And now for a brief spell I have been privileged to go into the interior of the country, although, be it noted, the traveller never gets very far from the sea. I am to-day paying a visit to a town of which I have heard a great deal more than would at first sight seem to be warranted by the official numbers of its population. Palmerston North is on the great central plain, which is, equally with the South Island, a feature of the formation of New Zealand. There are two ways of getting there from Wellington. One direct by the privately owned Manawatu Railway, and the other circuitously by the State Line. And as travellers usually do not care to waste time, however much they may have on their hands, it follows that the privately owned line is extensively patronised. Its chief station in Wellington is not, to say the least of it, at all imposing, being only a collection of humble wooden buildings. But then all these Antipodean railways have followed the example set them by the Yankees in that they do not believe in spending overmuch money upon stations or permanent way, although, to do them justice, they are not nearly so casual in their arrangements as are the Americans, who seem to regard, in railway matters especially, expenditure such as we at home deem a necessity, sheer improvident extravagance. Another thing which I was sorry to see was that the rolling stock was exclusively American, with all the temporary features that implies. But this is, of course, purely a domestic matter in which a visitor from home has no right to interfere.
I confess, however, that I was not prepared for the question put to me in the train to-day by a middle-aged gentleman who was the editor of a newspaper devoted to the farming interest. In all seriousness he asked me whether we had any dining-cars on the railways at home! I was compelled to ask him whether he was joking, but it appeared that he was quite sincere in his ignorance, and it then appeared in further conversation that he had a fixed idea that all our catering arrangements in England on the railways had been taught us by the Colonies. Now it is quite true that there was a good dining-car on this train, wherein was served a comfortable, well-cooked meal, but in all its appointments it was very far behind what we get upon any of the long-distance lines at home. And when I endeavoured to explain the difference between the train in which we were then travelling and a Great Northern or Midland express, he said, "Oh yes, but then you have the advantage of the broad gauge!" It was impossible to pursue the conversation at any length, because I could see that he did not believe a word I was saying, so I relapsed into a book.
Now no one would dream of comparing the railways in a settled old country like Great Britain, where safety, permanence, and comfort of travelling are the main considerations and high speed is a necessity, with the first tentative efforts at railway communication in a new country where people are quite satisfied with an average speed of about fifteen miles an hour, and where, the line being single, it is necessary to wait at certain stations until the train bound in the opposite direction has passed. I am very glad indeed to say that the railways in New Zealand are well managed, the stations generally quite adequate and easy of access, and the refreshment business, on the prohibition principle, well attended to. But when I am calmly asked whether we know anything about railway management at home, I find it difficult to keep from making sarcastic remarks, as I do when I am told that agriculture in Britain is still generally conducted on the lines of reaping-hook or sickle and flail.
Ah well, I suppose this curious state of mind will continually be found among those who have been bred or born in a new country, and I do not know that it does much harm. They are so inordinately proud of the progress they see that they cannot imagine anything being more up-to-date or go-ahead.
The distance from Wellington to Palmerston North is about forty miles, and leaving there—Wellington—at 8 a.m. we arrive at 11.40, this being an express train, the next train leaving at 10.10 arrives at 4 p.m. The journey was not in any way remarkable, except for the occasional glimpses of great stretches of down land, literally covered with fallen, bleached trees, in many places so thick that they covered the whole ground. This is where the fire has been run through them, and is the preliminary process of making grazing land. But I could not help thinking that it was a sinful waste of timber, either for firewood or paper-making, and no attempt was being made to clear the land or to expedite in any way the process of its conversion into pasture. I ventured to ask several times whether nothing could be done with all that wood. I always received the same answer, "that it did not pay to cart it away for firewood, and as for dealing with it in any other way, well, labour was too dear." So it remained an eyesore and an hindrance. Occasionally, where the fallen trees were fewer in number, cattle were to be seen grazing between the trunks and apparently doing very well indeed. Where the land was quite clear, as on our Wiltshire and Sussex downs, there were plenty of sheep, all looking in splendid condition, so that the pasture must be of a very high quality. Here and there the sheep were feeding in fields of turnips, being specially fattened I suppose, but these were few and far between.
One curious feature of the land to me was its extremes. It was either very flat or very hilly; no gently undulating country such as we have so much of at home; but all of it worth money, and big money at that, mostly for grazing purposes. Every little town that we passed through wore a delightful air of quiet comfort, while both men and women looked fairly well-to-do, although they let their children run about barefooted in a way that is disconcerting to an Englishman. That, however, is probably only a fad, since the kiddies looked anything but poor in other respects.
Palmerston North came really as a surprise. Owing to the fact that it lies upon a perfectly level plain it is not nor can it be picturesque; indeed it might, only the word sounds unkind, be called straggling. It certainly does cover a very large area for its population, and those responsible for its laying-out have been most generous in the matter of streets. Also wherever there are any public buildings they are as usual in the North Island of the prevailing construction, stucco-covered brick. I have often wondered what could have become of all the plasterers when stucco went out in England. I know now: they came to New Zealand, and here they revel in their favourite medium, imitating stone to their hearts' content.
There is a spaciousness about Palmerston that is delightful. It fills one with the idea that it must some day be a great city, although the railway running along through the main street for its whole length bordered by grassy breadths upon which may be seen feeding the casual horse or cow, does not inspire much hope that it ever will be. Nevertheless, there is a great hotel a-building which would not be unworthy of a town ten times the size, and so I feel that there must be some basis for all this confidence. Here let me say with all the emphasis at my command, that my first impressions of hotel life in Australasia given you in my second chapter have been deepened and confirmed by every fresh one that I have stayed in, until I am fully prepared to swear that of all the countries I have ever travelled in Australasia is easily first in the matter of hotels. The food is always excellent, well-cooked, and abundant; the accommodation is invariably comfortable, the attendance all that could be wished, and the prices on an average about one-half of what they are anywhere else. Sorrowfully do I confess that I have never stayed in any British hotel that was nearly as good, as far as personal comfort is concerned, as the worst hotel I have sampled out here. These hotels are less pretentious in appearance, but they have no irritating extras, baths are not considered a luxury for which you must pay a high price, but are free at any time; a cup of tea at early morn in bed, and a newspaper is brought you and not charged for, afternoon tea is also free, and—whisper it gently!—if you are meanly inclined, you need not tip anybody. I would rather stay in the smallest way back hotel in Australia or New Zealand that I have visited than the most swagger hotel in London, while as for America—but there, to stay in any American hotel is to suffer penance for sin unrepented of—and the punishment is fully adequate.
Palmerston also boasts the finest opera house (so they say) in the Southern Hemisphere. I am inclined to take this sweeping statement with a considerable grain of salt when I remember Buenos Ayres, for instance, but there is no doubt that this opera house, built by the municipality, is a splendid building, worthy of Melbourne or Sydney as far as its appointments, size, and appearance is concerned. Of course it is decorated with stucco on an exceedingly ambitious scale, and therein, to the visitor accustomed to the stone erections of other cities more favourably situated for durable building material, is to some extent discounted. Moreover, it is a debatable point whether any municipality has a right to burden its citizens with such a heavy debt as this has entailed for such a purpose; but as this is a purely domestic question it may safely be left.
Its public buildings are dignified and stately, the Post Office especially being ten times finer and a much larger building than the Post Office in Auckland, which has nearly ten times the population of Palmerston. Yes, it is a bright, breezy, ambitious place, whose citizens manifest the most robust faith in its future, although, of course, there are many pessimists among them who talk dolefully about outrunning the constable, &c. It is the centre of a large dairying district, and from hence comes a great quantity of the splendid butter and cheese which is largely consumed at home. It is indeed an ideal country for such a purpose, owing to the richness of its pastures and the mild, equable climate which it enjoys. And I have been told that if only the farmers would manifest a little more energy the yield might be largely augmented with but slight increase of outlay.
I went on from here to Wanganui, on the beautiful river of the same name, through a most beautifully diversified country, the level plain gradually narrowing as we went north, although there were occasional stretches of rich-looking valley land. A change has to be made at Aramoho Junction for Wanganui, the train from Palmerston going on direct to New Plymouth, Taranaki, where it connects with the steamer for Auckland. Wanganui is only two miles from the junction, and when reached comes as a great surprise. It is still more difficult here than elsewhere in New Zealand to believe that so beautiful and imposing a town, with such fine public and private buildings, can be run by a population of under 10,000 all told. The hotel in which I stayed was, in every detail of its appointments—in everything, in fact, that a hotel should be—worthy of any town or city in the world, while its charges were simply ridiculous.
Here I came in contact for the first time to any extent with the civilised Maori. He and she pervaded the streets of Wanganui in almost equal numbers with the white folk, and I learned that there were more natives in evidence here than in any other town in New Zealand. But it is not fair to begin this subject at the fag end of a chapter and so I will deal with it in the next.
Like all other primeval races the Maori does not bear the transition to civilisation at all well. The noble savage in his native state is a picturesque and romantic figure, with of course many customs that we pale children of modern days cannot away with. Now the Maori has unquestionably many noble qualities, but he shares with all other native races an intense and invincible repugnance to settled employment. As long as he can get his few primitive needs supplied he will not work. In his native wilds this reposeful languor is graceful and correct; it fits in with his environment. But in a town the Maori, with the garments of civilisation hanging awkwardly upon him, lounging at the street corners apparently indifferent to the flight of time, or indeed anything under the sun, will not appear to the visitor as anything else but an exceedingly unprepossessing loafer. It is necessary, in order to keep back the feeling of repugnance that will arise at sight of these groups of huge, seedy-looking men, to remember that they are the descendants of the original owners of the soil, and that they are now existing peacefully upon the rents of their lands leased to the energetic white settlers.
In Auckland I noticed a good many Maori men and women about the town, all the latter and most of the former looking curiously slouchy and ungainly. But they were, after all, an exceedingly small item in the thronging population, although they were usually found on the street corners in the busiest part of the city at all hours of the day, looking as if nothing that ever happened could possibly concern them. Here in Wanganui, however, every street corner has its knot of lounging Maories looking curiously out of place in the midst of civilisation. They are all, men and women alike, of splendid physique, but of course too fat, owing to the lounging habit, all equally, of course, are clad in European clothing, and all without exception strike the visitor as being exceedingly undesirable and unornamental. For they have, with but rare exceptions, a peculiarly unprepossessing cast of countenance, and withal an expression of languid contempt for the pakeha (white man) who goes bustling by that is not good to look upon.
Now I know that this is very harsh-sounding, but it expresses my feelings exactly. I grant the Maori exceptional ability, especially as an orator; I know that he is the original owner of the soil for which he fought so doughtily that his enemies conceived a great respect for him. I am sure that he is fully entitled to all that he receives by way of rent for his lands and to the reservation which no white man may interfere with; but I do wish he and his wahine would not get into shabby European clothing and hang about street corners in the towns. If they want civilisation, let them by all means become civilised and fit in with their surroundings; but if not, why! oh why do they not stay in their native encampments and loaf to their heart's content where loafing looks natural, dignified, and proper?
In order that I may not be misunderstood, I hasten to say that in the colleges and in certain Government positions are to be found some most admirable specimens of the Maori race, rising to a height of intelligence and responsible feeling such as a negro seldom or never attains to, and with an admixture of white blood, whether half or quarter breed, many splendid specimens of manhood, both physically and intellectually, are developed. The Hon. James Carroll, Minister for Native Affairs, is a fine specimen of these last, and a gentleman whom it is pleasant to know.
Unfortunately time did not admit of my going up what is here termed the New Zealand Rhine, the Wanganui River. But even if I had, I could hardly have ventured to describe its beauties after the flood of purple writing on this and kindred scenic delights of the country which has been poured forth from the Government printing works, under the auspices of the Government Tourist Department. For, wisely enough, New Zealand rulers, being thoroughly alive to the fact that their country is the little wonderland of the world, spare neither pains nor expense to make the fact known in order to attract, not so much settlers as visitors. I am afraid to mention the huge sum which this small community spends every year on advertising New Zealand as a playground and health resort. It was told me by the gentleman who "runs" the great business under the Minister in whose department it is, but he assured me that, large as it was, the assessable returns fully warranted it. An ever-increasing number of tourists come here from America and Great Britain, come prepared to be disillusioned, but go away enchanted, full of wonder that one small group of islands could possibly contain so much to be marvelled at, to look upon in speechless admiration.
Also under the fostering care of the Tourist Department, game, fish, fur, and feather is increasing, making the country a sportsman's paradise, as well as a wonderland for tourists. There are no game laws as we understand them; during the season appointed any one may shoot or fish on payment of a small fee for the season—ten shillings. And out of the season no one, however highly placed he may be, can either shoot or fish, for here, as perhaps nowhere else on earth, the law is no respecter of persons; if it is ever biassed at all, it is against those who have in favour of those who have not. A curious feature of the fauna is that creatures indigenous to other temperate countries on being brought here thrive amazingly, although the native fauna was, even when the islands were discovered, contemptible in variety and number, there being practically no native game but the rat. Only on the coasts and in the bays might be found overwhelming abundance of the finest fish in the world. Now the lakes and rivers are stocked with trout and other foreign fish, the woods with game of all kinds, while domestic animals, such as sheep and cattle, are amazingly prolific and splendid in quality. To complete the present brief sketch of New Zealand's advantages, there are no noxious animals or reptiles, and very few unpleasant insects, what there are being mostly imported and easily dealt with.
I really feel sorry to say goodbye to Wanganui, for it is essentially a place that invites to pleasure in the midst of all that can charm the eye and comfort the body. Sea, river, lake, mountain, forest, and fertile plain. I can quite enter into the feelings of a man whom I met the other day, who, having been a confirmed globe-trotter, came here for a week and stayed two years, only leaving then because he was compelled to. And I feel thus having only seen it in the winter; I find myself wondering what I should feel if I saw it in the summer! But the call to leave was imperative, and I was carried back to Palmerston North, through the golden sunshine and balmy airs of this midwinter's day, feeling glad that the dwellers in New Zealand were thus highly favoured. But as we crossed the Wanganui River I noticed that it was in spate, and I wondered if these beautiful, fat, level lands were ever flooded. There was no one at hand of whom I could ask the question, so I turned to my newspaper—for be it known unto you that each of these small towns will support a morning and evening newspaper—and there I read of the sorrows of Gisborne, the thriving town on the shores of Poverty Bay of which I wrote some time back. It has been the prey of a devastating flood which has overflowed those fertile levels and done enormous damage.
At the hearing of which I feel very grieved, for I learned to know and like much many of the people there. Moreover I read also that the communications have been greatly interrupted, and steamers have been unable to call, or if they had the state of the sea between the two breakwaters would effectually prevent the tender from going out.
The calamity, however, was purely local, for the smiling country through which I was now passing showed nothing of flood, although it looked as if it might be particularly liable to such visitations, being so flat and surrounded by hills. We swung into Palmerston again, and, so rapidly does one make acquaintances in a new country, I found myself welcomed like an old friend. I am not likely to forget that night at the cosy "gentlemen's club," as it was quaintly termed to me, but which I accepted as merely plain statement of fact. Song and story, and, executed by my own blood-kin, a haka, or Maori dance, fearsome in leapings and boundings and yellings, and concluded with fiendish grinning, the mouth gaping wide as possible, so as to show the teeth, and the tongue protruding to the roots. Savage indeed, and I felt that it should certainly be introduced at Adelphi Terrace.
Late though the hour was when I reached my hotel, and sinfully early as the train departed next morning—6.55—there were brave and genial souls awaiting to speed the parting guest. Leave-taking was after our own fashion, entirely undemonstrative, but I felt sad, as I always do on these hurried journeys, knowing that, pleasant as the meeting has been, it is unlikely to be renewed, except by purest chance, in the centre of things, London, whither all roads seem to lead. I am afraid some of my untravelled friends that night thought that I was poking fun at them when I told them of strange meetings, foregatherings from the ends of the earth in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly, and more so than ever when I expressed my conviction that I should probably meet every one of them again in the vicinity of that classic region.
Back again in what the New Zealanders proudly call the Empire City, oblivious entirely of the misnomer. It is a beautiful little city, a well-groomed and orderly city fully worthy of its position and is prospering in a very high degree. But to call it the Empire City is to ape the flapdoodle of the United States citizens, who, like the average users of forceful adjectives, see nothing incongruous or ridiculous in calling a collection of shacks a city, and cannot call a magnificent aggregation like New York or Philadelphia anything else. I would not, for a great deal, say anything that could even seem derogatory of Wellington. It is a place worthy of the utmost love and admiration of its citizens. In its surroundings it is peculiarly happy. They are romantic, picturesque in the extreme, which qualities, in days not so far distant, constituted a serious drawback to the city's expansion. Now, thanks to the electric and cable car service, those encircling hills have become easily accessible to all, and the citizens may and do enjoy, not merely the most delightful of panoramic views over sea and land that can well be imagined, but can pass to and fro between home and business swiftly, easily, and cheaply. True, this case of communication has brought in its train enhanced expenditure, land, on these erstwhile unsaleable hilltops, now fetching fabulous prices; but then these are the conditions which must always obtain whenever art and science step in to assist people to enjoy nature.
And now the time approaches when I must leave Wellington for good.
Therefore it is only just to put on record that all the reports I ever heard of its weather before I came here were base and malignant inventions as far as my personal experience goes. While it is quite true that occasionally the city experiences three days' steady rain without a break, it is false to say that dirty or windy weather is anything like normal—in fact, it would be far truer to say that such climatic conditions are abnormal. Earthquakes do occur undoubtedly, but so infrequently and of such slight importance that they are practically ignored. The old régime of wooden buildings which I had often been assured were the only ones which would stand Wellington's insecure foundations has vanished, and splendidly ornate edifices of great height and imposing size are in evidence throughout the business district, and are also being rapidly added to. The streets of the city proper are beautifully level, paved like a billiard-table and well kept, while the roads up the hills, with all their winding and steep gradients are wonderfully well made. Indeed, taken altogether, Wellington, apart from the delightful character of its citizens, is one of the most desirable places to live in that is to be found in the whole world, in my opinion.
In this the final chapter of this series of impressions I feel first of all compelled to regret my inability to visit many Australian towns of great interest, more especially in Queensland and the northern part of New South Wales, several of which I knew well, such as Newcastle, Grafton, Brisbane, Rockhampton, Gladstone, and Maryborough. Also that I had neither time nor opportunity to see many of the inland towns of Australia such as I have had in New Zealand, although in their case it certainly would not have been a revisit. Neither have I been able to visit beautiful Tasmania. But in the course of my six months' tour I have been unable to get much more than a passing glance at the country, and also, by meeting all sorts and conditions of men, to get a fairly comprehensive idea of the conditions of things generally. Passing all these matters in review for a general summary, the first thing that I would like to notice is the high level of excellence and independence maintained by the Press. The newspapers of Australasia, with but two or three exceptions, are the equals of any of our newspapers at home, and in some respects their superiors, as, for instance, in political controversy. I gratefully miss that virulence of attack upon prominent men which is so painfully evident in many of our home journals, more especially so, strange to say, in those which profess to maintain a high religious standard.
That form of argumentative abuse and reckless slander is out here left to certain lewd journals of the baser sort—which indeed would seem to be their obvious place.
Daily Journalism is, as I say, of a very high order, and this applies not merely to the matter but to the paper and format also. And while the Colonial news is very full in detail and interest, home and foreign affairs are most comprehensively dealt with, and widely disseminated in the form of cablegrams and occasional London letters. In bulk, of course, these journals do not rank with the American newspapers, that hideous agglomeration known as the Sunday Edition being unknown here, but in quality the Colonial newspapers are so immeasurably superior that no comparison is possible, with such notable exceptions as the Tribune, Outlook, Saturday Evening Post, and a few others out of the many thousands of newspapers with which the great Republic is afflicted.
But the most marvellous feature of Australasian journalism is its illustrated weekly Press. Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, and Dunedin, all turn out splendidly written and illustrated journals, in which, except in the small matter of paper, the original pictures may safely challenge the world. A special feature of these fine papers, without exception, is the enormous amount of good reading matter which they contain for sixpence. I have just taken up one haphazard. It contains eighty pages of reading matter exclusive of advertisements. Fully half of this great space (the pages are Graphic size but the printing is closer) is taken up with matter of intense interest to Colonials, such as the state of the markets for their produce, the conditions of agriculture, mining, manufactures, employment, sport, education, art, and science. Politics are fully dealt with, not merely Colonial, but worldwide.
There are twelve pages of illustrations, four serial stories by well-known authors, twelve short stories, and about fifty storyettes. The only thing you may search its pages for in vain is anything objectionable or suggestive. This holds true of all, and it is indeed a high standard. Such papers as these are a sweet boon to dwellers up-country, who are thus kept in full communion with the great outside world in the pleasantest way. What I have said may seem too eulogistic, but I know that I have barely done the great Australasian illustrated Press justice, and have besides left uncatalogued a number of minor but most interesting items.
There are also a number of magazines which, in defiance of scanty circulation because of the small populations, persist in appearing and flourishing, such as the Review of Reviews, Life, the Red Funnel, &c. These offer a fair and welcome field for the development of budding Colonial literary talent such as has already thrown up several writers of a very high class, notably Louis Becke, John Arthur Barry, Henry Lawson, "Banjo" Paterson, Mrs. Campbell Praed, and others. I hope no idea of invidious selection will be attributed to me in mentioning these names, I do but give them as they occur to me.
The very delicate question of political matters must of course be dealt with, but circumspectly as becomes a casual visitor from the Homeland. The one thing which strikes me most forcibly is the daring way in which these new communities deal with what are burning and most difficult questions at home. I am afraid that they are often much too apt to forget, in their enviable position of writing upon an almost clean slate, the difficulties of dealing with home problems. This lack of perspective often leads politicians out here into intolerance of British slowness, as they term it, in handling such fundamental questions as those of dealing with the land, and the unemployed, for instance. They do not realise what it means to have the dead drag of past centuries, nor the paralysing effect upon the Old Country of free imports, both of cheap labour and manufactures. Securely entrenched behind their own prohibitive laws, they cannot see, nor can they understand, why Britain has so many paupers, nor how it is that we cannot do as they do—look after their own people first, and afterwards—a very long way—consider the foreigner. The Socialism which at home is so real a danger because it ever tends in the direction of more making of paupers and the survival of the unfit, in contravention of Nature's most obvious laws, assumes quite a different character here. As nearly as I can make out Socialism out here means the inalienable, incontrovertible right of every man to live and enjoy life, providing that he can justify his claim to be fit to live. At home, as far as I have yet been able to understand the pronouncements made by Socialists, every human being born has a right to live whether he will work or not, and if he beget children he may be as selfish, as improvident as he will, he has a right to have his offspring educated and maintained at the expense of the State, that is, being translated, at the expense of those who are striving with all their might to do their duty to their own families and to the State of which they are components.
In consequence of this difference Labour legislation, or even Socialism, does not strike me out here as presenting any dangerous features. It is, of course, strange and pleasant to see labour meeting capital upon a purely equal basis, and to see the working of the Arbitration Courts where capital has no power beyond what the judge deems to be for the greatest good of the greatest number. But stranger still it is to see how men of wealth and position will concede that it is not all bad that the men they employ shall be placed, by the law, upon an entirely equal footing with themselves as regards questions of abstract justice. These things give furiously to think, but always there lies behind the knowledge that what is not merely possible but practicable in a new country, is both impossible and impracticable in an old one.
One thing that must give a sincere patriot grave qualms upon visiting a new country like this is the terrible effects of that canker known as sport—save the mark!—upon the people. It is, as we all know, the curse of our own country; not real sport, but that foul business which, in its gambling outcome, keeps the best of our workers poor, and has raised an immense body of utterly worthless parasites to prey upon the community. This abominable thing flourishes here as ill weeds do, especially in new countries. Its worst form is, as usual, horse-racing, which always attracts the very worst elements of the people, and occasionally results in some such scene as that recently witnessed on the Flemington Racecourse, where one of the harpies was kicked to death. This paralysing mania pervades every class, takes precedence of business, of religion, of morality, and is responsible for a whole host of minor evils. It is simply incomprehensible how so many otherwise sensible people can be led, apparently helplessly, from all that makes life worth living into this vile vortex, which defies all law, all order, and creates a class of beasts of prey, all the more dangerous because human and intelligent.
The development of these wonderful countries is sure but slow. What it would be but for "sport," even with the present ridiculously inadequate population, I cannot imagine, seeing what it already is, but one thing stands out most prominently, and that is the large margin left for any careful workman between his earnings and his necessary expenditure. No one here in the possession of brains and vigour need hawk them round fruitlessly for hire, nor having let them to an employer need he despair of ever being able to raise himself from the position of a hired man. Education is not merely free, it is of very high order, and ever tending more and more in the direction of common-sense inculcation of those things that are useful, while the ornamental is certainly not neglected. In consequence it is quite usual to meet men, while travelling, whose appearance is—well, shabby, according to Old World ideas—that is, they are in ordinary working clothes—who will talk most intelligently upon many subjects, and will not interlard their conversation with senseless expletives. These men, and they are a very large class indeed, form the backbone of the country, and will, in due time, a good many of them, develop into its rulers.
What tends more to the dissemination of ideas and breadth of thought out here than anything else, I think, is the amount of travelling that is done. There are very few people that I have met on my journeyings to and fro who do not know these Colonies personally, very well, in spite of the immense distances. This, of course, is one of the causes as well as one of the results, of the great, the truly marvellous development of the Australasian Mercantile Marine. Another is that so large a proportion of the men have either been sailors or have never quite got over the effect of their long passage out from the Old Country. The spirit of the seafarer, his self-helpfulness, his adaptability to whatever circumstances he may find himself in and his indomitable optimism is over all. Which also accounts for a great many things otherwise mysterious and hard to understand.
But I am told that there is another factor largely in evidence to account for the really slow development of this vast area of habitable and valuable land besides their invincible repugnance of being flooded with cheap labour. It is the spirit of content. I give this for what it is worth, and it was told to me by many. When a man who has known what it is to toil hopelessly at home with only the prospect of the poorhouse before him, comes out here and finds that half the amount of labour will provide him with a comfortable living and a nest-egg for the slope of age, he is very apt to say, "Why should I strive for wealth? I am quite comfortable, and can now earn all I need or wish for with a slight expenditure of energy, while, should misfortune overtake me through no fault of my own, the State will support me without pauperising me." This feeling, it is said, robs a man of the burning desire to get on which makes a country possessing such men great in the sense of being wealthy. "People are too jolly comfortable to work hard out here," said a working man to me the other day, and I had nothing to say about the matter at all. It is a problem for far wiser heads than mine. But it is based upon the root idea that the possession of more than a man feels that he wants, brings not happiness, but misery. The cynic may say that there are few men who possess more than they feel that they want, but I can assure him that they are a far larger class than he wots of, especially out here.
Well, there are many things which leap to the pen, especially at the close of a book like this, but they must wait more fitting opportunity. What must not be omitted is mention of the deep and abiding feeling of the love for and the loyalty to the dear old land manifested by everybody, affection which coexists most comfortably with an almost passionate devotion to the new land which is, indeed, their own. No other passport to their hearts is needed than the fact that the visitor comes from the Homeland and loves it, he only is disliked and discredited who is ready to decry and belittle Britain in all things after the fashion of many curiously-minded folks at home. My best love and best wishes for Australasia. Root and branch, may she flourish for ever!
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.