the carcases of dead whales,
which were driven ashore. In the spring the pitiful remnant of a once
hardy crew managed to construct a small vessel from the wreck of their old
ship, and at length succeeded in reaching Kamchatka. They then learned
that Tschirikoff, Bering’s associate, had preceded them, but with the loss
of thirty-one of his crew from the same fell disease which had so reduced
their numbers. Bering’s name has ever since been attached to the island
where he died.
There is no doubt that Kamchatka would repay a detailed exploration, which
it has never yet received. It is a partially settled country. The
Kamchatdales are a good-humoured, harmless, and semi-civilised race, and
the Russian officials and settlers at the few little towns would gladly
welcome the traveller. The dogs used for sledging in winter are noble
animals, infinitely stronger than those of Alaska or even Greenland. The
attractions for the Alpine climber cannot be overstated. The peninsula
contains a chain of volcanic peaks, attaining, it is stated, in the
Klutchevskoi Mountain a height of 16,000 feet. In the country immediately
behind Petropaulovski are the three peaks, Koriatski, Avatcha, and
Koseldskai; the first is about 12,000 feet in height, and is a conspicuous
landmark for the port. A comparatively level country, covered with rank
grass and underbrush, and intersected by streams, stretches very nearly to
their base.
[Illustration: PETROPAULOVSKI AND THE AVATCHA MOUNTAIN.]
And now, before leaving the Asiatic coast, let us, as many English naval
vessels have done, pay a flying visit to a still more northern harbour,
that of Plover Bay, which forms the very apex of the China Station.
Sailing, or steaming, through Bering Sea, it is satisfactory to know that
so shallow is it that a vessel can anchor in almost any part of it, though
hundreds of miles from land.(97) Plover Bay does _not_ derive its name
from the whaling which is often pursued in its waters, although an
ingenious Dutchman, of the service in which the writer was engaged at the
periods of his visits, persisted in calling it “Blubber” Bay; its name is
due to the visit of H.M.S. _Plover_ in 1848-9, when engaged in the search
for Sir John Franklin. The bay is a most secure haven, sheltered at the
ocean end by a long spit, and walled in on three sides by rugged mountains
and bare cliffs, the former composed of an infinite number of fragments of
rock, split up by the action of frost. Besides many coloured lichens and
mosses, there is hardly a sign of vegetation, except at one patch of
country near a small inner harbour, where domesticated reindeer graze. On
the spit before mentioned is a village of Tchuktchi natives; their tents
are composed of hide, walrus, seal, or reindeer, with here and there a
piece of old sail-cloth, obtained from the whalers, the whole patchwork
covering a framework formed of the large bones of whales and walrus. The
remains of underground houses are seen, but the people who used them have
passed away. The present race makes no use of such houses. Their canoes
are of skin, covering sometimes a wooden and sometimes a bone frame. On
either side of one of these craft, which is identical with the Greenland
“oomiak,” or women’s boat, it is usual to have a sealskin blown out tight,
and the ends fastened to the gunwale; these serve as floats to steady the
canoe. They often carry sail, and proceed safely far out to sea, even
crossing Bering Straits to the American side. The natives are a hardy
race; the writer has seen one of them carry the awkward burden of a
carpenter’s chest, weighing two hundred pounds, without apparent exertion.
One of their principal men was of considerable service to the expedition
and to a party of telegraph constructors, who were left there in a wooden
house made in San Francisco, and erected in a few days in this barren
spot. This native, by name Naukum, was taken down into the engine-room of
the telegraph steamer—_G. S. Wright_. He looked round carefully and
thoughtfully, and then, shaking his head, said, solemnly, “Too muchee
wheel; makee man too muchee think!” His curiosity on board was
unappeasable. “What’s that fellow?” was his query with regard to anything,
from the donkey-engine to the hencoops. Colonel Bulkley gave him a suit of
mock uniform, gorgeous with buttons. One of the men remarked to him, “Why,
Naukum, you’ll be a king soon!” But this magnificent prospect did not
seem, judging from the way he received it, to be much to his taste. This
man had been sometimes entrusted with as much as five barrels of
villainous whisky for trading purposes, and he had always accounted
satisfactorily to the trader for its use. The whisky sold to the natives
is of the most horrible kind, scarcely superior to “coal oil” or
paraffine. They appeared to understand the telegraph scheme in a general
way. One explaining it, said, “S’pose lope fixy, well; one Melican man
Plower Bay, make talky all same San Flancisco Melican.” Perhaps quite as
lucid an explanation as you could get from an agricultural labourer or a
street arab at home.
Colonel Bulkley, at his second visit to Plover Bay, caused a small house
of planks to be constructed for Naukum, and made him many presents. A
draughtsman attached to the party made a sketch, “A Dream of the Future,”
which was a lively representation of the future prospects of Naukum and
his family. The room was picturesque with paddles, skins, brand-new Henry
rifles, preserved meat tins, &c.; and civilisation was triumphant.
Although Plover Bay is almost in sight of the Arctic Ocean, very little
snow remained on the barren country round it, except on the distant
mountains, or in deep ravines, where it has lain for ages. “That there
snow,” said one of the sailors, pointing to such a spot, “is three hundred
years old if it’s a day. Why, don’t you see the wrinkles all over the face
of it?” Wrinkles and ridges are common enough in snow; but the idea of
associating age with them was original.
The whalers are often very successful in and outside Plover Bay in
securing their prey. Each boat is known by its own private mark—a cross,
red stripes, or what not—on its sail, so that at a distance they can be
distinguished from their respective vessels. When the whale is harpooned,
often a long and dangerous job, and is floating dead in the water, a small
flag is planted in it. After the monster is towed alongside the vessel, it
is cut up into large rectangular chunks, and it is a curious and not
altogether pleasant sight to witness the deck of a whaling ship covered
with blubber. This can be either barreled, or the oil “tryed out” on the
spot. If the latter, the blubber is cut into “mincemeat,” and chopping
knives, and even mincing machines, are employed. The oil is boiled out on
board, and the vessel when seen at a distance looks as if on fire. On
these occasions the sailors have a feast of dough-nuts, which are cooked
in boiling whale-oil, fritters of whale brain, and other dishes. The
writer has tasted whale in various shapes, but although it is eatable, it
is by no means luxurious food.
[Illustration: WHALERS AT WORK.]
It was in these waters of Bering Sea and the Arctic that the _Shenandoah_
played such havoc during the American war. In 1865 she burned _thirty_
American whalers, taking off the officers and crews, and sending them down
to San Francisco. The captain of an English whaler, the _Robert Tawns_, of
Sydney, had warned and saved some American vessels, and was in consequence
threatened by the pirate captain. The writer was an eye-witness of the
results of this wanton destruction of private property. The coasts were
strewed with the remains of the burned vessels, while the natives had
boats, spars, &c., in numbers.
But Plover Bay has an interest attaching to it of far more importance than
anything to be said about whaling or Arctic expeditions. It is more than
probable that from or near that bay the wandering Tunguse, or Tchuktchi,
crossed Bering Straits, and peopled America. The latter, in canoes holding
fifteen or twenty persons, do it now; why not in the “long ago?” The
writer has, in common with many who have visited Alaska (formerly
Russian-America, before the country was purchased by the United States),
remarked the almost Chinese or Japanese cast of features possessed by the
coast natives of that country. Their Asiatic origin could not be doubted,
and, on the other hand, Aleuts—natives of the Aleutian Islands, which
stretch out in a grand chain from Alaska—who had shipped as sailors on the
Russo-American Telegraph Expedition, and a Tchuktchi boy brought down to
be educated, were constantly taken for Japanese or Chinamen in San
Francisco, where there are 40,000 of the former people. Junks have on two
occasions been driven across the Pacific Ocean, and have landed their
crews.(98) These facts occurred in 1832-3; the first on the coast near
Cape Flattery, North-west America, and the second in the harbour of Oahu,
Sandwich (Hawaiian) Islands. In the former case all the crew but two men
and a boy were killed by the natives. In the latter case, however, the
Sandwich Islanders treated the nine Japanese, forming the crew of the
junk, with kindness, and, when they saw the strangers so much resembling
them in many respects, said, “It is plain, now, we come from Asia.” How
easily, then, could we account for the peopling of any island or coast in
the Pacific. Whether, therefore, stress of weather obliged some
unfortunate Chinamen or Japanese to people America, or whether they, or,
at all events, some Northern Asiatics, took the “short sea route,” _viâ_
Bering Straits, there is a very strong probability in favour of the New
World having been peopled from not merely the Old World, but the Oldest
World—Asia.
The Pacific Ocean generally bears itself in a manner which justifies its
title. The long sweeps of its waves are far more pleasant to the sailor
than the “choppy” waves of the Atlantic. But the Pacific is by no means
always so, as the writer very well knows. He will not soon forget
November, 1865, nor will those of his companions who still survive.
Leaving Petropaulovski on November 1st, a fortnight of what sailors term
“dirty weather” culminated in a gale from the south-east. It was no
“capful of wind,” but a veritable tempest, which broke over the devoted
ship. At its outset, the wind was so powerful that it blew the main-boom
from the ropes which held it, and it swung round with great violence
against the “smoke-stack” (funnel) of the steamer, knocking it overboard.
The guys, or chains by which it had been held upright, were snapped, and
it went to the bottom. Here was a dilemma; the engines were rendered
nearly useless, and a few hours later were made absolutely powerless, for
the rudder became disabled, and the steering-wheel was utterly
unavailable. During this period a very curious circumstance happened; the
sea driving faster than the vessel—itself a log lying in the trough of the
waves, which rose in mountains on all sides—acted on the screw in such a
manner that in its turn it worked the engines at a greater rate than they
had ever attained by steam! After much trouble the couplings were
disconnected, but for several hours the jarring of the machinery revolving
at lightning speed threatened to make a breach in the stern.
No one on board will soon forget the night of that great gale. The vessel,
scarcely larger than a “penny” steamer, and having “guards,” or bulwarks,
little higher than the rail of those boats, was engulfed in the
tempestuous waters. It seemed literally to be driving under the water.
Waves broke over it every few minutes; a rope had to be stretched along
the deck for the sailors to hold on by, while the brave commander, Captain
Marston, was literally _tied_ to the aft bulwark, where, half frozen and
half drowned, he remained at his post during an entire night. The steamer
had the “house on deck,” so common in American vessels. It was divided
into state-rooms, very comfortably fitted, but had doors and windows of
the lightest character. At the commencement of the gale, these were
literally battered to pieces by the waves dashing over the vessel; it was
a matter of doubt whether the whole house might not be carried off bodily.
The officers of the expedition took refuge in the small cabin aft, which
had been previously the general ward-room of the vessel, where the meals
were served. A great sea broke over its skylight, smashing the glass to
atoms, putting out the lamps and stove, and filling momentarily the cabin
with about three feet of water. A landsman would have thought his last
hour had come. But the hull of the vessel was sound; the pumps were in
good order, and worked steadily by a “donkey” engine in the engine-room,
and the water soon disappeared. The men coiled themselves up that night
amid a pile of ropes and sails, boxes, and miscellaneous matters lying on
the “counter” of the vessel, _i.e._, that part of the stern lying
immediately over the rudder. Next morning, in place of the capital
breakfasts all had been enjoying—fish and game from Kamchatka, tinned
fruits and meats from California, hot rolls and cakes—the steward and cook
could only, with great difficulty, provide some rather shaky coffee and
the regular “hard bread” (biscuit) of the ship.
The storm increased in violence; it was unsafe to venture on deck. The
writer’s room-mate, M. Laborne, a genial and cultivated man of the world,
who spoke seven languages fluently, sat down, and wrote a last letter to
his mother, enclosing it afterwards in a bottle. “It will never reach
her,” said poor Laborne, with tears dimming his eyes; “but it is all I can
do.” Each tried to comfort the other, and prepare for the worst. “If we
are to die, let us die like men,” said Adjutant Wright. “Come down in the
engine-room,” another said, “and if we’ve got to die, let’s die decently.”
The chief engineer lighted a fire on the iron floor below the boilers, and
it was the only part of the vessel which was at all comfortable.
Noble-hearted Colonel Bulkley spent his time in cheering the men, and
reminding them that the sea has been proved to be an infinitely safer
place than the land. No single one on board really expected to survive.
Meantime, the gale was expending its rage by tearing every sail to
ribbons. Rags and streamers fluttered from the yards; there was not a
single piece of canvas intact. The cabins held a wreck of trunks,
furniture, and crockery.
In one of the cabins several boxes of soap, in bars, had been stored. When
the gale commenced to abate, some one ventured into the house on deck,
when it was discovered that it was full of soapsuds, which swashed
backwards and forwards through the series of rooms. The water had washed
and rewashed the bars of soap till they were not thicker than sticks of
sealing-wax.
[Illustration: OUR “PATENT SMOKE-STACK.”]
At last, after a week of this horrible weather, morning broke with a sight
of the sun, and moderate wind. There were spare sails on board, and the
rudder could be repaired; but what could be done about the funnel? The
engineer’s ingenuity came out conspicuously. He had one of the usual
water-tanks brought on deck, and the two ends knocked out. Then, setting
it up over the boiler, he with pieces of sheet-iron raised this square
erection till it was about nine feet high, and it gave a sufficient
draught to the furnaces. “Covert’s Patent Smoke-Stack” created a sensation
on the safe arrival of the vessel in San Francisco, and was inspected by
hundreds of visitors. The little steamer had ploughed through 10,000 miles
of water that season. She was immediately taken to one of the wharfs, and
entirely remodelled. The sides were slightly raised, and a ward-room and
aft-cabin, handsomely fitted in yacht-fashion, took the place of the house
on deck. It was roofed or decked at top in such a manner that the heaviest
seas could wash over the vessel without doing the slightest injury, and
she afterwards made two voyages, going over a distance of 20,000 miles.
Poor old _Wright_! She went to the bottom at last, with all her crew and
passengers, some years later, off Cape Flattery, at the entrance of the
Straits of Fuca, and scarcely a vestige of her was ever found.
And now, retracing our steps _en route_ for the Australian station, let us
call at one of the most important of England’s settlements, which has been
termed the Liverpool of the East. Singapore consists of an island
twenty-five miles long and fifteen or so broad, lying off the south
extremity of Malacca, and having a city of the same name on its southern
side. The surface is very level, the highest elevation being only 520
feet. In 1818, Sir Stamford Raffles found it an island covered with virgin
forests and dense jungles, with a miserable population on its creeks and
rivers of fishermen and pirates. It has now a population of about 100,000,
of which Chinese number more than half. In 1819 the British flag was
hoisted over the new settlement; but it took five years on the part of Mr.
Crawford, the diplomatic representative of Great Britain, to negotiate
terms with its then owner, the Sultan of Johore, whereby for a heavy
yearly payment it was, with all the islands within ten miles of the coast,
given up with absolute possession to the Honourable East India Company.
Since that period, its history has been one of unexampled prosperity. It
is a free port, the revenue being raised entirely from imports on opium
and spirits. Its prosperity as a commercial port is due to the fact that
it is an entrepôt for the whole trade of the Malayan Archipelago, the
Eastern Archipelago, Cochin China, Siam, and Java. Twelve years ago it
exported over sixty-six million rupees’ worth of gambier, tin, pepper,
nutmegs, coffee, tortoise-shell, rare woods, sago, tapioca, camphor,
gutta-percha, and rattans. It is vastly greater now. Exclusive of
innumerable native craft, 1,697 square-rigged vessels entered the port in
1864-5. It has two splendid harbours, one a sheltered roadstead near the
town, with safe anchorage; the other, a land-locked harbour, three miles
from the town, capable of admitting vessels of the largest draught.
Splendid wharfs have been erected by the many steam-ship companies and
merchants, and there are fortifications which command the harbour and
roads.
“A great deal has been written about the natural beauties of Ceylon and
Java,” says Mr. Cameron,(99) “and some theologians, determined to give the
first scene in the Mosaic narrative a local habitation, have fixed the
paradise of unfallen man on one or other of those noble islands. Nor has
their enthusiasm carried them to any ridiculous extreme; for the beauty of
some parts of Java and Ceylon might well accord with the description given
us, or rather which we are accustomed to infer, of that land from which
man was driven on his first great sin.
“I have seen both Ceylon and Java, and admired in no grudging measure
their many charms; but for calm placid loveliness, I should place
Singapore high above them both. It is a loveliness, too, that at once
strikes the eye, from whatever point we view the island, which combines
all the advantages of an always beautiful and often imposing coast-line,
with an endless succession of hill and dale stretching inland. The entire
circumference of the island is one panorama, where the magnificent
tropical forest, with its undergrowth of jungle, runs down at one place to
the very water’s edge, dipping its large leaves in the glassy sea, and at
another is abruptly broken by a brown rocky cliff, or a late landslip,
over which the jungle has not yet had time to extend itself. Here and
there, too, are scattered little green islands, set like gems on the bosom
of the hushed waters, between which the excursionist, the trader, or the
pirate, is wont to steer his course. ‘Eternal summer gilds these shores;’
no sooner has the blossom of one tree passed away, than that of another
takes its place and sheds perfume all around. As for the foliage, that
never seems to die. Perfumed isles are in many people’s minds merely
fabled dreams, but they are easy of realisation here. There is scarcely a
part of the island, except those few places where the original forest and
jungle have been cleared away, from which at night-time, on the first
breathings of the land winds, may not be felt those lovely forest
perfumes, even at the distance of more than a mile from shore. These land
winds—or, more properly, land airs, for they can scarcely be said to blow,
but only to breathe—usually commence at ten o’clock at night, and continue
within an hour or two of sunrise. They are welcomed by all—by the sailor
because they speed him on either course, and by the wearied resident
because of their delicious coolness.”
Another writer(100) speaks with the same enthusiasm of the well-kept
country roads, and approaches to the houses of residents, where one may
travel for miles through unbroken avenues of fruit-trees, or beneath an
over-arching canopy of evergreen palms. The long and well-kept approaches
to the European dwellings never fail to win the praise of strangers. “In
them may be discovered the same lavish profusion of overhanging foliage
which we see around us on every side; besides that, there are often hedges
of wild heliotrope, cropped as square as if built up of stone, and forming
compact barriers of green leaves, which yet blossom with gold and purple
flowers.” Behind these, broad bananas nod their bending leaves, while a
choice flower-garden, a close-shaven lawn, and a croquet-ground, are not
uncommonly the surroundings of the residence. If it is early morning,
there is an unspeakable charm about the spot. The air is cool, even
bracing; and beneath the shade of forest trees, the rich blossom of
orchids are seen depending from the boughs, while songless birds twitter
among the foliage, or beneath shrubs which the convolvulus has decked with
a hundred variegated flowers. Here and there the slender stem of the aloe,
rising from an armoury of spiked leaves, lifts its cone of white bells on
high, or the deep orange pine-apple peeps out from a green belt of fleshy
foliage, and breathes its bright fragrance around. The house will
invariably have a spacious verandah, underneath which flowers in China
vases, and easy chairs of all kinds, are placed. If perfect peace can
steal through the senses into the soul—if it can be distilled like some
subtle ether from all that is beautiful in nature—surely in such an island
as this we shall find that supreme happiness which we all know to be
unattainable elsewhere. Alas! even in this bright spot, unalloyed bliss
cannot be expected. The temperature is very high, showing an average in
the shade, all the year round, of between 85° and 95° Fahr. Prickly heat,
and many other disorders, are caused by it on the European constitution.
[Illustration: VIEW IN THE STRAITS OF MALACCA.]
The old Strait of Singhapura, that lies between the island of Singapore
and the mainland of Johore, is a narrow tortuous passage, for many
centuries the only thoroughfare for ships passing to the eastward of
Malacca. Not many years ago, where charming bungalows, the residences of
the merchants, are built among the ever verdant foliage, it was but the
home of hordes of piratical marauders, who carried on their depredations
with a high hand, sometimes adventuring on distant voyages in fleets of
forty or fifty prahus. Indeed, it is stated, in the old Malay annals, that
for nearly two hundred years the entire population of Singapore and the
surrounding islands and coasts of Johore subsisted on fishing and
pirating; the former only being resorted to when the prevailing monsoon
was too strong to admit of the successful prosecution of the latter.
Single cases of piracy sometimes occur now; but it has been nearly
stopped. Of the numberless vessels and boats which give life to the waters
of the old strait, nearly all have honest work to do—fishing, timber
carrying, or otherwise trading. “A very extraordinary flotilla,” says Mr.
Cameron, “of a rather nondescript character may be often seen in this part
of the strait at certain seasons of the year. These are huge rafts of
unsawn, newly-cut timber; they are generally 500 or 600 feet long, and
sixty or seventy broad, the logs being skilfully laid together, and
carefully bound by strong rattan-rope, each raft often containing 2,000
logs. They have always one or two attap-houses built upon them, and carry
crews of twenty or twenty-five men, the married men taking their wives and
children with them. The timber composing them is generally cut many miles
away, in some creek or river on the mainland.” They sometimes have sails.
They will irresistibly remind the traveller of those picturesque rafts on
the Rhine, on which there are cabins, with the smoke curling from their
stove-pipes, and women, children, and dogs, the men with long sweeps
keeping the valuable floating freight in the current. Many a German, now
in England or America, made his first trip through the Fatherland to its
coast on a Rhine raft.
The sailor generally makes his first acquaintance with the island of
Singapore by entering through New Harbour, and the scenery is said to be
almost unsurpassed by anything in the world. The steamer enters between
the large island and a cluster of islets, standing high out of the water
with rocky banks, and covered to their summits by rich green jungle, with
here and there a few forest trees towering above it high in the air. Under
the vessel’s keel, too, as she passes slowly over the shoaler patches of
the entrance, may be seen beautiful beds of coral, which, in their
variegated colours and fantastic shapes, vie with the scenery above. The
Peninsular and Oriental Steamers’ wharfs are situated at the head of a
small bay, with the island of Pulo Brani in front. They have a frontage of
1,200 feet, and coal sheds built of brick, and tile-roofed; they often
contain 20,000 tons of coal. Including some premises in Singapore itself,
some £70,000 or £80,000 have been expended on their station—a tolerable
proof of the commercial importance of the place. Two other companies have
extensive wharfs also. The passengers land here, and drive up to the city,
a distance of some three miles. Those who remain on board, and “Jack” is
likely to be of the number, for the first few days after arrival, find
entertainment in the feats of swarms of small Malay boys, who immediately
surround the vessel in toy boats just big enough to float them, and induce
the passengers to throw small coins into the water, for which they dive to
the bottom, and generally succeed in recovering. Almost all the ships
visiting Singapore have their bottoms examined, and some have had as many
as twenty or thirty sheets of copper put on by Malay divers. One man will
put on as many as two sheets in an hour, going down a dozen or more times.
There are now extensive docks at and around New Harbour.
On rounding the eastern exit of New Harbour, the shipping and harbour of
Singapore at once burst on the view, with the white walls of the houses,
and the dark verdure of the shrubbery of the town nearly hidden by the
network of spars and rigging that intervenes. The splendid boats of the
French Messageries, and our own Peninsular and Oriental lines, the opium
steamers of the great firm of Messrs. Jardine, of China, and Messrs. Cama,
of Bombay; and the beautifully-modelled American or English clippers,
which have taken the place of the box-shaped, heavy-rigged East Indiamen
of days of yore, with men-of-war of all nations, help to make a noble
sight. This is only part of the scene, for interspersed are huge Chinese
junks of all sizes, ranging up to 600 or 700 tons measurement. The
sampans, or two-oared Chinese boats, used to convey passengers ashore, are
identical in shape. All have alike the square bow and the broad flat
stern, and from the largest to the smallest, on what in a British vessel
would be called her “head-boards,” all have two eyes embossed and painted,
glaring out over the water. John Chinaman’s explanation of this custom is,
that if “no got eyes, no can see.” During the south-west monsoon they are
in Singapore by scores, and of all colours, red, green, black, or yellow;
these are said to be the badge of the particular province to which they
belong. Ornamental painting and carving is confined principally to the
high stern, which generally bears some fantastic figuring, conspicuous in
which can invariably be traced the outlines of a spread eagle, not unlike
that on an American dollar. Did “spread-eagleism” as well as population
first reach America from China?
“It is difficult,” says Mr. Cameron, “while looking at these junks, to
imagine how they can manage in a seaway; and yet at times they must
encounter the heaviest weather along the Chinese coast in the northern
latitudes. It is true that when they encounter a gale they generally run
before it; but yet in a typhoon this would be of little avail to ease a
ship. There is no doubt they must possess some good qualities, and,
probably, speed, with a fair wind in a smooth sea, is one of them. Not
many years ago a boat-builder in Singapore bought one of the common
sampans used by the coolie boatmen, which are exactly the same shape as
the junks, and rigged her like an English cutter, giving her a false keel,
and shifting weather-board, and, strange to say, won with her every race
that he tried.”
Passing the junks at night, a strange spectacle may be observed. Amid the
beating of gongs, jangling of bells, and discordant shouts, the nightly
religious ceremonies of the sailors are performed. Lanterns are swinging,
torches flaring, and gilt paper burning, while quantities of food are
scattered in the sea as an offering of their worship. Many of those junks,
could they but speak, might reveal a story, gentle reader—
“A tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.”
[Illustration: JUNKS IN A CHINESE HARBOUR.]
The chief trade of not a few has been, and still is, the traffic of human
freight; and it is, unfortunately, only too lucrative. Large numbers of
junks leave China for the islands annually packed with men, picked up,
impressed, or lured on board, and kept there till the gambier and pepper
planters purchase them, and hurry them off to the interior. It is not so
much that they usually have to complain of cruelty, or even an
unreasonably long term of servitude; their real danger is in the
overcrowding of the vessels that bring them. The men cost nothing, except
a meagre allowance of rice, and the more the shipper can crowd into his
vessel the greater must be his profit. “It would,” says the writer just
quoted, “be a better speculation for the trader whose junk could only
carry properly 300 men, to take on board 600 men, and lose 250 on the way
down, than it would be for him to start with his legitimate number, and
land them all safely; for in the first case, he would bring 350 men to
market, and in the other only 300. That this process of reasoning is
actually put in practice by the Chinese, there was not long ago ample and
very mournful evidence to prove. Two of these junks had arrived in the
harbour of Singapore, and had remained unnoticed for about a week, during
which the owners had bargained for the engagement of most of their cargo.
At this time two dead bodies were found floating in the harbour; an
inquest was held, and it then transpired that one of these two junks on
the way down from China had lost 250 men out of 600, and the other 200 out
of 400.”
[Illustration: ISLANDS IN THE STRAITS OF MALACCA.]
The Malay prahus are the craft of the inhabitants of the straits, and are
something like the Chinese junks, though never so large as the largest of
the latter, rarely exceeding fifty or sixty tons burden. They have one
mast, a tripod made of three bamboos, two or three feet apart at the deck,
and tapering up to a point at the top. Across two of the bamboos smaller
pieces of the same wood are lashed, making the mast thus act as a shroud
or ladder also. They carry a large lug-sail of coarse grass-cloth, having
a yard both at top and bottom. The curious part of them is the top hamper
about the stem. With the deck three feet out of the water forward, the top
of the housing is fifteen or more feet high. They are steered with two
rudders, one on either quarter. In addition to the ships and native craft,
are hundreds of small boats of all descriptions constantly moving about
with fruits, provisions, birds, monkeys, shells, and corals for sale. The
sailor has a splendid chance of securing, on merely nominal terms, the
inevitable parrot, a funny little Jocko, or some lovely corals, of all
hues, green, purple, pink, mauve, blue, and in shape often resembling
flowers and shrubbery. A whole boat-load of the latter may be obtained for
a dollar and a half or a couple of dollars.
[Illustration: CHINESE JUNK AT SINGAPORE.]
Singapore has a frontage of three miles, and has fine Government
buildings, court-house, town-hall, clubs, institutes, masonic lodge,
theatre, and the grandest English cathedral in Asia—that of St. Andrew’s.
In Commercial Square, the business centre of Singapore, all nationalities
seem to be represented. Here, too, are the Kling gharry-drivers, having
active little ponies and neat conveyances. Jack ashore will be pestered
with their applications. “These Klings,” says Mr. Thomson, “seldom, if
ever, resort to blows; but their language leaves nothing for the most
vindictive spirit to desire. Once, at one of the landing-places, I
observed a British tar come ashore for a holiday. He was forthwith beset
by a group of Kling gharry-drivers, and, finding that the strongest of
British words were as nothing when pitted against the Kling vocabulary,
and that no half-dozen of them would stand up like men against his huge
iron fists, he seized the nearest man, and hurled him into the sea. It was
the most harmless way of disposing of his enemy, who swam to a boat, and
it left Jack in undisturbed and immediate possession of the field.” The
naval officer will find excellent deer-hunting and wild-hog shooting to be
had near the city, and tiger-hunting at a distance. Tigers, indeed, were
formerly terribly destructive of native life on the island; it was said
that a man _per diem_ was sacrificed. Now, cases are more rare. For good
living, Singapore can hardly be beaten; fruit in particular is abundant
and cheap. Pine-apples, cocoa-nuts, bananas of thirty varieties, mangoes,
custard-apples, and oranges, with many commoner fruits, abound. Then there
is the mangosteen, the delicious “apple of the East,” thought by many to
surpass any fruit in the world, and the durian, a fruit as big as a boy’s
head, with seeds as big as walnuts enclosed in a pulpy, fruity custard.
The taste for this fruit is an acquired one, and is impossible to
describe, while the smell is most disgusting. So great is the longing for
it, when once the taste _is_ acquired, that the highest prices are freely
offered for it, particularly by some of the rich natives. A former King of
Ava spent enormous sums over it, and could hardly then satisfy his
rapacious appetite. A succeeding monarch kept a special steamer at
Rangoon, and when the supplies came into the city it was loaded up, and
dispatched at once to the capital—500 miles up a river. The smell of the
durian is so unpleasant that the fruit is never seen on the tables of the
merchants or planters; it is eaten slily in corners, and out of doors.
[Illustration: SINGAPORE, LOOKING SEAWARDS.]
And Jack ashore will find many other novelties in eating. Roast monkey is
obtainable, although not eaten as much as formerly by the Malays. In the
streets of Singapore a meal of three or four courses can be obtained for
three halfpence from travelling _restaurateurs_, always Chinamen, who
carry their little charcoal stoves and soup-pots with them. The authority
principally quoted says that, contrary to received opinion, they are very
clean and particular in their culinary arrangements. One must not,
however, too closely examine the nature of the viands. And now let us
proceed to the Australian Station, which includes New Guinea, Australia
proper, and New Zealand.
[Illustration: LOOKING DOWN ON SINGAPORE.]
This is a most important colony of Great Britain, although by no means its
most important possession, a country as English as England itself,
tempered only by a slight colonial flavour. Here Jack will find himself at
home, whether in the fine streets of Melbourne, or the older and more
pleasant city of Sydney, with its beautiful surroundings.
When the seventeenth century was in its early youth, that vast ocean which
stretches from Asia to the Antarctic was scarcely known by navigators. The
coasts of Eastern Africa, of India, and the archipelago of islands to the
eastward, were partially explored; but while there was a very strong
belief that a land existed in the southern hemisphere, it was an
inspiration only based on probabilities. The pilots and map-makers put
down, as well as they were able, the discoveries already made; _must_
there not be _some_ great island or continent to balance all that waste of
water which they were forced to place on the southern hemisphere? Terra
Australis, “the Southern Land,” was therefore in a sense discovered before
its discovery, just as the late Sir Roderick Murchison predicted gold
there before Hargreaves found it.(101)
In the year 1606, Pedro Fernando de Quiros started from Peru on a voyage
of discovery to the westward. He found some important islands, to which he
gave the name “Australia del Espiritu Santo,” and which are now believed
to have been part of the New Hebrides group. The vessel of his second in
command became separated in consequence of a storm, and by this Luis vas
Torres in consequence reached New Guinea and Australia proper, besides
what is now known as Torres Straits, which channel separates them. The
same year a Dutch vessel coasted about the Gulf of Carpentaria, and it is
to the persistent efforts of the navigators of Holland that the Australian
coasts became well explored. From 1616, at intervals, till 1644, they
instigated many voyages, the leading ones of which were the two made by
Tasman, in the second of which he circumnavigated Australia. “New Holland”
was the title long applied to the western part of Australia—sometimes,
indeed, to the whole country.
The voyages of the Dutch had not that glamour of romance which so often
attaches to those of the Spanish and English. They did not meet natives
laden with evidences of the natural wealth of their country, and adorned
by barbaric ornaments. On the contrary, the coasts of Australia did not
appear prepossessing, while the natives were wretched and squalid. Could
they have known of its after-destiny, England might not hold it to-day.
When Dampier, sent out by William III. more than fifty years afterwards,
re-discovered the west coast of Australia, he had little to record more
than the number of sharks on the coast, his astonishment at the kangaroos
jumping about on shore, and his disgust for the few natives he met, whom
he described as “the most unpleasant-looking and worst-featured of any
people” he had ever encountered.
Nearly seventy years elapsed before any other noteworthy discovery was
made in regard to Australia. In Captain Cook’s first voyage, in 1768, he
explored and partially surveyed the eastern part of its coasts, and
discovered the inlet, to which a considerable notoriety afterwards clung,
which he termed Botany Bay, on account of the luxuriant vegetation of its
shores. Rounding the western side, he proceeded northwards to Torres
Straits, near which, on a small island off the mainland, he took
possession of the whole country, in the name of his sovereign, George
III., christening it _New South Wales_. It is still called _Possession_
Island. Captain Cook gave so favourable an account of Botany Bay on his
return, that it was determined at once to form a colony, in which convict
labour should be systematically employed. Accordingly, a fleet of eleven
vessels, under Captain Phillip, left Portsmouth on the 13th of May, 1787,
and after a tedious voyage, reached Botany Bay the following January.
Captain Phillip found the bay was not a safe anchorage, and in other
respects was unsuitable. A few miles to the northward he discovered an
inlet, now named Port Jackson—from the name of the seaman who discovered
it—and which had been overlooked by Cook. The fleet was immediately
removed thither, the convicts landed, and the British flag raised on the
banks of Sydney Cove. Of the thousand individuals who formed this first
nucleus of a grand colony, more than three-fourths were convicted
offenders. For some time they were partially dependent on England for
supplies. It had been arranged that they should not, at first, be left
without sufficient provisions. The first ship sent out after the colonists
had been landed for this purpose was struck by an iceberg in the
neighbourhood of the Cape of Good Hope, and might not have been saved at
all, but for the seamanship of the “gallant, good Riou,” who afterwards
lost his life at the battle of Copenhagen. He managed to keep her afloat,
and she was at length towed into Table Bay, and a portion of her stores
saved. Meantime, the colonists were living “in the constant belief that
they should one day perish of hunger.” Governor Phillip set a noble
example by putting himself on the same rations as the meanest convict; and
when on state occasions he was obliged to invite the officers of the
colony to dine with him at the Government House, he used to intimate to
the guests that “they must bring their bread along with them.” At last, in
June, 1790, some stores arrived; and in the following year a second fleet
of vessels came out from England, one ship of the Royal Navy and ten
transports; 1,763 convicts had left England on board the latter, of whom
nearly 200 died on the voyage, and many more on arrival. The number of
free settlers was then, and long afterwards, naturally very small; they
did not like to be so intimately and inevitably associated with convicted
criminals. In 1810 the total population of Australia was about 10,000. In
1836 it had risen to 77,000, two-fifths of whom were convicts in actual
bondage, while of the remainder, a large proportion had at one time been
in the same condition. Governor King, one of the earlier officials of the
colony, complained that “he could not make farmers out of pickpockets;”
and Governor Macquarie later said that “there were only two classes of
individuals in New South Wales—those who had been convicted, and those who
ought to have been.” Under these discouraging circumstances, coupled with
all kinds of other difficulties, the colony made slow headway. Droughts
and inundations, famine or scarcity, and hostility on the part of the
natives, helped seriously to retard its progress. About the period of Sir
Thomas Brisbane’s administration, there was an influx of a better class of
colonists, owing to the inauguration of free emigration. In 1841,
transportation to New South Wales ceased. Ten years later the discovery of
gold by Mr. E. H. Hargreaves (on the 12th of February, 1851) caused the
first great “rush” to the colony, which influx has since continued, partly
for better reasons than gold-finding—the grand chances offered for
stock-raising, agricultural, horticultural, and vinicultural pursuits.
To the north and south of Sydney, the coast is a nearly unbroken range of
iron-bound cliffs. But as a vessel approaches the shore, a narrow
entrance, between the two “Heads” of Port Jackson, as they are called,
discloses itself. It is nowhere greater than a mile in width, and really
does not appear so much, on account of the height of the cliffs. On
entering the harbour a fine sea-lake appears in view, usually blue and
calm, and in one of its charming inlets is situated the city of Sydney.
“There is not,” writes Professor Hughes, “a more thoroughly English town
on the face of the globe—not even in England itself—than this southern
emporium of the commerce of nations. Sydney is entirely wanting in the
novel and exotic aspect which belongs to foreign capitals. The emigrant
lands there, and hears his own mother tongue spoken on every side; he
looks around upon the busy life of its crowded streets, and he gazes on
scenes exactly similar to those daily observable in the highways of
London, Liverpool, Birmingham, or Manchester.... ‘Were it not,’ says
Colonel Mundy, ‘for an occasional orange-tree in full bloom, or fruit in
the background of some of the older cottages, or a flock of little green
parrots whistling as they alight for a moment on a house-top, one might
fancy himself in Brighton or Plymouth.’”(102) Gay equipages crowd its
streets, which are lined with handsome shops; the city abounds in fine
public buildings. In the outskirts of the city are flour-mills of all
kinds, worked by horse, water, wind, and steam; great distilleries and
breweries, soap and candle works, tanneries, and woollen-mills, at the
latter of which they turn out an excellent tweed cloth. Ship-building is
carried on extensively around Port Jackson. Although now overshadowed by
the commercial superiority of Melbourne, it has the preeminence as a port.
In fact, Melbourne is not a sea-port at all, as we shall see. Vessels of
large burdens can lie alongside the wharves of Sydney, and “Jack,” in the
Royal Navy at least, is more likely to stop there for awhile, than ever to
see Melbourne. He will find it a cheap place in most respects, for
everywhere in New South Wales meat is excessively low-priced; they used
formerly to throw it away, after taking off the hides and boiling out the
fat, but are wiser now, and send it in tins all over the world. Such
fruits as the peach, nectarine, apricot, plum, fig, grape, cherry, and
orange are as plentiful as blackberries. The orangeries and orchards of
New South Wales are among its sights; and in the neighbourhood of Sydney
and round Port Jackson there are beautiful groves of orange-trees, which
extend in some places down to the water’s edge. Individual settlers have
groves which yield as many as thirty thousand dozen oranges per annum. One
may there literally “sit under his own vine and fig-tree.” If a
peach-stone is thrown down in almost any part of Australia where there is
a little moisture, a tree will spring up, which in a few years will yield
handsomely. A well-known botanist used formerly to carry with him, during
extensive travels, a small bag of peach-stones to plant in suitable
places, and many a wandering settler has blessed him since. Pigs were
formerly often fed on peaches, as was done in California, a country much
resembling Southern Australia; it is only of late years they have been
utilised in both places by drying or otherwise preserving. A basket-load
may be obtained in the Sydney markets during the season for a few pence.
The summer heat of Sydney is about that of Naples, while its winter
corresponds with that of Sicily.
But are there no drawbacks to all this happy state of things? Well, yes;
about the worst is a hot blast which sometimes blows from the interior,
known popularly in Sydney as a “brick-fielder” or “southerly buster.” It
is much like that already described, and neither the most closely-fastened
doors nor windows will keep out the fearful dust-storm. “Its effect,” says
Professor Hughes, “is particularly destructive of every sense of comfort;
the dried and dust-besprinkled skin acquiring for the time some
resemblance to parchment, and the hair feeling more like hay than any
softer material.”
Should Jack or his superior officers land during the heat of autumn, he
may have the opportunity of passing a novel Christmas—very completely
un-English. The gayest and brightest flowers will be in bloom, and the
musquitoes out in full force. “Sitting,” says a writer, “in a thorough
draught, clad in a holland blouse, you may see men and boys dragging from
the neighbouring bush piles of green stuff (oak-branches in full leaf and
acorn, and a handsome shrub with a pink flower and pale green leaf—the
‘Christmas’ of Australia) for the decoration of churches and dwellings,
and stopping every fifty yards to wipe their perspiring brows.”
Before leaving Sydney, the grand park, called “The Domain,” which
stretches down to the blue water in the picturesque indentations around
Port Jackson, must be mentioned. It contains several hundred acres,
tastefully laid out in drives, and with public walks cut through the
indigenous or planted shrubberies, and amidst the richest woodland
scenery, or winding at the edge of the rocky bluffs or by the margin of
the glittering waters. Adjoining this lovely spot is one of the finest
botanic gardens in the world, considered by all Sydney to be a veritable
Eden.
Port Phillip, like Port Jackson, is entered by a narrow passage, and
immediately inside is a magnificent basin, thirty miles across in almost
any direction. It is so securely sheltered that it affords an admirable
anchorage for shipping. Otherwise, Melbourne, now a grand city with a
population of about 300,000, would have had little chance of attaining its
great commercial superiority over any city of Australia. Melbourne is
situated about eight miles up the Yarra-Yarra (“flowing-flowing”) river,
which flows into the head of Port Phillip. That poetically-named, but
really lazy, muddy stream is only navigable for vessels of very small
draught. But Melbourne has a fine country to back it. Many of the old and
rich mining-districts were round Port Phillip, or on and about streams
flowing into it. Wheat, maize, potatoes, vegetables and fruits in general,
are greatly cultivated; and the colony of Victoria is pre-eminent for
sheep-farming and cattle-runs, and the industries connected with wool,
hides, tallow, and, of late, meat, which they bring forth. Melbourne
itself lies rather low, and its original site, now entirely filled in, was
swampy. Hence came occasional epidemics—dysentery, influenza, and so
forth.
[Illustration: A TIMBER WHARF AT SAN FRANCISCO.]