THE AUSTRALIAN OUTLANDS
1
In the normal course of human variation, there should have been
virtually no change of experience for me in going from New Zealand to
Australia, notwithstanding the twelve hundred miles of sea that separate
them. And though the sea is hardly responsible, there was a difference
between these two offshoots of the "same" race for which distance offers
little explanation. To me it seemed that regardless of the pride of race
which encourages people to vaunt their homogeneity, the way these two
counterparts of Britain have developed proves that homogeneity exists in
wish more than in fact. It seems to me that the New Zealander has
developed as though he were more closely related to the insular
Anglo-Saxon, and the Australian as though he were the continental strain
in the Englishman cropping out in a new and vast continent. However,
this is sheer conjecture. All I can do is to offer in the form of my own
observations reasons for the faith that is in me.
From the moment that I set foot in Australia I felt once again on a
continent. Melbourne is low, flat, and gave me the impression of
roominess which New Zealand cities never gave. They, with the exception
of Christchurch on the Canterbury plains, always clambered up bare brown
hills and hardly kept from slipping down into the sea. But in Australia
I felt certain that if I set out in any direction except east I could
walk until my hair grew gray without ever coming across a mountain. It
was a great satisfaction to me that first day, for it was intensely hot
and I had a heavy coat on my arm and two cameras and no helmet. Added to
my difficulties was the cordiality of an Australian fellow-passenger who
was determined that I should share with him his delight at home-coming.
He was a short, stout, olive-skinned young man of about twenty-three who
had a slightly German swing in his gait and accentuated his every
statement with a diagonal cut outward of his right hand, palm down.
He lured me from one end of Melbourne to the other, made me lunch with
him at a vegetarian restaurant,--which is a very popular resort in
Melbourne,--introduced me to Cole's Book Arcade, to the Blue-bird Tea
Rooms, where fine orchestral music flavors one's refreshments, to the
latest bank building and even to the station of the railway, which
"carries the largest suburban passenger traffic of any in the world."
"Meet me under the clock," is the Melbournian motto. How they can all do
so is beyond me, for the half-dozen stone steps that lead to the narrow
doors at the corner of the station could not, I am sure, afford a
rendezvous for more than thirty people at one time; yet the old clock
ticks away in patience,--the most popular and most persistent thing in
Melbourne.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE OLDEST AUSTRALIAN RESIDENCES IS NOW A PUBLIC
DOMAIN]
[Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF A WEALTHY SHEEP STATION OWNER'S HOME IN
MELBOURNE]
[Illustration: AUSTRALIAN BLACKS IN THEIR NATIVE ELEMENT
A. A. White, Brisbane]
[Illustration: AN AUSTRALIAN BLACK IN MELBOURNE
Out of his element but happy none the less]
I had so much trouble keeping pace with this Australian, who seemed to
grow more energetic the hotter it became, that I was grateful when he
said he would have to leave me, and I was alone again. Then I realized
for the first time that I could really like Melbourne; that it had long,
broad, spacious streets with clean, fresh-looking office and
department-store buildings, that even the narrower side streets were
clean and inviting, and that the street cars were propelled by cables
and not by trolley wires. So easy were these cars and so low that no one
ever waited for them to stop, but hopped aboard anywhere along the
street. Melbourne was to me a perfect bath in cleanliness and
orderliness,--just what a city ought to be. Even in the very heart of
the city the homes had a suburban gentility about them, and there were
no unnecessary noises, no smoke, and no end of pretty girls. The people
were a joy to look at. Something of the tropical looseness in both dress
and flesh, as though their skins were always being fully ventilated,
made them attractive. The New Zealanders made me feel as though I were
in a bushel of apples; the Australians, carefully packed yellow plums. I
have never enjoyed just being on the street more than I did in
Melbourne.
On Bourke Street, in the very midst of the pushing crowd, a soft-voiced
lad approached me for some information and strutted off, tall in his
self-confidence. Victorian belles, tall, graceful, russet-skinned, plump
but not flabby, moved with a fine air of self-reliance. On closer
acquaintance, I found that these girls were not silent and opinionless
as were most of the New Zealand girls. Whatever the issue before the
public, they had their defined opinions concerning it, and they were not
sneered at by the men. Then, too, there was a companionship between the
boys and girls, without reserve, that was balm to my soul after the year
in New Zealand.
Melbourne was the home of Madame Melba, and in consequence the city is
the most musical of any I lived in in the Antipodes. Even the babies
sing operatically on the streets, and the voices one hears from open
windows are not the head-voices of prayer-meetings, but those of people
who seem to know the value of the human larynx.
During the two weeks that I was in Melbourne, I was, whenever I chose, a
guest of the Master of the Mint, Mr. Bagg, who was the uncle of a New
Zealand girl of my acquaintance; lunched, dined and afternoon tea-ed
with his family whenever I felt like it; was rushed to the theater to
see an old pioneer play; and went to attend public meetings at which the
mayor and the prime minister spoke; visited the beaches, and knew the
joy of the most refreshing companionship it was my good-fortune to meet
with in all my wanderings,--though there were others. And it was so with
whomever I met in Melbourne, from the clerk in the haberdashery, who
acquainted me with the jealousy that exists between Sydney and
Melbourne, to the woman in whose home I roomed on Fitzroy Park, or the
young couple with the toddling baby and the glorious sheep-dog, who
engaged me in conversation on the lawn near the beach at St. Kilda.
And so I still see Melbourne in memory as a place I should enjoy living
in. I was often alone, but never lonely in it. And I see it from its
Botanic Gardens, with the broad Yarra Yarra River slowly cleaving it in
two, its soft, semi-tropical mists hanging over it, its temperate
climate, its cleanliness and its low, rolling hills where it hides its
suburbs.
I didn't go to see Adelaide, in South Australia, because I was destined
to live in Sydney, in New South Wales.
2
It is more than mere accident that Victoria has broader-gaged railways
than New South Wales, and that travelers from one state to the other
must get off at Albury and change, or between New South Wales and
Queensland to the north of it. It is not mere accident, I am sure, for
there is a like difference in the width of streets between Melbourne and
Sydney.
Sydney is hilly, exposed, bricky, and crowded, and though it is the
premier city of Australia, it grows without changing. There is a
conservatism about it which, in view of the activity of Australians, is
inexplicable. Sydney is almost an old city. Its streets wind as though
the settlers had been uncertain of the prevailing winds; and the hills
tend to give it an appearance of huddling. The red roofs of the
cottage-like houses, and their architectural style give it a European
tone, slightly like an English city. It has none of the fresh,
"hand-me-down" regularity of the American, nor the sober coziness of the
English, village. Every street leads one to the center of the city, and
wind as it will there is hardly any relief from commonplaceness. The
thoroughfares are crowded with street cars which cross and
circumambulate, some of the main streets are too narrow for more than
single-track lines. Yet instead of seeing the earlier error and trying
to correct it by prohibiting the erection of buildings on the present
curb lines, the authorities have permitted one of the finest office
buildings in the city--the Commonwealth Bank Building, to be placed on
the same line as the rest of the old structures. It is hardly to be
expected that such methods will ever broaden the streets.
There are no tenements in Sydney, in the New York sense of the term, but
the average home as I saw it on my usual rounds in search of quarters,
was ordinary. The rooms were small, and there were few conveniences.
But this is Sydney proper. Newer Sydney, with its suburbs and homes
along the numerous peninsulas projecting into the waters of Port
Jackson, is modern, clean, and airy, and really convenient. Man is a
lazy animal and prone to dote on nature's beauties, neglecting his
responsibilities to nature. Sydney, proud of its harbor, builds there
and forgets its city-self. There are no fine structures to speak of, no
monuments, no art, and even the library has to borrow a roof for itself
in a building essentially excellent but neglected as a municipal white
elephant. But there is a municipal organ in the Town Hall, and that
makes up for much that is wanting in Sydney.
I took up my quarters across the water from Sydney, and from there I
could see the city through the glory-lens, its harbor. Little
peninsulas, crossed in but a few minutes, project into the waters of the
harbor, making it look like an oak-leaf and affording sites for the
splendid homes that have been built there. Crowding is impossible;
views of the water may be had from all angles. And here, in a borrowed
nest, I sat for hours perched above the water, noting and gloating over
its moods and character. What charm it works, when in the blood-red
streaks of sunset the tidal floods cool the peaceful turquoise; when the
busy little ferries of day become fairy transports with streaks of
shimmering light as escort, moving across the still waters; when on
Sunday morning Sydney across the way relaxes, amazing with revelations.
With street and sky-line clear, quiet hangs in the air; or on more windy
days, myriad whitecaps royne at the numerous ships which cross and
recross one another's paths. In one direction, industry is idealized; in
others, nature and beauty lie naked, above idealization.
For two weeks I lived out at Manly Beach, nine miles by ferry from
Sydney, and went in and out every day. The Heads lie to the right, and
as we made our way across, the swells from the sea beyond rolled the
little ferry teasingly. At times, when the swells were heavier and the
crowds excessive, a sort of panic would spread over them, but some of
the inevitable minstrels that swarm the streets and by-ways of Sydney,
would counteract contagion with music and song.
The beaches are always crowded. Annette Kellerman is Australian, and
somehow, whether as cause or effect, Sydney people are the most
amphibious folk in the world. They seem to live in the water. Every
spare hour is spent on the wide stretches of sand that lie warm and
white in the blazing sun. But nothing takes precedence over the harbor
in the adoration of Sydneyites.
Sydney is known for its gaiety, yet I was lonely in Sydney,--bitterly
so. Perhaps people are too gay to think of others, perhaps their gaiety
made me exaggerate my loneliness. "Nothing like the Australian larrikin
when he gets going," you will be told. But what struck me was the latent
distemper that lurked beneath much of the hilarity that I saw in Sydney.
Australia is not very different from any of us,--a little more
imitative, a little more outspoken, a little more gruff, a little more
youthful. But wildness is not specially Australian; nor is bluntness;
nor yet youthfulness. The Australian is perhaps a little more reckless,
individually or _en masse_, than the people of other lands, but he puts
up with the same social inconveniences; he reasons falsely at times and
gets fooled; he gloats over the spectacular, becomes intensely excited
over nothing,--and suddenly relapses. In a crowd he sometimes becomes
belligerent, yet is easily led and easily relinquishes. But, above all
else, he is gregarious. And it is because of this that he takes you in
in Sydney,--and drops you out before you have known what has happened to
you. Hence he is an inveterate sportsman, a heavy drinker, a perpetual
gambler at the races,--faithful to his whimsicalities.
Intellectually he is a fanatic, but tolerates all sorts of fanaticisms.
A Sunday morning on the beautiful grounds of the Public Domain is enough
to convince you that Sydney would welcome the most freakish freak in the
world, imprison him for the fun of it, then sympathize with him if he
dies in prison, as did the famous naked man, Chidley. I have seen Sydney
men who seemed to me men without hearts, as soft and gentle as women in
the face of another man's hurt. Yet when a well-known army officer stole
funds that belonged to wounded soldiers and their needy families, I
heard respectable Sydney men say they were glad he got away with it. I
have seen girls at carnivals, who at ten o'clock went about tickling
strange men under the chin, snarl at them at eleven and order them to
"Trot along, now." I have heard Australians say harsh things of
themselves in criticism, but true loyalty is widely prevalent among
Australians. An Australian always wants a mate, "some one who would
stick like lead" if he were up against it. The self-criticism comes
rather from the more thoughtful Australians, who, looking out upon the
future, want to see their country hold on to the prize it has won, and
grow and become a leader in the affairs of the Pacific.
But though Sydney and Melbourne are the leading cities of the
commonwealth, he who has to judge of the nation by them wonders where
that leadership is to come from. The love of pleasure is a sign of
health in any people; and Australia is in that sense most healthful.
Material progress is the next best indication of the state of a nation;
and Australia is universally prosperous. But it is in the outlook on
life that a country justifies its existence and insures itself against
decay. Until the war, all reports of Australia on that score were
negative. Provincialism, of the most ingrowing kind, obtained. Every
state thought chiefly of itself; every city of itself only; every
district of none other than itself. But with the war Australia took a
tremendous leap forward. For the first time in her history, her men had
a chance to leave the land which intellectually was little more than a
sublimated prison to them. Half a million men left Australia for Europe
and other sections of the globe. And if Australia knew what she was
about she would now send the rest of her men and women abroad with the
same end in view,--the education of the people for the place they occupy
in the world.
Much criticism is flung at Australia because her young men and women are
inclined to enjoy life rather than burden themselves with a succeeding
generation. If the beginning and end of life is reproduction, then that
is a just criticism. But the welfare of the living is as important as
the welfare of civilization. The greatest criticism is not that people
will not bear children in the face of trying economic conditions, but
that, having exceptionally favorable circumstances, they show no special
inclination to become parents, and that nothing is being done to create
conditions under which the bearing of young would be no handicap. But
that requires an intellectual outlook which is at present wanting in
the cities of Melbourne and Sydney. There is an over-emphasis of
pleasure _per se_, a lack of seriousness in the concerns of life.
Sydney lures men and women from the back-blocks and makes them feel
human again, makes them forget the plains are sear, and that manliness
is next to cleanliness. It affords dull station-owners a chance to mix
with folk where sweetness and refinement, and not crudeness, is the
order of the day and of life. It takes men and women who have been told
that to increase and multiply is the only contribution they can make to
the welfare of the community and shows them that there is something in
life besides that. So when I think of what Sydney means to the world
that lies behind it I cannot refrain from offering my contribution of
praise. But then I ask myself and Sydney what it has done to make the
back-blocks better, what it is doing to build up the country, and the
fact becomes evident that it is only draining it. Fully 51 per cent of
the inhabitants of Australia live in cities. It is for these cities to
lay railroads and highways and to open the vast continent; and that can
be done only by putting prejudices aside, by adding to recreation real
creation and a soberness in the affairs of life which alone will win for
Australia its place in the affairs of the Pacific.
What, socially and individually, then, is the contribution of Australia
to the civilization of the Pacific? Is her position to be one of eminent
leadership commensurate with the welfare of the individual members of
the Commonwealth, or is their joyousness going to make her citizens
forget ambition and their ruling destiny? This much must not be
forgotten,--that born as a convict colony, Australia has more than
justified itself; that the term "convict colony" is now no more
applicable to Australia than it is to Virginia. That handicap
notwithstanding, Australia to-day is as far advanced as any nation in
the world. The people do not generally take to higher mathematics, to
philosophical thinking, or to science, but illiteracy is rare in
Australia. Given a continent wherein nothing of civilization was to be
found, Australia has made of it, in a little more than a century, a land
productive, healthful, and promising. Much praise is due Japan for what
she has accomplished along material lines in seventy years; how much
more praise is due Australia for what she has done in about the same
time!
3
As one journeys north along the Australian coast, life begins to thin
out. Fate must have been in a comic mood when it apportioned me my
experiences as I was leaving that island continent, for in Brisbane it
allotted me an august funeral, and in Thursday Island it sent a
missionary out to "attack me." Thereby hang two tales.
I had walked what seemed to me fully two miles from the pier in the
Brisbane River to the heart of town and was rather overheated. My
septuagenarian Englishman trudged along by my side. When we arrived in
the central thoroughfare I took note of the fact that things looked
fresh and clean, that there was a tendency toward pink paint, but that
otherwise I might have saved myself the journey. Alas, it was Saturday
afternoon, and a half-holiday! Leaving my venerable comrade behind, I
strode along at my own pace in search of adventure, my camera across my
shoulder. I had taken to a hilly side street, and must have looked like
a professional tourist. Absorbed in seeking, I was startled by an
appealing voice behind me. Turning, I found the owner of that voice
gazing intently at my camera.
"That's a camera you have there, sir."
I admitted my guilt, wondering what crime lurked in the possession of a
camera.
"I've been trotting all over town trying to find a photographer, sir,
but their shops are all closed. Would you mind coming along with me,
sir, and taking a picture of a funeral as the mourners come out of
church. Lady ---- is so anxious to have a picture of them just leaving
church. The deceased, sir, her husband, was a very much beloved
gentleman, a prominent official, and devoted to the church in which now
lie his remains, and she would be so pleased if you would come and taik
a fouto for her." In his excitement, he slipped into the use of cockney,
so prevalent in Australia. I threw out my chest and thought to myself:
"See here, old man, do you think I've lived in New York and London and
Paris, and Sydney, and ---- to be sold a gold brick in Brisbane? But
I'll show you I'm game." And I followed him up the street. But sure
enough, there at the top of the hill, from an imposing church, emerged a
funeral, posing to be taken. It did not matter to this man that I told
him my ship was in port only for the day and that before I could
possibly make a print I should be either in China or Japan. But just
then Fate thought she was carrying the joke too far and sent along a
native son with a camera, and I was released. I set out for the ship.
In the little gullies that lie along the way were shacks or cottages,
raised on piles, with inverted pans between them and the floor beams.
White ants were eating to pulp these supports. We were in the tropics
again.
Fate must have chuckled. She is fond of practical jokes. The next time
she tried one on me, I was in Cairns. Having entered Australia on the
ground floor, Melbourne, I suppose Cairns might be said to be the
fifth-story window. I left the ship the moment she was made fast, keyed
up with expectation of seeing the tropics again. Ashore, the spirit
hovering about tropical villages took me in hand. No better guide can be
found on earth. With a voice subdued, it urged me to pass quickly
through the town, which was still asleep except for the saloons and
their keepers. The spirit leading me complained of that other spirit
which leads and captures most men in the tropics. My spirit, happy to
have a patron, offered me luxurious scenes, melodious sounds, and mellow
colors,--happy in receiving a grateful stranger. While pressing through
the little village, I noticed the mission type of architecture of the
post-office; the concrete columns guarding the entrance of the newspaper
office; the arched balconies of a hotel; the delicate, dainty cottages
raised on wooden piles, the verdure hiding defects, and the main
building lost in a massive growth of yellow flowers overgrowing roof and
all. A small opening for entrance and a pugnacious corner were the only
indications of its nature as a residence. Then there were a "School of
Arts" and a double-winged girls' school. The whole town was pretty and
in concord with the scenes about.
But I was not held. I pressed on toward the hills, to the open road.
_Allons!_ But alas! I betrayed myself by doubting the "spirit of the
tropics" which was guiding me. I resorted to a tiny mortal for
information, and in that way angered the spirit, which instantly
deserted me. Not content with whisperings, I had sought definition,
asked for distance,--Where? Whence? How? And I lost!
He was a little man, with worn shoes from the holes of which peeped
stockingless feet. In the early morning he had slipped on shoes which
would not deprive him of the dew. He had covered his little legs with a
dark pair of dirty trousers, his body with a soiled white coat, and his
mind with misunderstood scripture. His bulging eyes betrayed his inward
confusion.
Upon inquiring, he informed me that the road led to the hospital and
would take me fifteen minutes to negotiate. Then he wanted to know if I
came off the _Eastern_. "Any missionaries on board?" he asked. "I don't
know," I answered. "I suppose that is something you don't trouble much
about." I agreed. "Ah, that's just it. Don't you know the Bible says,
'Be prepared to meet thy Maker?' How do you know but what any moment you
may be called?" "Well, if I am, I have lived well enough to have no
fear." "Yes, that is just it. You live in carnal sin. You have no doubt
looked upon some woman with lustful eyes this very morning. I sin, too,
every moment." Heaven knows I had not been tempted. I hadn't seen any
woman to look at, and nothing was further from my mind just then. And so
it was,--sin, assumption and condemnation. I talked with him a few
minutes, asserted my fearlessness, the consciousness of a reasonably
good life. But nothing would do. The poison of fear with which he
contrived to wound me I now had to fight off. I had come out all joy and
happiness in the new day, the loveliness of life. If worship was not on
my lips it was in my heart, and he had tarnished it. He brought thoughts
of sin and death to my mind, which, at that moment, if at any time in my
life, was free from selfishness and from unworthy desires.
I cut across to the sea,--not even an open avenue being fresh enough for
me now. It was as though I had suddenly inhaled two lungfuls of poison
gas and struggled for pure air. I turned back to the boat, not caring to
go too far lest she leave port. A tropical shower poured its warm water
over me as though the spirit of the tropics felt sorry, and forgave me.
I returned to the ship, and quarter of an hour later we were moving out
into the open sea again.
4
The next and last time that I landed on Australian soil was at Thursday
Island, one of the smallest of the Prince of Wales group, north of Cape
York Peninsula, in the Torres Strait. German New Guinea (now a British
mandatory) lies not far away. There is not much of a village and most of
the buildings are made of corrugated iron. But there was not at that
time that stuffy, damp odor which pervades Suva; nor, in fact, was there
much of that mugginess that is Fiji. Yet it is only eleven degrees from
the equator, whereas Fiji is thirteen. The street is only a country
road, and dozens of goats and kids pasture upon it. The few stores
(closed on Sunday) were not overstocked. There are two large churches.
One was built from the wreckage of a ship that had some romantic story
about it which I cannot recall. There was also another institution, the
purpose of which I could not discern. It was musty, dirty, dilapidated,
with shaky chairs and shelves of worm-eaten books. I suppose it was a
library. Hotels there were galore, and though bars were supposed to be
closed on Sunday, a small party of passengers succeeded in striking a
"spring."
I wandered off by myself. Slowly the great leveler, night, crept into
the heart of things, and they seemed glad. Orientals and natives from
New Guinea lounged about their little corrugated iron houses, obedient
to law and impulse for rest. Japanese kept off nakedness with loose
kimonos. One of them lay stretched upon the mats before the open door,
reading. Others squatted on the highway. Tiny Japanese women walked
stiffly on their wooden _geta_ as they do in Japan. Tiny babies wandered
about alone like wobbling pups. Upon the sea-abandoned beach groups of
New Guinea natives gathered to search for crabs or other sea-food. A cow
waded into the water to cool herself. And the sail-boats, beached with
the receding tides, lunged landward.
Peace and evening. Nay, more. There is not only indolent forgetfulness
here; there is more than mere ease in the tropics: there is affluence in
ease. A something enters the bone and sinew of moving creatures which
awakens and yet satisfies all the dearest desires. And nothing remains
when night comes on but lamplight and wandering white shadows.
Late that night I returned to the ship. Deep, familiar sounds revived my
memory of Fiji, on the other line of my triangle. A chorus of New Guinea
voices,--rich, deep, harmonious, and rhythmic--rose from a little boat
beside us. In it were a half-dozen natives, squatting round a lantern,
reading and singing hymns in their own tongue. Such mingled sadness with
gladness,--one does not know where one begins and the other ends. Shiny
black bodies crouching and chanting. Hymns never seemed more sincere,
more earnest.
They were waiting there for midnight to come, when Sunday ends for them,
and toil begins. The ship must be loaded. Then voices will rattle with
words and curses. All night long they labored with good things for other
men. When I came out in the morning they breakfasted on boiled yams and
turtle, a mixture that looked like dough. Instead of using their
fingers, they employed sharp pointed sticks, doubtless in imitation of
Japanese chop-sticks. Progress!
Shortly afterward we struck across the Arafua Sea, and saw Australia no
more.