The little bit of country that was visible before sundown was so like
the rest of the great continental island, that I will not attempt to
describe it.
Somewhere about eight o’clock a conductor commenced the removal of the
arm-chairs in which we had been sitting, and the erection of the berths
in which we were to sleep. During this operation, which lasted one hour
and a half (it sometimes lasts two hours), if you are lucky, you get
one of the four or six seats in the smoking-room, otherwise you have to
stand in a narrow passage. I had to stand.
The arrangement of rods and bars which were put together in building
the berths had the complexity of a Chinese puzzle. If the railway
company ever lose the services of the unfortunate man whose misery
it is to erect these structures, where they will discover a second
individual with a sufficiently retentive memory, and ingenuity to carry
on the work, it is difficult to conceive. Whilst the operation is going
on, the car jerks and swings like a boat upon a choppy sea. Several of
the passengers complained of sea-sickness, and I myself certainly had a
feeling of nausea. The only advice I can give to the directors of that
line is to take their cars and burn them--at least, burn the particular
one in which I had the misery to ride. From friends who followed me to
Melbourne, I heard that there were several other cars which ought also
to be burned.
At about five a.m. we were turned out at a place called Aubury,
where we changed carriages and passed the Customs on the Victorian
border. All the colonies collect duty from each other, and their
mother country. New South Wales alone admires the policy of its _alma
mater_, and adopts free trade. Not only are they at variance in their
commercial regulations, but there exists between them the same feelings
of jealousy that may be found between different nationalities, and
each ‘colonial’ looks upon his own particular colony as superior to
its neighbour. One question which you are often asked is, ‘Do you like
Sydney or Melbourne best?’ Several Victorians spoke of their Melbourne
and its people as being go ahead and smart--quite American you know.
They refer to being American with an intonation of regret--it is sad
and disgraceful to be like Americans; but, as it is true, we must
confess it, and it cannot be helped. Now as Victorians were so fond of
pointing out this particular character of themselves, I imagine that
they are really rather proud of it, and the intonation of regret is
little more than a form of modesty.
So far as I could see, farther than the fact that our Australian
cousins have displayed energy in building up great cities in a short
period of years, I did not observe a single instance of anything
which was American. Australians seem to be intensely conservative
and British. One characteristic of Americans is, to do things in new
ways and invent. When in the Colonies I looked in all directions for
something that was novel, but I must confess that I failed to find
it. Perhaps using single tickets, which after the termination of a
journey, on being snipped, act as return tickets, may be peculiarly
Australian. The hoods to hansoms may be new. Asbestos gas-fires in
hotels, the dispensing with conductors on the ’buses, and a few other
rarities in English life, are common in America. Possibly in farming
and stock-raising operations, Australians may have discovered methods
of procedure unknown in other lands. In their mining operations--and I
visited many mining districts--I cannot say that I saw much that was
new. I certainly saw much that was old, and machines that ought to be
relegated to museums were numerous.
In the morning it was cold enough for ulsters and opossum rugs to
be acceptable. I saw a hilly country, lots of gum trees, some post
and rail fences, one or two vineyards, and a few sheep and cattle.
Australia is a capital place to study gum trees. The first of these
trees were introduced to the country, so a fellow-passenger informed
me, as seeds, in a letter, sent by an affectionate Scotch wife to her
brother--it would remind him of his home at Greenock. I fancy that my
informant had confused Scotch thistles and gum trees.
No wonder the aborigines of Australia were a poor lot. They have no
scenery to stimulate their imagination, to create wonder, and to excite
an inventive faculty. If we except a few hills upon the east coast, all
is flat. Australia is like a pancake, turned up on one side and hollow
in the middle. Rivers are usually represented by strings of stagnant
pools. Some of them flow underground.
At last Melbourne hove in sight. It seemed to be below us. Its
appearance was like that of all large towns when viewed from a
distance--a confused mass of buildings, with here and there a spire,
covered with a canopy of bluish gauze-like smoke. Near the centre a
huge dun cupola formed a nucleus for the whole. It was large, very
large. When we remembered that all before us had risen during forty
years, we could not refrain from joining in the admiration of all
Australians for their mighty and marvellous Melbourne.
A Wonderful Bath.
The first introduction that my friends gave me was to their clubs.
If we except Botany Bay, nearly all Colonial clubs are exceedingly
particular. A guest, until he is elected an honorary member, cannot
pass beyond a guest-room, which is almost on the threshold. Even here
he is not supposed to linger. At one club, the internal arrangements
of which were quite palatial, I saw a bath which would excite the
wonder of a Barnum. It ought to be exhibited. The performances that
this wonderful piece of machinery could go through were perfectly
astounding. If I were rich, I would have a bath of that description
for the amusement of my friends. It was situated in a little room
provided with sliding doors in the walls, and electric bells. Visitors
were told that these doors were for attendants to pass in towels and
cups of coffee. I heard privately that they were really for attendants
to see that the bath did not get loose and damage strangers who were
unacquainted with its mechanism. When I first saw this marvellous piece
of mechanism, I thought it was a new form of organ, and that all the
labelled handles were the stops. The music it played was, however,
different from that of an ordinary organ. Pull one handle and you might
be boiled. Pull another, and you might be annihilated with jets of
water, which would simultaneously hit you in all directions, pounding
you to pieces like a fragment of quartz beneath a battery. Pull a
third handle, and you would be frizzled to a cinder with hot air. To
avoid accidents, there were innumerable notices pasted on walls and
on handles of the various taps. I only remember a few of them. One
said ‘Be careful and see that the arrow points to the left.’ Another
ran, ‘Three turns to the right will give you the douche.’ This was
a thing that flattened you out on the bottom of the bath. A sort of
aqueous thunderbolt. ‘Mind and turn off number three before entering
the bath.’ ‘See that hot is off before turning right hand number two.’
‘Turn on the aquatic gymnasium gently.’ This notice, applied to an
innocent-looking silver knob, which, when moved, set free a jet of
water, which carried the bather up towards the ceiling. Many visitors
had been found clawing and reaching and swearing on the top of this
jet, where they were being revolved, and tumbled about like a pithball
on the fountains which some fishmongers exhibit. Two hours of this
was said to be capital exercise for the muscles and lungs. There were
a whole lot of other notices, but I forget them. A portion of the
apparatus was like an ordinary bath; at the end of it, however, there
was a thing like a second bath reared on end. The resemblance of this
to a sarcophagus was quite appropriate. It was painted blue, and had
aureoles and stars as decorations for its dome-like roof. Standing
in this you might pose as a saint, or as one of the images so common
in the niches of large cathedrals. This was also appropriate, for,
after having met your death, you might remain standing as a martyr to
cleanliness, and as a warning to future bathers.
I got my companion, who described the above, to turn on some of the
fireworks while I looked through one of the holes for cups of coffee.
First there was a hiss, as of escaping steam, then the sullen roar of
a fall like great Niagara. Sometimes it was hot, at other times it was
cold. Oh, conflagrations and volcanoes, where would you be beneath
jets like this? Now and then I could catch a view of my companion
through the clouds of spray and steam. At one moment he was like a
deity surrounded by rainbows. At another moment he was like an imp of
darkness working the machinery of the infernal regions. The thunder
of the douche was appalling. I shrieked to him to retire. The roaring
of the waters prevented his hearing my warning cries. Suddenly the
deluge ceased. He had turned another tap and produced a gentle spray,
like that which waters budding plants in spring. The exhibition was
marvellous, and it made me change my opinion about Australians being
non-inventive. My friend asked me, when all was over, to have a bath.
I felt the satire, and did not answer. The volcanic energy pent up
behind the silver taps of that establishment have produced too deep
an impression ever to be forgotten. To have a bath which will wash
your friends, stretch your muscles, give flexibility and tone to
your larynx, extinguish volcanoes, put out fires, kill your enemies,
create a nervous excitement sufficient to turn black hairs grey, alarm
intruders, amuse the children, flood the streets, is a luxury denied to
all but Victorians.
‘The Russians will never capture this establishment. The bath would
kill them,’ I remarked.
‘They don’t wash,’ replied my friend.
I had forgotten that.
Now do not let it be supposed I have referred to this bath without an
object. I and the maker have a contract, and when he has sold a lot of
them, we are going to buy a castle apiece. I think the Rhine is a good
situation.
* * * * *
The great street in Melbourne is Collins Street. Another great street
running parallel to Collins Street is Bourke Street. The latter is like
the Strand in London. The former is like Regent Street. The streets
and their footpaths are wide, and the people in consequence do not
appear to be so numerous as in Sydney. Still, until about six p.m.,
when all the shutters snap to like a lot of clam shells that had been
alarmed, there are people enough.
It is a great treat for anyone fond of seeing nice people and nice
shops to do ‘the block.’ I spent very much time doing ‘the block.’ In
fact I think I could pass a very good examination as to the contents
of the various shops in the leading thoroughfares of Melbourne. There
are also a number of interesting arcades. One shop which I remember
was a monster book shop. It seemed customary to go into this shop,
and loll against any of its hundred stalls, and read. Having turned
down the page, you can come back and finish the story next day. In
Collins Street I was particularly struck with the uniformed satellites,
whose duty it was to parade in front of the large shops, and assist
ladies to alight from their carriages. In neatness they were only
equalled by the cockaded, brilliantly buttoned gentlemen who drove the
carriages. Throughout the colony I observed that many of the younger
ladies cropped their hair like boys, and wore tippets. Sad green was a
favourite colour for dresses. Talking of girls, one thing which annoyed
me was to see nice-looking, stylishly-dressed, gazelle-like creatures,
who looked as if they would hardly condescend to nod at a duke, talking
and walking with ill-dressed young larrikins. You see this all over the
colonies.
Among the public buildings that I visited were the Law Courts, with
their numerous and elaborate courts of justice, several colonial
Banking Palaces, and the Public Library, which probably has one of
the finest collections of books in the East. Attached to this there is
a picture gallery, and a technological museum filled with models of
great nuggets, models of mining machinery, and machinery used in other
industries, and other interesting objects too many for enumeration. I
did not see an Egyptian mummy. I trust that the reverence for antiquity
has an existence in Australia, and that some mummies will be ordered.
At one end of Collins Street I admired the statues of Burke and Wills,
the great explorers, and also the massive public buildings which block
the end of the street. I saw the University, and its Museum of Natural
History. The animals were very tightly packed, and if the accumulation
continues it will shortly become necessary to climb in and out between
the ribs of whales and other monsters before you can see the place.
One whale has already been compelled to take an outside place in the
garden. The decorations, which consist of illuminated scrolls, have
a remarkable similarity to the decorations one sees in churches.
Instead of the Ten Commandments, on close inspection, you find that the
illuminated legends refer to the orders of animals and plants. There
is also a very fine hall to be seen at the University. It is as yet
wanting in internal decoration.
On the other side of Melbourne, the Observatory, which has one of the
largest telescopes in the world, was pointed out to me. Near to this
I saw some exceedingly pretty botanical gardens. Overlooking these is
Government House. It is very large, and more imposing than Buckingham
Palace. Its tower, which has a flagstaff on top, corresponds to what
the tower of the Post Office in Sydney is to be--a landmark for all
who lose their way. Altogether there is much to be seen in and about
Melbourne. There are innumerable parks, racecourses, cricket grounds,
zoological gardens, manufactories, theatres, and other places of
amusement which I had no time to visit. While in Melbourne I made
many journeys on the suburban lines. I have already described the
smoking-carriages on these lines. The ordinary first-class carriages
were on a par with the ordinary second-class car we have in England.
If the directors of these lines wish to be economical, why do they not
simply have one type of carriage? A common wooden-seated third-class
vehicle; place a mat on the seat and it becomes second-class; and, with
an additional mat for the back, it becomes first-class. Let the mats be
in little squares, so that each passenger can hire one, as he passes
from the ticket-office.
Before saying good-bye to marvellous Melbourne, just a word about its
river, which is quite as marvellous as the city on its banks. In its
upper courses the Yarra, with its weeping willows, is a pretty stream.
It is clear, sluggish, and sinuous, still it is anything but ugly. In
its lower courses, where it winds across the flat marshy ground which
divides Melbourne from the sea, it ought hardly to be called a river.
Other rivers might object. It is as sinuous as a snake in spasms. Its
banks are of mud, and its stagnant waters a mixture of sludge and
filth. As you sail down it, almost touching either bank, at one time
you appear to be going towards Melbourne, and at another time to be
going away from it. Then the smells. The variety of these is as great
as at Cologne, but by no means so pleasant. At one moment up goes your
handkerchief for a tallow-boiling establishment, at the next moment
you are knocked over by a soap factory. The worst smell of all is the
Yarra itself. This you get at shallow corners, and when you ground on
mud-banks. O smell of smells! Products of decomposition, sulphuretted
and arseniuretted hydrogen, carbon disulphide, and all the odours of
the chemist! what are ye to this? Still you have your use. Pilots with
good noses can steer by you on the darkest night.
The Liffey makes good Dublin stout. Surely there is something in the
semi-solid waters of the Yarra! Try it for porter, and if it does not
do for that, try it for hair oil; if it fails for both of these, it
will certainly make a good emetic.
The only other places that I honoured in Victoria were Sandhurst and
Ballarat. I went to these two places rather than to others because they
were classical places in the history of Australian mining; in fact,
but for these places, Victoria might never have been invented. The
travelling was done by rail. It is a common thing for distinguished
visitors in the colonies to be provided with free passes. As the
directors of the various colonial lines did not know that I was a
distinguished visitor, I had to travel at my own expense. Almost
every carriage that I travelled in contained a deadhead. The ticket
collector would come, and the two or three deadheads would show
a mysterious little card, a bit of paper, or a medal. One lot of
deadheads I travelled with turned out to be honourable members of the
House of Assembly. From their appearance and speech I should hardly
have suspected their vocation. They seem to be well acquainted with
people on the line, from whom I learnt that the name of one of the
honourable members was ‘Jim.’ The custom of addressing Parliamentary
potentates by an abbreviated surname was, I was told, in imitation of
the farm-labourers near Hawarden, who speak of a distinguished member
of the British House of Assembly as Bill. I should like to describe the
various members of colonial legislative assemblies with whom I had the
honour to converse, but I am afraid. If you are not careful you may
become notorious as a defendant in a suit for libel. While I was in
Australia, the editor of _Punch_ was acting as a defendant in a case
brought against him by a Government official. ‘Better stand official
outside a post-office with his tongue out--he will do for people to wet
stamps on,’ suggested a wag. _Punch_ had cartooned a gentleman in this
position, and thus the row. I think _Punch_ was very wrong.
I travelled up to Sandhurst in the dark. During the latter part of the
journey up to Sandhurst I was entertained by a rough-looking gentleman,
with whom I had entered into conversation, who told me much about his
early experiences when he first came out to Victoria. He seemed to have
tried his hand at everything, from sheep to literature. One of his
literary experiences ran pretty much as follows:
A Circular Story.
‘It was in the early days of Victorian history, when I found myself
in Sandhurst and short of money. A friend in Melbourne had given me
an introduction to Mr. J. G. Boosey, proprietor and editor of the
_Bendigo Scientific Advertiser and General News Agent_. To make my
introduction agreeable to Mr. Boosey, and at the same time pecuniarily
advantageous to myself, I penned a short article on the garden-snail,
which had recently been imported from Europe, and was creating ravages
of no inconsiderable extent in many of the gardens. This I put in my
pocket, when I proceeded to Mr. Boosey’s office.
‘Mr. Boosey was exceedingly agreeable, and after inquiring about his
friends in Melbourne, asked me to read the article I had brought. After
giving a few preliminary coughs I began:
‘SLUGS.
‘“Slugs eat cabbage. They forage at night. In the morning they creep
home. They are afraid of gardeners. Gardeners hate slugs because they
eat the things in the garden. To catch slugs you must get up early. The
captives may be thrown into a neighbouring garden. This annoys the man
next door. The slug is a very quiet animal. Its length is sometimes
three inches. When it is alarmed it is only about half an inch long.
Many slugs have shells. The horns upon their heads are weapons. Slugs
travel very slowly. Once a slug had a race with a hare. The slug won.
Snails are the same as slugs. Once a slug fought with some tailors. The
tailors ran away. They were afraid of the snail’s horns. Snails are
succulent. They make good soup.”
‘“’Twon’t do, ’twon’t do,” said the editor. “’Tain’t my style a bit.
If you want me to insert your articles in the _Bendigo Scientific
Advertiser and General News Agent_, guess you’ll have to be terse. Say
things to the point, and not go wandering along with a regimental
procession of high-falutin, chuckle-headed sentences like what you’ve
stuck down on that paper. Now look at this,” and he held out the papers
I had brought for his approval at arm’s length. “Just look at this!
call this an article on slugs! Why, there ain’t enough in it to make
a decent epitaph for a bumble-bee.” Then he begun to read, “‘Slugs
eat cabbage.’ Um, ‘They forage at night.’ Um, ‘In the morning they
creep home.’ Um, ‘They are afraid of gardeners.’ Um, your ideas ain’t
continuous or elastic. In those four sentences, if they were decently
handled, there is enough to last the _Bendigo Advertiser_ for a week.
You oughtn’t to call a slug a slug. Call him a univalvular molluscous
gasteropod. Describe him in the early dawn cautiously returning from
a predatory excursion upon a cabbage-garden. Picture the thrifty
gardener, with a patch of sunlight illuminating his honest face, the
glory of the early morning, the refulgence of the rising luminary
reflected from the riplets of a neighbouring fish-pond, and all that
sort of thing. Just keep on saying the same thing over and over again
without using exactly the same words. Circulate round and round a bit
with ordinary phrases, and people will catch the hang of your meaning
better than if you go dashing along, plumping fact after fact down
their throats as if you wanted to choke ’em with literature. But above
all things be terse, concise, and to the point.”
‘How I was to be terse and concise, and yet to keep on circling round
and round, saying the same thing over and over again, but with varied
phraseology, was a problem. I thanked the editor for his kindness,
and proceeded towards my lodgings with my head filled with ideas of
a univalvular molluscous gasteropod, a thrifty gardener, a rising
luminary and a fish-pond. I had hard work that evening, but I succeeded
in constructing a circular story about a univalvular molluscous
gasteropod better than I had anticipated. Next morning when I entered
the office, Boosey, who was sitting in his editorial chair, said:
“Well--_hic_--so you think you have succeeded. Just let me hear what
you have written--_hic_. Feel sleepy this morning.” It was clear that
Mr. Boosey was slightly inebriated, and knowing that it would be bad
policy to aggravate an inebriated man, I at once pulled my paper from
my pocket, and began as follows:
‘“The title is ‘The Univalvular Molluscous Gasteropod; or, The New
Colonial Pest.’”
‘“Excellent,” hiccuped Boosey, “mush better than calling it a snail.
It’s a univalvular molluscous gasteropod, just as I told you. Your
language is really very beautiful--_hic_.”
‘Then I started, Mr. Boosey dreamily looking at me and nodding his head.
‘“As a toil-worn univalvular molluscous gasteropod wearily sped
towards its home at early dawn, skirting the western side of a broad
and verdant cabbage-patch, picking its way by the uncertain but
continually increasing light penetrating the cloud-beflecked sky,
till it at last saw in the orient the uprising luminary which might
disclose its presence to the cautious and thrifty gardener, who had
risen early, with a patch of sunlight on his honest face, it watched
the steadily glowing disc and the wide-extended sheaves and pencils,
resplendent with golden light, silvering, gilding, and, it might be
added, magnificently tinting every snowy pile of gauze-like vapour,
etherealizing all the low-lying mist that hid the bosom of the mother
earth, and at length perceived across the yet deserted garden the
rippling waves of a distant fish-pond, stirred by the first gentle
breeze of the early dawn, and the flashing of a broad band of glory,
each ripplet on the distant shore catching up and robbing its neighbour
of the wonderful illumination, each with its handful of beautiful light
passing its transient acquirement to the nearest swell, and in turn
catching new beauty from the passing beams of the god of day, when the
eyes are dazed by the passing sheen, and all the scene is surcharged
with light until glory covered the weary one.”