CHAPTER XII

DOMESTIC CONDITIONS

Looking back on our various expeditions, I realise that our visits must often have been no small tax in remote places and in houses where servants were necessarily few. Quite rich people, having to our knowledge lands and flocks bringing in thousands a year, would have only three or four servants—the daughters of the house would do much of the work,and visitors would be quite prepared to help in making butter and cakes. A good deal that had been said in England about the splendid times which servants had overseas struck me on nearer observation as capable of being looked at from quite another point of view. For instance, much was made at one time of maid-servants having horses to ride. When the nearest town was perhaps fifteen or twenty miles off, when a horse cost £5 or £10, was never groomed, and when the rider himself or herself caught and saddled him as wanted, riding was not such an exceptional privilege.

Again, it was true that wages were about double what they were in England, but accommodation was much rougher, and servants were expected to help in every department as required—no question of saying “that is not my place.” I am speaking of nearly thirty years ago, but certainly almost all the servants whom we took out returned with us to England.

This also applies to any remarks about social conditions. As I said before, Lord Derby was most regular in writing, and begged for any news which I could send him. Having been Colonial Secretary, he retained great interest in the Dominions. He told me in one letter that he was keeping mine, as he thought they might be of use hereafter, and after his death a number were returned to me. I have also preserved many of his; but looking through them, both his and mine refer so largely to topics of the day in both hemispheres that I hardly think that voluminous extracts can be of much present interest.

CORRESPONDENCE WITH LORD DERBY

I, however, quote a few. In one of his first letters he says:

“Writing to Australia is no easy matter. What can one say to a friend who has met with reverses?And surely there is no greater reverse in life than being turned upside down. Does it pay to be a constitutional monarch turned wrong-side up?”

To which I replied:

“Your reversed friend was delighted to get your letter; though, as my little boy says when told that he is upside down, ‘No, we are standing straight, it is the people in England who are standing on their heads now,’ which shows that he is rapidly imbibing Australian theories, and believes that whatever be the follies of the Old World, we in New South Wales must be all right.”

I do not think that I felt upside down, but nevertheless I had from time to time the feeling of having been buried and dug up again. Born and brought up in a very old house, and having both lived and travelled almost entirely among what was ancient, it was a strange experience to live where there were no relics of an Old World, and hardly any spot where history had been made in the long ago. On the other hand, Australia looked bravely forward, and was, and is, building for the future. As Lord Derby put it in another letter:

“I trust you enjoy colonial society and antipodean politics which at least have the charm of greater hopefulness than we can indulge in in this used up old country.”

Some of his accounts might almost have been written to-day; for instance, July 1891:

“The Labour party seems quite as lively with you as it is here. Questions of that class will play a considerable part at the coming elections, and many candidates who call themselves conservative will swallow pledges more than half socialistic.”

And again in November:

“Speeches are constantly made but seldom read. England is sick of the Irish question (!) but has no other ready to put in its place. Claims for shorter hours and higher wages are rising in every trade and business, and this is the only subject that really touches public opinion; it is not, however, an easy one for candidates to make capital out of, for opinion in the electoral masses has not pronounced in favour of or against a compulsory eight hours; which is the main question in dispute. The cat has not jumped yet, when it does pledges and opinions will be swallowed, and a dishonest scramble will follow.”

Many cats have jumped since then, but the main outlines of politics are not essentially different.

I confess that I was impressed by the extent to which the problem of the unemployed existed in a country with apparently limitless possibilities. Meetings of these men took place constantly near the Queen’s Statue during 1892, and perhaps a portion of a letter which I wrote to Lord Derby may be worth recording as at least a first-hand impression of what took place at the time.

“As to the unemployed, they present the usual features of the class, somewhat intensified by local colour. A kind Government not only provides a free Labour Bureau to meet their case, but has obtained for them certain buildings belonging to the Municipality as sleeping and smoking-rooms, and to the ‘married destitute’ is now distributing orders for free rations. I understand that about 9,000 entered their names on the books of the Labour Bureau, but only some 200 have so far proved themselves qualified for free rations. What I am, however, trying hard to make out is why, when everyone tells you ‘there is work for everyone in this country if he likes’—‘everyonecan make money here’—‘this is the working-man’s paradise,’ etc., etc., there should be such numbers of men out of work and undoubtedly so much real destitution. Possibly two incidents which have occurred lately may assist in the solution of the problem. A contractor took a number of men from the Labour Bureau to do certain works near the Harbour. He tried to sort them with a view to giving the less efficient 6s.a day, the others to have 7s.or 8s.a day when proved capable of earning it. They all struck, and even the Minister for Works backed them up, saying the contractor must not do that—he must give all the men standard wages, but might send away the inefficient ones and have others in their place.”

Of course the wages in Australia have risen enormously in the last twenty-five years. At the time I wrote, as far as I recollect, miners had about 14s.a day and other skilled labourers somewhere from 10s.to 13s.The men employed by the contractor were probably unskilled. I continue my letter:

“Yesterday I visited a large Government Asylum for women ... no poor law here. It comes to exactly the same thing, only, instead of the rates, Government supports the institution. But the interesting thing was this—connected with this women’s asylum is a farm, and the Matron’s husband (an ex P. & O. captain) has voluntarily taken it in hand. He wanted labour, and observed that in a neighbouring Government Asylum for men there are numbers of men capable of doing plenty of work, but not up to the 7s.to 10s.a day standard. He asked permission to have some of these men, and has now about 40 employed about the farm, giving them board and lodging at this Women’s Asylum and from 3d.to 1s.a day. I saw some at 3d.doing 4ft. draining, and I talked to one, a bricklayer, who was doing excellent work for 1s.a day. I calculated with the Master what his board and lodging were worth(meat about 2½d.lb.) and it came to about 1s.a day, so with 1s.wages on six days that was about 13s.a week.”

I remark that had Trade Unions found out that these men, whom masters would not employ at full rates, were working instead of sitting with folded hands, it would doubtless have been stopped. Meantime, though ancient history, this is not altogether unenlightening.

LABOUR LEGISLATION

One rather amusing incident took place in Parliament. “Eight hours” was the Trade Union rule, but was not enforced by law at the time of which I write. A measure was brought into the Legislative Assembly (the Lower House) to make it legally obligatory. First came the preamble, which was accepted, then Clause Two stating that Eight Hours should be the legal working-day, which was passed with acclamation, then the various clauses with penalties attached which would oblige employers and employed to abide by the new law. All these were promptly negatived. It seems to have struck somebody that two clauses expressing an academic opinion looked a little isolated, so a member brought forward a third clause stating that nobody was to be obliged to work eight hours if he did not want to do so. This was accepted with equal unanimity, and the Bill stood practically thus: 1st. Name. 2nd. Eight hours is a legal working-day. 3rd. No one is obliged to work eight hours. I believe that the whole thing evaporated in a burst of laughter and never went to the Upper House, but of course every sort of stringent regulation as to working-hours has come in since.

However, the immediate sequel of this legislative effort deserves record. A ship came into Sydney Harbour and stevedores were enlisted to unload it. After eight hours’ work they wanted to go on so as to get overtime pay. “Not at all,” said the captain, “Iam in no hurry. Eight hours is a legal working-day, and I am not going to break the law.” Whereupon they all struck because they were not allowed to work overtime! This is enough on this burning question, which is certainly not peculiar to Australia.

Before leaving Lord Derby’s letters a few extracts with regard to European foreign affairs may be of interest. In March ’91 he writes:

“Every thing and person on the Continent is quiet; even the German Emperor. At least he has not been emitting any oracles lately. He is said to have grown tired of Caprivi, and another change is talked of. There is a vague idea about that he is ‘going queer.’ I don’t know that it rests on any authority.”

In the same letter, though this did not then concern foreign politics, he says:

“The only rising man I hear of is on the Gladstonian side—young Sir Edward Grey, grandson of old Sir George, once Home Secretary. He is making a name as an effective debater.”

Even Lord Derby could not foresee under what circumstances these two men, the Kaiser and Sir Edward, would become protagonists twenty-three years later! He also speaks of the “rising celebrity,” Rudyard Kipling. In the following May he says:

“Foreign affairs seem quiet all over Europe; I am not behind the scenes, but I know that the diplomatists expect no early disturbance. The Czar would scarcely indulge in the pleasing pastime of baiting his Jews, if he looked forward to wanting a loan. Besides, he hates soldiering, and takes some interest in finance. The German Emperor has been making a fool of himself, which is nothing new; he delivered a speech the otherday, in which he praised the beer-swilling and duelling of German students as being the most effective influences to keep up the true German character! He is an energetic young savage, and that is the best one can say.”

It should be remembered that the Czar who indulged in “the pleasing pastime of Jew baiting” was not the luckless Nicholas II so brutally murdered—a victim, say some, to the baited Jews—but his father, Alexander III, whom he succeeded in 1894.

THE EX-KAISER

In July Lord Derby refers to the visit of the German Emperor at the beginning of the month:

“He has been ramping up and down, seeing everything, questioning everybody, intent on making the most of his time, and keeping all the world in the condition of fuss and bustle which is the element in which he lives. It is almost too soon to judge the effect of his visit. I should say that he was popular rather than otherwise; not from his manners, which are queer and rather blunt; but there is a certain simplicity about him which pleases, as when he told the Windsor people, in answer to an address, that he had come ‘to see his grandmamma, who had always been kind to him.’ He had a good reception in the city, though not so enthusiastic as the press makes out. There was about as much interest shown in his state entry as in an ordinary Lord Mayor’s Show. He is understood to be well satisfied, and the visit has given people a subject to talk about, which they were beginning to want. None now lasts longer than a week. By that time, journalistic enterprise has said whatever is to be said, and the public grows weary. I am afraid one effect of this German visit will be to put the French in a bad humour, though with no good reason. But that cannot be helped.”

Lord Derby seems to have been somewhat reassured, as in August, after touching on home affairs, he writes:

“The other event is more important: the visit of the French fleet to Portsmouth, where it has been reviewed by the Queen, and civilities of every kind have been exchanged. I call the matter important, because the visit of the German Emperor made a great feeling of soreness in France, and led to endless talk about England having joined the anti-gallican alliance. All that nonsense is ended by the courtesy shown to French officers: and the relations of the two countries, if not absolutely cordial, are again comfortable. The business was well managed and does credit to the people in Downing Street.”

Lord Derby continued to send most interesting news, but unfortunately some of his later letters are missing, and alas! he died in the spring of 1893, so I never saw my kind and constant friend again.

LORD DERBY’S POEM

I never saw the following lines published. They were given me by Lady Galloway, who told me that Lord Derby believed that he had composed them, as he could not remember having heard or read them when he woke with them in his mind. She wrote down what he said with regard to them.

“Lines made, as I believe, in sleep, in the course of a dream, in which some fellow-student had asked me to complete a poem which he was sending in:“We judge but acts—not ours to look within:The crime we censure, but ignore the sin:For who tho’ versed in every legal artCan trace the mazes of the human heart,Allow for nature, training, faults of raceAnd friendships such as make us brave or base,Or judge how long yon felon in his cellResisted, struggled—conquered ere he fell?Our judgments skim the surface of the seas,We have no sounding-line for depths like these.Jan. 1893, 5 to 7 a.m.”

“Lines made, as I believe, in sleep, in the course of a dream, in which some fellow-student had asked me to complete a poem which he was sending in:

“We judge but acts—not ours to look within:The crime we censure, but ignore the sin:For who tho’ versed in every legal artCan trace the mazes of the human heart,Allow for nature, training, faults of raceAnd friendships such as make us brave or base,Or judge how long yon felon in his cellResisted, struggled—conquered ere he fell?Our judgments skim the surface of the seas,We have no sounding-line for depths like these.Jan. 1893, 5 to 7 a.m.”

One or two imperfect lines follow. The idea recalls Burns’s “Address to the Unco’ Guid”:

“Then at the balance let’s be mute,We never can adjust it;What’s done we partly may compute,But know not what’s resisted.”

Lord Derby, however, goes deeper into the springs of action. Verses composed in sleep are by no means uncommon, but apart from Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan,” are perhaps seldom as consecutive as these.

FURTHER AUSTRALIAN IMPRESSIONS—NEW ZEALAND AND NEW CALEDONIA

Lady Galloway came out to us towards the end of 1891, and in January she accompanied us on one of our amusing expeditions. This time it was about three days’ tour through a hilly—indeed mountainous country. The hills in Australia do not, as a rule, attain great height; it is because they are so ancient in the world’s history that they have been worn down by the storms of ages and the ravages of time. We went, however, to open another range of caverns of the same kind as the Jenolan Caves. These, the Yarrangobilly Caves, had been explored, and to a certain extent excavated, within more recent years, and were now to be made accessible to tourists.

Mr. Dibbs and other officials and Members of Parliament, notably some Labour Members, came also; and a mixed multitude, said to amount to about five hundred people in all, took part more or less in what was called “The Governor’s Picnic.”

YARRANGOBILLY CAVES

These did not follow us all through the hills, but camped in the valley near the caves. Here a comic incident occurred. For the first part of the tour we were in one district, for the last in another, but somehow in the middle we fell between two stools. In Number One and Number Three we were entertained by hosts who displayed the usual lavish hospitality, and all theway we were conveyed by kindly charioteers, and accompanied by a splendid voluntary mounted escort, but in Number Two, the valley near the caves, something had gone wrong. A wooden hut with several rooms had been prepared for our reception, but no food! It was a sort of debatable ground, and either through misunderstanding or, as was hinted, through local jealousy, it was nobody’s business to act host on the border land.

The poor Premier and other officials were desperate when they discovered our plight, and in the end Dibbs possessed himself of one of the troopers’ swords and rushed off to a party of picnickers who were innocently sitting down to enjoy the supper which they had brought with them, asking what they meant by eating cold mutton while the Governor and his party were destitute!

He returned triumphant with a joint. Meantime someone had produced a packet believed to contain Brand’s Essence. Lady Galloway claimed that she knew how to make soup, so it was handed over to her. She upset it all into a soup plate full of water, and then, and not till then, it was discovered to be tea! However, one way and another, we were provided with sufficient food, and duly inaugurated the caves.

They were beautiful, but never have I been so hard pressed for adjectives. The old guide whom we also met in the Jenolan Caves had been put on duty at the Yarrangobilly excavations for the occasion. He stopped our party of six or seven people before each particular stalagmite or stalactite, and would not move on till each of us in turn had ejaculated “beautiful,” “magnificent,” “stupendous,” or some other such laudatory word as suppressed laughter enabledus to utter, for it became a sort of game not to repeat what our companions had said.

The following day an early start took us to Tumut, where we had a great reception and excellent entertainment. We were, however, not allowed to enter the town for our first greetings. As we drew near it, about 9 a.m. we perceived a table with a white cloth and several men standing round it in a field (“paddock” is the correct term in Australia). The wagonette was stopped, we were requested to get out, and we found that the magistrates of the district were waiting there with champagne, forestalling the reception prepared for us by the Municipality!

Shortly after our return to Hill View, our summer’s home, Lady Galloway, my brother Rupert, and I set off on a trip to New Zealand. In the intervening time the whole of Australia was deeply moved by the terrible news of the death of the Duke of Clarence. The fact of his recent engagement brought home to every household the full force of the tragedy. Addresses of condolence poured in, and the staff was fully occupied in acknowledging them and forwarding them to England.

We sailed from Melbourne, staying for a day at Hobart in Tasmania, where Lady Hamilton, wife of Sir Robert Hamilton the Governor, who was then absent, took excellent care of us. Tasmania appeared to be a happy, friendly little place, but naturally we had no time to see much. The harbour is fine, and the vegetation in the neighbourhood of the city was rich and green with quite an English aspect.

We then took ship for Dunedin, quite in the south of the South Island. It took us about four days and the sea was by no means calm.

DUNEDIN

Dunedin is a very interesting place and quite lives upto its name, for it is a small edition of Edinburgh. Scotch names over most of the shops, and as we walked past the open door of a boys’ school we heard instructions being given in a very decided Scottish accent. There is a hill which recalls the Castle Hill, and even a manufacture of a very good woollen fabric with a distinctly plaid character. No doubt all this has greatly developed, but I trust it remains true to its Scottish origin. It was founded in 1848 by emigrants representing the Free Kirk of Scotland who left after the separation from the Established Church. There is a story that some of the first settlers put up a notice on their land to the effect that their co-religionists might help themselves to wood but that all others were to pay for it. True fraternal feeling, but it is hardly consonant with usual Scottish shrewdness that they should have expected the other wood-gatherers to volunteer payment.

From Dunedin we went on to Invercargill, the extreme southern point, where the Governor, Lord Onslow, had invited us to join him on the Government yacht, theHinemoa, and there we found Lady Onslow awaiting us.

We were indeed fortunate in sharing in this expedition. The Onslows, who were on the point of returning to England, had arranged a trip to the Sounds for which they had not previously found time, and it was only in their yacht that we could have fully enjoyed the wonders of these fiords of the Southern Hemisphere. I do not know how it is now, but then excursion steamers only went about four times a year, were very crowded, and entered a limited number of Sounds. Lord Onslow took us into one after another, each more imposing than the last. I was particularly impressed by the desolate grandeur of one said not to have been entered fortwenty-five years. The mountainous steeps which guarded it were in great part simply rocky slopes, and it seemed as if the spirits of the place resented our intrusion. In most of the other Sounds the precipitous mountain sides were clad with wildly luxuriant foliage, and land and water were alive with birds, particularly water-fowl. Amongst these were the lovely black-and-white Paradise ducks, which could be caught with long-handled nets something like gigantic butterfly nets.

The precipices enclosing the Sounds rise in some cases five or six thousand feet from the water’s edge, their tops are snow-clad, and great waterfalls thunder into the calm sea-inlets below. The most famous fiord is Milford Sound, where is the great Bowen Fall. So thick is the vegetation that one fallen tree was pointed out to us on which we were assured that 500 different specimens of ferns, creepers, etc., might be counted. We had no time to verify this statement, but a hasty inspection made it seem not at all impossible. One thing is certain—the mountain-side with its impenetrable forest descends so precipitously into the waters below that our yacht of 500 tons was tied up to an overhanging tree and had no need to cast anchor. I think that there are seventeen Sounds in all (I do not mean that we saw so many), but Milford Sound is the only one which could be reached from the land, and even that was, in our time, a matter of great difficulty. For a long time the only inhabitant had been a man called Sutherland, who was considered a hermit and periodically supplied with food. He had discovered about fourteen miles inland the great Sutherland waterfall, which is much higher than Niagara though not nearly so broad.

THE NEW ZEALAND SOUNDS

When we were in Milford Sound we found a small band of convicts who had been lately established there for the purpose of making a road to the Fall. I do not think that they were working very hard, but they had cleared about two miles of footpath through the thicket along which we walked, and a lovely walk it was. Tea at the end, however, was considerably disturbed by sandflies which came round us in a perfect cloud, so that we could only push our cups up under our veils.

New Zealand sandflies are a peculiarly virulent species—a large blister rises directly they bite you, but they have the saving grace that they stop the moment the sun sets. They were, however, the only drawback to this most delightful of trips. While we were fighting them my brother and Lord Onslow’s A.D.C., Captain Guthrie, tried to push on to the Fall. As far as I remember, they got a distant view but had not time to reach it.[1]

Lord Onslow was a most considerate nautical host. We cruised from Sound to Sound by night as a rule, so that we might lie prostrate and asleep on the rough waves which are apt to surround those shores, and during the day we enjoyed the calm waters of the fiord.

We parted from the yacht and from our kind hosts with regret, having arranged to be again their guests at Wellington. Meantime we saw something of the South Island, which, by the way, bears the alternative name of Middle Island. New Zealand is really composed of three islands—North Island, the South or Middle Island, and a little one at the foot named StewartIsland. New Zealand claims dominion over a large number of small islands in the Pacific, to which happily two of the Samoan group over which it exercises a “mandate” have been added since the war. Lord Onslow told us that shortly before our visit he had been to settle the claims of certain rival Queens of Raratonga, one of these dependencies. Having decided in favour of one of these royal ladies, he endowed her with a sundial, as a sign of supremacy, as he thought she could well assert herself by “setting the time of day.” The South Island is full of beauty. We went in a steamer up Lake Wakatipu. I cannot attempt a description of all the charms of this lake and its neighbourhood. Naturally it differed from the Italian Lakes in the absence of picturesque villages (now, by the way, almost swallowed up by the rows of villas which skirt Como and Maggiore), but on the other hand there was the fascination of radiant nature little touched by the hand of man. Probably now there is a happy and growing population near Lake Wakatipu.

Before we left South Island we stayed for a night or two with my cousin, Edmund Parker, a member of Dalgetty’s firm, who then lived at Christchurch. It is curious that whereas Dunedin owed its origin to the Scotch Free Kirk, Christchurch, founded two years later, was a child of the “Canterbury Association,” which, under the auspices of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Lyttelton, and others, sent out a body of settlers largely drawn from Oxford and strictly members of the Church of England. They took up a tract of land and sold it in portions, devoting ten shillings out of every pound received to church and schools; their city was named Christchurch after the Cathedral and College in Oxford, and the surrounding district bearsthe name of Canterbury. It stands upon the river Avon, the banks of which are planted with willows said to have been originally brought from Napoleon’s Tomb at St. Helena. There is a fine cathedral copied from Caen Cathedral in Normandy, and the whole place recalls some city of the Old World transplanted to a newer and brighter land.

The story goes that some of the original settlers, importing classics into agriculture, “swore at their oxen in Greek”—perhaps someone who heard them quoting Virgil’s Georgics took any foreign tongue for Greek oaths.

HOT SPRINGS OF NEW ZEALAND

After crossing to Wellington and spending a day or two with the Onslows there, we set off again to visit the famous hot-lake district in the Northern Island. Our headquarters were at Rotorua and Whakarewarewa, from both of which we visited the marvellous geysers, springs, and hot lakes with which the district abounds.

The great Pink and White Terraces had been destroyed by a mud volcano some years before our visit, but we saw in many places how similar formations were being reproduced by the chemical substances thrown up by the springs, making polished pink-and-white pavements and even terraces on a small scale. To see the natural hot fountains starting up from the pools among the rocks was entrancing. Some of the columns play at regular intervals, some only occasionally; one irregular performer shoots up a column of boiling water to a height sometimes attaining 100 feet. One was called the Prince of Wales’s Feathers, as the water sprang up in that form.

New Zealand is far more prolific in legends than Australia; the Maoris being of a higher type than the Australian aboriginal, naturally handed downsemi-historical, semi-mythical traditions of their ancestors. Among the prettiest and best-known tales is that of Hinemoa. This young lady was the daughter of the chief of a powerful tribe whose headquarters was at Whakarewarewa. Among the many suitors attracted by her beauty she preferred a youth named Tutaneki; but though his mother was the daughter of the chief of the Island of Mokoia, situated in the centre of the Lake of Rotorua, his father was a commoner, and Hinemoa’s father was furious at the idea of amésalliance. He dared Tutaneki again to set foot on the mainland, and caused all the canoes to be hauled up on the beach to keep Hinemoa from attempting to join her lover. Tutaneki, however, was an accomplished musician, and every evening the strains of his lute floated so sweetly over the waters of the lake that Hinemoa could no longer stand separation. Taking six empty gourds as an improvised life-belt, she swam the three miles dividing her from music and love. Fortunately, though numbed by her exertions, she landed on the island where a hot spring, still called Hinemoa’s Bath, wells up near the beach, and a plunge into it soon revived her. More successful than Leander, she was united to her lover and lived with him peacefully on Mokoia. Her father appears to have reconciled himself to the inevitable.

At one moment we almost thought that we should have, in a minor degree, to emulate the performance of Hinemoa. We arranged to row across the Lake to a spot on the shore opposite our hotel, where we were to be met by a “coach” (as the ordinary vehicles were called) bringing our luncheon. Somehow first our rudder broke away and then the boatman seemed to lose his head—and anyhow lost one of his oars. Wewere thereby left helplessly floating at no great distance from the beach, and, what was worse, with no apparent possibility of securing our luncheon. However, my brother, bolder than Tutaneki, saved Lady Galloway and myself from imitating Hinemoa. He plunged into the water and managed to wade ashore, and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing him return carrying the luncheon basket on his head, and having sent a messenger to summon another boat to our rescue.

One particularly fascinating feature in the Hot Lakes District was the charm of open-air hot baths. Certain pools were surrounded by high palisades rendering them absolutely private. You secured a key and locked yourself in, when you could disport yourself in natural hot water and wade about under the trees to your heart’s content. The water was of a delightful temperature, but certainly impregnated with chemicals, as I found the skin peeling off my feet after two or three such baths.

HUIA ONSLOW

We arrived at Auckland in time to witness the final send-off of that most popular Governor, Lord Onslow, with special tributes to Lady Onslow and her baby son Huia, who, having been born during his parents’ tenure of office, had been endowed with the Maori chieftain’s distinctive badge, the feather of the Huia, and was christened by that name. Whenever he appeared the Maoris shouted “Huia! Huia!” and, most tactfully, the child showed a preference for brown men over white. Poor Huia grew into a splendid and talented youth, but was disabled by an accident while diving. Despite his crippled condition he gallantly pursued his scientific studies till released by death in 1922.

Of all Rudyard Kipling’s Songs of the Cities I thinkthe Song of Auckland best conveys the claim of that vision of beauty:

“Last, loneliest, loveliest, exquisite, apart—On us, on us the unswerving season smiles,Who wonder ’mid our fern why men departTo seek the Happy Isles!”

Truly, New Zealand must have waited while Providence bestowed gifts on many lands, and have then received a special bounty from each store of blessing. The strength of the mountain pass, the plunge of the waterfall, the calm mirror of the lake, the awe of the forest, the glow of the flowers, the fertile pasture for the flock, the rich plains for the corn—gold, coal, and Kauri gum, the marvels of her springs—all these and much more are given to her children, together with one of the most perfect climates on the face of the earth. She has but one drawback—namely, that she is ringed round by some of the stormiest oceans known to man. Perhaps were it not so too many eager pilgrims would seek this far-off Paradise!

Lord and Lady Onslow returned with us to Sydney Government House, and soon after left with their family for England. Lady Galloway in turn sailed in the spring (Australian autumn), to my great regret. She made the voyage in a Messageries boat, accompanied by the very pretty daughters of Lord Southesk, Helena and Dora Carnegie.

In July of this year (1892) my husband and I were fortunately able to make a most interesting journey to the French Colony of New Caledonia. As is well known, certain questions had arisen from time to time between Australia and New Caledonia, as the former Government asserted that convicts escaped from the French penal colony were apt to take refugeon Australian shores; and since the total cessation of convict transportation from Great Britain Australians were, not unnaturally, additionally sensitive to their arrival from any other quarter.

NOUMEA

Apart from this, however, the relations between the British and French “outposts of Empire” were very friendly and a good many Australians had established themselves as free settlers in Noumea, the capital of New Caledonia; and when the French Government heard that Jersey contemplated a visit they sent word (as we learnt later on) that a generous sum was to be spent on the reception of the first Australian Governor to undertake the voyage. Owing to the fact that he had to await permission from home before absenting himself from New South Wales, and as there was then no cable to Noumea, we were unable to name an exact date for our arrival, which after some three days’ voyage took place on July 13th. We sailed in a Messageries boat, theArmand Béhic, very luxurious and with most obliging officers, but much too narrow in proportion to its length, which caused it to roll even when the sea was perfectly calm. This was a common fault with Messageries boats in those days. Probably also it was deficient in cargo, as, despite a large Government subsidy, this line was run to New Caledonia at a considerable loss. I wrote to my mother describing our arrival as follows:

“We were received” (at Noumea) “with a tremendous salute of guns, after which the Conseil de Santé promptly put the ship and all its company into quarantine for 24 hours! We (including Private Secretary and servants) were allowed to stay on board, where we were perfectly comfortable, but all the other passengers from theArmand Béhicand another ship arriving from Sydney at about the same time, were bundled offto the quarantine island. There were about 180 of them and accommodation for about 25. What the rhyme or reason of 24hours’quarantine was in a question of small-pox which might appear, if at all, in 21 days, we at first failed to discover, but the solution—and I fancy the true one—ultimately offered was that when our ship arrived with the British Ensign flying there was an awful hullabaloo. They did not know we were coming by this ship, and neither Government House nor anything else was ready, so they cried, “Whatever shall we do? Happy thought! Small-pox at Sydney—let us quarantine them till we have had time to prepare,” (Here let me remark that as a rule Australia was absolutely free from small-pox, but a few cases had lately been brought by a ship, and of course relegated to the New South Wales remote quarantine stations.)

To resume my letter:

“It mattered very little to us, but was awfully hard on the other victims, particularly as they put all their worn linen into some concoction of chemicals which utterly spoilt it. Meantime we went off to the quarantine island for a walk and went up a hill whence we had a beautiful view of the harbour which islovely... high hills of charming shapes round it ... the real glow of vivid green, red, and blue which one imagines in the South Pacific.... Well, next morning, at 9 a.m., we were allowed to land in great honour and glory, and were received by the Mayor, girt with his tricolour sash, and all the Municipal Council, and then escorted to Government House, where everything had been prepared, down to unlimited scent-bottles, tooth-brushes, and splendidly bound copies of Byron and Milton, to make us feel at home. The only drawback was that having once established us, and apparently cleaned up the house for our arrival, nobody ever attempted to dust or clean in any way again—and as it rained all the time after the first day, and everyonewalked everywhere, including in the ball-room, in muddy boots, the effect was peculiar. Every place was, however, decorated with flowers and flags, which are no doubt excellent substitutes for dusters and dustpans.”

THE GOVERNOR OF NEW CALEDONIA

I shall not easily forget that household. It is hardly necessary to say that the Governor, M. Laffon, was a bachelor, a young man, clever and charming but evidently unaccustomed to domestic details. I believe that he was appointed through the influence of the Paris Rothschild, who was a friend of his father, and who had a predominating share in the nickel mines which constitute the great wealth of New Caledonia. He, however, was a civilian and had no voice in the appointment of the Private Secretary and Military A.D.C. who constituted his staff, and who treated their Chief with a profound disregard which scandalised our Private Secretary, George Goschen.

M. Laffon got up at any hour in the morning to take us to “objects of interest” before the heat of the day, but the staff did not trouble themselves to appear till about noon, and when a ceremoniousdéjeunerwas given we found that the Minister of the Interior was running round to put the name-cards on the places of the guests. These young men told Mr. Goschen that when they did not want to go anywhere they pleaded headache and wondered if their Governor were surprised at the frequency of these ailments. “But don’t you have a headache?” added one of them. “An A.D.C.,” retorted our virtuous Briton, “never has a headache.” “But you have sentiments?” “An A.D.C.,” was the reply, “has no feelings.” “You must feel unwell sometimes?” “Never more than one out of four of us at a time.”

Poor George Goschen was nearly crippled with rheumatism while at Noumea, but would rather have died on the spot than have omitted to set a good example by following us everywhere in a pelting rain. Nevertheless when they deigned to accompany us the two Frenchmen made themselves very agreeable.

Our English footman, originally a boy from Middleton village, was considerably taken aback when he found that the only attendance in our rooms was the sudden inroad of a party of kanakas (natives) who ran in with feather brushes, stirred up a little dust, and rapidly disappeared. “Well, Henry,” said Mr. Goschen, “either you or I will have to make His Excellency’s bed.” And, stimulated by this and by my maid’s example, Henry turned to, and we were made perfectly comfortable.

Fortunately for the peace of mind of our kind hosts, the Government and Municipality, we came in for the Fêtes de Juillet, so though they could not carry out the special entertainments projected for us, they had three balls, and some races, already arranged. It was rather strange to have the music supplied by a Convict Band in their penal garb, but it was very good.

In the middle of one of the balls we were summoned to witness a “pilou-pilou,” that is a native dance by the kanakas—merry-looking people with tremendous heads of wool standing straight up. They danced a kind of ballet with much swaying of their bodies and swinging of their weapons, which they afterwards presented to me. I did not much like taking them, but was assured that it was the custom.

These kanakas were darker and of a more negro type than the Samoans whom we afterwards visited, but not so dark as the Australian aboriginals, nor sosavage as the inhabitants of the New Hebrides or New Ireland.

We saw two of their villages, and their system of irrigation by little watercourses on the hill-side, which showed considerable capacity for agriculture. The Roman Catholic missionaries claimed to have converted about ten thousand of them, and it was curious to find in a dark little hut of bark and reeds, with little inside except mats and smoke, two or three Mass books and a crucifix. Some of the priests whom we met had gone into the wilds of New Caledonia before the French annexed it in 1853, and regardless of danger had worked there ever since.

THE CONVICT SETTLEMENT

We were taken to see the chief buildings of the Convict Settlement, which appeared to be large and well planned, but one had rather a painful shock when the first object pointed out was the site of the guillotine. Naturally the convicts were divided into different classes. We entered one long building where a number were confined in common, and seemed fairly cheerful, but others were in little separate cells from which they were only brought out, and then alone, for a very short time each day. Some had only a brief period of such solitary confinement, but in one small cell we found a very big man who almost seemed to fill it with his body when he stood up at our entrance. He had been condemned to seven years of this penance for having assaulted a waiter. He implored the Governor either to have him executed at once, or to allow him a little more liberty. I backed up his plea, and M. Laffon promised some consideration, which I trust was effectual.

The worst thing we saw was the lunatics’ prison, inhabited by men who had gone mad since their arrival in the Island. One man had a most refined andintellectual head; he had been a distinguished lawyer at Lyons and was transported for having killed a man who, if I recollect rightly, had been his sister’s lover. No wonder that shame, exile, and his surroundings had driven him mad. Another was much happier; he was quite harmless, and was allowed to wander about and indulge his mania, which was the decoration of the little chapel. I have no reason at all to think that the convicts were ill-treated, but we did not see the place where the worst criminals were confined, and one of the French ladies mysteriously remarked, “Ils ont des temps durs ceux-là.”

I always feel, however, that philanthropists who are ready to condemn the treatment of convicts in any part of the world fail to realise the difficulty of keeping order amongst large bodies of men, most of whom, at all events, have criminal instincts. The heroes of novels and plays who undergo such imprisonment are almost invariably represented as unjustly convicted, probably scapegoats for real criminals, and all our sympathy is evoked on their behalf. No doubt, particularly in the early days of Australia, there were many cruelties and much undue severity, but the comparatively few officers and men who were put to guard and govern masses of criminals had no easy task. They were far removed from any possibility of summoning help in cases of mutiny, and probably many of them deteriorated mentally and physically through much anxiety and the hardships which they themselves had to encounter.

Back to Index Next