‘“Life is but a maze of crooked streets,Death is the market-place where each man meets;If life were merchandise which men could buy,None but the rich would live, and only poor would die.”’
‘“Life is but a maze of crooked streets,Death is the market-place where each man meets;If life were merchandise which men could buy,None but the rich would live, and only poor would die.”’
‘“Life is but a maze of crooked streets,Death is the market-place where each man meets;If life were merchandise which men could buy,None but the rich would live, and only poor would die.”’
‘“Life is but a maze of crooked streets,
Death is the market-place where each man meets;
If life were merchandise which men could buy,
None but the rich would live, and only poor would die.”’
Had our captain been able to keep the old gentleman on board, his quotations, relating of incidents, and above all his mannerism, would have formed materials for an interesting biography.
Now for Sydney. I must say that when I had passed the barrier of larrikins, and reached one of the main streets, I was greatly astonished. The bustle, the omnibuses, the cabs, the people, and the general business-like flow of vehicles and people, reminded me of a street in the little village on the Thames. The first hotel I tried was the Royal. A notice in the smoking-room, which, by-the-bye, could only be reached by verandas and windows, to the effect that “Any person leaving cigar ash or ends about the room will be prosecuted as the law directs,” etc., etc., quite frightened me. Jokes like these are so near reality in the Colonies, that they ought not to be practised.
Everywhere you tumble on notices and articles inveighing against smoking, swearing, and other vices, so that a stranger gets nervous, lest by accident he should be caught tripping. I left that hotel, and shortly afterwards found myself located at another hostelry, situated on a hill in the midst of churches. Oh, those sweet church bells! Those evening chimes. Think of the thousands of sleepless nights you have caused. An organ-grinder may be ordered to move on by law.Why are you exempt? You jangle, jangle, jangle, all in discord and without meaning.
I spent some days in Sydney, and all day and every day I walked and rode about in all directions. One day I strolled through the Botanical Gardens, enjoying glimpses of Sydney’s beautiful harbour. ‘Oh, have you seen our harbour?’ is a question addressed to every stranger. How a stranger who visits Sydney is to avoid seeing the harbour is a great puzzle. Whichever way you walk you must come to the harbour—its ramifications extend in all directions. Although it has only one entrance, and is seldom more than a mile in breadth, often being much less, it is said to measure round its shore line more than seventeen hundred miles. Sydney people and Australians, when abroad, are for ever doing all they can to create a prejudice against this beautiful corner of creation. Morning, noon, and night the changes that are rung upon the words, Sydney Harbour and beautiful, at last become as wearying as the bells. Still, the harbour is beautiful. I went up the Paramatta to see it.
As you steam along the smooth waters, and gaze at vista after vista of islands, river-like expanses and rocky promontories, you might fancy yourself at rest, while acres upon acres of panoramic views were slowly drifting past you. All you require to complete the illusion is slow music, and on fête days I presume such a want is supplied in plenty. The rocks are yellowish-grey sandstone. As you get away from the town, which looks more like a gigantic watering-place than a city for business, the hills, instead of being capped withhouses, are capped with scrub. Whales and other marine monsters which have entered Sydney Roads, must be quite bewildered by the twists and turns they are compelled to take. Probably many of them get lost. As we progress up the harbour, we see villas and cottages built on cliff-like slopes or islands. Many of these have gardens, which of necessity are filled with mounds and huge rocks. The Britisher residing on the shores of Sydney Harbour is compelled by nature to have a garden that is picturesque. His squares, and circles, and complications of geometrical figures, cut in dirt and marked out with bright flowers or tiles, in which his mechanical, unartistic soul delights, are here an impossibility. Here he must content himself with figures and effects carved out by nature—his own artificial regularities being an impossibility.
Where the harbour was narrow it was spanned by iron bridges. Those which I saw were perhaps half a mile in length, and of the Warren girder type. They carry an ordinary roadway. They might carry a double line of rails.
A young Chinaman who had been studying engineering in Europe was on board. He told me that he thought iron was cheap when these bridges were built. It might be cheap to pull them down, and then put up double the number of bridges with the same material. Of course the heathen student was wrong. I told him that each bridge should be strengthened, and should then be restricted to the use of foot passengers.
Another trip that I made was out to Coogee. This was in a steam-tram. Steam-trams are a great featurein Sydney. They run through the heart of the town. They consist of a locomotive and two or three carriages. To send an ordinary train steaming, chuffing, smoking, snorting, firing off ashes, steam, and dirty water through thickly populated streets, is more than many towns would tolerate. Sydneyites, however, send something more than all this through their town—not every hour, but in places two or three times every five minutes. They send carriages behind their locomotives as tall as ordinary houses. ‘Great goodness, what’s that?’ said the major, when he first saw the steam-tram. ‘The cathedral has escaped——no, it’s a row of houses got loose.’ It was some time before we ventured on board one of these moving buildings. We took an outside place, climbing up a ladder to what might correspond to the tiles of an ordinary two-storied dwelling. One striking notice was: “It is dangerous to sit on the rails.” We all laughed. We would as soon think of sitting on the rails used by a Sydney tram as sitting on the rails of an ordinary railroad. “Directors joking,” said Peter. “Why, they mean these things,” said Dodd, pointing to some thin rails corresponding to the tin water gutter on the edge of a roof.
Another prominent notice seen in nearly all the Australian towns is, “Walk over crossing.” This is usually pendent on a lamp-post. “Walk over crossing,” said I to myself. “They want us to be killed, I suppose. I shall run over crossings, if necessity requires it.” Afterwards I learnt it was a notice to the drivers of chariots.
As we went along we had splendid views into bedrooms,bath-rooms, store-rooms, top garrets, and generally the upper quarters of the houses which lined a street. Now and then a hand would suddenly snap down a blind. This was probably some lady who objected to our seeing her doing up her hair. Another kind of fun was to watch the private horses jump. They don’t understand a row of houses tearing along the street. Coming back, Peter made the major a bet that we should see at least ten horses not educated up to steam-trams. Peter won. If I lived in Sydney I should take a season ticket on the steam-trams. Perhaps I might hire a tram of my own.
Coogee was lovely. In fact, all the country round about Sydney seems to be lovely. Hill and dale in all directions. A lot of the ground is sandy. It is covered with bushes and tufts of grass, and in general appearance is like moorland. On our way out we first saw a big thing like Cleopatra’s Needle put up in honour of George Thornton, a former Mayor of Sydney. There are plenty of needles, statues and arrangements to commemorate great people about Sydney. Those who wish to have a chance of earthly immortality, let them try to live and die in Sydney,—only don’t let the candidates for effigies, and other eulogies in stone, be too numerous. Next we saw the University. We paid a visit to this place, and were shown a remarkably fine hall—perhaps the best hall out of Oxford. I am of course talking about halls belonging to English folks. Then there was a book, “My Journal in the Highlands,” bound in blue, and put on a monument under a glass case. How many of these works our gracious Majesty has been pleased topresent to institutions and people in the Colonies I cannot say. I should guess a good-sized ship-load.
After this there was the race-course and the Zoo. At the Zoo we saw the usual elephant busily engaged in carrying round a load of children. There were also some very tame kangaroos. A great feature in Sydney, as in other Australian towns, are the cabs and carriages. In Sydney they are hansoms—in Melbourne they are cumbersome things like covered waggonettes. The most peculiar point connected with these conveyances is the system on which you are expected to pay for them. It took me a long time to discover what the system was, and it is more than likely that what I discovered only applies to visitors. After trying a number of chariots in various parts of the Colonies, it appears to me that if you pay one shilling for the first quarter of an hour, you pay two shillings for the second quarter, four shillings for the third quarter, and so on at a geometrically increasing rate. If you were to engage a cab for four hours your bill ought, at the above rate, to be £1,766 18s. 0d. I was, however, informed on good authority, that, with a little persuasion, the drivers might compromise with you for about ten bob. If a man took a cab for the whole day, say of twelve hours his bill would reach in round numbers the magnificent sum of one hundred and forty millions of millions of pounds, or in figures £140,000,000,000,000! A distinguished calculator was employed to make this estimate, and it may be relied on. I have omitted a few trillions of pounds some odd shillings and pence in this account, as too much detail leads to confusion. Is notthis a revenue towards which the Government of New South Wales ought to direct its attention? They require a loan, why not ask the cabmen? It is true that not many men survive such an account. The man who had engaged the luxury of a cab for a day, was, I heard, serving his time in the debtor’s gaol, and as it would be some time before he had picked sufficient oakum to pay his score, I was unable to make the acquaintance of this colossal bankrupt.
It was Saturday when I went to Coogee. In the afternoon the preparation for Sunday commenced. Many shops were closed, verandas and doorsteps were washed, and door-handles polished. But for a theatre, where I sought refuge from the religious atmosphere which was closing over Sydney, I should have been extremely dull. There are two or three theatres in Sydney, all of which are well patronized. At a theatre where Boucicault was performing, it was necessary to buy a ticket several days ahead. I think I should have started for Melbourne on Saturday, had I not been told that before the train had come to the end of its journey it would be Sunday. As soon as it is Sunday the train stops, and as it might stop in the Bush, and I was nervous about bushrangers, I thought it better to remain in Sydney.
Of course everything is closed on the Sabbath. Should you ramble in the country, and there, wearied with walking and the sun’s rays, lie down exhausted on some mossy bank, still feeling that you might open your eyes to the light of another day, could you obtain one small glass of beer, do you think you would get it? Experience says No. If you were to use strong language at thisstate of affairs, or at any other state of affairs, do you think that a bobby would not run you into chokee? The newspapers say they would. Neither liking to risk a horrible death from thirst, nor the chance of offending the ears of some justice of the peace, I stayed at home on Sunday. For about an hour I listened to the jangling of some forty church bells. The enterprising proprietor of one church made his bells play a hymn tune. These were the sounds from outside. Inside I was edified by the jargon of forty semi-educated poll parrots. Each of these birds knew a sentence of English. One of them would fire off his particular string of words, when all his companions would guffaw and yell. They began at about three in the morning, waking me up with an impression that murder was being committed. I should have liked to have killed them. I felt miserable. The place seemed to be a mixture of piety, poll parrots, teetotalism, and bad grub.
In the afternoon I met a doctor who was acquainted with Sydney. He said he would show us some fun. Better go out to Botany Bay, and see Sir Joseph Banks’s Garden. The suggestion was hailed with joy, and after lunch, Peter, Dodd, and I were all safely seated on the roof of a tramcar on our way to Botany Bay. Going to Botany Bay! What room for reflection—at least that is what those in Britain think. Botany Bay is looked upon as a home appointed by our Government for murderers and vagabonds. They think wrongly. Botany Bay is a rural spot which has been much maligned. It was about nine miles’ ride. On the waywe passed lots of little villas, all with gorgeous cast-iron balconies, and elaborate fringes of the same material round their eaves. It is seldom that one sees so much ornamentation in iron. Some of the designs were made up of so many twists and turns that they looked like lace. Such elaborate decorations were symphonies in metal; to me they were like the English geometrical gardens, the result of mechanical education. I do not like the poetry of foundries.
A very noticeable building in Sydney, which strikes attention partly on account of its magnitude and partly on account of the magnitude of its name, is a steam laundry. Notwithstanding the existence of this palatial wash-house, you pay six shillings a dozen for your washing.
At Botany Bay, we found a huge pavilion in an enclosure of trees and grass called a garden. The building, which would hold an audience of several thousands, was used for skating, dancing, and singing secular songs, on Sunday. At one end there was a stage, and artistes were singing. We sat down and listened. The songs we heard were “The Little Hero,” “Hark the Lark,” etc. The audience were remarkably quiet and well-behaved. Round the sides of the hall there were regulations and rules about skating and dancing. It was requested that “Gentlemen would not dance with gentlemen, nor ladies with ladies,” etc.
Many of the ladies were conspicuous from the variety and brilliancy of their colours. I refer to the colours of their dresses. May not this have been an example of unconscious imitation? There is a tendency in theanimal kingdom to adopt the colour of its surroundings—Polar bears are white, insects on sand often have a sandy colour, many that live in trees imitate the colour of the branches or the leaves. Perhaps those who live in Australia have a tendency to imitate the gorgeous plumage of its parrots.
On the return journey, our engine had to drag three carriages, each containing about eighty people. The seats were occupied, the sitters’ knees were occupied, and the space between the knees of those who sat upon the sitters was used for standing. One man was very talkative, or, in plainer English, he was very drunk. This reminds me that at Botany Bay the hotel refused to sell refreshments.
It was, however, an easy matter to become a member of a club. In half an hour, or even less, you could pay your entrance fee and be elected. Being a member of the club you could then revive yourself and your exhausted acquaintances as often as you pleased. The arrangement was charming. It reminded me of Kimberly in South Africa, where, after the Government had put restrictions on ordinary hotels, hundreds of clubs sprung into existence. I suppose our friend of the trains had been to a club. After telling us, if we valued our constitution, to follow his advice and never take a drink between drinks, he gave us a most interesting lecture on his acquaintanceship with the interior of prisons. He told us about the broad arrow on his back and the marks upon his ankles. He invited us all to smash a window and join him. It was only distinguished personages who were entertained at Government expense.Amongst the lower classes, to refer to each other’s prison experiences or ankle marks appeared to be a form of taunting which was not uncommon.
That night we had tea. On week-days, the hotel being of a class that was supposed to set the fashion, we had dinner.