We caught some dolphins, and an examination of their stomachs proved they were not unjustly suspected of eating the pretty little flying-fish. The pilot-fish, also found in these latitudes, is coloured purple and silver, with five black bands across it, and is about five inches in length. We also saw specimens of the white shark, porpoises, grampuses, Mother Carey’s chickens, booby-birds, etc.
One of the most interesting sights at sea is the passing of ships. I shall never forget our meeting a ship in full sail one glorious moonlight night. It came close to us, the moon shining full on its sails, and being like our vessel, a sailing ship, not a sound was heard until our captain hailed the stranger, and asked him to report us “all well.”
One would think there was not much danger of collision at sea, in broad daylight and in the open ocean, but on one occasion, while in a sailing ship, another came so close to us that it was only by the most dexterous management on the part of our captain that a collision was avoided.
The monotony of a long voyage is occasionally relieved by the opportunity of sending letters in homeward-bound ships, and when we had been out about a month we were told to have our letters ready, for a ship was in sight. Everyone was immediately deeply engaged in writing, and presently the stranger came sufficiently near for us to communicate with her. Our signal was run up, “Will you take letters for us?” to which she quickly replied, “With pleasure,” and then a boat left us to take our letter-bag on board the “homeward-bound.” This vessel was from Moulmein with teak, and she had been one hundred days out. Those on board had heard nothing of the Cabul massacre, but they brought us news of the capture of Cetewayo, having got it from a passing ship. In return for this intelligence we told them of the death of the Prince Imperial, which they had not heard of, although it happened before the capture of Cetewayo.
Some of our passengers went on board the passing ship, and two of them scrambled up the rigging, and presently we saw a sailor follow them and tie their legs to the rigging, releasing them as soon as they had paid their footing. In the evening the two ships parted company, saluting each other with rockets of various colours.
While our letters were being taken on board the homeward-bound ship, we saw a huge shark follow the boat until it reached the vessel, and on hearing a shout, “a big fish!” we ran to the ship’s side and saw a whale not more than a hundred feet off. The monster gave a loud snort, spouted water, and then made off. I wonder if it had any idea what we were?
There was a boxing match going forward one day, when the captain invited the parson to put the gloves on. “Oh, no,” he said, “I am a man of peace now.” He told me he objected to war as much as anyone could do. “But,” I said, “your Church does not.” He replied that there was nothing in the teaching of the Church which advocated war; so I asked him, if that was the case, what that part of the prayer-book meant where a hope is expressed that the Queen may “vanquish and overcome all her enemies.”
At dinner one day our friend undertook to explain to us how drain-pipes were made. He said, “You know those round things that are put in the earth to carry off the water?” Some one suggested drain-pipes. “Ah, yes,” he said, “you know they take a kind of clay not like other clay, and put it into a sort of machine and turn it around and the pipes are made.” I thought his description was not so good as that of the Irishman who explained the manufacture of cast-iron pipes by saying, “You take a round hole and pour the metal around it.”
Some one remarking that we were now 36° south, he said, “Ah, that is just 4° below freezing,” having confused the degrees of latitude with those of the thermometer. Upon being told that 32° was the freezing point. “Really?” he said, “I always thought it was 40°.”
In listening to most of the clergymen with whom I have travelled, I have been irresistibly reminded of the complaint made so bitterly, and with so much truth, by Australian importers in the early gold-finding days, that English merchants and manufacturers were utterly reckless as to the quality of the goods they sent out, acting on the principle that “anything will do for the Colonies.” This idea has long ceased to have any currency, for it has been discovered that the coinage of the Australian mint ranks equally with that of London, but it does not appear that those responsible for the due supply of clergymen to the Colonies have realised the same truth, for on every hand I have had my own experience confirmed. The general complaint amongst the colonists, especially in the country districts, is that either young and totally inexperienced men are sent to them, or else men who have proved failures at home; and they not unnaturally resent such treatment.
In a recent voyage we had a large number of steerage passengers, and amongst them was a very earnest, hard-working evangelist from Mr. Spurgeon’s college; this man had sacrificed his ease during the voyage by attending to the sick and ailing “in season and out of season,” and was admitted on all sides to have done much good; frequently, too, he held religious services amongst the steerage passengers, and met with great acceptance. One man had been very ill for a long time, and had been tenderly waited upon by the evangelist. After a time he became suddenly worse, and some passengers at once went to a clergyman, who suggested that the Communion should be administered. Having obtained the help of another clergyman and two or three of the passengers—none of whom had before shown any interest in the patient—they proceeded on their errand without saying a word to the evangelist, and on the following Sunday the clergyman preached a sermon to the poor people, endeavouring to prove that no one had any right to teach or to preach but members of his Church, who, only, held the true commission, by virtue of what he called the “direct succession from Peter:” and I suppose he thought he was preaching religion, not perceiving that he lacked what Paul described as being the highest of all the Christian virtues—that of charity.
In passing through the Tropics one of the most glorious sights is the phosphorescence in the sea. Of course it can be seen to the greatest advantage in the absence of the moon; it is something wonderful, and worth coming all the way to see. As far as the eye can reach, the track of the vessel is marked out with the utmost brilliancy, and sometimes tiny balls of phosphorus seem to explode, scattering their radiance far and wide.
We had as fellow-passengers three young men who rarely spoke to anyone outside their own party, and during the early part of the voyage they usually sat on the deck for hours at a time engaged in reading their Bibles and making notes on the margin. After we had been out a few weeks the youngest of the three was stricken with scarlet fever, and at one time he was seriously ill.
The trio were known as the “Danite Band.” The eldest was a young man about twenty-one, and one evening I had a little chat with him. He said he belonged to no sect; he had “come out from among them”—that his soul was safe, die when he would, and that he could only look on the poor sinners around him with a pitying eye, and pray for their souls. He was rejoicing at having saved one soul since he came on board. It so happened that this young man occupied the same cabin as the youth who was ill with fever, but becoming alarmed for his personal safety (not his soul’s), he requested to be accommodated elsewhere, while another passenger volunteered to take his place and to nurse the invalid, so they exchanged cabins. On the following Sunday the young man who had volunteered as nurse knocked at the pious young man’s door and asked for his boots, receiving for answer, “I won’t be bothered about boots on the Lord’s Day.”
It is usual to hold a bazaar on passenger ships proceeding to or from the Colonies. These bazaars are almost invariably held in aid of the funds of the Merchant Seaman’s Hospital and other similar institutions, and a large sum is annually obtained in this way. The result in the case of the sailing vessel in which I made one of my voyages was a sum of over £50, besides some annual subscriptions, although the number of adult saloon passengers was only about thirty.
Great preparations were made for this bazaar, it being the event of the voyage. The day previous the sailors were busily engaged closing-in the promenade deck with canvas and bunting, and dividing it off into stalls by means of flags and other coloured materials. While thus engaged, another sailing vessel came in sight, and the sea being nearly dead calm the two vessels approached closely, and parties were speedily passing to and fro. We invited some of the passengers in the stranger to join us to-morrow, and they invested about £5 in lotteries before going back for the night.
Next day was a most lovely one, but a heavy rolling sea was sufficient to prevent our visitors of yesterday joining us. Nevertheless, we thoroughly enjoyed the day ourselves, for the whole ship’s company—passengers, crew, men, women, and children—held high carnival on the promenade deck. It was pretty to see the children of the second class who, owing to the high bulwarks, were rarely able to see over the ship’s side, rush first of all to look over the rail at the heaving sea.
The first officer was dressed as a showman, and presided over the Fine Art Exhibition, his face being painted a fine terra-cotta tint. The crew and stewards were variously costumed as nigger minstrels, etc. The stalls were presided over by the ladies, who, as usual, were very successful in disposing of the various articles, which, by the way, were for the most part made up by the ladies themselves during the voyage. Much curiosity was excited by the announcement of a dramatic performance, entitled “The White Squall,” which was to take place in the Theatre Royal. The corps dramatique evinced great anxiety to secure the attendance of the whole ship’s company, and were fairly successful. The performance did not take long, for as soon as the audience were seated cries of “Let go” were heard from the actors, upon which the air was filled with a veritable “White Squall,” consisting of clouds of flour, causing a general stampede.
Next day we found our companion of yesterday lying at some distance ahead, while a stranger lay on the port quarter. A curious instance of cross-signalling ensued. The stranger asks our companion, the St. Vincent, for latitude and longitude. The St. Vincent missing this, and intent on their investment in yesterday’s lottery, puts up, “What have we won?” The reply, “Nothing.” The stranger runs up, “Don’t understand. Repeat, please.” Then St. Vincent replies, “Very sorry,” upon which our Captain signals the stranger, and removes all further doubt.
We passed close to the Island of Tristan d’Acunha, which lies in the South Atlantic, lat. 37° 6′ S., long. 12° 7′ W. As a curious little history attaches to the island, I make the following extract from our ship’s newspaper:
“Tristan d’Acunha is a volcanic peak of very considerable altitude, so considerable indeed that its summit is covered almost perpetually with snow. It rises sheer out of the water, and there is only a single landing-place on the whole island. Previous to the downfall of Bonaparte it was uninhabited; but when that scourge was despatched to St. Helena, the British Government deemed it advisable to secure this isolated rock, and so prevent the French using it as a base of operations against the place of Napoleon’s internment. A small company of soldiers, in charge of a corporal, was therefore despatched, and left in possession.
“In 1821 Napoleon died, and the necessity for maintaining the garrison at Tristan existed no longer. A man-of-war was accordingly sent to bring away the corporal and his little army. But he and they had by this time comfortably settled down, tilled the—rock we were about to say—and produced excellent potatoes and other vegetables; raised pigs and goats, and having in some mysterious way obtained wives, had raised families too. They were therefore extremely reluctant to leave the scene of their successful labours; and the English Government, nothing loth to encourage colonisation, at once gave the necessary permission to remain, and with it a small pension or annuity.
“They have gone on flourishing and increasing, forming a useful and peaceable community in the very centre of the South Atlantic; useful because whalers and other vessels, by putting in there, are able to obtain fresh potatoes, vegetables, and pigs. Little money is used, barter affording sufficient facility for interchange.
“Crime is almost unknown. We had as well said absolutely unknown, for it is doubtful whether the one case of dishonesty on record as such was not rather an ill-fared joke. It seems that when a marriage takes place a pig is killed by the bride’s father, and dressed the night before the nuptials. On the occasion referred to the pig disappeared before morning, and was traced to the house of a notorious wag, as to whose fate history is silent. It is only fair to add that he admitted taking the pig, but protested that it had been done by way of a practical joke. At one time a missionary existed in the midst of this innocent community, but he eventually disappeared—either died or was removed. His place was never refilled, and the consequences have been rather trying to the budding men and women of Tristan, for whereas in the missionary’s days loving couples could be, to use a nautical phrase, “spliced,” when they had made up their minds, now they must wait until a chance man-o’-war, with a chaplain on board, puts in, and as their visits are nearly as rare as those of the angels, the patience of these Tristan lovers must unquestionably be sorely strained. When, however, like some comet of very eccentric orbit, the parson does at length turn up, he finds plenty of ripe pairs ready—nay, eager—for him.
“What a popular man that parson must be! Last and most interesting fact. When the ‘Sobraon’ put in at Tristan in 1879 the corporal was still living, a venerable patriarch of ninety years.”
After leaving Tristan we soon get “into the forties,” or as the sailors are wont to say, “the rolling forties,” where the westerly winds steadily prevail, and continue right on until we make Cape Leeuwin. These winds cause the magnificent waves, or “rollers,” which tower up over the stern of the vessel, threatening, apparently, to overwhelm it. In a gale of wind, and when the “following seas” are running at a high speed, it becomes necessary for some vessels to “lie to” in order to avoid this catastrophe. We had an opportunity of seeing this operation. Soon after passing the Cape we were overtaken by a heavy gale, and a high following sea. Our vessel being a sailing ship of the old type, with broad bluff bows, necessitated our adopting that course. Our stern was turned in the teeth of the wind and sea, and, with the exception of a top-sail and jib-sail, all our canvas was closely taken in. She lay so all night labouring heavily, and the sea breaking over her decks.
Soon after sighting Cape Otway vessels bound for Melbourne receive their pilot, whose advent is the occasion of great excitement among the betting fraternity. Bets are laid on the colour of his hair and whiskers, whether or not he has a moustache, the letter with which his name begins, and which foot he will first put on deck. As soon as he makes his appearance he is greeted with shouts of “What’s your name?” Evidently he is accustomed to it, for he does not look surprised. In this particular case everyone was out as to the colour of his hair and beard, for he had a black beard and white whiskers. The pilot brought news of a general election in one of the colonies, and one of our passengers, a colonial statesman, eagerly asked him for papers. The statesman’s countenance was expressive of blankness within when he saw he was beaten in his constituency—but soon brightened on hearing he was returned by another.
The entrance to Hobson’s Bay is very narrow, and the distance therefrom to Melbourne is about 40 miles. We landed soon after six on a January morning, and found the heat almost unbearable. Taking a cab to our hotel, we made our first experience of the high charges in a Protectionist colony, for we were obliged to pay a guinea for this service.
When driving to the hotel we were struck with the deserted appearance of the streets, as very few persons were seen during our three miles’ ride from Sandridge. It did not occur to us that this arose from the earliness of the hour, our day having commenced about three A.M., when we began to make preparations for landing; but, as will be seen, the fact became of startling significance to us. While waiting for breakfast I took up the newspaper, and had not proceeded far before I came to an article headed “The Black Death in Melbourne.” This article gave a detailed and circumstantial account of the progress of the disease, which was stated to have been raging for the past four or five weeks. Among other things, the article stated that the number of deaths had become so great that it was impossible to dig separate graves; that the bodies were placed in trenches, one being dug each day; that all who could leave the city had fled; and that the mob had surrounded the Town Hall, demanding to see the Mayor and Corporation, who, however, had already disappeared. Getting alarmed, we rang for the waiter, and asked him how we could get to Adelaide. He naturally enough seemed surprised, as we had only just arrived. I told him it was too bad he had not warned us of the state of the city, and of the existence of the plague. The man looked astonished. I asked him if there had not been great illness and mortality in the city. He answered that there had been a few cases of measles, and a whooping-cough or two, and that six people had died during the last week from these causes. I began to suspect we had been “sold,” and was about to pass the paper to him when I caught sight of an asterisk placed against the heading, and on looking at the foot of the column saw that the article was written as a prediction of what would happen in Melbourne within 100 years unless sanitary matters were at once attended to.
Melbourne is a city of fine broad streets, handsome public buildings, splendid shops, and vast warehouses. Indeed, a stranger cannot fail to be struck with its metropolitan-like character. Only forty years ago the site on which it stands was a mere swamp with a few log huts; now its population is about the third of a million souls. For this population a series of educational institutions of an unusually high character have been founded, and are in active operation. The Free Library, which we visited, is a handsome room, and seems in every way well adapted to the requirements of a large number of students and readers. We were impressed with the quietude which prevailed, notwithstanding that the room was well filled with readers, most of them apparently of the artisan class. The Art Gallery is a free institution, and contains a very fair collection of good paintings.
The Natural History Museum, which by the way is really a museum of general science, is a truly magnificent institution. Very fine collections are here classified in a manner which, while perfectly lucid to the student, is also in strict accordance with the views of modern scientific authorities. We noticed particularly a good collection of sedimentary fossils, well preserved and fairly comprehensive. A fine meteorolite weighing 30 cwts., a portion of one weighing four tons which fell in Victoria a few years ago, is a prominent object near the entrance. This museum, in common with the Art Gallery and Free Library, is the resort of vast numbers of students, and it is cheering to be informed that the working classes largely avail themselves of the advantages thus provided for them.
As in the other Australian colonies, education here has been taken up in a vigorous and thorough manner, and the State schools are a credit to the colony. Although the population of Victoria is under one million, we observed in Melbourne a school bearing the inscription No. 1465. But with all this liberality and foresight, a strange blot exists in the educational course, for the study of history is, in deference to the prejudices of a portion of the population, absolutely interdicted. It is impossible, however, that this absurd concession to ignorance can long be endured. In leaving Aden on one occasion I began to have doubts as to whether geography was also excluded, for a young man, son of a well-to-do squatter, hearing me speak of Suez, asked which end of the canal that town stood at; and another youth, in passing the island of Candia, said he always thought Canada was somewhere in America.
Happily, no fears exist in Australia as to the policy of thoroughly educating the people; on the contrary, it is commonly recognised that the future prosperity of the State—indeed its very existence—depends upon the universal diffusion of education.
At the time of our visit party feeling ran very high in connection with the doings of the “Berry” Ministry, and as extraordinary personalities were nightly being indulged in by both sides in the House, we went one evening to hear a “debate.” The regular business seemed to be conducted as well as it is at Westminster, but it was curious to see the careless way in which the members, in brown holland or yellow silk coats, lay about on the sofas, or lazily lounged off to the table for frequent draughts of what was said to be iced water. The shouts, cries, and interruptions were very unseemly, much worse than anything we had then experienced, giving us a very low opinion of the representatives of the people. One honourable member, in the course of debate, hurled a heavy tome across the house at the head of one of his opponents with crushing effect, while another member characterised the smile of the Minister of Lands as being such as to “sour all the milk in the colony, and to take the varnish off all the mahogany in the house.” This compliment the Minister lightly parried by remarking that anything coming from the son of a cabbage hawker could not affect him.
The Melbourne legislators evidently do not believe in having “all work and no play,” they have consequently provided themselves—of course out of the public purse—with billiard tables, and, with a spirit of rare generosity and thoughtfulness, have made the parliamentary reporters for the Press free of the rooms.
With such provision for their comfort, and with handsome salaries paid them for their services by a grateful country, what wonder that there should be considerable competition for seats within the walls of the Victorian House of Parliament? and with what feelings of commiseration must they regard their brethren of New South Wales, who, when one of their number recently proposed to imitate the example of Melbourne in the matter of billiard tables, were reminded, in unmistakable terms by their exacting constituents, that they were sent to Parliament to work and not to play! And what makes the matter harder for the Sydney legislators is the fact that, unlike their Melbourne friends, they are not paid for their services.
The question of the payment of Members of Parliament has acquired considerable interest in England of late, mainly in consequence of Mr. Chamberlain’s declaration in its favour; and it appears not unlikely that at no distant date it may be carried into effect. There are two modes by which the object in view may be attained;—either by a general charge upon the Imperial Revenue, or by each constituency paying its own representative; in either case the amount of salary would be determined by Parliament; and, if the latter course be adopted, its payment would be made obligatory. In Victoria the salaries are paid direct from the Treasury, and those who have seen how the system works are the least enthusiastic in its favour.
Time was, when to be a Member of Parliament was looked upon as a certain way to repair a broken fortune, or to make a new one; but since the days when George III., of pious memory, taught his Ministers how to corrupt the Parliament, a seat in that assembly has not been considered to be pecuniarily advantageous. But in some of the Australian colonies the case is different, politics being looked upon, to a great extent, as a trade or profession, and very largely because of the salary attached to the position of Members of the Legislature.
One of my customers in Victoria, who had long owed me £50, told me he would soon be able to discharge his debt as he had been nominated for Parliament, and would pay me out of his first quarter’s salary! It is only fair to say that, although he failed to secure the seat, he nevertheless paid his debt.
The Houses of Parliament stand on a slight elevation, and though still unfinished, promise to be a magnificent pile of buildings, of which many an old-established country, with far greater pretensions than Victoria, might well be proud. The Great Hall, a sort of ante-chamber to the Houses, impressed me as much as any building of the kind I had ever seen. It is about 180ft. long, by 60ft. wide, and 60ft. high, without galleries, seats, or anything to detract from its magnificent proportions. The whole surface of the walls and roof is covered with a beautiful enamel-like cement, brilliantly white and polished quite smooth, the floor being of white marble, and a superb white marble statue of the Queen in the centre. The whole effect is startlingly beautiful. I subsequently went over the Town Hall and Council Chamber, but these are much inferior to corresponding buildings in Birmingham. The councillors wear cocked hats and gold-braided coats, and the aldermen black stuff gowns or robes.
I have already spoken of the tension in party politics at the time of our visit. This was seized upon by the theatrical people, who produced an adaptation of the burlesque known in England as “Happy Land,” the principal characters being Mr. Berry—the Premier, the man with the caustic smile, and another prominent member of the Administration. On the morning of the day on which the first representation was to have been given, a Cabinet Council was hastily summoned, and the question gravely debated as to whether the safety of the State, or at any rate the Cabinet, would not be compromised by tolerating the performance. It was quickly and unanimously decided to prohibit it, and this decision was announced. Such a universal storm of ridicule was thus aroused that the infatuated Berryites were driven to reconsider their course, ultimately licensing an emasculated version of the play, with all the political references erased. The newspapers, ever alive to the chance of turning a penny, and showing up an opponent, published the original in extenso, and when the performance began large numbers of the audience had copies before them. When an excised passage was reached, the actor or actress would pause, and, holding up the hand, whisper audibly, “Hush! prohibited,” giving time for those with copies to read the obnoxious reference. For days after people in the street would, on meeting, put up the finger, and greet each other with “Hush! prohibited.” The Government were overwhelmed with ridicule, and were glad to compromise with the persons they had so injudiciously provoked.
During the summer Melbourne is occasionally visited by what are called “hot winds.” They blow from the north, and derive much of their arid character from coming over the great wastes of the interior. We were unlucky enough to experience one of these hot winds, and we subsequently learned that the shade temperature had reached 117°—as high a point, I believe, as any that had previously been recorded in the city. It is no exaggeration to say that while exposed to the wind it felt like the hot blast from the cupola of a foundry when iron is being melted. The clothes were little or no protection against its scorching influence. The air was filled with choking clouds of dust, which penetrated everything and everywhere. In the evening, however, the wind fell off, leaving the temperature very high.
The sanitary arrangements in Melbourne are extremely defective, and to my mind fully justify the writer of the article on the “Black Death,” which so much startled us on our arrival there. There is literally no system of sewerage, the whole drainage of the town running by the side of the pathways in wide ill-paved channels, crossed by wooden foot bridges. The whole runs into the river Yarra. In heavy rains these channels become surcharged, and the lower-lying streets are flooded with diluted sewage. On such an occasion I was crossing one of these gutters, when a street-sweeper approached, holding his cap in one hand and his broom in the other, and asked me to remember “an old shipmate, your honour.” I soon recognised him as our old friend “Tall and Fat”. I could not help looking surprised, whereat he assured me he had found a most excellent berth as a street-sweeper—that none but gentlemen were engaged in the “profession,” all being Oxford or Cambridge men—the wages being 7s. per day. I asked after his friend “Short and Stout.” He said he held a similar appointment at an adjoining corner, and he promised to share my gratuity with him.
The country between Melbourne and Ballarat is flat and somewhat uninteresting, but near the latter city it becomes more hilly and diversified. Ballarat is a well-built city, containing about 40,000 inhabitants. A few years ago there were 10,000 more, but in consequence of the alluvial gold becoming exhausted a considerable exodus took place. The streets are wide, and have trees on each side; in some there are trees in the middle as well. The houses are substantially built of stone or brick, and altogether it has the air of being a busy and prosperous place.
We visited one of the gold mines, and as we approached the office saw three persons coming towards it, one of them carrying a parcel, which appeared to be heavy. It proved to be a brick of gold weighing 33 lbs., and worth about £1,200, being the result of one week’s working. We were shown the various processes of obtaining the gold from the quartz, and were rather surprised at the somewhat primitive character of the machinery employed.
Several of the companies with big-sounding names occupy spaces of only 60ft. by 50ft., and yet yield substantial returns. One such little patch is part of the Church land, and is called “Hallelujah Claim,” in honour of the Church. The total value of gold raised in Australia up to end of 1879 was 275 millions sterling.
One of the prettiest features of this handsome city is a fine sheet of water called Lake Wendouree. This lake is about a mile across, and lies in the crater of an extinct volcano. The Botanical Gardens are on the farther side of Wendouree, which has a fine boulevard round each side leading thereto. On the lake are several pretty little steamers, which make frequent excursions. In the evening they are provided with coloured lamps, and music and dances may be enjoyed by the passengers. Ballarat is less than thirty years old, yet has quite an old-world appearance. It is a charming city and well worth a visit, and we were well pleased to have seen it.
A favourite excursion from Melbourne is to the Black Spur Mountains, about two days’ drive from the city. Leaving Melbourne the route passes through some miles of suburban villa residences with beautiful gardens. After about ten miles “the bush” is reached, and continues for the remainder of the journey, relieved here and there by a clearing or by a little village. The term “bush” must not be understood as scrub, furze, etc., but all kinds of uncultivated land, thick forests, and open country. A curious feature of colonial life is to see in full operation the old stage coaches, so long ago discarded in England. They are painted a brilliant red, and indeed appear to be the veritable machines used in the “good old days when George the Third was king.” They are frequently drawn by six or more horses, and, true to their ancient traditions, now and then have a spill, for roadmakers in the Colonies have the same habit as their English brethren of making short “right about turns” at the bottom of steep hills. We drew up at a small wayside inn, intending to bait the horses, but found it was closed, owing to the death of the landlord. This man was a large wine grower, and his vineyards extended for a considerable distance round his house. After passing through many miles of country under vine cultivation we pulled up for the night at a little village called Healesville, where a very miscellaneous company sat down to a substantial repast, ending with what the waiter called a “soafler.” The light being dim it was difficult to see what the dish really was, and curiosity being awakened, inquiry elicited the fact that it was intended for a soufflé. The hotel being quite full of visitors, two of our party had to sleep in the parlour on sofas of the horse-hair order. The landlord, coming in to see if we were all right, informed us we could not have our boots cleaned in the morning, as his man was just then out on a boose. A colonial friend travelling with us remarked that it was “awkward when master or man took to boosing.” Our friend had previously told us that the landlord was generally “on that line.” “You never saw me boosy!” said he. “Never!” retorted our friend, with peculiar emphasis, which summarily stopped the discussion. We were awakened early in the morning by the screams of laughing jackasses and the crowing of cocks. Our toilette was performed somewhat under difficulties, one of us having to use the piano as a washstand, and another being constrained to go through the same operation in the open street under the hotel verandah. Our route now lay over a steep hill, through a forest of gum trees, the fragrance arising from the latter in the early morning air being delightfully refreshing. The main roads are kept very fairly, a certain number of men being told off for each section at 9s. per day wages. The old corduroy roads, formed by laying trees across the track and filling the interstices with earth, are being gradually superseded by Macadam. The men seemed to work in very leisurely fashion. We were to have breakfasted at a cottage on the road, but when we arrived there found that the old lady who kept it had gone to a ball at some village public-house, several miles away, as also had the owners of all the other cottages along the route. A little girl left in charge told us that after the ball all these good people were going to the funeral of the wine grower and innkeeper previously mentioned, and our friend told us they would doubtless stay there to comfort the widow as long as there was any wine left in the house. We soon after entered the region of the big gum trees and of the tree ferns, and a wonderfully beautiful sight it was.
The whole valley is filled with tree ferns, and the fronds, in many cases being new, with the sunlight falling upon them, formed a picture not soon to be forgotten. Some of the gum trees were enormously large—we saw several 15ft. in diameter and over 200ft. in height—but these were small when compared with some found in the less frequented parts. In the midst of such surroundings lies the pretty little village of Fernshaw. When we were first invited to spend a week at the country house of our friend we rather unreasonably pictured in our minds an English country or seaside residence, and anticipated much pleasure in the change from dusty Melbourne. Our surprise was great, therefore, when after jolting over some half-formed roads we came upon a clearing among the gum trees, and were told that the wooden shanty before us was the Melbourne citizen’s country house. We were not disposed, however, to be very critical, for the sixty miles drive in the mountain air had made us hungry, and we were quite ready to respond to the invitation to the evening meal. But our disillusion was complete upon entering the sitting room and finding that no provision had been made for the satisfying of our keen appetites. By some accident the supplies from Melbourne had not arrived; the rough table was covered with a couple of towels, and on it was spread a repast consisting of some bad bread and sour raspberry jam, while the “cup which cheers but not inebriates” was innocent of milk and sugar. It was Saturday evening and we were “out of humanity’s reach,” being many miles from any source of supply, so had to content ourselves as best we might with this Spartan fare until the Monday, when our host proposed an excursion to a distant part, involving the staying a night at an hotel. We gladly embraced the proposal, and finding that the hotel was a comfortable one I determined to excuse myself from joining in the excursion on the following day in order that I might have the opportunity of recruiting nature’s exhausted powers by an extra meal, a resolution I had much satisfaction in carrying into effect. Our friend and his sons own about one thousand acres, at present covered with trees, with the exception of a small clearing round the house. When a piece of land is taken, the first care is to fence it, which is done with logs, at a cost of £25 per mile, including the cutting of the logs. The next step is to “ring” the trees—that is, to cut a deep groove round them, and so by killing them prevent any further exhaustion of the soil. The trees being dead, vegetation rapidly springs up, and there is soon abundance of food for cattle. Clearing the ground of trees and stumps is a very costly operation, and takes many years to finally accomplish. The Government with a view of preventing the accumulation of lands in a few hands, refuse to sell more than 320 acres to one person, but of course this is easily evaded. At the time of our visit the price was £1 per acre, payable in ten years by equal instalments, a condition being that some one should reside upon the allotment. At the end of three years the owner can obtain from Government a lease of the land, and can then pay up the full value, which leaves him at liberty to sell if he wishes to do so. Of course the building up of large estates is thus encouraged, but this could, perhaps, be prevented by imposing a tax on every acre. The 20,000 acre men would soon be compelled to dispose of some of the land which they hold in the expectation that it will increase in value. Such a plan has been proposed, but it naturally met with great opposition from the landed interest.
Leaving our friend’s house a drive of a few miles through the bush brought us to the picturesquely-situated village of Marysville. This little village lies in a deep hollow surrounded by fine ranges of tree-clad hills of extreme beauty. A pleasant hour’s walk from the village, under the shade of the tree ferns, took us to the Stephenson Falls. The principal fall is 80ft., and the volume of water is unusually large for an Australian waterfall. Close to the fall are some magnificently large tree ferns, and while sitting here enjoying the lovely view some little birds came flitting about, one of them hopping on to the shoulder of one of our party, attracted, doubtless, by the aroma of a fragrant “weed” which at the time he was enjoying. English visitors to Australia, especially those in search of health, would find the conditions existing at Marysville most conducive to their restoration. The air is bracing, and as before stated, the scenery most delightful. A tolerably good accommodation is to be had at the inn, which will doubtless be improved as the place becomes more widely known.
Returning to Melbourne, we stayed another night at Healesville, arriving at 7.30, and as we had fared badly during the day we were quite ready for a substantial dinner, and from our previous experience of the house made no doubt of obtaining it. But unfortunately for us, there had been a chapel tea-party during the afternoon, at which a large force of parsons had been present. We had therefore to be content with a tough, woody steak, a wild duck of ancient and fish-like smell, varied by salted mutton. The butter was rancid and full of dead flies, and the bread appeared to have been cast upon the waters. We had to go to bed feeling quite faint, but hoping for a better breakfast. The beds were good, and we should have had a good night’s rest, which we sorely needed after the twig beds of the previous night at the Marysville Hotel, but the partitions between the rooms being only of half-inch plank everything passing around us could be heard all too plainly. A little after midnight some fellows came in from night-fishing, and going into the room next ours woke us up by a great noise. One old donkey was telling the two younger ones he had had a deal of experience among snakes, killing as many as eight a day for many years, and that as the result of a series of experiments during that time he had found an infallible cure for snake bites. He had offered his discovery to the Government for £1,000, and his partner offered to be poisoned by the most deadly snakes to test its efficacy, but all to no purpose. So he had determined to let the secret die with him. The others asked if the sovereign remedy was to be swallowed. “Oh, no,” said the old fellow, “for it is composed of five deadly poisons. You must first cut out the wounded part, and rub the antidote in. But,” added he, “the secret shall now die with me.” “But how about your partner?” asked the others. “Won’t he tell the secret?” “Oh no,” was the reply; “he’s safe enough, for he’s dead.” Then we heard the voice of the landlord’s pretty daughter telling them it was time to go to sleep, upon which the old boy growled, “I wonder people can’t go to sleep without bothering me.” The rest of the night was made miserable for us by the two “night fishers,” who, rising long before dawn, went prowling about the different rooms, ours included, collecting their tackle for a shooting expedition, but leaving behind them, as we found afterwards, their percussion caps.
We returned to Melbourne by another route, affording us some fine views of the plains called Yarra Flats, and the Marysville Hills in the far distance.
At the end of January we left Melbourne for a few weeks’ tour in Tasmania, taking steamer from the wharf on the Yarra Yarra, the river upon which the capital of Victoria is situated.
The banks of the Yarra have been selected as the scene of the operations of all the most offensive trades in the colony—the bone boilers, tanners, fellmongers, candle makers, chemical manure makers, glue manufacturers, etc., in addition to which all the sewage which is not left on the surface of the streets is run into it. The river is very narrow, the fall to the sea extremely slight, and the traffic great, hence at every revolution of the paddle-wheel or screw-propeller the abominations from the depths below are stirred up and mingled with those coming from the before-named savoury factories, forming a more horrible compound than ever proceeded from witches’ cauldron. In this one respect the New World has certainly shot far ahead of the old, for even the memory of ancient Cologne is made savoury to the nostrils by this colonial stench.
Our friends came to say good-bye, and brought quite a sack of peaches and apricots, which were very acceptable during the voyage. If there were on board any roysterers or betting men they had no opportunity for displaying their peculiarities. Until we reached the entrance to the river Tamar almost every person on board was ill, for Bass’s Straits is notorious for its disagreeable cross seas.
Launceston is forty miles up the river, and is the capital of the county of Cornwall, as in England. The scenery along the river banks is very beautiful, and is so exactly like the Truro river at home that it is difficult to believe we are out of England. The river is winding and broad, and the shores slope gently down from high ground covered with trees. Here and there are bright green meadows and villages and scattered farmsteads and churches. I saw nothing in Victoria to compare with it.
Launceston, a quiet city of 10,000 inhabitants, is surrounded by hills. Looking down upon it, one is reminded of Florence from Fiesole, the beautiful climate and clear air being quite Italian, with the lovely Tamar winding its circuitous route for miles away. We drove out towards a place called the “Devil’s Punch Bowl,” walking the last mile through a beautiful wood down a hill, with firs, gum trees, etc., in abundance, with here and there delightful glimpses of green glades. The air was filled with the sounds of the tree locusts and the tremendous hissing noise of the cicadas, the sun shining through the trees and producing a temperature and light which were simply perfect. The only drawback is the presence of snakes, which, our driver said, are very abundant here. The scene is truly English. At the bottom of the little wooded valley we came upon an old wooden shanty, where we tried to get a glass of milk, but there was no one at home. Presently an old man appeared, driving cows. We asked him for milk—he had none, but gave us water, and offered raw eggs. My companion took two, and said he liked them, but I am sure he liked the first best. The old man was seventy-three years of age, and lived there alone, sleeping on a door covered with an opossum rug. He told us his master died there close by the bee-hives a few weeks ago, “so,” said he, “I put the bees in deep mourning, or they would all have left.”
I wrote my notes sitting on a gatepost, out of the way of snakes; the moon shone brightly, and in the distance I could hear the church bells, mingled with the voices of children, the tinkling of cowbells, and barking of dogs.
The shops close at six o’clock, but the public-houses of course remain open. I observed a small fruit-shop, a mere shanty, with the sign of “Pomona’s Temple,” and a hairdresser’s saloon with the high-sounding name of “Tonsorial Palace,” while a democratic opponent in the same street, with a proud humility, called his place of business a “Barber’s Shop.”
Strolling in the town one evening I talked with a policeman, who was an almost exact counterpart of Count Moltke. He had just received his new regulation helmet, and did not like it at all: it was hard and heavy. He was very pleased to hear we liked Tasmania better than Victoria. “Ah,” said he, “you will find real hospitality here; here everybody helps everybody, but in Melbourne everybody helps himself, and the bobby or somebody catches the hindmost.” He said he had been a policeman for twenty years, and, “although I say it as shouldn’t, I will say for the Launceston police, they are the most civillest, honestest body of policemen going,” with which I quite agreed.
Another beautiful ride is to the Cora Linn, seven miles from Launceston. On one side of the road, stretching almost the whole distance, is a hedge of sweetbriar, giving forth delicious perfume. It is difficult to get accustomed to the reversal of the seasons; here in February the farmers are busy cutting and saving their corn, but with no fear of rain to spoil their harvest, as in England. A bridge crosses the Linn, and a cataract-like stream tumbles down over rocks, very much like the Lynn at Lynmouth. Below the bridge is a deep basin, and all around are numbers of queer trees, young and old, with many burnt-out trunks black as negroes, with white spots in them like eyes. The trees and shrubs are full of cicadas making a great noise.
Leaving Launceston, we drove to Falmouth, ninety miles away. The road lies through a beautifully-wooded country; indeed, the entire ride is just like going through a park in England. We saw lots of magpies, very much larger than ours, but quite as mischievous. A gentleman told us a person once asked him to change a sovereign, which he did, and then looked for the sovereign, but it could not be seen. Presently, looking up, he saw Master Mag in a shrub, with one eye shut, his head on one side, and standing on one leg, with the piece of gold in his mouth.
Our first night’s stopping-place was at Stoney Creek, where there is a comfortable hotel, just like a private house, with only one other house for miles around. Near to the hotel flows the River Esk, a black, silent, swiftly-flowing and suicidal-looking stream, suggestive in its motion of some huge black snake, of which there are many in the neighbourhood. In crossing a field to look at the river our clothes became covered with burrs and spines from the prickly pear. We sat down on a grassy mound to watch the flowing of the river, but had quickly to move, as we found ourselves in the midst of a colony of great ants. The following verses were written on the occasion by one of my companions:
THE DOCTOR CONTEMPLATES—A POEM
Thou art in happy England
With peace, content, and joy,
And there no poisonous reptiles
Thy comfort can destroy;
No hissing sound the startled ear
With fear of death awakes—
Thou art in happy England,
I, in the land of snakes.About thy household duties
Serenely thou canst go,
No fear of fierce tarantulas
Or scorpion brings thee woe;
And day by day flows calmly on,
And sleep wings through the night—
Thou art in happy England,
I, where mosquitos bite.Thou hast the trusty faithful dog,
The quiet, harmless cat,
But I the fierce Tasmanian D—,
Opossum, and wombat;
Familiar objects greet thy sight,
Here all is strange and new—
Thou art in happy England,
I, with the kangaroo.Thou hast the blithe canary,
The robin chirps to thee,
While here the magpies chatter
And rail from every tree;
Bright parrots glint beneath the sun,
And shriek their hideous song—
Thou art in happy England,
I, wattle-birds among.Thou canst recline in any place,
And watch the moments pass,
Here burrs and prickles fill the clothes
While lying on the grass,
They stick into the flesh, and sting
Like gnat, or wasp, or bee—
But thou in happy England
From all such plagues art free.Hurrah for happy England,
For all the folk at home!
From hill and dale resounds the cry,
No matter where we roam.
Rare scenes of beauty greet the sight,
The balmy air is sweet,
But still I sigh for England
Where thou and I shall meet.DR. L—.
The landlady was a widow, her husband having recently died. Her son had just returned from sea, where he had been for twelve years. He had been wrecked three times, and the last time should have given him enough of the sea for the rest of his life. It was in the ship “Euxine,” taking 3,000 tons of coal to the Mauritius. She took fire off the Cape of Good Hope in the midst of a terrific storm. The captain was washed overboard and drowned; a sailor was also swept away, and while only twenty feet from the ship was attacked by a flock of albatrosses, right in sight of his comrades. He fought with them, but all in vain, and the wretches literally pulled him in pieces with their strong bills in a very few minutes. The crew got out the boats, but of course they were in a bad state. It was, however, a choice between burning and drowning, so they put off, preferring to risk the latter. After two or three days, two of the boats were picked up, but the third was out for eleven days. The poor wretches on board had nothing whatever to eat, and in their extremity were driven to cast lots which among them should die. One unhappy man was disposed of, and in two hours after a ship came in sight and picked them up.
A lovely drive through Epping Forest brought us to Avoca, where “the bright waters meet,” the North and South Esk uniting here. Our route lay along a fine road, through avenues of gum trees, wattles (acacias), cultivated for their bark, the sweetbriars and hawthorns scenting the air delightfully. We saw a splendid eagle, and large numbers of parrots, magpies, and hawks.
On our way we passed many residences of great woolgrowers, owning as much as 20,000 acres of land each, but living, for the most part, in England, their affairs in the Colony being managed by agents. They keep only one man on each 5,000 acres. There is scarcely any agriculture, although the land is very suitable, but being taken up in this way, there is no room for population to increase, and the people have to emigrate.
At Fingal we stopped at an hotel, kept by an Irishman married to a Jewess. They presided at either end of the table, and kept us short of food; indeed, I never saw a small joint go so far before. Next day we left the hotel, still hungry, although the charges were quite as high as those at the Great Western Hotel, Paddington.
Soon after leaving Fingal we saw something by the roadside which looked very like a snake, and on examining it we found it was one—a black snake, 4ft. 6in. long. It lay perfectly still, and presently we found it was dead; but the sensation was not pleasant. A gentleman at the hotel told us he had killed four the night previously, and doubtless this was one of them.
After passing through the charming village of St. Mary’s, embowered in trees, we entered a lovely avenue, two miles in length, filled with beautiful flowers and ferns, the air laden with scents from the gum and other trees, and on emerging came upon St. Mary’s Pass. This is an immense gorge, four miles long, filled with fine trees, the road, which is remarkably good, being cut in the side of the cliff by convicts in the old days of Van Diemen’s Land. It winds down the valley to the sea at Falmouth, and on either side rise lofty hills, while the valley below is 1,000 feet deep, and filled with immense trees of various kinds, including the tree fern. I have seen most of the passes and valleys in the Tyrol, but have never seen one to excel this in grandeur or beauty.
In the map the word “Falmouth” was printed in rather large letters, so we expected to find a somewhat considerable place. At the head of the pass we were told the township lay between the foot of the hill and the sea. On getting down the hill we could plainly view the sea and the intervening land, but no town was visible. Inquiring of some little boys the way to Falmouth, they directed us away to the right. We went on, feeling assured we were going wrong; and presently, meeting a gentleman, we inquired again, when he told us to retrace our course, to go through an ordinary field gate, and that we should then get to Falmouth in three minutes! We told him that the little boys had directed us the other way, but he said we should have asked for “Hotel.” The town of Falmouth, where the boys lived, consisted of two or three houses, and was a mile from the hotel. On exploring the place next day we were informed that fifty years before it was much more important than now. Miles of streets were marked out, but were grass-grown, and there were not more than a dozen houses in the place, all built of wood, and of one storey in height. The burying-place for the district is about a mile away, on the open common, each grave being surrounded with stakes, with no wall or fence enclosing the whole. It was a melancholy sight, reminding me strongly of the graves on the battlefields of the Franco-German war.
The beach and sands are very fine, like those of my native county. The bathing is delightful, but you must keep a sharp look out for sharks. One morning, however, while bathing, we stood in much greater danger from the mad folly of some Cockneys who had recently come to the hotel. We had been bathing in an arm of the sea, the point beyond which it was not safe being marked by a stake driven into the sand. Between our bathing place and the hotel was a high sand bank, screening us from sight, the stake being visible from the verandah of the hotel. After dressing, we were leisurely walking up the sandbank towards the hotel, when we were startled by a bullet passing between our heads and lodging in the sand behind us! We threw up our towels and shouted, and then saw the Cockney sportsman standing on the platform under the verandah, from whence he had been aiming at the stake in the sand with his rifle for the past half hour. On examination we found the sand riddled with bullets, not 50ft. from where we had been bathing. The little burying ground possessed a new significance in our eyes after this incident. We found some beautiful sea-shells during a delightful walk along the beach towards Swansea, and on our return called upon the gentleman who put us right for Falmouth on our arrival. He is a farmer from near Oxford, and had been here seven or eight years, finding it a terribly lonely place. Recently his nine children and his servants took the measles, and his wife being ill, he had to nurse them all. When they got well his wife sickened and died, leaving him with seven daughters and two sons, the eldest being only fourteen years old. The nearest doctor lived more than thirty miles away.
In order to get to Hobart Town, we had to retrace our steps some sixty miles, as there is only one road on this side of the island. We stayed a night at Avoca, a charming place, but the roads were a foot deep in dust. Although the climate is so fine, and everything favours the growth of fruit, there is very little grown. It is alleged that fruit trees do not prosper, but I had ample evidence that the cause is to be found in the indifference or laziness of the people. Strolling in the neighbourhood of the village, we came upon a beautiful orchard, and were admiring the large, ripe plums, when a voice behind said, “Walk in, gentlemen, and help yourselves.” The speaker was a hearty old man, who had lived here forty-six years. He came from Ledbury, and was much interested in hearing about Birmingham. He told us that the day before he left England he walked from Ledbury to Birmingham to see the Nelson statue in the Bull Ring.
The old man told us a snake story, which strikingly illustrates the vitality of these reptiles. A short time previously he and his son went across a neighbouring mountain on horseback to visit one of their farms. Going “single file” between the trees, the son, who was leading, suddenly called out to his father, “Look out, there’s a snake,” and at the same instant his horse started. The old gentleman got off, and finding it was a “carpet snake,”—one of the most venomous species—caught up a stick, and aimed a blow at it. The stick however was rotten, and broke without hurting the reptile, which now prepared to strike; but the old man managed to get his heel upon its head, and ground it into the earth; and having, as he thought, killed it, tied a piece of string around its middle, and bending a wattle tree down, attached the end of the string to one of the branches, and then released the tree. They thought no more of the matter until three days after, when two of his men, returning from his farm with a cart, were seen by their master dragging a snake behind the cart. He asked them where they caught it; they explained that while coming down the hill side, their attention was arrested by a snake in a tree clashing towards them, but unable to release itself. On examination, they found it was tied up! “So that after all,” said the old man, “it was only scotched, not killed.”
A fellow-traveller on the coach told us that he was coming from the tin mines near Mount Bischoff, and that for some months he and his partner had slept in hammocks slung from trees. One night, just as he was going to sleep, something dropped from the tree across his body. He took it in his hand, and finding it was a snake, he flung it from him, when it alighted on his companion. Luckily, both escaped unhurt. He also told me of the experience of a friend of his, a Government surveyor, who was frequently in the woods for weeks together, with one or two men. This gentleman slept in a hammock suspended from trees. The hammock was in reality a sack, hanging some feet from the ground, into which he got at night. One night he had retired as usual, and being very wearied, did not at once notice that there was independent movement at his feet. Very soon, however, he realised the fact that a snake had gone to bed before him, and was coiling itself round his legs. The gentleman quickly got out, unhurt, and soon killed the snake.
I also read in a colonial paper another account of a night adventure with a snake. A lady had retired to rest, and was fast asleep; the weather being very hot, one of her arms was outside the clothes, and during the night she was awakened by feeling something trying to force its way between her arm and her side; she quickly realised the situation, and without moving, tightly pressed her arm against her body and prevented the venomous reptile from getting between, when presently it glided over her shoulder and fell on the floor with a thud. She was soon out of bed at the other end, and calling for help and a light the snake was quickly despatched.
The doctor in this place has charge of a district sixty miles in diameter, and always expects his fees before leaving his house; but although he has so large a district, I question if he makes his fortune, for although acres are many, people are few, and the salubrity of the climate does not favour the medical profession.
The main road between Launceston and Hobart is struck at Willis’s Corner, a few miles from Campbelltown—the principal town in the interior of the island. There is a station here on the main-line railway. The gauge of the line is thirty-nine inches, I think.
Campbelltown is a straggling place, with streets enough laid out for a city, but with only few houses, and it is not likely many more will be built, as the railway is expected to take away its trade, which depends mainly upon the coach traffic. The streets are about one hundred and twenty feet wide, which is greatly in excess of all requirements, and causes the traffic to run in ruts, instead of being distributed over the roadway, giving a desolate appearance to the whole place. As a rule, the Tasmanian roads are very good, having been made in the old days by convict labour, but you must not venture to mention the word “convict;” the people all speak of these public works as having been executed by Government. Having had so much done for them by the Government, the Tasmanian people are lacking in energy, and are much too prone to rely upon outside help; and yet when Melbourne people come over to invest capital in mines and other industries, the cry is that the strangers are taking all the money out of the country. As I have said, the farms are of a great size, but the number of men engaged are but few. The farmers have two great enemies—the thistle and the rabbit. It is said the former was introduced into the colonies by a patriotic Scotchman, to remind him of his bonnie Scotland, the rabbit being introduced for the purpose of sport; but, like our old friend the sparrow, they have so increased as to be the cause of serious loss, and are the subjects of special legislation. Some landowners spend many thousands of pounds in putting walls around their estates to keep the rabbits out.
From Campbelltown to Hobart is seventy-six miles, and we rode the whole distance in a single day. The country is very beautiful, and towards the end of the journey we had fine mountain and river scenery. The Derwent is a splendid river, running through a lovely country, sometimes through rich pasture lands and hop gardens, and at other times between high precipices and rugged country.
Mount Wellington is a remarkably fine mountain of 4,000 feet in height, and is topped with snow for a considerable portion of the winter.
Villages are very scarce on the road, and shops few, so the inhabitants get most of their requirements from hawkers, who visit all parts of the island with horses and vans, carrying all kinds of goods. We passed several with their wares spread out on the ground. Our coachman told us rather a good story of two of these “merchants,” as they are usually called. These men travelled the road together as partners, having a standing agreement between them that only one should get drunk at a time, so that they were not unfrequently seen riding, one of them as drunk as a lord or a fiddler, while the other was perfectly sober, but merry. One day, however, they broke the rule, and both got drunk together, letting their horse go just as it liked. Unhappily, as they were turning a corner in the road, a coach came bowling along and ran into them, breaking their van and many of their bones, besides spoiling most of their stock-in-trade. The coachman could not tell us if the accident had the effect of making the men teetotallers.
View in the Public Gardens, Hobart
Hobart (as Hobart Town is now called) is most beautifully situated, with extensive public gardens, charmingly laid out, and having the advantage of an abundance of water from the River Derwent. The Governor’s house is admirably placed, commanding extensive views of river and mountain scenery. The citizens are exceedingly hospitable, and we were not long at the hotel before we were visited by a gentleman who informed us he had entered our names on the books of the principal club, and also invited us to a grand representation of “Martha.” There are many charming excursions in the neighbourhood of Hobart. One of the most beautiful is to New Norfolk, about two and a half hours’ steam up the Derwent river. As we approach New Norfolk the river gets very narrow, and we pass through a part called “Hell Gates,” having steep lofty cliffs on one side, and a beautiful tongue of land with trees and lovely green grass on the other. The name I thought particularly ill chosen.
The village of New Norfolk is prettily situated among the hills, with the lovely Derwentwater at its feet. Its principal industry is the growing of hops. We went into the gardens, and saw the people busily picking the hops, which were very fine.
Another beautiful excursion is to Fern Tree Valley, a lovely spot with a fine avenue of tree ferns, and with many immense gum trees in the surrounding woods.
There being no steamer to Sydney or Melbourne for a week, we drove over the road to Launceston, 120 miles distant. Soon after leaving Hobart we crossed the River Jordan, passed through Jericho, near to Jerusalem, stopping at Bagdad for breakfast.
Although February had just gone, the weather was still intensely hot. The harvest was nearly over, and the wheat looked beautiful. I saw some eight feet high, and a person told me he had frequently seen it grow as high as ten feet. Lunching at Melton Mowbray, we came on to Oatlands, driving the last few miles by moonlight, the night being very cool.
At Oatlands is a large gaol, where in old times a number of England’s sons were confined, many of them having been sent there for political “offences,” which in our happier times have conducted the best of Englishmen to the Council Board at Windsor. The gaol is now almost untenanted. In passing along we saw the ruins of many of the miserable old barracks, where the convicts used to live. Everything looks half finished, and I have scarcely seen one window blind furnished with cords for winding; they roll them up and pin them, consequently the blind is full of pin holes. We stopped a night at the best hotel in Campbelltown, a really well-appointed house; but on trying to open the front door, the knob came off in my hand! We greatly enjoyed our three weeks’ stay in Tasmania; in many respects it is more interesting than the mainland, while the climate is much more agreeable to Englishmen. A pleasant passage of twenty hours brought us to Melbourne again, and the weather being still very hot, we decided to go on to Sydney by steamer.