THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF HULLOOMALOO.
There are some very fine libraries in Australia, the one at Melbourne probably being the best. Talking about books to a Mr. John Smith, with whom I had once or twice the pleasure of dining at his residence in Hulloomaloo, I learnt something about the formation of libraries that may be interesting to record. Not seeing any books in Mr. Smith’s rooms, I ventured to ask him what he did for reading materials. Did he never give his mind a little relaxation? ‘Oh yes, I’ve got a library—keep it in that cupboard,’ said Smith, pointing to something looking like a sideboard. ‘The mental exercise it affords is sometimes quite wonderful. Perhaps you would like to see it?’ And before I had time to reply, Smith shouted out: ‘Eh, Janet, bring in a couple of tumblers; the gentleman wants to consult my library.’ I won’t say anything more about Mr. Smith’s collection of books, excepting that a night’s study of them might possibly result in a headache.
‘But come, Smith,’ said I, ‘now, honest injin, did you mean to say you haven’t got a book in the house?’ ‘Well, I can’t say that I have. Once I had a copy of the “Rise and Fall of the British Empire.” I used tokeep it tied with a string to a nail in the wall. But some soul thirsting after literature absorbed it one evening. I’ve had a sickener of books.’ Here Smith took a drink and shook his head as if the thought of his past literary career was too serious for reference. ‘Did you never hear of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo and its library?’ he at last inquired. ‘Got it all for nothing. Never paid a sixpence.’
‘That’s interesting,’ I remarked. ‘I should like to know how the business was managed.’
‘Just take another look atmyliterature,’ said Smith, passing the bottle, ‘and I’ll tell you:
‘Hulloomaloo was just becoming a place, and some of the influential residents thought it would be a good thing to have some books; but at the meeting they held nobody could tell where the money was to come from. All sorts of suggestions were made, but they were all objected to on the score that they involved subscriptions, and subscriptions nobody could afford. The more they talked the more they seemed to want to read, but they could not stand subscriptions. This was humbug, you know, for the people in Hulloomaloo were as rich then as they are now. The idea of having a library was just on the point of being abandoned, when up jumped a pale-faced little man, who was sitting near the door, and explained to the meeting that if they constituted themselves into a society, they might get books given to them for nothing. He told us his name was Joshua Jenkins, and that he had acted as librarian at one of the State libraries in America; but who he really was, beyond being a new-comer there, nobodycould tell. A society ought to be constituted at once, and, if it were worked properly, he would guarantee that within a year the library of Hulloomaloo would be the wonder and envy of the Australian Colonies. The brilliancy of Jenkins’s proposition took everyone by storm, and he was voted to the chair to organize proceedings for the constitution of the new society.
‘“It is proposed,” said Jenkins, “that this society be called the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo. Does anyone object to that proposition? Nobody objects—carried. Please make a note, Mr. Secretary.” Without drawing breath he continued: “The members of the society shall consist of ordinary members; honorary members, elected from the distinguishedsavantsof the world; and co-operative members, consisting of scientific bodies whom the committee shall decide to elect. Does anybody object to that proposition? Nobody objects—carried.”
‘And so he went firing off rules, and saying: “Does anybody object to that proposition? Nobody objects—carried,” until he had fixed up a constitution before anyone had thought of objecting.
‘After this, he had a committee and a president elected, while he himself was put into the position of secretary and librarian. To finish up the meeting, he took down the names of all people in the room, and collected five shillings a head. This made the audience into members. After a few remarks, in which Jenkins complimented the residents of Hulloomaloo on the magnificence of their surroundings, and the unparalleled opportunities which Hulloomaloo offered for scientific research, the meeting adjourned. The whole businessof making the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo, and collecting about £45, took, it was estimated, thirty-five minutes. Jenkins had the £45, and the audience had the honour of putting F.R.S. after their names. Of course they omitted the H.
‘As to the details of what happened during the next two years, nobody seemed to be very well informed, but they know now though.
‘First he began by making honorary and corporation members. He had a lot of elaborate forms and envelopes printed, looking as if they had come from Government quarters. Whenever the word Hulloomaloo appeared, it looked as if it was the capital of Australia. The letters he had for thesavantsran as follows:
‘“The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.‘“Dear Sir,‘“I have the honour of informing you that in consequence of your distinguished services in the department of” (and here came the particular ology of the man to whom he wrote) “the Committee of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo have this day elected you an honorary member of their body.‘“I have the honour to remain, Sir,‘“Your obedient servant,‘“Joshua Jenkins, Sec.”
‘“The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.
‘“Dear Sir,
‘“I have the honour of informing you that in consequence of your distinguished services in the department of” (and here came the particular ology of the man to whom he wrote) “the Committee of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo have this day elected you an honorary member of their body.
‘“I have the honour to remain, Sir,‘“Your obedient servant,‘“Joshua Jenkins, Sec.”
‘He always accompanied his form with a note. When he wrote to Darwin, he said that the society had appointed several special committees; one was to examine the working of worms, another to investigate the fertilization of plants, a third to determine the exactrelationship between the higher mammals and the Australian savages. The results of this work he hoped in the course of the year to have the pleasure of forwarding to his address. In the meanwhile, he was certain that if Mr. Darwin would send to the society a complete set of his works, they would be bound in morocco and highly appreciated.
‘He promised Lubbock a collection of ants. Richard Owen was to have a complete collection of fossil mammals. Spencer was to have an exhaustive series of manuscripts on the social status of the Aborigines. The result of all this was that in about three months we had the names of almost every livingsavantin the universe on our list, and what was better, we had their books in our library.
‘The way he got over the societies after making them into co-operative members was to promise them a complete set of the “Hulloomaloo Transactions.” He had letters printed for the kind of society to which he was writing. Here is an example of letters he sent to all the Geological Societies in the world,’ said Smith, handing me a document off the mantelpiece. It ran thus:
‘43.(71-1034).XIX.‘Department of the Interior of Australia,‘The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.‘Sydney,June 1st, 1881.‘Sir,‘I have the honour to send to your address a complete set of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo, “A Treatise on the Geology of Australia,” with an Atlas of Geological Maps.‘As these volumes are sent through the Imperial Government, they may not reach you for some time after the reception of this letter. Please observe the enclosed receipt. By order of the Committee,‘I have the honour to remain, Sir,‘Your most obedient servant,(42451-67904)‘Joshua Jenkins, Sec.’
‘The Royal Society of Hulloomaloo.
‘Sydney,June 1st, 1881.
‘Sir,
‘I have the honour to send to your address a complete set of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo, “A Treatise on the Geology of Australia,” with an Atlas of Geological Maps.
‘As these volumes are sent through the Imperial Government, they may not reach you for some time after the reception of this letter. Please observe the enclosed receipt. By order of the Committee,
‘I have the honour to remain, Sir,
‘Your most obedient servant,
The enclosed receipt ran as follows:
‘72. CXIX.(764-31)41-MDCVXI.‘(Neglect to return this receipt will be taken as an intimation that the Transactions of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo are no longer desired.)Date ______________ 188_.‘To the President of the Royal Geological Society ofHulloomaloo, Sydney.‘Sir,‘I beg to acknowledge the receipt of the under-mentioned works.________________________________________Yours truly,Name____________________Present address____________________Past address____________________Future address____________________Permanent address____________________Variable address____________________City, Town, Village, Hemisphere, etc.(7623-731)(854-901)’
‘(Neglect to return this receipt will be taken as an intimation that the Transactions of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo are no longer desired.)
Date ______________ 188_.
‘To the President of the Royal Geological Society ofHulloomaloo, Sydney.
‘Sir,
‘I beg to acknowledge the receipt of the under-mentioned works.
________________________________________
Yours truly,
Name____________________Present address____________________Past address____________________Future address____________________Permanent address____________________Variable address____________________City, Town, Village, Hemisphere, etc.
‘To wind up, there was a beautifully printed envelope in which to return the receipt. This was addressed to the Royal Society, Hulloomaloo, Sydney.
‘Sometimes he would call the society the Royal Astronomical Society of Hulloomaloo, next the Royal Linnæan Society of Hulloomaloo; then the Royal Sociological Society of Hulloomaloo, just according to the people to whom he was writing.
‘The result of all this was that the society received box after box of societies’ transactions in all the languages of the world.
‘After a year or so, some of the people to whom Jenkins had made his promises would write saying that they begged to inform him that the books he had forwarded never arrived. Jenkins would answer, that he regretted to hear that the parcel had been delayed, but he would communicate with the Imperial Government on the subject, and a week or two afterwards would send them another big envelope, saying that he had the honour to send to their address another big parcel. The expectation of sometime receiving something kept a lot of them quiet. To the few, who were too impatient, he would write that he had been instructed by the Imperial Government of Australia to inform them that the parcel to which they referred had been transmitted to their Imperial Governments, from whom, if they applied, they would undoubtedly receive the same.
‘While all this was going on, the books and presents to the society had so accumulated that the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo threatened to become a national institution. A meeting was held, and when the list of honorary members and societies was read, and the library he hadcollected had been inspected, Jenkins received a vote of thanks, and subsequently a purse containing 500 guineas. After this, he was made into a permanent secretary of the society, with a salary of £600 a year. At this time Jenkins said he would add a museum to the establishment. By dubbing a lot of prominent mine-managers F.R.S., he managed to get a wonderful collection of gold specimens together, and these he increased by promising to send to various parts of the world collections of Australian minerals, which, as he put it, the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo had instructed him to forward to their address.
‘By this time the letters that poured in upon Jenkins seemed to have warned him that he was getting to the end of his tether. He said he was sick, and would the Committee allow the library and museum to be closed for a month. He thought a run down to Melbourne, where he would get some of the society’s books rebound, might set him up. The petition was granted, and away went Jenkins with twenty-six large cases containing the books which were to be bound.’
‘And I suppose you never heard of him any more,’ I remarked.
‘Never hear of him, indeed; we thought we were never going to cease hearing about him. During the two months after his departure, the letters and official documents that poured into the rooms of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo would have filled the museum by themselves. There was Darwin writing for the reports of the committees, Lubbock was asking for his ants, Spencer was crazy about the MSS. on the social status of Aborigines, Owen wanted his collection of fossilmammals, all the societies in Europe and America were wanting our Transactions. Diamond merchants and jewellers were asking to have the collections returned, that they had lent for exhibition at our lastsoirée. Foreign Offices throughout the world had written to our Government, inquiring about the status of the Royal Society of Hulloomaloo. Our Government instituted proceedings against us for having swindled creation.’
‘And what was the end of it all?’ I asked.
‘Why, one end was that we had to write five or six thousand letters of apology, to raise a fund to return the pamphlets and stuff that would not go into Jenkins’s twenty-six cases, and pay £25,000 damages for what had gone into them.’
‘And how about Mr. Joshua Jenkins?’
‘Oh, Literary Jos. Well, I don’t know, but I believe he is gone below, acting librarian at one of the State libraries. If you want to get up a cheap library in your part of the world, that is his address. He is charming company, you know.’
The streets of Sydney are above the average of streets we see in Europe. I expected to have found them narrow and crooked. Sydney is usually described as being old-fashioned, and having a cramped, crooked, and antiquated appearance. It is not American-like and modern, like Melbourne; Sydney is English. The streets might certainly be broader, but in all conscience, although not absolutely straight, they are straight enough. George Street, Pitt Street, and all the connecting streets between the two parallel main arteries, are usually overcrowded. The shops are good, andthere are plenty of them. One shop, where you find everything, from millinery to leather bags, is extensive, and quite comparable with similar establishments in London. Here we have a number of excellent banks, and a post-office, which probably cannot find its equal in any other portion of the British Empire. Its tower will be a beacon for wanderers in all parts of the Colony. At the top of Pitt Street, there is a market filled with fruit, canaries, cockatoos, wallaby, and other Australian productions. Beyond this is the cathedral. Near here we have a waxwork show, where living likenesses of distinguished bushrangers may be seen. Amongst the other sights are the Museum, the Picture Gallery, where there is a large series of very good pictures, the Botanical Gardens, the Domain, Hyde Park, and the University.
In going to these places you are continually met by pretty glimpses of the harbour. Some of the smaller streets, however, are remarkable for the antiquated appearance of the houses and cottages you see in them.
Of course I fell in love when I was in Australia. It would not be complimentary to the ladies if I had not. It happened at the theatre. At the time a somewhat uninteresting farce was being played. This gave me time to look round. She sat in a box with a typical duenna. Perhaps she was sweet eighteen, perhaps she was lovely twenty. Her figure was willowy and elegant. Somehow or other your inner conscience tells you when you are in love, at least, mine does. My inner conscience, after looking at this earthly angel for about half an hour, remarked—‘Young man, you’re in love; your bachelorhood is being compromised.’ Then I had a short conversation with my conscience. Itended by my being convinced that my conscience was right, and that I was not simply in love, but was standing in the slops of an overflowing infatuation. When I looked at her, I thought she smiled. The duenna certainly frowned. At last the curtain dropped, and the Major, Peter and Dodd and I were hustled out upon the pavement. ‘Come on, old chappie. You’ll never recognise her with a cloak on. To-morrow you may find out where the charmer lives, and get an introduction to her parents.’ ‘I’ll help you,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll help you,’ said P. ‘I’ll help you,’ said D. Then they said, ‘We’ll all help you.’ Before I could thank them P. had taken hold of one of my arms, D. had taken hold of the other, and the Major was pushing behind. With their united assistance I quickly reached the hotel. That night sleep deserted me. Was it not possible that we might meet in the streets, in the park, in a ferry-boat, or on the Rialto? Many have met on the Rialto. At daybreak I would inquire for the Rialto. But again, many have met in crowds. Yes, in crowds, that meant the crowded theatre perhaps. At night I would again visit the theatre. During the day I would pace the Domain, the Park, and all the intricacies of great Sydney’s thoroughfares. Who was she? The box, the jewellery, the duenna indicated wealth. Perhaps a princess in disguise? She would be reclining in a chariot drawn by snow-white steeds. At last I dozed.
Next morning I rose with Aurora, and tramped the streets. During the day I flattened my nose against the windows of all the confectioners’ and millinery establishments that adorn the leading thoroughfares. Igazed into all the hansoms. I even raised my eyes at the damsels who reclined in open carriages. Many fair ones smiled—but mine, where was she?
That night I was the first to enter the theatre. What anxious moments passed as the dress-circle and the boxes filled! Suddenly P. nudged me, and whispered, ‘See over there.’ Oh, heavens! there she was. It was clear her bosom heaved with reciprocity, and had come to seek me out. During the day she had probably been chasing round the streets of Sydney behind my coat-tails. Why hadn’t I stood at a corner? I quickly hired a pair of opera-glasses, and, gazing through them, brought her nearer to me. She smiled. The duenna put on an expression of thunder, and drew behind the curtain. Then she looked through her opera-glasses. I looked through mine again. We were both near each other. I trembled with nervous excitement; my glasses trembled. I think they visibly waggled from side to side. She waggled hers. ‘Will you be best man, Major?’ I whispered. Then I rushed off to the box-keeper. I told him it was close and hot. ‘Yes, sir, it’s more than that; it’s dry, fearfully dry.’ I was quickly his bosom friend. ‘Who’s she—the gazelle in the second box?’ I asked. ‘’Um, what, her over there?’ said he, putting down his glass. ‘She’s the manager’s wife; sits up there every night.’
The Major, Peter and Dodd left for Melbourne next morning. I left with them.
The journey to Melbourne was not nice. We left at five p.m., and reached Spencer Street Station in Melbourne about noon next day. I took passage in a Pullman car. A genuine Yank sat near me, and we enteredinto conversation. I like Yanks, and if I were eligible I might put up to become a faithful citizen. After the ordinary preliminaries about the weather and the autumnal tints, he made some general remarks about the late President Grant.
‘As a general, Grant just whipped creation,’ I remarked.
‘Dair bet my bottom dollar his name shines like a brilliant constellation in the military history of this planet until it ceases to rotate. Saw him some years ago. Was smoking a big havana. His wife was along. Don’t think she hansoms worth a cent. Good woman though! The way she looked after her family was just remarkable. If every fellow got a wife like that, there’d be less hair flying around. You from Boston?’ he inquired.
‘Sir,’ I replied, ‘you have paid me a compliment never to be forgotten.’
At the next depôt my friend invited me to see the refreshment-room.
The little bit of country that was visible before sundown was so like the rest of the great continental island, that I will not attempt to describe it.
Somewhere about eight o’clock a conductor commenced the removal of the arm-chairs in which we had been sitting, and the erection of the berths in which we were to sleep. During this operation, which lasted one hour and a half (it sometimes lasts two hours), if you are lucky, you get one of the four or six seats in the smoking-room, otherwise you have to stand in a narrow passage. I had to stand.
The arrangement of rods and bars which were puttogether in building the berths had the complexity of a Chinese puzzle. If the railway company ever lose the services of the unfortunate man whose misery it is to erect these structures, where they will discover a second individual with a sufficiently retentive memory, and ingenuity to carry on the work, it is difficult to conceive. Whilst the operation is going on, the car jerks and swings like a boat upon a choppy sea. Several of the passengers complained of sea-sickness, and I myself certainly had a feeling of nausea. The only advice I can give to the directors of that line is to take their cars and burn them—at least, burn the particular one in which I had the misery to ride. From friends who followed me to Melbourne, I heard that there were several other cars which ought also to be burned.
At about five a.m. we were turned out at a place called Aubury, where we changed carriages and passed the Customs on the Victorian border. All the colonies collect duty from each other, and their mother country. New South Wales alone admires the policy of itsalma mater, and adopts free trade. Not only are they at variance in their commercial regulations, but there exists between them the same feelings of jealousy that may be found between different nationalities, and each ‘colonial’ looks upon his own particular colony as superior to its neighbour. One question which you are often asked is, ‘Do you like Sydney or Melbourne best?’ Several Victorians spoke of their Melbourne and its people as being go ahead and smart—quite American you know. They refer to being American with an intonation of regret—it is sad and disgraceful to be like Americans; but, as it is true, we must confessit, and it cannot be helped. Now as Victorians were so fond of pointing out this particular character of themselves, I imagine that they are really rather proud of it, and the intonation of regret is little more than a form of modesty.
So far as I could see, farther than the fact that our Australian cousins have displayed energy in building up great cities in a short period of years, I did not observe a single instance of anything which was American. Australians seem to be intensely conservative and British. One characteristic of Americans is, to do things in new ways and invent. When in the Colonies I looked in all directions for something that was novel, but I must confess that I failed to find it. Perhaps using single tickets, which after the termination of a journey, on being snipped, act as return tickets, may be peculiarly Australian. The hoods to hansoms may be new. Asbestos gas-fires in hotels, the dispensing with conductors on the ’buses, and a few other rarities in English life, are common in America. Possibly in farming and stock-raising operations, Australians may have discovered methods of procedure unknown in other lands. In their mining operations—and I visited many mining districts—I cannot say that I saw much that was new. I certainly saw much that was old, and machines that ought to be relegated to museums were numerous.
In the morning it was cold enough for ulsters and opossum rugs to be acceptable. I saw a hilly country, lots of gum trees, some post and rail fences, one or two vineyards, and a few sheep and cattle. Australia is a capital place to study gum trees. The first of thesetrees were introduced to the country, so a fellow-passenger informed me, as seeds, in a letter, sent by an affectionate Scotch wife to her brother—it would remind him of his home at Greenock. I fancy that my informant had confused Scotch thistles and gum trees.
No wonder the aborigines of Australia were a poor lot. They have no scenery to stimulate their imagination, to create wonder, and to excite an inventive faculty. If we except a few hills upon the east coast, all is flat. Australia is like a pancake, turned up on one side and hollow in the middle. Rivers are usually represented by strings of stagnant pools. Some of them flow underground.
At last Melbourne hove in sight. It seemed to be below us. Its appearance was like that of all large towns when viewed from a distance—a confused mass of buildings, with here and there a spire, covered with a canopy of bluish gauze-like smoke. Near the centre a huge dun cupola formed a nucleus for the whole. It was large, very large. When we remembered that all before us had risen during forty years, we could not refrain from joining in the admiration of all Australians for their mighty and marvellous Melbourne.
The first introduction that my friends gave me was to their clubs. If we except Botany Bay, nearly all Colonial clubs are exceedingly particular. A guest, until he is elected an honorary member, cannot pass beyond a guest-room, which is almost on the threshold. Even here he is not supposed to linger. At one club,the internal arrangements of which were quite palatial, I saw a bath which would excite the wonder of a Barnum. It ought to be exhibited. The performances that this wonderful piece of machinery could go through were perfectly astounding. If I were rich, I would have a bath of that description for the amusement of my friends. It was situated in a little room provided with sliding doors in the walls, and electric bells. Visitors were told that these doors were for attendants to pass in towels and cups of coffee. I heard privately that they were really for attendants to see that the bath did not get loose and damage strangers who were unacquainted with its mechanism. When I first saw this marvellous piece of mechanism, I thought it was a new form of organ, and that all the labelled handles were the stops. The music it played was, however, different from that of an ordinary organ. Pull one handle and you might be boiled. Pull another, and you might be annihilated with jets of water, which would simultaneously hit you in all directions, pounding you to pieces like a fragment of quartz beneath a battery. Pull a third handle, and you would be frizzled to a cinder with hot air. To avoid accidents, there were innumerable notices pasted on walls and on handles of the various taps. I only remember a few of them. One said ‘Be careful and see that the arrow points to the left.’ Another ran, ‘Three turns to the right will give you the douche.’ This was a thing that flattened you out on the bottom of the bath. A sort of aqueous thunderbolt. ‘Mind and turn off number three before entering the bath.’ ‘See that hot is off before turning right hand number two.’ ‘Turn on the aquatic gymnasiumgently.’ This notice, applied to an innocent-looking silver knob, which, when moved, set free a jet of water, which carried the bather up towards the ceiling. Many visitors had been found clawing and reaching and swearing on the top of this jet, where they were being revolved, and tumbled about like a pithball on the fountains which some fishmongers exhibit. Two hours of this was said to be capital exercise for the muscles and lungs. There were a whole lot of other notices, but I forget them. A portion of the apparatus was like an ordinary bath; at the end of it, however, there was a thing like a second bath reared on end. The resemblance of this to a sarcophagus was quite appropriate. It was painted blue, and had aureoles and stars as decorations for its dome-like roof. Standing in this you might pose as a saint, or as one of the images so common in the niches of large cathedrals. This was also appropriate, for, after having met your death, you might remain standing as a martyr to cleanliness, and as a warning to future bathers.
I got my companion, who described the above, to turn on some of the fireworks while I looked through one of the holes for cups of coffee. First there was a hiss, as of escaping steam, then the sullen roar of a fall like great Niagara. Sometimes it was hot, at other times it was cold. Oh, conflagrations and volcanoes, where would you be beneath jets like this? Now and then I could catch a view of my companion through the clouds of spray and steam. At one moment he was like a deity surrounded by rainbows. At another moment he was like an imp of darkness working themachinery of the infernal regions. The thunder of the douche was appalling. I shrieked to him to retire. The roaring of the waters prevented his hearing my warning cries. Suddenly the deluge ceased. He had turned another tap and produced a gentle spray, like that which waters budding plants in spring. The exhibition was marvellous, and it made me change my opinion about Australians being non-inventive. My friend asked me, when all was over, to have a bath. I felt the satire, and did not answer. The volcanic energy pent up behind the silver taps of that establishment have produced too deep an impression ever to be forgotten. To have a bath which will wash your friends, stretch your muscles, give flexibility and tone to your larynx, extinguish volcanoes, put out fires, kill your enemies, create a nervous excitement sufficient to turn black hairs grey, alarm intruders, amuse the children, flood the streets, is a luxury denied to all but Victorians.
‘The Russians will never capture this establishment. The bath would kill them,’ I remarked.
‘They don’t wash,’ replied my friend.
I had forgotten that.
Now do not let it be supposed I have referred to this bath without an object. I and the maker have a contract, and when he has sold a lot of them, we are going to buy a castle apiece. I think the Rhine is a good situation.
The great street in Melbourne is Collins Street. Another great street running parallel to Collins Street is Bourke Street. The latter is like the Strand in London. The former is like Regent Street. The streetsand their footpaths are wide, and the people in consequence do not appear to be so numerous as in Sydney. Still, until about six p.m., when all the shutters snap to like a lot of clam shells that had been alarmed, there are people enough.
It is a great treat for anyone fond of seeing nice people and nice shops to do ‘the block.’ I spent very much time doing ‘the block.’ In fact I think I could pass a very good examination as to the contents of the various shops in the leading thoroughfares of Melbourne. There are also a number of interesting arcades. One shop which I remember was a monster book shop. It seemed customary to go into this shop, and loll against any of its hundred stalls, and read. Having turned down the page, you can come back and finish the story next day. In Collins Street I was particularly struck with the uniformed satellites, whose duty it was to parade in front of the large shops, and assist ladies to alight from their carriages. In neatness they were only equalled by the cockaded, brilliantly buttoned gentlemen who drove the carriages. Throughout the colony I observed that many of the younger ladies cropped their hair like boys, and wore tippets. Sad green was a favourite colour for dresses. Talking of girls, one thing which annoyed me was to see nice-looking, stylishly-dressed, gazelle-like creatures, who looked as if they would hardly condescend to nod at a duke, talking and walking with ill-dressed young larrikins. You see this all over the colonies.
Among the public buildings that I visited were the Law Courts, with their numerous and elaborate courts of justice, several colonial Banking Palaces, and the PublicLibrary, which probably has one of the finest collections of books in the East. Attached to this there is a picture gallery, and a technological museum filled with models of great nuggets, models of mining machinery, and machinery used in other industries, and other interesting objects too many for enumeration. I did not see an Egyptian mummy. I trust that the reverence for antiquity has an existence in Australia, and that some mummies will be ordered. At one end of Collins Street I admired the statues of Burke and Wills, the great explorers, and also the massive public buildings which block the end of the street. I saw the University, and its Museum of Natural History. The animals were very tightly packed, and if the accumulation continues it will shortly become necessary to climb in and out between the ribs of whales and other monsters before you can see the place. One whale has already been compelled to take an outside place in the garden. The decorations, which consist of illuminated scrolls, have a remarkable similarity to the decorations one sees in churches. Instead of the Ten Commandments, on close inspection, you find that the illuminated legends refer to the orders of animals and plants. There is also a very fine hall to be seen at the University. It is as yet wanting in internal decoration.
On the other side of Melbourne, the Observatory, which has one of the largest telescopes in the world, was pointed out to me. Near to this I saw some exceedingly pretty botanical gardens. Overlooking these is Government House. It is very large, and more imposing than Buckingham Palace. Its tower, which has a flagstaff on top, corresponds to what the tower of the Post Officein Sydney is to be—a landmark for all who lose their way. Altogether there is much to be seen in and about Melbourne. There are innumerable parks, racecourses, cricket grounds, zoological gardens, manufactories, theatres, and other places of amusement which I had no time to visit. While in Melbourne I made many journeys on the suburban lines. I have already described the smoking-carriages on these lines. The ordinary first-class carriages were on a par with the ordinary second-class car we have in England. If the directors of these lines wish to be economical, why do they not simply have one type of carriage? A common wooden-seated third-class vehicle; place a mat on the seat and it becomes second-class; and, with an additional mat for the back, it becomes first-class. Let the mats be in little squares, so that each passenger can hire one, as he passes from the ticket-office.
Before saying good-bye to marvellous Melbourne, just a word about its river, which is quite as marvellous as the city on its banks. In its upper courses the Yarra, with its weeping willows, is a pretty stream. It is clear, sluggish, and sinuous, still it is anything but ugly. In its lower courses, where it winds across the flat marshy ground which divides Melbourne from the sea, it ought hardly to be called a river. Other rivers might object. It is as sinuous as a snake in spasms. Its banks are of mud, and its stagnant waters a mixture of sludge and filth. As you sail down it, almost touching either bank, at one time you appear to be going towards Melbourne, and at another time to be going away from it. Then the smells. The variety of these is as great as at Cologne, but by no means so pleasant. At one momentup goes your handkerchief for a tallow-boiling establishment, at the next moment you are knocked over by a soap factory. The worst smell of all is the Yarra itself. This you get at shallow corners, and when you ground on mud-banks. O smell of smells! Products of decomposition, sulphuretted and arseniuretted hydrogen, carbon disulphide, and all the odours of the chemist! what are ye to this? Still you have your use. Pilots with good noses can steer by you on the darkest night.
The Liffey makes good Dublin stout. Surely there is something in the semi-solid waters of the Yarra! Try it for porter, and if it does not do for that, try it for hair oil; if it fails for both of these, it will certainly make a good emetic.
The only other places that I honoured in Victoria were Sandhurst and Ballarat. I went to these two places rather than to others because they were classical places in the history of Australian mining; in fact, but for these places, Victoria might never have been invented. The travelling was done by rail. It is a common thing for distinguished visitors in the colonies to be provided with free passes. As the directors of the various colonial lines did not know that I was a distinguished visitor, I had to travel at my own expense. Almost every carriage that I travelled in contained a deadhead. The ticket collector would come, and the two or three deadheads would show a mysterious little card, a bit of paper, or a medal. One lot of deadheads I travelled with turned out to be honourable members of the House of Assembly. From their appearance and speech I should hardly have suspected their vocation.They seem to be well acquainted with people on the line, from whom I learnt that the name of one of the honourable members was ‘Jim.’ The custom of addressing Parliamentary potentates by an abbreviated surname was, I was told, in imitation of the farm-labourers near Hawarden, who speak of a distinguished member of the British House of Assembly as Bill. I should like to describe the various members of colonial legislative assemblies with whom I had the honour to converse, but I am afraid. If you are not careful you may become notorious as a defendant in a suit for libel. While I was in Australia, the editor ofPunchwas acting as a defendant in a case brought against him by a Government official. ‘Better stand official outside a post-office with his tongue out—he will do for people to wet stamps on,’ suggested a wag.Punchhad cartooned a gentleman in this position, and thus the row. I thinkPunchwas very wrong.
I travelled up to Sandhurst in the dark. During the latter part of the journey up to Sandhurst I was entertained by a rough-looking gentleman, with whom I had entered into conversation, who told me much about his early experiences when he first came out to Victoria. He seemed to have tried his hand at everything, from sheep to literature. One of his literary experiences ran pretty much as follows:
‘It was in the early days of Victorian history, when I found myself in Sandhurst and short of money. A friend in Melbourne had given me an introduction to Mr. J. G. Boosey, proprietor and editor of theBendigoScientific Advertiser and General News Agent. To make my introduction agreeable to Mr. Boosey, and at the same time pecuniarily advantageous to myself, I penned a short article on the garden-snail, which had recently been imported from Europe, and was creating ravages of no inconsiderable extent in many of the gardens. This I put in my pocket, when I proceeded to Mr. Boosey’s office.
‘Mr. Boosey was exceedingly agreeable, and after inquiring about his friends in Melbourne, asked me to read the article I had brought. After giving a few preliminary coughs I began:
‘SLUGS.
‘“Slugs eat cabbage. They forage at night. In the morning they creep home. They are afraid of gardeners. Gardeners hate slugs because they eat the things in the garden. To catch slugs you must get up early. The captives may be thrown into a neighbouring garden. This annoys the man next door. The slug is a very quiet animal. Its length is sometimes three inches. When it is alarmed it is only about half an inch long. Many slugs have shells. The horns upon their heads are weapons. Slugs travel very slowly. Once a slug had a race with a hare. The slug won. Snails are the same as slugs. Once a slug fought with some tailors. The tailors ran away. They were afraid of the snail’s horns. Snails are succulent. They make good soup.”
‘“’Twon’t do, ’twon’t do,” said the editor. “’Tain’t my style a bit. If you want me to insert your articles in theBendigo Scientific Advertiser and General News Agent, guess you’ll have to be terse. Say thingsto the point, and not go wandering along with a regimental procession of high-falutin, chuckle-headed sentences like what you’ve stuck down on that paper. Now look at this,” and he held out the papers I had brought for his approval at arm’s length. “Just look at this! call this an article on slugs! Why, there ain’t enough in it to make a decent epitaph for a bumble-bee.” Then he begun to read, “‘Slugs eat cabbage.’ Um, ‘They forage at night.’ Um, ‘In the morning they creep home.’ Um, ‘They are afraid of gardeners.’ Um, your ideas ain’t continuous or elastic. In those four sentences, if they were decently handled, there is enough to last theBendigo Advertiserfor a week. You oughtn’t to call a slug a slug. Call him a univalvular molluscous gasteropod. Describe him in the early dawn cautiously returning from a predatory excursion upon a cabbage-garden. Picture the thrifty gardener, with a patch of sunlight illuminating his honest face, the glory of the early morning, the refulgence of the rising luminary reflected from the riplets of a neighbouring fish-pond, and all that sort of thing. Just keep on saying the same thing over and over again without using exactly the same words. Circulate round and round a bit with ordinary phrases, and people will catch the hang of your meaning better than if you go dashing along, plumping fact after fact down their throats as if you wanted to choke ’em with literature. But above all things be terse, concise, and to the point.”
‘How I was to be terse and concise, and yet to keep on circling round and round, saying the same thing over and over again, but with varied phraseology, was a problem. I thanked the editor for his kindness, andproceeded towards my lodgings with my head filled with ideas of a univalvular molluscous gasteropod, a thrifty gardener, a rising luminary and a fish-pond. I had hard work that evening, but I succeeded in constructing a circular story about a univalvular molluscous gasteropod better than I had anticipated. Next morning when I entered the office, Boosey, who was sitting in his editorial chair, said: “Well—hic—so you think you have succeeded. Just let me hear what you have written—hic. Feel sleepy this morning.” It was clear that Mr. Boosey was slightly inebriated, and knowing that it would be bad policy to aggravate an inebriated man, I at once pulled my paper from my pocket, and began as follows:
‘“The title is ‘The Univalvular Molluscous Gasteropod; or, The New Colonial Pest.’”
‘“Excellent,” hiccuped Boosey, “mush better than calling it a snail. It’s a univalvular molluscous gasteropod, just as I told you. Your language is really very beautiful—hic.”
‘Then I started, Mr. Boosey dreamily looking at me and nodding his head.
‘“As a toil-worn univalvular molluscous gasteropod wearily sped towards its home at early dawn, skirting the western side of a broad and verdant cabbage-patch, picking its way by the uncertain but continually increasing light penetrating the cloud-beflecked sky, till it at last saw in the orient the uprising luminary which might disclose its presence to the cautious and thrifty gardener, who had risen early, with a patch of sunlight on his honest face, it watched the steadily glowing disc and the wide-extended sheaves and pencils, resplendentwith golden light, silvering, gilding, and, it might be added, magnificently tinting every snowy pile of gauze-like vapour, etherealizing all the low-lying mist that hid the bosom of the mother earth, and at length perceived across the yet deserted garden the rippling waves of a distant fish-pond, stirred by the first gentle breeze of the early dawn, and the flashing of a broad band of glory, each ripplet on the distant shore catching up and robbing its neighbour of the wonderful illumination, each with its handful of beautiful light passing its transient acquirement to the nearest swell, and in turn catching new beauty from the passing beams of the god of day, when the eyes are dazed by the passing sheen, and all the scene is surcharged with light until glory covered the weary one.”
‘At this point I had come to the end of my manuscript, and I looked towards Boosey, who was nodding his head towards the desk. When I said “glory covered the weary one,” he looked up, gave a hiccup, and asked if that was all. A diabolical idea came into my head. As Boosey was evidently muddled with what I had read, I would follow his advice and make my story circulate. Oh no, Mr. Boosey; it continues right straight along: “the weary one being a toil-worn univalvular molluscous gasteropod that wearily sped towards its home at early dawn, skirting the western side of a broad and verdant cabbage-patch, picking his way by the uncertain but continually increasing light, which penetrated the cloud-beflecked sky, till it at last saw in the orient the uprising luminary which might disclose its presence to the cautious and thrifty gardener, who had risen early, with a patch of sunlight on his honestface, it watched the steadily glowing disc and the wide-extended sheaves and pencils, resplendent with golden light, silvering, gilding, and, it might be added, magnificently tinting every snowy pile of gauze-like vapour, etherealizing all the low-lying mist that hid the bosom of the mother earth, and at length perceived across the yet deserted garden the rippling waves of a distant fish-pond, stirred by the first gentle breeze of the early dawn, the flashing of a broad band of glory, each ripplet on the distant shore catching up and robbing its neighbour of the wonderful illumination, each with its handful of beautiful light passing its transient acquirement to the nearest swell, and in turn catching new beauty from the passing beams of the god of day, when the eyes are dazed by the passing sheen, and all the scene is surcharged with light until glory covered the weary one.”
‘“Shplendid,—hic,—shplendid,” yawned Boosey. “Just stop there, and say, ‘To be continued in our next.’ Can give you ten dollars for six similar articles. When you talked about slugs eating cabbage—hic—forage at night—hic,—afraid of the gardener, and the rest of it, I was doubtful about your—hic—style. Terseness is the art of journalism. There is a terseness about what you have just read—hic—which will certainly please the readers of our columns.”
‘How it was that old Boosey had not noticed that I had reiterated several of my statements in connection with the univalvular molluscous gasteropod can only be attributed to amiability. That night I sent in some clean copy, and my article appeared; but as I was a stranger in Sandhurst I was unable to learn anythingrespecting the general impression it had produced. Next day I went to the office, where I found Mr. Boosey in a worse state than he had been in on the previous day. All he could do was to giggle inanely, and say, “Shplendid—univalv—hic—ular gasteropod indeed! funny dog—take a drink, old man. Make you sub-editor next week.” Then inquiringly, “S’pose you’ve got some more about that gash’opod, eh?” It was clear that my chance was open, and I did not lose it. That night the readers of theBendigo Advertiserhad the continuation of the story. It began: “As a toil-worn univalvular molluscous gasteropod wearily sped,” etc. In the evening I heard one or two of the guests at the hotel saying that old Boosey was mad. Snails in the colonies were bad enough, but his articles were worse.
‘Times were too bad for one to think what people thought of Boosey, and so long as he remained amiable, I determined to go ahead, sending the same old story about the univalvular molluscous gasteropod. On the evening of the fifth day Boosey sent me a cheque for ten pounds, with compliments and thanks for my interesting communications. His note indicated that he was sober, and I felt alarmed.
‘The morning after this I heard that a little boy had put his head inside Boosey’s office, and called the old man a univalvular molluscous gasteropod. This little incident was followed by an article inThe Morning Chronicle, headed, “A Circular Story; or, A New Colonial Pest,” which tried to prove that Boosey was either mad or perpetually intoxicated. I saw a crash was coming, and that evening took a train to Melbourne.A few days afterwards I received a note from Boosey. It ran as follows: