thought about was myself. He would walk on to the next station for
assistance, if I would look after the coach. After he had gone, I tried
to coax the horses by holding a bunch of grass before them. All that
they would do was to stretch out their necks and get the grass, but
they would not move a foot. As they seemed to have become petrified, I
got inside the coach, and lighted a pipe.
While I was devising means to induce the horses to move, a farmer
came along the road with a cart and a team of three big cart-horses.
Of course he stopped to have a conversation, and at the end of it
suggested that if the pole of the coach were tied to the tail of his
cart, my two horses would have to move. The idea was splendid, and in
less than ten minutes I was sitting on the box steering the mail-coach
behind the farmer’s cart. How far we went I do not know, but we were
travelling along slowly when we were met by Jehu and an ostler with a
fresh team of horses. I expect the towing of the mail-coach will be a
joke for some time to come.
We reached Latrobe at about two p.m. The last part of the journey was
over ground which was flat and swampy. Of course we were too late for
the coach which drives to catch the train at Deloraine, and I made up
my mind for a quiet afternoon and a night’s rest at Latrobe. Latrobe
is a small country town of one street. Its usual dulness was somewhat
increased by all the shops having their shutters partially closed,
the reason being that a woman had died. A tobacconist told me that
he didn’t know who she was, but the shutters would be kept up until
she was buried. At one time you might see two persons and a dog in
the street. The quiet melancholy of a country town in the old country
pervaded not only the street, but even the interior of the hotel. In
one shop I saw penny whistles, apples, cakes, peg-tops, and articles
of ‘sterling silver,’ all together. I had plenty of opportunity to
study my hotel. If I remember rightly, sanded floors, gaudy pictures
representing hunting scenes and the seasons, a lot of advertisements
and leather-covered seats, formed the chief feature in the room where I
spent the evening. In a vase there was a bunch of artificial flowers.
These are invariably of the same kind, and if you give a leaf a knock,
the whole plant whirls round in the flower-pot, at once destroying any
impression it may have made on you as to its reality. The pictures
which you see in small hotels are reproductions of what you see in
small hotels at home. Among the favourites were fox-hunting scenes,
which usually included a man in a red coat holding up a fox, while
a lot of dogs were yelping around him; one or two steeplechases; a
picture of the Derby; a soldier on horseback while sticking a man
through the throat was carrying off a standard; one or two scenes
from farmyards; the village Maypole; a few pictures of racehorses,
all of which to the uninitiated looked pretty much alike; dignity and
impudence looking out of a barrel; the death of Nelson; and a large
collection of the worst type of German lithographs, amongst which were
the royal family sitting in a semi-circle, and the Prince and Princess
of Wales, a ball of wool and a puppy-dog.
Speaking generally, every picture was a reproduction of what you see
in the old country, and I do not remember seeing a single picture of
anything colonial.
In the evening I listened to a discussion as to the relative merits
of loo, euchre and poker. A local paper, referring to the ship which
had brought me to Tasmania, remarked that ‘Tasmanians interested in
sheep-farming will be glad to learn that the steamship _Flinders_ has
safely landed 250 fine stud sheep; there were also some Tasmanian
officials on board.’ Not being able to make out the connection between
the sheep and the officials, I went to bed.
The ride back to Launceston was more pleasant than the ride up had
been. We started before seven a.m. At eight a.m. the sun appeared above
the hills, and the hoar-frost began to disappear as clouds of mist.
Every tree and flower and haystack smoked as if it was on fire. As far
as Deloraine the country on either hand was chiefly an impenetrable
bush; beyond that we were again back amongst the ferns and yellow furze.
That evening I spent in Launceston, being entertained by a number of
gentlemen, who told me many stories about the great Bischoff. It had
been discovered by a man named Smith.
Smith was a man who liked, and I believe still likes, to hide himself
in the almost impenetrable Tasmanian bush. The way in which he lived
necessitated his spending much of his time in thinking, rather than in
talking, and he was therefore called Philosopher Smith. Philosopher
Smith is generous and crotchety. He gave many of his shares in his
discovery away, and finally, disgusted with the system in which the
mine was being managed, eventually threw up his connection with it.
Now he is not the millionaire he might have been. Not long ago the
Tasmanian Government voted him a small pension for the benefits he had
conferred on the colony by his discovery. Mr. Smith, however, I was
told, rejected their offer. He deserves a good big pension, and if
Tasmanians don’t give it to him, they ought to be ashamed of themselves.
Other people behaved very differently. Some of the lucky shareholders
drew from £250 to £300 every three weeks. One man who in three weeks
drew £3,000, just to show that he had a soul above worldly dross,
bought an organ and a monkey, with which he amused people in the
streets. How long he continued at this self-imposed employment I was
not told. Another man was so inflated with the importance he expected
to derive from his riches, that he imagined himself a duke, and gave
birth to a drawl.
The usual way of reaching Hobart is by rail from Launceston. The
scenery on the line is said to be very fine, and I regret that I did
not see it. I reached Hobart direct from Melbourne. On this occasion
Bass Straits had put on their best behaviour. The sun was shining and
the sea was smooth. Weather of this sort would induce many to become
sailors. The profession of navigators would be ruined by numbers, and
what would a captain do then, poor thing? It was God’s weather. At the
north end of Tasmania we saw many rocky islands. These islands have the
same general character as the eastern coast of Tasmania itself, which
is high and mountainous.
It was a cold, clear, fine morning when we entered the beautiful
harbour of Hobart. I forgot to say that the people in Sydney when they
wave their hand across their harbour, tell you that it would afford
anchorage for all the navies in the world. I should think that the
harbour at Hobart might do the same.
In all directions there are high hills to be seen. Some of these rise
from the edge of the waters. The summits are rocky, and many of them
were covered with snow. The highest is Mount Wellington. This is at the
head of the harbour, and overlooks the town of Hobart. Between these
hills there are many small bays and smaller hills covered with gums.
On the lowest slopes green fields and farmhouses are visible. Over all
these combinations of mountain, crag, snow, forest, grass slopes and
water, there was a bluish haze, like a film of gauze.
At last we landed, and at once commenced our explorations. The streets
are broad and well laid out. Here and there are some fine buildings.
One is a museum, others are Government offices, and many are,
naturally, the banks. One of the busiest streets, where there were a
few people and some good shops, is called Liverpool Street. In the
other streets all is quiet. Now and then a foot-passenger pauses to
look at you, and makes you feel that you are a new chum. The cabs, some
of which are curious arrangements like milk-carts, stand in rows. Dogs
sleep upon the pavement. All is sunshine, cleanliness, and quiet. The
houses in the suburbs face the street like so many antiquated walls
with rectangular orifices for doors and windows. The brass door-handles
shine like mirrors. The polishing has gone on so long until the paint
around them in the wood-work has been worn away. Even a little brook
that at one time babbled through the town has been constrained. A brook
bustling along over an untidy gravel bed would be out of place in
tidy little Hobart. It now runs over a concrete bed, something like a
pipe. Poor little stream, even you have been compelled to change your
clamorous nature.
At the corners of the streets there are neatly painted notices hung
upon the lamp-posts--‘Keep to the right,’ ‘Walk round the corners.’
What a satire to treat orderly Hobart like a Fleet Street!
Although Hobart is so quiet, its very quietness gives to it a charm
that makes me wish to be one of its inhabitants. About twelve o’clock
I saw a little excitement in one of the main streets which I ought
not to omit to mention. This was a football-match between a number of
shop-boys. I watched it with considerable interest. In the afternoon
I paid a shilling to enter a Juvenile Industrial Exhibition. Inside I
found that I was in a Poultry Show. There were a great many cocks and
hens. Nearly all of them had received a first prize, a second prize,
or a certificate of merit. Some of them were interesting on account
of their size and the nature of their feathers. One old rooster had
feathers down his legs like trousers. This gave him an appearance
of great stability. Some of his neighbours seemed to have very thin
legs as compared with their bodies, which were unusually large. With
the amount of standing they have to do, these latter must often feel
very tired. All the cocks were crowing and the hens were clucking.
The pigeons were in great force. There were Jacobins, runts, rollers,
fantails, Antwerps, baldheads, Hamburgs, carriers, and a variety of
others, the names of which can only be found in special treatises on
this order of birds.
There were also a great number of parrots, which in true parrot fashion
were looking preternaturally wise. The rest of the building was filled
up with sausages, masses of brawn, corpses of animals like pigs and
sheep, of cadaverous heads of cows, cheese, pots of yellow butter, and
canaries.
To me the dead animals, which helped to give the place a
charnel-house-like smell, were very horrible.
The farmers, with their wives and daughters, appeared to find something
very attractive in the exhibition. If I had been brought up as a
butcher, the scraped pigs, covered with rosettes and holding apples in
their mouths, might have been more beautiful than a Turner landscape.
The Museum was more interesting, as it contained many relics and
drawings of the now extinct aboriginals of Tasmania.
* * * * *
At this point in my travels I said good-bye to Peter Dodd and
the Major, who went to India, or somewhere, and I picked up new
acquaintances whom I will presently introduce.
_NEW ZEALAND; OR, THE LAND OF THE MAORIS AND MOAS._
Japan and New Zealand are in many respects reflections of each other.
The northern island of New Zealand corresponds in position and shape
to Yezo, while the southern island is like the main island of this
country. Nemuro is represented by Auckland, Hakodate by Wellington,
Yokohama and Tokyo by Lyttelton and Christchurch, and Nagasaki by
Dunedin. I ought to be paid for this suggestion, for it saves the
buying of an atlas.
The northern island of New Zealand is the chief centre for the
aboriginal Maoris, just as Yezo is the home of the aboriginal Aino.
The mountains of New Zealand, like those of Japan, are chiefly on the
western side of the island, and it is on this side of both countries
that there is the greatest precipitation of rain and snow. Mount Cook,
the highest mountain in New Zealand, is approximately the same height
as Fujisan, the highest mountain in Japan. In both countries there are
earthquakes, volcanoes, and hot springs, and each is equally celebrated
for its beautiful scenery. In these and other respects New Zealand
and Japan have a close resemblance to each other. That two distant
countries should have so many points in common is certainly very
remarkable. As with other countries, there are naturally many points
of dissimilarity. New Zealand has an enormous foreign debt, a small
population; it is a country practically without a history, and if we
except the birds, a rat, a bat, and a lizard, it is without vertebrate
animals. In all these and other respects Japan is exactly the reverse
of New Zealand. Notwithstanding all this, the similarities between
these two countries are so abnormally great that the attention of a
resident in either of these lands cannot fail to have his attention
attracted to them. Of course, neither New Zealand nor Japan are like
Africa or Patagonia. For these reasons, and from the fact that many old
residents from this country have settled in New Zealand, I venture to
give an account of what I saw and did in that country. My notes in many
instances may be taken _cum grano salis_.
My experience with New Zealand commenced on board the ship which took
me to that country. This was one of the Union Steamship Company’s
boats, which practically hold the monopoly of the New Zealand trade.
I sailed from Melbourne _viâ_ Hobart. The larger of these boats are
continually making circular trips from Melbourne to the Bluff and
Dunedin, round the New Zealand ports, to Auckland and Sydney, and then
back to Melbourne; or else, commencing at Sydney, they circulate in
the opposite direction. The smaller boats trade hither and thither
along the coast of New Zealand. The Union Company has done much for
New Zealand, and New Zealand has done much for the Union Company. If
you take a ticket for the round trip, which lasts about twenty days,
you pay £21, or about £1 per day; but if you take a trip between
two coast ports, only a few hours distant, you may pay £2 or £3.
Some of the boats are extremely nice in their arrangements, having
electric lights, a fair supply of bathing accommodation, and all the
fixings and appliances found in modern steamships. Some go so far as
Thomson’s sounders and compasses. It was sometimes interesting to hear
discussions on these instruments. One day in the smoking-room, a naval
officer was talking with one of the ship’s officers about Sir William’s
inventions.
‘Oh,’ said the man of war, ‘I know Sir William. Once I was staying
at a house, and they told me there was a very clever man coming. You
wouldn’t think much of him to look at. One of these old men with specs.
But he can do anything, you know. Want a compass? He just takes a bit
of paper and a pencil and invents the best compass ever made; and
does it all with _x_, you know. All the same with the sounder. Want
a good electric light--and he does it with _x_ again, you know. He
can’t do ordinary rule of three and that sort of thing. When he went
to America to calculate about the electric cable, he took an old man
to do his sums for him. The only time he is happy is when he is making
fiddle-holes or chasing.’
This information, coming as it did from the commander of a ship in the
British navy, carried some authority, and was received with silence and
respect.
The day after we left Hobart, where we picked up a few passengers,
we had a beam sea, which caused many of the passengers to seek the
seclusion that a cabin grants. Next morning it was bright and
sunshiny, and as the sea was more aft, the motion of the ship was a
little less. One or two of us indulged in games of quoits, sometimes
throwing them on pegs and sometimes into numbered squares chalked on
the deck. Behind us there was always a flock of albatross, molly-hawks,
and other sea-birds, on the look-out for the leavings of the table.
These companions, which often flew close above our heads, were quite
an interesting study. One great difficulty was to understand how they
managed to fly so fast, and this with little or no apparent motion of
their wings. We were going at a rate of at least ten knots per hour,
and yet from the way in which our feathered friends circled about, and
yet kept up to us, they must have gone at ten or twenty times the rate
at which we were going. All that they appeared to do was to balance
themselves and gently tip their wings up or down--there was no violent
flapping, such as crows go in for when they wish to move. The albatross
were very tame, and would often fly right over our decks until they
appeared to be poised a few yards above our heads. Their build is the
ordinary seagull pattern--a huge white body in shape like a soda-water
bottle, furnished with two enormous angel-like pinions. MacTavish said
that you could often see changes in the expression of their faces. When
the dinner-bell sounded they would come charging up from all points of
the horizon and arrange themselves astern, ready to pounce on the first
fragments thrown from the rich company’s table. At these times we had
the best view of our friends, and you could hear the big ones clucking,
and now and then detect a little smile. They knew that they must keep
pretty close, or some of the relics from the kitchen might sink. I
suggested to Mac that the _menu_ ought to be thrown over a few minutes
ahead of the breakfast. The molly-hawks would certainly be grateful,
and the Union Company would Buddhistically be doing a good turn. If
the theory of Pythagoras is true, the directors of the U.S.S. Co. may
be turned into molly-hawks themselves when they die; and if they are,
they will regret not having instituted this charitable custom. I do
not think that captains and officers of the ships will ever become
molly-hawks. They are too good. But the directors of a company who, in
their scramble for dross, do not hesitate to have four sea-sick people
crammed into a small cabin, ought certainly to prepare themselves for a
hard time in the future. But more about molly-hawks and the directors
of steamship companies by-and-by. I must here tell you that MacTavish,
or, as I shall often call him, Mac, was a Scotchman from South Africa
on a trip to see the colonies. As we did not know each other’s names,
when we first met at dinner, a funny little man, who had seen more
of London or Paris than Scotland, suggested names for the company.
MacTavish was one of these names. MacTougal and MacAlister were two
others. I was called the Major, and a quiet dignified gentleman with
a black moustache, who was my neighbour, was known as the Colonel. In
return, our black little friend, who some remarked might have seen more
of Palestine than Scotland, was called MacCallum More. He was a lively
fellow, and in spite of the weather kept us amused. I liked MacCallum.
The reason that we had so many Scotch names was that about half the
passengers were really Scotchmen, and we were going to Southern New
Zealand, which is Scotch in its looks, Scotch in its climate, and has
a population of Macs. From what I shall say about parts of it, it will
be seen that it is a country where only cast-iron Scotchmen, and a
few other human abnormalities, could thrive. Not long ago tenders for
a Government contract were handed in to the authorities at a town in
the south end of New Zealand. The one accepted was from a Mr. John
MacDougal. When Mr. John MacDougal turned up, he was found to be a
Chinaman. ‘But how is this, John?’ said the authorities; ‘you are a
Chinaman.’ ‘You callee me John, and s’pose I no talkee Mac, no can
catchee contract this side,’ was John’s reply. The Macs are certainly a
powerful clan in their new home.
As we went surging along, one by one, new faces appeared at the top of
the companion. Many of them had a blue bonnet above them. Those who
hadn’t blue bonnets faintly smiled, and then retired again.
On the evening of the second day it was blowing harder than ever.
Sails had to be taken in, and we went along through a seething sea in
the dark. How ever Captain Cook found New Zealand is a mystery. If
an angel had told me where it was, I don’t think I would have gone
to look for it; the irregularities of the approaches to New Zealand
are too unpleasant. It has often been remarked that you do not get
sufficient exercise on board ships; your liver gets out of order, and
you may suffer dyspepsia. On our ship we certainly had considerable
exercise--not so much of the muscles which come into play when walking,
as with those which are used when holding on. When a man goes to New
Zealand, and it is rough, he ought to have claws and long toe-nails.
Rubber shoes, with patent soles for suction, might be good, but claws,
toe-nails, or spiked boots, would perhaps be better.
I had a great deal of exercise in picking up convalescents. One heap
which I sorted consisted of two ladies, a Yank, two ’possum-rugs and
some pillows, several chairs, a couple of cups of beef-tea, sundry
biscuits, a cockatoo, and a lot of bird-seed. This helped me to make
friends with the ladies. I always like ladies to be just a leetle
sea-sick. It gives you a chance of being agreeable. I shall have more
to say about the Yank. He was very droll, and did a little to remind
the officers of the U.S.S. Co. that their directors had failings.
While talking about the inmates of our village, for a Union boat is
always like an overcrowded floating hamlet, I must not forget our
worthy skipper--Captain Popham. Captain Popham was a big man, and he
was never sea-sick; I don’t think he could be sea-sick. He had a good
square head, he wouldn’t stand humbug, and he was always pleasant
and agreeable. I used to sit with Popham when all the rest had fled.
Sometimes he would be raised up about ten feet, and would be looking
down at me. On these occasions I was able to read the inscription on
the bottom of Popham’s soup-plate. The next moment I would be up ten
feet, and looking down on Popham. On these occasions I had to hold
my soup-plate edgeways up, as if it had been a mirror in which I was
examining my back teeth. Everybody liked Popham, and voted him a good
man. There was one exception, however. This was a sea-sick Blue
Ribbonite. Blue Ribbon’s occupation, when not engaged with a bucket,
was to bemoan the immorality of the world. Edinburgh was his pet
aversion. ‘Eh, mon, there are nae bigger slums than in Edinboro. It’s a
fearful place.’ Now and again he would try and convert the ship to Blue
Ribbonism.
By perseverance he managed to stir up a little animosity before he left
us. One Sunday, between his fits of indisposition, whilst prowling
round the ship, he seems to have discovered four passengers playing
cards in one of the ship’s cabins, which he promptly reported to
the captain. As the captain either did not, or else would not, know
anything of the matter, Blue Ribbon promised to report him to the
directors for non-attention to duty--he spent too much time talking
to the ladies on the quarter-deck instead of attending to his duty.
Poor Popham! We supposed Blue Ribbon wanted him to be either reefing
topsails or else snuffing round passengers’ cabins.
The first sight of New Zealand in winter weather was not very inviting.
Here and there were black cast-iron-looking rocks, their summits capped
with clouds, and their bases fringed with foam. After this we rounded
some rough-edged hills, covered with scraggy scrub and dripping rocks.
This was the entrance to the Bluff. There were no trees. Scotchmen
can live beyond the limit of trees. At the head of the bay near to
the waters, there were a few paddocks, two or three cottages, and
clumps of yellow furze. It was so like bonny Scotland, especially the
canopy of fog. You felt that you were on one of the selvages of the
habitable world, and that just behind the hills you might find the
eternal snows of the Antarctic regions. The end of the bay was like
the edge of a Scotch moor with a wharf on the shore of a loch. Matters
certainly looked a little brighter as the day advanced, and the dull
appearance of the Bluff, for it certainly was as bleak as Orkney when
I saw it, may have been due partly to the weather, and partly to my
indisposition. One indication that the Bluff may at times be bright and
shiny, was a number of little bungalows, which I was told were summer
retreats for the Invercargillites. There were also several hotels, and,
of course, a place of worship.