Albany, _28th May_.
Yesterday, Sunday, was fine and clear though cold, and we had Divine
service in the large saloon below, which was as full of passengers as
it could hold, for nearly every one had shaken off their sea-sickness.
Even Catherine and Louis were up, and they are always the last to
appear on deck. But I don’t suppose any one, in any part of the world,
ever saw such a morning as this, when the _Carthage_ dropped anchor
in the beautiful big bay which has two names. The old name is “King
George’s Sound,” and the new name is “Albany.” You may _think_ you
know what a fine morning is—a Devonshire spring morning we’ll say—but
I really don’t believe there ever was, in any part of the world, such
a morning, or indeed such a day, as this Monday, just over, has been.
I may tell you that it was still, and sunny, and fresh; but how can I
make you see the wonderful blue and golden light over everything, or
breathe the air which was cool without being cold, and warm without
being hot. It was just simply delicious, and you could not have found
a happier party anywhere than we must have looked as we sat, closely
packed, in the little steam launch which was skimming over the bay.
We could not really say anything except “Isn’t it lovely?” unless
we said “How delicious!” for a change. Bold headlands shut in the
immense bay, so that we seemed to be sailing on a huge lake, with
many little islands dotted about it, which looked green and charming
to our sea-tired eyes as we fizzed and bustled along, with blue above
and blue below, past them. The distant bluffs rose grandly against the
cloud-swept sky, and a fairer scene than this spacious harbour encloses
no one need desire to behold. As the land was neared we could see,
on shore, fluttering flags, and red coats, and green arches, and all
sorts of gay and pleasant ways of welcome. Everybody had come down to
the pier to receive your father, and I felt very choky and foolish,
because I was really, in my heart, so pleased and glad to find our new
home such a charming place, and so many people thus kind and cordial
in welcoming us. And then, besides the personal feeling of gratitude
to individuals for their pretty and hospitable greeting, I always have
a proud swelling of my heart to see how loyal Englishmen are, all over
the world, and specially in Australia; loyal even when such thousands
and thousands of miles of sea stretch between them and their Queen
and Empress. All these arches and flags and mottoes are very nice as
welcoming your father, but how much nicer do they become when they are
just the words in which the West Australians say, “We love our dear
Queen so much that we are ready to be cordial and pleasant to whoever
She chooses to send to represent Her.” So, whenever I tell you of all
the honour and hospitality shown to your father and me, you must always
_first_ think that it is really our darling Queen to whom all her
distant subjects vie with each other in showing their love and loyalty.
Later in the day Louis privately informed me that _he_, at one
time, intended to be a governor, but had finally given up the idea,
because he liked when he came to a strange place to “look about him
_quietly_” (as if he ever did anything quietly!) And there were always
so many people and so many “lessons” to say—he regards speeches and
addresses in the light of lessons—that he preferred a more private and
undistinguished position. He added that all the time he was standing
by my side on the pier, he was longing to be under it, climbing about
among the rafters or supports, or else fishing off it. However, Louis
had his opinions quite to himself, for we all were very pleased with
the kind and pretty welcome given to us, and presently we got into a
carriage and drove up to the hotel. There were banners and flags and
mottoes of welcome everywhere, and people came out on their balconies
and cheered, and I could not help laughing at one woman who waved a
baby at me! She did indeed. She ran out on her balcony carrying a tiny
baby wrapped up in a large shawl, and she waved baby and shawl and all.
Louis was greatly delighted at that.
Like all people who have been even four days at sea, the first thing
we wanted to do was to take a long walk, and I don’t know that we did
anything else which would interest you to hear about that day. It is a
pity I can’t make you see the pretty views from every point at Albany,
or give you a better idea of what great capabilities it possesses. I
think it is really the most magnificent natural harbour I have ever
seen.
_31st May._—We are just starting again in a steamer to go up the
coast to Fremantle, the nearest harbour to Perth, but I shall have
time to tell you how we have spent the last two days before I am sent
for. Everything is packed up and has gone on board, and only I and my
travelling-bag have been left behind. A message has just come up from
the captain of the steamer to say there is “no hurry,” and I am too old
a traveller not to know what _that_ means. It means that the weather is
so bad, and the gale of wind blowing so strongly outside in our teeth,
that we are just as well on the land for any progress we should be
making.
Yes, our lovely, lovely Monday remained a beautiful day to the very
last, just to show us what the climate could be if it took any
trouble to be fine, and then it changed in the night, or rather the
wind changed, and it has been raining and blowing ever since, and is
bitterly cold. But then you must remember it is winter, and we want
every drop of rain we can get between May and November, for we must not
expect more than an occasional shower after that. So no one grumbles at
the wet weather, though the rain has battered the arches and drenched
the mottoes, and the flags have had to be taken down, and we have
regularly been paddling about to banquets and lunches, and even to
_the_ ball.
A ball is a great event here, and it was a thousand pities it rained
so dreadfully, as no one dreamed of stopping away, and most of the
guests had to walk, and the rain made everything rather soppy and
wretched. We had a carriage, but it was only intended for fine weather,
and the driver conceived the brilliant idea of sheltering us from
the pelting storm by rigging up a sort of tilt-cart cover. But this
cover was merely of brown Holland, and only prevented us from putting
up any umbrellas. So we got drenched, and though I am afraid I felt
rather cold and cross when we came back home to the little inn, about
midnight, I was obliged to sit down on the edge of my bed and have
a good laugh at my cap. You would have laughed too, you unkind boy,
if you had seen it! The poor thing had been a smart evening cap with
flowers on it when I went out, and now it was a funny little limp rag
of lace with no particular shape, only some odd bits of wet gummy silk
and muslin and wire still clinging to it. The flowers had turned into
these queer bits of stuff, and all the colour which had been on them
had been washed out on to the lace, which looked exactly like the rag
Louis wipes his paint-brushes on when he is colouring a battle-piece!
But the best of the joke was next morning (still pouring) when
Catherine came in and I pointed to it. She was speechless with horror,
and could not see any joke in it at all. But when I showed it after
breakfast to father and Louis, they were greatly amused, and teased
Catherine a good deal about having one cap less to pack up.
There is still “no hurry” I am told, so I shall have time to tell you
about the natives. A good many of them collected yesterday in front of
the hotel to see papa, and there was one big old man who called himself
their king. His crown, by the way, consisted of the rim of a very
ancient straw hat, of which he was extremely proud. They are generally
wretched and squalid looking, but each of these men was wrapped in a
good warm dark blanket, and were receiving rations of flour and tea and
tobacco, as they needed them. Money must not be given because they are
sure to spend it in rum. So the only return your father could make for
all their rapturous greeting, and the performances I’m going to tell
you about, was to order double rations of flour to be issued, and to
send them lots of tobacco.
During the one fine hour yesterday I heard a good deal of laughing and
calling “Guvna,” and I went out on the balcony of the hotel to see what
the cheerful noise meant; there I saw a circle of natives squatting
on the patch of grass across the road. They set up a great shout of
“Guvna” when they saw me, but still it was not me whom they wanted, and
I had to go in and make Pater leave his writing and come out to look
on, for it was he whom they were calling for. I need hardly say that
Louis, already the proud possessor of a native spear, was looking on
in rapt delight, and that the puppy kept frisking round the circle,
now challenging the wretched curs of dogs, belonging to the natives,
to single combat, and the next moment protesting against the whole
performance by barking furiously.
The first “act” was supposed to represent kangaroo hunting; and you
never saw anything so clever as the way the native made himself
look exactly like a kangaroo. I am sure no other human being could
possibly have imitated an animal so closely. Branches of trees had
been stuck into the ground to represent a forest or “bush,” as they
call it here, and presently the supposed kangaroo hopped cautiously
out into the open, looking warily about him, and began to feed. I
thought Louis would have had a fit from delight when the kangaroo,
still nibbling a bit of grass, sat up and scratched himself, exactly
like a real creature, turning his head from side to side. And he did
well to be cautious; for now from the shelter of the branches a hunter
comes stealing slowly out. He is crouching low and carrying a light
spear in his right hand; his faithful dog, watching every movement of
his finger, is creeping behind him. The instant the kangaroo stops
feeding, the hunter darts like a swallow behind the supposed tree,
and the dog also is not to be seen anywhere. However, after carefully
looking round, sniffing the air and perplexedly scratching his ear, the
kangaroo makes up his mind that it is all perfectly safe. He finds a
little water and laps it with great delight, and as the grass about the
spot may fairly be supposed to be damp and green, he shows his delight
at the good feed he has come across, and proceeds to roll on the
ground. But not for long, he is evidently uneasy, and after cautiously
looking round begins to move off, first with slow hops, turning his
head anxiously about, and then—too late, for the spear comes flying
through the air—with quick convulsive bounds; but the spear is
quivering in his side, and the dog, something like a gaunt greyhound,
is fast gaining on him, and in another moment has pulled him down, and
the hunter runs up to finish the poor kangaroo with a second spear.
Both he and the dog, however, have to take care to keep out of the way
of the wounded animal’s hind legs, for he is kicking vigorously.
It was really admirably done, and the dog entered into the spirit of
the little play, and acted as well as the natives. Louis begged for
it all over again, of course, but a couple more men stepped out, and
began stalking an emeu. That had to be differently arranged, for the
emeu lives on vast sandy plains, so all the branches were pulled up
and the emeu was supposed to be discovered slowly wandering over a
desolate bare country, looking for his breakfast. The clever part of
this performance was the way the man huddled himself up in his blanket
to make the hunchy body of the great bird, and then put up one lean
bare arm for the neck, and the hand, crooked at the wrist, was twisted
anxiously from side to side, just as an emeu would turn his head.
There were no trees, only low bushes here and there, so the hunter
pulled up one of these bushes and carried it in his hand, crouching
low down behind it, and whenever the emeu turned his head that way,
hunter and bush became as still as possible, and after a good look at
the bush,—which certainly was not so near, the emeu thought, when he
last saw it,—the big bird would go on feeding, kicking up the sand,
or turning over a stone to search for something under it. You must
know the emeu has nearly as good a digestion as the ostrich, and can
eat anything. This was a longer performance, for it is very difficult
to get near the emeu, so many disappointments were supposed to occur;
the emeu, after glancing suspiciously at the bush, would move, with
swift easy strides, farther away, and the poor hunter must then begin
all over again. I don’t really know how long this pantomime might have
gone on, if the rain had not recommenced; so the emeu relaxed his
watchfulness, the hunter crept quite close holding his bush before him,
then dropped it and flung a “kylie” (as they call it here, but it is
nearly the same thing as the boomerang of the other colonies), which
hit the bird’s head and stunned him, allowing the hunter to run up and
finish him with a light club. It seems the emeu is very easily killed,
so it was quite true to nature that so slight a weapon could kill so
big a bird.
A message came at noon to say that the captain of the little coasting
steamer thought we might venture out to sea, for the wind showed signs
of moderating, and your father is anxious to get up to Perth, nearly
350 miles up the coast, as soon as possible. Another reason for hurry
is that the two little seaports on the way, the Vasse and Bunbury, have
been making themselves gay these two days past, with flags and arches,
and getting feasts ready; and they are constantly sending distracted
telegrams to ask when the governor will arrive, for if it had not been
for this tremendous gale we should have started long ago. So we go on
board and start, leaving Catherine and Louis, and Monsieur Puppy, to
come overland in a comfortable covered carriage, with a pair of steady
old horses, and a careful driver. They will take about five days on the
way, for by land it is about 256 miles, chiefly through thick forests.
The roads are bad after the rain, but if the weather becomes fine it
will be better for them than another voyage.