has been the visit to Melbourne just now of the Japanese training
squadron of three gunboats or third-class cruisers, the _Hashidate_,
_Matsushima_, and _Itsushima_, under the command of Admiral Shimamura,
who was Admiral Togo's chief of staff. Now it is entirely unnecessary
for me to refer to the splendid behaviour of these men, who always
win golden opinions wherever they go, or of the general courtesy
of the officers, as you have had a visiting squadron at home at
the same time. But I confess I was not prepared to find, as I did,
so exceedingly hearty and spontaneous a welcome here extended to
our allies as I have seen. At home it was impossible for it to be
otherwise, remembering with what intense eagerness we had followed
the fortunes of the Japanese, and how one and all felt interested
in their success against the men who had committed the unatoned-for
outrage of the Dogger Bank. Probably we have never had an alliance
which has aroused such genuine, heartfelt enthusiasm as this with the
Japanese, nor have ever felt such deep admiration for people apparently
possessed of all the old-fashioned virtues of fidelity, courage,
patriotism, and indifference to death. Beyond all this the Japanese
are not our near neighbours, and we have no room in England to tempt
them if they were. And so we are hardly in a position to judge of the
general feeling towards them in Australia, which lives in constant
dread of having a flood of Asiatic labour poured into it, and knows
full well what that would mean. This feeling of dread finds malignant
expression in certain organs which have a very large sale. There the
Japanese are invariably spoken of as monkeys and caricatured in most
unlovely fashion. And knowing all this, I wondered much what sort of a
reception the Japanese would have when they came here in their warships
as official guests. Well, the city just went wild over them. They
compelled admiration by their behaviour, as indeed they always do, and
they practically monopolised public attention in the most favourable
way. They went everywhere and saw everything, every hospitality that
the city could show, both official and private, being showered upon
them. I was literally amazed at the show of enthusiasm manifested by
the people, which perhaps reached its acme when some hundreds of the
men, accompanied by a large detachment of our own bluejackets from
the _Psyche_ and _Cerberus_, marched through the principal streets on
their way to a huge garden party at the Zoo. The streets were packed
as thickly with shouting, excited people as would have been the case
in London or Liverpool, and the air rang with Banzais. I was standing
at one of the windows of the Vienna Café, whither I had been invited
to lunch by Mr. Atlee Hunt to meet Mr. Alfred Deakin, Prime Minister
of the Commonwealth. At first I was alone, but Mr. Deakin joined me
before the martial procession had passed, and as soon as the cheering
had subsided he said, "Fine fellows, aren't they?" "Yes," I replied,
"but what are you going to make of this portent? After your speech
yesterday, when you most justly and truly praised them for the noble
deeds by which they had won their high position among the nations, how
are you going to deal with their application to be admitted into the
Commonwealth on the same footing as other civilised people?" "Oh,"
he said, "we shall refuse them admission, of course, as before. This
cannot affect that." "Ah," I retorted, "but how will you maintain that
attitude? Suppose that they insist upon being treated as white men and
allies of Great Britain, how will you keep them out?" "We shall keep
them out all right enough," he replied; "and besides, they have got
their hands full in China and Korea for many years to come--much too
full for them to worry about us."
I was fain to drop the subject then, but as may readily be supposed
I was entirely unsatisfied with this method of disposing of a mighty
issue which may be presented at any moment, and cannot but be
precipitated by the language of the newspapers aforesaid.[1] Even the
tiny squadron here present of third-class cruisers is armed and manned
as if it were of battleships, and I fairly gasped with amazement to
see that one of them carried a 12½-in. (66-ton) gun. I am almost
ashamed to point out how absolutely defenceless this wonderful land is
with practically all its portable wealth concentrated within easy reach
of the sea, at the mercy of a modern fleet, and of the lamentable way
in which defence is allowed to drift, in reliance unspoken, but none
the less definite for that, upon the immensely burdened Old Country
for protection. It is inexplicable that from the point of view of
self-preservation something is not done and done quickly. If only they
would, as I have had several opportunities of telling them in public
meetings, tax themselves to the same extent for the Navy alone as we
are taxed at home, or to the extent of, say, 25s. per head of the
population, they would have instead of the beggarly £200,000 per annum
they now contribute, an income of £5,000,000 per annum which, in three
or four years, would make either Germany or Japan think twice before
attacking them, if the money were properly spent.
I am immensely grieved at the defenceless condition of this people
in case of anything befalling the Mother Country in the shape of a
European war. Their only hope in such a case of preserving their
independence should disaster overtake the British Fleet (and we must
face that possibility) would be to enlist the aid of the Japanese, whom
they treat at present as savages unless they come with a fleet. It is
an impossible position, and one that cannot much longer be maintained.
It must be settled one way or the other, in spite of all the wrangling
of professional politicians, and I can only hope that it will not be
settled by force of arms, because that could only be such a one-sided
affair, could only be settled in the least desirable way by all
English-speaking people.
I am leaving Melbourne much saddened. It is such a beautiful city. It
represents so much of human energy and skill, and also such a vast
amount of kindliness and courtesy, especially towards that country
which the native-born still speaks of regretfully as Home. I was
told by a great many people that I should find much of the offensive
bumptiousness with which Americans speak of Britain out here. I have
not found any of it. The people are, as is quite natural, fiercely
resentful of criticism from anybody, and especially from the Mother
Country. But they are also intensely loyal, as well as intensely
self-critical. There has been quite a storm raised here just lately.
The Exhibition building--State property--has been leased to a gambler,
a speculator in other men's earnings, for the purposes of so-called
sport, for a prize-fight. They called it a boxing competition, but we
all know what that means. Several thousands of people crowded to see
it, among them many prominent public men. In fact, if you can imagine
the Albert Hall let for the same purpose to a prominent bookmaker for
a boxing match and the leading members of both Houses of Parliament
attending the show, you can imagine what it was like. There was a
fierce controversy in the newspapers about it, in which all the old
arguments about the manly sport were trotted out, but the result was
that the speculator netted an enormous sum of money, and continues to
defy the Government by keeping open gambling-houses where whosoever
will may throw away his money on the possible result of a horse-race.
Still, I have just read that the Government has decided that the
Exhibition building shall not be used for such purposes again. That
decision, however, may be rescinded to-morrow.
Now I go to Sydney, the Queen of the South. I have not said all I could
say by a great deal, for there are some subjects too thorny to touch in
print, but I hope all Melbourne folks will recognise how much I love
their beautiful city, and how deeply I wish it well.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] When this paragraph reached Melbourne, some reporter interviewed
Mr. Deakin on the subject and endeavoured to make a grievance out of it
against the writer. But the Right Honourable gentleman refused to see
the matter in that light, and behaved with his usual kindly courtesy;
otherwise the passage should have been deleted, much as I feel its
importance.
VIII
ON THE OLD TRACK
Fortunately for me one of the fine ships of the Orient-Royal Mail
Company was available at the time that I wished to leave for Sydney,
so that I was able to travel in the pleasantest possible way according
to my ideas, long train journeys having no charms for me. The _Ortona_
was due to leave Port Melbourne railway pier at 8 in the evening, but
owing to various hindrances of the usual character she did not get away
until nearly midnight. But I looked my last upon the brilliant city
at the time appointed, and having made myself comfortable on board
did not care to go back again. Besides, I knew that I should have an
opportunity of bidding a final farewell on my return journey, as it is
inevitable that I pass this way, and there is always a day to spare. So
that whatever points about it I have missed I shall be able to pick up
in a later chapter.
At last the whole of the outward cargo is out, the last slingful has
been lowered into the railway truck alongside, and immediately the
clang of the engine-room gong "Stand by!" is heard. No matter what the
size of the ship or the distance she may be going, her departure has no
more of fuss in it than a man makes leaving his own front door for work
in the morning. And in our service at any rate the tendency is to work
ever more quietly, so that you shall see the whole vast fabric glide
away seaward, and hear nothing save an occasional whistle or the clang
of a telegraph gong. To-night, for instance; the _Ortona_ is 9,000
tons, a huge monster lying stern to seaward, and secured to the wharf,
alongside of which she towers, by sundry steel hawsers. One whistle and
those hawsers are cast off, men on the wharf slipping their bights off
the mooring-posts. A responsive whistle informs the bridge that she is
free. There is a clang in the engine-room, and the great shadowy mass
glides astern until clear of the pier. Then another clang orders the
port propeller to go ahead, and the ship revolves almost upon her axis
in ghostly fashion without the aid of the rudder. As soon as she is
round far enough another message is sounded in the engine-room, "Ahead
starboard!" and with both propellers revolving the same way and the
helm over to starboard she comes round to her course and is away in
more than stately wise, but just as easily as a motor-car leaving a
garage.
The superb management of the modern mail and passenger ocean steamers
in all departments renders it possible for even the least experienced
voyager to feel completely at home within an hour of the vessel's
leaving the pier, even when she goes straight out to sea at once
(sea-sickness, of course, always excepted); but your Australasian
passenger around the coast is seldom inexperienced. The distances are
great between the principal cities, but the fares are quite moderate,
and the vessels are so comfortable that there is an immense and
incessant passenger traffic, the percentage of travellers coastwise
being at least twenty times what it is at home. And I do not see that
the connecting up of the cities by railway, with its great saving of
time, has lessened that percentage much--it has merely increased the
numbers of those who desired to travel, but dreaded the sea journey.
So, as usual, we had a large number of short-distance passengers; in
fact the _Ortona's_ huge accommodation was rather severely taxed, and
yet within, as I say, one hour from Port Melbourne nearly all of them
were snugly in bed and asleep, while the captain and pilot on the
lofty bridge guided the big vessel through the mirk along the tortuous
deep-water channel leading from Port Melbourne to Queenscliff, the
Heads of Hobson's Bay, some fifty miles distant.
Daylight found a few of us kindred spirits on deck in pyjamas sniffing
the keen ozone-laden air, and watching with awe and admiration the
amazing miracle of the sunrise. And here let me say that while I have
often experienced terrific weather in these waters, I know of no other
part of the world where, when the weather is fine, a man can feel
the zest of living more keenly than he can here even in summer if
he be up early. But now, in what they call winter, it is delightful
beyond expression. It is revivifying to the invalid who withers under
a cold blast and languishes in the warm airs, but having the air
exactly tempered to the happy medium cannot but feel the desire of
life return, the malaise of feeble health passing away until existence
puts on bright hues and the greyness of things disappears as do the
morning mists before the conquering sun. We linger on and on, trying
to pick out once familiar headlands from the blue outlines of the land
far on our port beam, until the warning bugle sends us scurrying
below, etiquette demanding that all _déshabille_ be _tabu_ after 8
a.m. But only fools and ladies linger long over their toilet on board
ship. Experience soon teaches the landsman to be like the sailor in
that respect, and so most of us are on deck again in a few minutes,
unwilling to miss the gorgeous panorama of Bass's Straits near Wilson's
Promontory, which we are rapidly nearing. Here is that marvellous dome
of rock rising sheer from the sea to a height of about 400 feet, and
almost as symmetrical as St. Peter's, except that on the southern side
a huge cavern, whose floor is 40 feet above high-water and whose roof
is over 100 feet high, has been scooped out by the hand of Nature--a
cave inaccessible save by the sea-birds, whom, however, I have never
seen entering it: a place that impels the beholder to dare all dangers
in order to investigate its mysteries, but even on a day like this,
when the ocean is peaceful as the bosom of a sleeping child, the
gigantic swell of the South thunders up against those sheer walls of
rock, and says, in unmistakable language, that for any intruder it is
the place of death.
But we glide rapidly past it at our sixteen miles an hour, round the
much-dreaded Wilson's Promontory, which seems to be a gathering-point
of storms, and along the picturesque coast, passing on our way many
inter-colonial steamers befouling the bright air with their black
columns of smoke, the coal they burn being native, and not of a quality
conducive to clean burning; that is reserved to the coal from Wales
which we are still using, and in consequence showing but a misty
feather from our twin funnels hardly discernible against the sky.
This is the invaluable fuel which we are so eagerly selling to our
enemies to be used against us in the near future. But, of course, when
we give away our trade with both hands, when we send abroad our best
bone and muscle, and employ wastrel alien labour instead, a little
thing like selling our incomparable naval coal to the enemy is a mere
detail. I was asked the other day why Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman
and his henchmen did not, while in power, make short work of their
opportunities and invite the Germans to take possession of South
Africa, tell the Colonies to look after themselves, and suggest that it
was unchristian to keep Great Britain under British rule, since it was
manifestly more righteous, according to Bannerman, Massingham, Stead &
Co. that it should be run by Michael or Uncle Sam than by John Bull &
Co. This question I could not answer, but it was a fair sample of what
every nation in the world thinks of us to-day. It is about the only
thing they are agreed upon--that Britain is a sort of Jubilee Juggins,
in the common slang, who stands in the market-place and invites the
tricksters and the shysters of the world to come and divide between
them not merely the contents of his pockets but his heritage. It is
fast becoming difficult to avoid being ashamed to bear the name of
Englishman.
But we are nearing Sydney and all my interest is at concert pitch, for
with the exception of a couple of days, while on my passage South from
Brisbane in '80, I have not been here for thirty-five years. Of course
I know that the amazing beauties of Port Jackson cannot be altered by
the hand of man, but I am very curious to see what the superficial
changes are. In the glory of a perfect morning we draw near the Heads,
so close in that I am able to pick out the track of the electric cars
going to Bondi or Botany Bay, the only alteration that I can see. When
to me comes a young gentleman with an awful (yes, I can't help the
word) collar that almost decapitates him, and seizing me by the arm,
exclaims with almost frenzied eagerness, "D'you see that gap there?
That's where the _Dunbar_ was lost, lemme see, ever so many years ago.
Y'ore a stranger, come in the smoke-room and have a drink, an' I'll
tell you all about it." (At 7.30 a.m.!) I gaze upon him benignantly,
allowing no facial sign to betray the fact that when lamp-trimmer of
the old A.S.N. Co.'s boats out here thirty-five years ago I had made
many grateful shillings and eke half-crowns retailing that yarn to
wondering passengers. And he beams upon me through his gold-rimmed
spectacles as he retails a mass of distorted fact, what time I cling
to the rail and refuse to be drawn smoke-roomwards at any hazard, for
I want, in the words of Wan Lung, "makee looksee go in." He finally
concludes with the encomium, "Well, old chap, you're a good listener,
anyhow. Come and dig me out, won't you? I room at so-and-so, and I'll
show you Sydney, real; I was born here." I compose my features and
accept his card, never once, thank goodness, losing command of my
features; but I am equally grateful to say that I never saw him again,
knowingly.
A swift pilot steamer ranges alongside, drops a boat as smartly as
heart could wish, and (I timed it) in eight minutes from our "slow
down" bell we were going full speed for the entrance and the boat
was rehoisted on board the pilot steamer, she making frantic efforts
to keep up with us as we swept grandly in for the narrow entrance.
And then came the old familiar thrill as, sweeping round the South
Head with the helm almost hard a-starboard, we open the harbour, so
cunningly hidden by nature that even our greatest navigator sailed
past it and did not realise what lay within. The frowning scarp of the
North Head towered above us in all its grim majesty, the wake made a
perfect semicircle on the glassy sea, and, behold, the opening closed
in behind us and all the lovely panorama of the most beautiful harbour
in the world unfolded before us as we glided swiftly towards our goal.
My longing eyes saw little change as yet. All was as it had been--a
few dwellings dotted here and there as if haphazard among the wooded
eminences, except that the trolley lines showed up here and there. A
pause for the doctor, a merely perfunctory visit anyhow, and away we
went again, turning a sudden corner which showed me what a splendid
city Sydney has become. But a spasm of horror went through me as I
noticed that the city was enshrouded in a pall of filthy smoke belching
from a forest of chimneys and hiding its beauties most effectually.
And I wondered mightily at the gall of Sydney folks whom I had met in
London complaining about our atmosphere! However, that is a reflection
that will continually occur to the Londoner, abroad especially, after
he has grown to accept it as unanswerable that London is the grimiest,
gloomiest, and altogether most uninhabitable city in the world. I
suppose it is a part of our national magnanimity to acquiesce in all
the hard things that are said of us and the vaunts of our visitors,
but I don't know whether the time has not arrived when we might with
advantage talk back, in some directions at any rate.
It is now that the visitor, returning after the lapse of many years,
realises for the first time what immense changes time has wrought
in the appearance of a place once so familiar. Adelaide, and even
Melbourne, do not impress one until close attention has been paid
and improvements pointed out by residents, for in their general
aspect they remain the same as they did a quarter of a century ago.
But Sydney bursts upon the view, dominating its magnificent bay as
the veritable Queen of the Waters, and when seen in the early dawn,
before the aforesaid disfiguring pall of black smoke has been spread,
beautiful and picturesque to the limit of expression. But it is in the
aspect of the harbour itself that a seafarer will find the greatest
change. When I came here first, thirty-five years ago, Sydney was
most noticeable for the magnificent fleets of noble sailing ships that
lay reposing in all their stately beauty on the waters adjacent to the
city, or were ranged all around the Circular Quay. All the grand old
classic names which thrill the hearts of old sailors with memories
of wonderful ocean races are associated with Sydney as with no other
port in the world. The splendid fleets of Devitt and Moore, of George
Thompson, the Duthies, Greens, Wigrams, represented by such flyers as
the _Thermopylæ_, _Sobraon_, _Parramatta_, _Brilliant_, _Abergeldie_,
_Superb_, and a host of others whose names leap to the memory, lay here
as much at home as they were in London, and of course seen to much
greater advantage. For Sydney lends itself so easily and naturally
to maritime display, and its visitors were almost invariably of the
aristocracy of the sea. No ship could hope to compete successfully for
the immense valuable freightage of wool unless she were of the highest
class and speed, and had also good passenger accommodation. And so the
noble company of vessels which burst upon the beholder's gaze as his
vessel rounded the quaint little island fort of Pinchgut impressed him
mightily.
Steam was in those days only just beginning to make itself felt in
shipping out here. The P. & O. sent an infrequent ship, and a company
had just crept into being which was endeavouring to institute a steam
service from the Old Country with a few vessels of poor size and
low power; but the dainty clippers ignored these grimy interlopers,
looking down upon them as if with conscious pride in their own beauty
from their splendid panoply of tophamper soaring into the skies. The
Australasian coasting trade was beginning to be dominated by steamers
which, however, in those days, were a collection of the quaintest
freaks ever seen outside of a naval museum of antiquities. Yet such
as they were they earned golden harvests for their owners in spite
of their evil accommodation, their snail-like pace, and general
unpunctuality. The food supplied was good and plentiful, if fairly
rough in its preparation, and in any case the Colonial coasting
passengers had not then learned to be fastidious. But these vessels
used to sneak into Sydney and past the splendid host of sailing ships
into their own out-of-the-way corner, as if ashamed of their ungainly
hulls and their habit of befouling the bright air with the belching
black clouds from their funnels--the result of burning native coal.
They never dared to aspire to an honoured glance at the swagger curve
of Circular Quay or Sydney Cove; that was reserved for sailing ships
alone. It is a beautifully-shaped indentation in the shores of the
harbour, the bow of which comes into what might be called the heart of
the city. Its waters are deep and uniform; in fact, it is a natural
dock of the most perfect type and in the most suitable place. But in
those days its shores were sloping and unembanked, so that the ships
were moored as close to as they could get, and long, massive stages
connected them with the bank, for it was so sheltered that this
primitive arrangement was quite undisturbed by weather.
That is all altered now. There is as great a change as from the _Dido_
and _Basilisk_, ancient men-of-war of the Australasian Squadron of
those days to the _Powerful_ and _Challenger_ lying in Farm Cove
adjacent, which we have just passed. The few sailing ships that are
here now are anchored in out-of-the-way coves far from the city, and
they look as if pitifully aware that they are only here on sufferance,
that their day of pride and power has gone, never to return.
IX
THE QUEEN CITY OF THE SOUTH