for Sunday commenced. Many shops were closed, verandas and doorsteps
were washed, and door-handles polished. But for a theatre, where I
sought refuge from the religious atmosphere which was closing over
Sydney, I should have been extremely dull. There are two or three
theatres in Sydney, all of which are well patronized. At a theatre
where Boucicault was performing, it was necessary to buy a ticket
several days ahead. I think I should have started for Melbourne on
Saturday, had I not been told that before the train had come to the
end of its journey it would be Sunday. As soon as it is Sunday the
train stops, and as it might stop in the Bush, and I was nervous about
bushrangers, I thought it better to remain in Sydney.
Of course everything is closed on the Sabbath. Should you ramble in the
country, and there, wearied with walking and the sun’s rays, lie down
exhausted on some mossy bank, still feeling that you might open your
eyes to the light of another day, could you obtain one small glass of
beer, do you think you would get it? Experience says No. If you were to
use strong language at this state of affairs, or at any other state
of affairs, do you think that a bobby would not run you into chokee?
The newspapers say they would. Neither liking to risk a horrible death
from thirst, nor the chance of offending the ears of some justice of
the peace, I stayed at home on Sunday. For about an hour I listened to
the jangling of some forty church bells. The enterprising proprietor of
one church made his bells play a hymn tune. These were the sounds from
outside. Inside I was edified by the jargon of forty semi-educated poll
parrots. Each of these birds knew a sentence of English. One of them
would fire off his particular string of words, when all his companions
would guffaw and yell. They began at about three in the morning, waking
me up with an impression that murder was being committed. I should have
liked to have killed them. I felt miserable. The place seemed to be a
mixture of piety, poll parrots, teetotalism, and bad grub.
In the afternoon I met a doctor who was acquainted with Sydney. He
said he would show us some fun. Better go out to Botany Bay, and see
Sir Joseph Banks’s Garden. The suggestion was hailed with joy, and
after lunch, Peter, Dodd, and I were all safely seated on the roof of
a tramcar on our way to Botany Bay. Going to Botany Bay! What room for
reflection--at least that is what those in Britain think. Botany Bay
is looked upon as a home appointed by our Government for murderers
and vagabonds. They think wrongly. Botany Bay is a rural spot which
has been much maligned. It was about nine miles’ ride. On the way we
passed lots of little villas, all with gorgeous cast-iron balconies,
and elaborate fringes of the same material round their eaves. It
is seldom that one sees so much ornamentation in iron. Some of the
designs were made up of so many twists and turns that they looked like
lace. Such elaborate decorations were symphonies in metal; to me they
were like the English geometrical gardens, the result of mechanical
education. I do not like the poetry of foundries.
A very noticeable building in Sydney, which strikes attention partly
on account of its magnitude and partly on account of the magnitude of
its name, is a steam laundry. Notwithstanding the existence of this
palatial wash-house, you pay six shillings a dozen for your washing.
At Botany Bay, we found a huge pavilion in an enclosure of trees and
grass called a garden. The building, which would hold an audience of
several thousands, was used for skating, dancing, and singing secular
songs, on Sunday. At one end there was a stage, and artistes were
singing. We sat down and listened. The songs we heard were “The Little
Hero,” “Hark the Lark,” etc. The audience were remarkably quiet and
well-behaved. Round the sides of the hall there were regulations and
rules about skating and dancing. It was requested that “Gentlemen would
not dance with gentlemen, nor ladies with ladies,” etc.
Many of the ladies were conspicuous from the variety and brilliancy of
their colours. I refer to the colours of their dresses. May not this
have been an example of unconscious imitation? There is a tendency in
the animal kingdom to adopt the colour of its surroundings--Polar
bears are white, insects on sand often have a sandy colour, many that
live in trees imitate the colour of the branches or the leaves. Perhaps
those who live in Australia have a tendency to imitate the gorgeous
plumage of its parrots.
On the return journey, our engine had to drag three carriages, each
containing about eighty people. The seats were occupied, the sitters’
knees were occupied, and the space between the knees of those who sat
upon the sitters was used for standing. One man was very talkative, or,
in plainer English, he was very drunk. This reminds me that at Botany
Bay the hotel refused to sell refreshments.
It was, however, an easy matter to become a member of a club. In half
an hour, or even less, you could pay your entrance fee and be elected.
Being a member of the club you could then revive yourself and your
exhausted acquaintances as often as you pleased. The arrangement was
charming. It reminded me of Kimberly in South Africa, where, after
the Government had put restrictions on ordinary hotels, hundreds of
clubs sprung into existence. I suppose our friend of the trains had
been to a club. After telling us, if we valued our constitution, to
follow his advice and never take a drink between drinks, he gave us a
most interesting lecture on his acquaintanceship with the interior of
prisons. He told us about the broad arrow on his back and the marks
upon his ankles. He invited us all to smash a window and join him. It
was only distinguished personages who were entertained at Government
expense. Amongst the lower classes, to refer to each other’s prison
experiences or ankle marks appeared to be a form of taunting which was
not uncommon.
That night we had tea. On week-days, the hotel being of a class that
was supposed to set the fashion, we had dinner.
_THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF HULLOOMALOO._
There are some very fine libraries in Australia, the one at Melbourne
probably being the best. Talking about books to a Mr. John Smith, with
whom I had once or twice the pleasure of dining at his residence in
Hulloomaloo, I learnt something about the formation of libraries that
may be interesting to record. Not seeing any books in Mr. Smith’s
rooms, I ventured to ask him what he did for reading materials. Did
he never give his mind a little relaxation? ‘Oh yes, I’ve got a
library--keep it in that cupboard,’ said Smith, pointing to something
looking like a sideboard. ‘The mental exercise it affords is sometimes
quite wonderful. Perhaps you would like to see it?’ And before I had
time to reply, Smith shouted out: ‘Eh, Janet, bring in a couple of
tumblers; the gentleman wants to consult my library.’ I won’t say
anything more about Mr. Smith’s collection of books, excepting that a
night’s study of them might possibly result in a headache.
‘But come, Smith,’ said I, ‘now, honest injin, did you mean to say
you haven’t got a book in the house?’ ‘Well, I can’t say that I have.
Once I had a copy of the “Rise and Fall of the British Empire.” I used
to keep it tied with a string to a nail in the wall. But some soul
thirsting after literature absorbed it one evening. I’ve had a sickener
of books.’ Here Smith took a drink and shook his head as if the thought
of his past literary career was too serious for reference. ‘Did you
never hear of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo and its library?’ he at
last inquired. ‘Got it all for nothing. Never paid a sixpence.’
‘That’s interesting,’ I remarked. ‘I should like to know how the
business was managed.’
‘Just take another look at _my_ literature,’ said Smith, passing the
bottle, ‘and I’ll tell you:
* * * * *
‘Hulloomaloo was just becoming a place, and some of the influential
residents thought it would be a good thing to have some books; but at
the meeting they held nobody could tell where the money was to come
from. All sorts of suggestions were made, but they were all objected
to on the score that they involved subscriptions, and subscriptions
nobody could afford. The more they talked the more they seemed to want
to read, but they could not stand subscriptions. This was humbug, you
know, for the people in Hulloomaloo were as rich then as they are now.
The idea of having a library was just on the point of being abandoned,
when up jumped a pale-faced little man, who was sitting near the door,
and explained to the meeting that if they constituted themselves into a
society, they might get books given to them for nothing. He told us his
name was Joshua Jenkins, and that he had acted as librarian at one of
the State libraries in America; but who he really was, beyond being a
new-comer there, nobody could tell. A society ought to be constituted
at once, and, if it were worked properly, he would guarantee that
within a year the library of Hulloomaloo would be the wonder and envy
of the Australian Colonies. The brilliancy of Jenkins’s proposition
took everyone by storm, and he was voted to the chair to organize
proceedings for the constitution of the new society.
‘“It is proposed,” said Jenkins, “that this society be called the
Royal Society of Hulloomaloo. Does anyone object to that proposition?
Nobody objects--carried. Please make a note, Mr. Secretary.” Without
drawing breath he continued: “The members of the society shall consist
of ordinary members; honorary members, elected from the distinguished
_savants_ of the world; and co-operative members, consisting of
scientific bodies whom the committee shall decide to elect. Does
anybody object to that proposition? Nobody objects--carried.”
‘And so he went firing off rules, and saying: “Does anybody object to
that proposition? Nobody objects--carried,” until he had fixed up a
constitution before anyone had thought of objecting.
‘After this, he had a committee and a president elected, while he
himself was put into the position of secretary and librarian. To finish
up the meeting, he took down the names of all people in the room, and
collected five shillings a head. This made the audience into members.
After a few remarks, in which Jenkins complimented the residents
of Hulloomaloo on the magnificence of their surroundings, and the
unparalleled opportunities which Hulloomaloo offered for scientific
research, the meeting adjourned. The whole business of making the
Royal Society of Hulloomaloo, and collecting about £45, took, it was
estimated, thirty-five minutes. Jenkins had the £45, and the audience
had the honour of putting F.R.S. after their names. Of course they
omitted the H.
‘As to the details of what happened during the next two years, nobody
seemed to be very well informed, but they know now though.
‘First he began by making honorary and corporation members. He had a
lot of elaborate forms and envelopes printed, looking as if they had
come from Government quarters. Whenever the word Hulloomaloo appeared,
it looked as if it was the capital of Australia. The letters he had for
the _savants_ ran as follows:
‘“The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.
‘“Dear Sir,
‘“I have the honour of informing you that in consequence of
your distinguished services in the department of” (and here
came the particular ology of the man to whom he wrote) “the
Committee of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo have this day
elected you an honorary member of their body.
‘“I have the honour to remain, Sir,
‘“Your obedient servant,
‘“Joshua Jenkins, Sec.”
‘He always accompanied his form with a note. When he wrote to Darwin,
he said that the society had appointed several special committees;
one was to examine the working of worms, another to investigate the
fertilization of plants, a third to determine the exact relationship
between the higher mammals and the Australian savages. The results of
this work he hoped in the course of the year to have the pleasure of
forwarding to his address. In the meanwhile, he was certain that if
Mr. Darwin would send to the society a complete set of his works, they
would be bound in morocco and highly appreciated.
‘He promised Lubbock a collection of ants. Richard Owen was to
have a complete collection of fossil mammals. Spencer was to have
an exhaustive series of manuscripts on the social status of the
Aborigines. The result of all this was that in about three months we
had the names of almost every living _savant_ in the universe on our
list, and what was better, we had their books in our library.
‘The way he got over the societies after making them into co-operative
members was to promise them a complete set of the “Hulloomaloo
Transactions.” He had letters printed for the kind of society to which
he was writing. Here is an example of letters he sent to all the
Geological Societies in the world,’ said Smith, handing me a document
off the mantelpiece. It ran thus:
‘43. (71-1034).
XIX. ‘Department of the Interior of Australia,
‘The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.
‘Sydney, _June 1st, 1881_.
‘Sir,
‘I have the honour to send to your address a complete set
of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo,
“A Treatise on the Geology of Australia,” with an Atlas of
Geological Maps.
‘As these volumes are sent through the Imperial Government,
they may not reach you for some time after the reception of
this letter. Please observe the enclosed receipt. By order of
the Committee,
‘I have the honour to remain, Sir,
‘Your most obedient servant,
(42451-67904) ‘Joshua Jenkins, Sec.’
The enclosed receipt ran as follows:
‘72. CXIX. (764-31) 41-MDCVXI.
‘(_Neglect to return this receipt will be taken as an
intimation that the Transactions of the Royal Society of
Hulloomaloo are no longer desired._)
Date ______________ 188_.
‘To the President of the Royal Geological Society of
Hulloomaloo, Sydney.
‘Sir,
‘I beg to acknowledge the receipt of the under-mentioned works.
____________________
____________________
Yours truly,
Name____________________
Present address____________________
Past address____________________
Future address____________________
Permanent address____________________
Variable address____________________
City, Town, Village, Hemisphere, etc.
(7623-731) (854-901)’
‘To wind up, there was a beautifully printed envelope in which
to return the receipt. This was addressed to the Royal Society,
Hulloomaloo, Sydney.
‘Sometimes he would call the society the Royal Astronomical Society of
Hulloomaloo, next the Royal Linnæan Society of Hulloomaloo; then the
Royal Sociological Society of Hulloomaloo, just according to the people
to whom he was writing.
‘The result of all this was that the society received box after box of
societies’ transactions in all the languages of the world.
‘After a year or so, some of the people to whom Jenkins had made his
promises would write saying that they begged to inform him that the
books he had forwarded never arrived. Jenkins would answer, that he
regretted to hear that the parcel had been delayed, but he would
communicate with the Imperial Government on the subject, and a week or
two afterwards would send them another big envelope, saying that he had
the honour to send to their address another big parcel. The expectation
of sometime receiving something kept a lot of them quiet. To the few,
who were too impatient, he would write that he had been instructed by
the Imperial Government of Australia to inform them that the parcel to
which they referred had been transmitted to their Imperial Governments,
from whom, if they applied, they would undoubtedly receive the same.
‘While all this was going on, the books and presents to the society
had so accumulated that the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo threatened
to become a national institution. A meeting was held, and when the
list of honorary members and societies was read, and the library he
had collected had been inspected, Jenkins received a vote of thanks,
and subsequently a purse containing 500 guineas. After this, he was
made into a permanent secretary of the society, with a salary of
£600 a year. At this time Jenkins said he would add a museum to the
establishment. By dubbing a lot of prominent mine-managers F.R.S., he
managed to get a wonderful collection of gold specimens together, and
these he increased by promising to send to various parts of the world
collections of Australian minerals, which, as he put it, the Royal
Society of Hulloomaloo had instructed him to forward to their address.
‘By this time the letters that poured in upon Jenkins seemed to have
warned him that he was getting to the end of his tether. He said he was
sick, and would the Committee allow the library and museum to be closed
for a month. He thought a run down to Melbourne, where he would get
some of the society’s books rebound, might set him up. The petition was
granted, and away went Jenkins with twenty-six large cases containing
the books which were to be bound.’
‘And I suppose you never heard of him any more,’ I remarked.
‘Never hear of him, indeed; we thought we were never going to cease
hearing about him. During the two months after his departure, the
letters and official documents that poured into the rooms of the Royal
Society of Hulloomaloo would have filled the museum by themselves.
There was Darwin writing for the reports of the committees, Lubbock was
asking for his ants, Spencer was crazy about the MSS. on the social
status of Aborigines, Owen wanted his collection of fossil mammals,
all the societies in Europe and America were wanting our Transactions.
Diamond merchants and jewellers were asking to have the collections
returned, that they had lent for exhibition at our last _soirée_.
Foreign Offices throughout the world had written to our Government,
inquiring about the status of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo. Our
Government instituted proceedings against us for having swindled
creation.’
‘And what was the end of it all?’ I asked.
‘Why, one end was that we had to write five or six thousand letters of
apology, to raise a fund to return the pamphlets and stuff that would
not go into Jenkins’s twenty-six cases, and pay £25,000 damages for
what had gone into them.’
‘And how about Mr. Joshua Jenkins?’
‘Oh, Literary Jos. Well, I don’t know, but I believe he is gone below,
acting librarian at one of the State libraries. If you want to get up
a cheap library in your part of the world, that is his address. He is
charming company, you know.’
* * * * *
The streets of Sydney are above the average of streets we see in
Europe. I expected to have found them narrow and crooked. Sydney
is usually described as being old-fashioned, and having a cramped,
crooked, and antiquated appearance. It is not American-like and modern,
like Melbourne; Sydney is English. The streets might certainly be
broader, but in all conscience, although not absolutely straight,
they are straight enough. George Street, Pitt Street, and all the
connecting streets between the two parallel main arteries, are usually
overcrowded. The shops are good, and there are plenty of them. One
shop, where you find everything, from millinery to leather bags, is
extensive, and quite comparable with similar establishments in London.
Here we have a number of excellent banks, and a post-office, which
probably cannot find its equal in any other portion of the British
Empire. Its tower will be a beacon for wanderers in all parts of the
Colony. At the top of Pitt Street, there is a market filled with fruit,
canaries, cockatoos, wallaby, and other Australian productions. Beyond
this is the cathedral. Near here we have a waxwork show, where living
likenesses of distinguished bushrangers may be seen. Amongst the other
sights are the Museum, the Picture Gallery, where there is a large
series of very good pictures, the Botanical Gardens, the Domain, Hyde
Park, and the University.
In going to these places you are continually met by pretty glimpses of
the harbour. Some of the smaller streets, however, are remarkable for
the antiquated appearance of the houses and cottages you see in them.
Of course I fell in love when I was in Australia. It would not be
complimentary to the ladies if I had not. It happened at the theatre.
At the time a somewhat uninteresting farce was being played. This gave
me time to look round. She sat in a box with a typical duenna. Perhaps
she was sweet eighteen, perhaps she was lovely twenty. Her figure was
willowy and elegant. Somehow or other your inner conscience tells you
when you are in love, at least, mine does. My inner conscience, after
looking at this earthly angel for about half an hour, remarked--‘Young
man, you’re in love; your bachelorhood is being compromised.’ Then I
had a short conversation with my conscience. It ended by my being
convinced that my conscience was right, and that I was not simply in
love, but was standing in the slops of an overflowing infatuation. When
I looked at her, I thought she smiled. The duenna certainly frowned.
At last the curtain dropped, and the Major, Peter and Dodd and I were
hustled out upon the pavement. ‘Come on, old chappie. You’ll never
recognise her with a cloak on. To-morrow you may find out where the
charmer lives, and get an introduction to her parents.’ ‘I’ll help
you,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll help you,’ said P. ‘I’ll help you,’ said
D. Then they said, ‘We’ll all help you.’ Before I could thank them P.
had taken hold of one of my arms, D. had taken hold of the other, and
the Major was pushing behind. With their united assistance I quickly
reached the hotel. That night sleep deserted me. Was it not possible
that we might meet in the streets, in the park, in a ferry-boat, or on
the Rialto? Many have met on the Rialto. At daybreak I would inquire
for the Rialto. But again, many have met in crowds. Yes, in crowds,
that meant the crowded theatre perhaps. At night I would again visit
the theatre. During the day I would pace the Domain, the Park, and
all the intricacies of great Sydney’s thoroughfares. Who was she? The
box, the jewellery, the duenna indicated wealth. Perhaps a princess
in disguise? She would be reclining in a chariot drawn by snow-white
steeds. At last I dozed.
Next morning I rose with Aurora, and tramped the streets. During the
day I flattened my nose against the windows of all the confectioners’
and millinery establishments that adorn the leading thoroughfares. I
gazed into all the hansoms. I even raised my eyes at the damsels who
reclined in open carriages. Many fair ones smiled--but mine, where was
she?
That night I was the first to enter the theatre. What anxious moments
passed as the dress-circle and the boxes filled! Suddenly P. nudged
me, and whispered, ‘See over there.’ Oh, heavens! there she was. It
was clear her bosom heaved with reciprocity, and had come to seek me
out. During the day she had probably been chasing round the streets of
Sydney behind my coat-tails. Why hadn’t I stood at a corner? I quickly
hired a pair of opera-glasses, and, gazing through them, brought her
nearer to me. She smiled. The duenna put on an expression of thunder,
and drew behind the curtain. Then she looked through her opera-glasses.
I looked through mine again. We were both near each other. I trembled
with nervous excitement; my glasses trembled. I think they visibly
waggled from side to side. She waggled hers. ‘Will you be best man,
Major?’ I whispered. Then I rushed off to the box-keeper. I told him it
was close and hot. ‘Yes, sir, it’s more than that; it’s dry, fearfully
dry.’ I was quickly his bosom friend. ‘Who’s she--the gazelle in the
second box?’ I asked. ‘’Um, what, her over there?’ said he, putting
down his glass. ‘She’s the manager’s wife; sits up there every night.’
The Major, Peter and Dodd left for Melbourne next morning. I left with
them.
The journey to Melbourne was not nice. We left at five p.m., and
reached Spencer Street Station in Melbourne about noon next day. I took
passage in a Pullman car. A genuine Yank sat near me, and we entered
into conversation. I like Yanks, and if I were eligible I might put up
to become a faithful citizen. After the ordinary preliminaries about
the weather and the autumnal tints, he made some general remarks about
the late President Grant.
‘As a general, Grant just whipped creation,’ I remarked.
‘Dair bet my bottom dollar his name shines like a brilliant
constellation in the military history of this planet until it ceases to
rotate. Saw him some years ago. Was smoking a big havana. His wife was
along. Don’t think she hansoms worth a cent. Good woman though! The way
she looked after her family was just remarkable. If every fellow got a
wife like that, there’d be less hair flying around. You from Boston?’
he inquired.
‘Sir,’ I replied, ‘you have paid me a compliment never to be forgotten.’