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 to keep 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 at my literature,’ 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, nobody could 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 distinguished savants of 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 business of 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 the savants ran 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.”

‘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 exact relationship 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 living savant in 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 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 of Hulloomaloo, 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)’

‘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 had collected 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 fossil mammals, 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 last soirée. 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, and there 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. It ended 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. I gazed 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 entered into 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 put together 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 its alma 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 confess it, 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 these trees 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.

A WONDERFUL BATH.

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 gymnasium gently.’ 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 the machinery 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 streets and 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 Public Library, 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 Office in 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 moment up 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 of Punch was 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. Punch had cartooned a gentleman in this position, and thus the row. I think Punch was 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:

A CIRCULAR STORY.

‘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 the Bendigo Scientific 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 the Bendigo Scientific Advertiser and General News Agent, guess you’ll have to be terse. Say things to 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 the Bendigo Advertiser for 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, and proceeded 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, 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, 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 honest face, 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 anything respecting 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 the Bendigo Advertiser had 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 in The 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:

‘“Dear Sir,

‘“I have read my back issues, and I trust you will not feel annoyed if your children should suddenly become orphans.

‘“Yours truly,

‘“J. G. Boosey.”

‘I never replied.’

Next morning was Sunday. After presenting letters of introduction to one or two influential residents, I and Dodd strolled about the town. The streets are wide, with here and there a number of good shops. ‘The Mechanics,’ which includes a school of mines, is a fine building. ‘The Mechanics,’ the chief feature in which is a reading-room, is an institution to be found in most colonial towns.

The chief street in Sandhurst is called Pall Mall. Right in the middle of it there are the poppet-heads of a gold mine. When coal has been discovered under London, there may possibly be a coal mine in the original Pall Mall. I saw a lake in the domain and also a fernery. Ferneries are not uncommon in this part of the world. They consist of a collection of rockeries covered with tree-ferns, beneath the fronds of which there is a maze-like arrangement of damp paths. The only objection to these artificial groupings of natural objects is, that after having once entered them, you are afraid that it will be difficult to find your way out. It being Sunday, all was very quiet. In the afternoon the quietness was disturbed by the howlings of a Salvationists’ procession.

It started from a large building called the Salvation Army Barracks, in front of the hotel. At the head of the procession there was a man bearing a red banner, on which was written ‘Blood and Fire.’ Next came the band dressed in a militia-like uniform, each man with the name of his religion labelled on his cap. Behind these came a great number of women in coal-scuttle-shaped bonnets and blue dresses. They were labelled like the men. These uniforms can be purchased at the Salvation Army stores. Behind all there came the riffraff of the town. Mixed up with the front part of the regiment were a number of young men also in uniform, who pivoted and pranced about as if imitating David. They led the procession. To encourage people to join them, the prancers flicked their pocket-handkerchiefs as if beckoning. It was very interesting, and more especially so as it was accompanied by lively music. I met with Salvationists, their barracks, their stores, and their provisions throughout the colony.

The Salvation Army publishes an organ called the War Cry, which circulates in many parts of the colonies. The only one I saw was chiefly filled with reports as to the progress of regiments in different districts. Parts of the reports—but for the spirit in which we suppose they are put forward—sound like blasphemy, and I refrain from quoting them. The bulk of them contain numerous ejaculations about Hallelujah and Salvation, and are filled with contradictory statements. Much relating to the firing of guns is incomprehensible.

Here are a few specimens of War Cry literature, taken at random from a copy picked up on an hotel table:—

‘Captain Perry reports from Nelson that one dear man had walked 800 miles to gain salvation. The barracks were packed. Great conviction; but they went away blinded by the devil’s delusive plaister—“Not to night.” Lord save them is our prayer. Hallelujah! Cry going up. Look out, Sydenham! we’re going to flog you! Will do it, too!’

‘Auckland reports that the Marshal held the people spell-bound, and accompanied the singing with the piano. £13 4s. collected. Hallelujah!’

‘At Lyttelton, one sailor who had been tossing about the ocean of life, took passage in the Gospel Ship, and shipped right through viâ Calvary, and all the people said, Amen.’

One article was devoted to a threatened invasion of China.

‘In six weeks the first contingent was to be stationed at one of the protected ports, Hong-kong, Canton, or Shanghai.’ ‘We shall dress like Chinese,’ said Marshal Booth; ‘take Chinese food, and try to come down to the level of the Chinese themselves.’

While I was in New Zealand a Maori army was being organized. In Canterbury I saw an Army store. Here, works by General and Mrs. Booth can be purchased. One, by Major Corbridge, is entitled ‘Up-Line to Heaven, Down-Line to Hell.’ Soldiers’ cards, pray-cards, roll-books, and cartridges are also sold. I suppose the latter, which cost ten shillings a thousand, are tracts.

At the outfit department you can buy regulation shields, uniforms, army pocket-knives containing photos of General and Mrs. Booth, sisters’ jerseys, badges, sergeants’ bannerettes. The Salvation Army are certainly a powerful body amongst the lower classes in the colonies. One officer describes his colleagues as ‘Hallelujah gutter-snipes, and ragpickers on the muck-heap of sin.’ They work amongst those who find ordinary churches too genteel. It is to be hoped that they are doing good.

Dodd and I had several good walks and drives about Sandhurst. One was to Eaglehawk, which is a large mining district. In fact, the whole district from Sandhurst to Eaglehawk, and, for that matter, for miles beyond, is covered with poppet-heads. These poppet-heads, which indicate shafts, extend in lines over an undulating country. From the length of any of these lines, you can roughly estimate the length of the lodes or reefs which are being worked. Like Charters Towers, the reefs are of quartz; but, instead of being in a granitic rock, they intersect or run through the traditional slate. The distance to Eaglehawk was four miles, and on the road we counted sixty-four public-houses, and ten places of worship: that is to say, the reconverters were to the converters in the ratio of six to one. This reminds one of the way in which whisky and water is sometimes mixed.

During the evening Dodd and I made several attempts to gain an entrance to the Salvationist barracks. It was always too crowded. We heard that the Salvationists had become so popular, that other sects, in order to draw an audience, had been compelled to adopt similar tactics, and brass bands had been started at several chapels.

Next day we spent our time in visiting mines and stamping mills. One mine we visited was lighted by electricity. It was a very nice dry mine for a visitor, but as it only yielded four or five pennyweights of gold to the ton of quartz, it paid but small dividends to its shareholders. Some of the mills we visited were very swagger. They had tree-ferns growing in the engine-rooms, and everything was clean and neat. Those who managed the mills and mines were exceedingly courteous, and told us all that we wished to know.

During the afternoon we saw a crowd in the middle of Pall Mall, and thinking it was a row going on, we walked towards it. It proved to be the brokers of the mining exchange doing their business in the street. This is common at other towns in Victoria.

The next town was Ballarat. The country about was hilly. In the distance several prominent hills were, I was told, old volcanoes. Originally this was the great centre for washing gold out of the alluvium. The deposits of alluvium consist of pebbles and sand, which at one time formed the bed of a river. These deposits are called leads. At first it was thought that the leads were only on the surface of the ground, just as modern river-beds are on the surface. Exploration, however, proved that there were ancient river-beds which had been buried by flows of lava, forming what is called bluestone. This led to deep alluvium mining. In sinking downwards, the miner would pass through successive layers of gravels, clays, and bluestone, until he reached the upturned ends of the slate. The slate is the oldest rock, and over the surface of this rivers ran, depositing their gravels in the hollows. Then during periods of volcanic activity, the gravel was buried by bluestone. During a period of repose, rivers flowed over the bluestone, and there deposited fresh gravels; and so the processes of nature continued, sometimes laying down a layer of gravel, and sometimes one of bluestone. The whole arrangement is like a plate of sandwiches. The plate being the slates, the bread the gravels, and the ham the bluestone. The gold is in the gravels, and it probably came there by the wearing away of the upper part of quartz lodes, cropping out on the surface of the country over which the rivers ran. It is probable that by the action of solvents percolating through these gravels, the original character of the gold has been altered. It may have been made purer, and it may, during processes of preparation, have been collected together to form large nuggets.

At all events the gold from alluvial washings is usually purer than the gold from quartz reefs; and further, it is only in the alluvial deposits that large nuggets have been discovered.

At Ballarat the alluvial deposits have been exhausted, and only reef mining is to be seen. To see workings in deep leads, we had to take train to Creswick, and from there a buggy out into the country. On account of the softness and the water contained in the deep gravels, peculiar systems have to be adopted for their extraction. The shaft is sunk through the deposit to be worked down to a hard bed, and a tunnel is driven in the hard bed beneath the soft deposit as far as the limit of the property. From this tunnel vertical holes, or ‘jump-ups,’ are made upwards into the soft gravels, which are then taken out in blocks. As these are removed the roof is allowed to fall in. On the surface the gravel is put into a circular iron tank or buddle in which there are revolving forks. Here it is washed with water, and the big stones thrown away. The clear gravel is then drawn off into long troughs or sluices, down which water is flowing. On the bottom of the trough there are small ledges of wood or iron, behind which the gold collects, while the lighter gravel is washed away. The country round Creswick is gently undulating, with here and there a few conical hills—probably old volcanoes.

On our return to Ballarat we had a good look at the town. The streets are remarkable for their width. On a windy day you might hesitate before you crossed them. At the School of Mines we visited a museum. The school itself was in an old court-house. The condemned cell had been converted into a room for a professor. The museum was next door, in a church which has been bought. It is not an uncommon thing to put churches up for auction in the colonies.

Before I say good-bye to Melbourne, I must tell a story which I heard about the Yarra, or rather about a man who lived on the banks of that charming little river. It is called:

EARLY DAYS IN MELBOURNE; OR, CAPTAIN STRINGER AND THE WATERS OF JOGGA WOGGA.

Old Captain Stringer came here in ’54, and, like a lot of skippers who came to Melbourne about that time, was ruined. No sooner had he dropped anchor than all the crew, even to the little cabin-boy, made for shore, bought a swag, and started off for Bendigo. The gold fever was on everybody, and even £20 a month was not sufficient to keep a sailor on board his ship. At first Stringer took the matter philosophically, and was always saying that by-and-by they would be able to get hands on board for asking. Jack would find that gold-washing and hard tucker wasn’t exactly Paradise, and very shortly we should see him coming back to Melbourne like a Prodigal Son. Every day saw new ships in port, and rushes of new chums off on the road towards Bendigo. Stringer, like many of the skippers, was part owner of the vessel he commanded, and this, no doubt, was an inducement for him to stay on board. Those who had no share in their vessels used to wait a month or two trying to get a crew. After this they would pack up a swag, leave the ship to take care of itself, and start off, as they said, in search of men.

In six months Port Phillip, which used at that time to reach nearly up to Flinders Street, was one dense mass of helpless shipping. It was ships, ships, ships, as far as the eye could see, and, what was worse, the number was daily increasing. Many skippers tried to sell their ships, but buyers were not to be found. Many people thought themselves lucky if they could find anyone willing to receive a ship as a present. To be relieved of the responsibility of having a ship to look after seemed to ease their minds. A good number, rather than give their ships away, relieved themselves of the responsibility of ownership by scuttling their property. They were not going to let people have their belongings for nothing.

It wasn’t long before the blocking up of the river and harbour with floating and sunken vessels began to have an effect by causing silt to deposit; and, to make a long story short, after the floods of 1855, if there were one ship ashore there must have been at least 5,000 of them, and Captain Stringer’s was amongst the lot. In the following year the Government had a new channel cleared out for the river and the land where the ships were became a marsh. One or two who had their ships in a dry place where grass had begun to grow, clubbed together and started a farm, using their ships as dwelling-houses and stables. Things were pretty expensive in those days. Land down where Flinders Street now is was worth £150 to £200 a foot; and as for dwelling-houses, you could not get a weather-boarded cottage under £500 a year. The climate, too, was more trying than it is at present. Every other day we used to get those hot north winds called brickfielders. When these were blowing it was like standing in a baker’s oven, and the dust was so thick that you could not put your nose outside the door. What with losing his ship, and the effects of rum so long as it lasted, old Stringer seemed to be dreadfully upset. Still, he kept up a certain kind of style, and wanted us to believe that he was well off. When we called on board his boat he would always produce something or other which he said he had specially ordered from London. Once it was some cigars. He said they had cost him two-and-sixpence apiece. The duty he paid on them was very heavy. But anyhow, they were the best Havanas ever made—in fact, part of a parcel expressly manufactured for the King of Hanover, and he hoped we should like them. Of course, we all knew that Stringer couldn’t afford two-and-sixpenny cigars, and what he had so much to say about were only penny cheroots. All that we could conclude was that Stringer was proud, and just to humour the old man we told him that the cigars were the best ever seen in the colony. Another trick he had was to go about with a few coppers and some keys in his pocket, jingling as if he were carrying the mint. One thing which he never forgot was every now and again to jerk out his pocket-handkerchief, and with it a roll of paper that looked like bank-notes. ‘Dear me, I shall lose that money yet,’ he would remark, as he stooped to pick up the roll. At first we thought that they were real notes, but after picking them up once or twice when Stringer had jerked them a little too far, we saw then that it was only a roll of tissue-paper. Sometimes, if he knew that anyone was walking close behind him, he would drop the roll on purpose for them to pick it up. All that he wanted was for us to tell him that he ought not to be so careless with such large sums of money. This would start him off about his ancestors, who had so much wealth that an instinctive indifference and carelessness for money had gradually been bred in the family. He could no more help dropping rolls of bank-notes in the street than he could help breathing. At last it was generally recognised that Stringer was mad, the particular form of his madness being an inordinate desire to be thought a millionaire. This was coupled with such an absurd amount of pride that, although he was really as poor as a church mouse, and at times on the verge of starvation, he would never receive a present. The only way we could keep him alive was to leave things at his ship whenever we knew he was absent: one man would leave him a sack of flour, another a barrel of pork, a third some tea, and in this way we managed to keep the old man going.

Many of us had an idea that Stringer’s madness would gradually wear away, but instead of that it seemed to get worse. He took to dressing in a queer way, putting on a red waistcoat with brass buttons, and a white hat. It wasn’t long before everyone in Melbourne knew old Stringer as well as they knew Collins Street. Another way in which he made himself conspicuous was by writing letters to the papers about his ancestors, and putting in advertisements about rolls of bank-notes which had accidentally slipped out of his pocket. Some of his compositions were so peculiar that they were reproduced in the country papers, and in a short time mad Stringer threatened to become as well known an Australian institution as Melbourne itself.

Suddenly it was observed that Stringer had a slight limp, and this was followed by a hacking little cough. He told us it was living on the marsh—he had rheumatics, and was suffering from malaria. As weeks went on, the limp got worse and worse, and the case of poor old Stringer excited considerable sympathy. Even the newspapers took notice of the old man’s sufferings. One or two doctors who went down to see him said that his rheumatism was very acute; he was as mad as a hatter, and he ought to be compelled to leave the marsh.

While we were discussing how old Stringer was to be got out of his ship on the marsh, it was reported that he had disappeared. This was of course another fact for the newspapers. Two weeks later a letter came from Stringer, saying that he was trying some springs which had been recommended to him as good for rheumatics. His health had not been good, and he thought a course of waters would perhaps be beneficial.

A month later a note appeared in the Argus, giving an account of a marvellous cure which had been effected upon a well-known resident in Melbourne, by the natural waters of Jogga Wogga. The details which were given clearly pointed to Stringer as the patient on whom the wonderful cure had been effected. The news quickly spread throughout the colony. Thinking it would please the Captain’s pride to see himself in print, we sent him up copies of the paper. In a few days we received a long letter in reply, saying how pleased he was that we had not forgotten him. The account in the Argus was quite correct, and not only had he been cured (and he here gave evidence that he was aware that he had been suffering, not only from rheumatics and malaria, but also from a brain disease), but that a large number of other people had derived considerable benefit from the springs. There were several distinct sources. Some of it, he said, was pure and pleasant to the palate, whilst the waters of other springs were somewhat nauseous. One man had been cured of sore eyes; another had had an impediment in his speech removed; a third had got rid of chronic headaches with which he had been affected; while he himself had been cured of rheumatism, low fever, and madness. Shortly after this a letter appeared in the papers confirming what Stringer had written, and the fame of the Jogga Wogga springs got noised throughout Australia.

Later on Stringer came back looking quite respectable and well. The change which the waters had made in the old man was truly marvellous. He told several of us that he was so certain about the efficacy of the Jogga Wogga waters, that he had taken out a claim for Jogga Wogga district. If we would assist him, he intended to set up a factory for the bottling of the Jogga Wogga waters, in which he clearly believed that there was a lot of honest money to be made. It was certain that the waters had already been well advertised, and that they worked marvellous cures. All that remained to be done was to bottle the waters ready for customers.

In less than a month, with the help of a few hundreds which he borrowed from us, Captain Stringer had started a bottling establishment on the lower part of the Yarra. He must have a wharf for the purpose of loading steamers. He would have had the establishment at Jogga Wogga itself, but he showed it was cheaper to send the waters down in casks rather than to send bottles up to Jogga Wogga, and then cart them back again. Of course he issued cards, circulars, prospectuses, put advertisements in all the newspapers, and did what was necessary and proper to bring the Jogga Wogga waters to the notice of the health-seeking public. One of his circulars contained testimonials from bishops and doctors who had known Stringer before his illness. These were backed by letters and articles from various newspapers.

The waters he sold were of three kinds. No. 1 was described as slightly acid, containing a fine precipitate of yellow flocculent sulphur, and a small percentage of sulphuretted hydrogen. It was strongly recommended in all cases of skin disease, and to patients who were dyspeptic or suffering from an attack of bile. For locomotor ataxy it was infallible, and failing appetites were speedily cured. Acidity, giddiness, headache, drowsiness, and spasms of all descriptions might readily be cured by a hot bath made from these waters. Small bottles, 2s. 6d. Large bottles for family use, containing one imperial quart, 5s.

No. 2 was described as an alkaline water, which rendered the cuticle so soft and pliable that it might be called the beautifier. For gout, rheumatic arthritis, forms of myalgia like lumbago, chronic rheumatism, relaxation of anchylosed joints and psoriasis, it was unequalled. Short dry coughs, singing in the ears, vitiated tastes, might be removed by taking a dose of this water three times a day. Price 3s. a pint. A large bottle for family use, containing an imperial quart, 7s. 6d.

No. 3 was described as somewhat saline, exceedingly beneficial when applied either externally or internally. As an alterative in tubercular diseases and in cases of nervous affections, it was unequalled. It was particularly recommended to residents in the East, and to all who indulge in the luxuries of the table; a wineglassful taken after every meal would arrest the progress of the most virulent disease. Price 10s. per small bottle. A large bottle suitable for family uses, containing an imperial quart, one guinea.

In the colonies the sale was enormous; in fact, the orders poured in so rapidly, that Stringer said he was obliged to decline orders from people living near him. He would supply them later on. In a few months orders were received from abroad, and great steamers sailed from Port Phillip loaded with cases of the Jogga Wogga waters. Now and then barge-loads of barrels would be seen toiling up the Yarra on their way towards the Jogga Wogga springs.

For two years the trade had so increased, that poor old Stringer, as we used to call him, was in a fair way to become a millionaire. About this time, however, it began to be whispered about that there was some sort of trickery going on at Stringer’s establishment; the waters were not of the same quality as at first. One man wrote to the papers, saying that the Jogga Wogga waters, instead of curing him, had made him vomit to such at extent that he had to remain in bed for a week. One or two others addressed letters to the bishops and doctors, to know if their testimonials about the Jogga Wogga waters were genuine. Of course they replied that as the Jogga Wogga waters had cured Captain Stringer of rheumatism, low fever, and lunacy, they must be good. While all this was going on, old Stringer was raking in the pounds hand over hand.

A crusher appeared at last. A gentleman, who signed himself John Burdett, M.D., said that as three of his patients who had been in the habit of taking the Jogga Wogga stimulant had suddenly died, while many others had been seriously ill, he had been led to make a close examination of these celebrated waters.

Although he had made numerous inquiries respecting the Jogga Wogga springs, he had failed to discover their existence. In fact, he was of opinion that Jogga Wogga had no existence. After careful analyses of the waters, he concluded that the quantity of organic matter which the so-called Jogga Wogga water contained, rendered it highly improbable that it was not of subterranean origin.

The general character of the water was not unlike that of some slowly flowing, muddy stream.

No. 1 Jogga Wogga water, described as slightly acidic and containing a fine precipitate of sulphur and a small percentage of sulphuretted hydrogen, was strikingly similar to the water in the Yarra, at the point below the bridge where the waters from the gas-works mix with those of the adjoining tannery.

No. 2 Jogga Wogga water, described as an alkaline solution which rendered the cuticle soft and pliable, was identical with water taken from the Yarra below the tallow factory, or near to the second soap-boilers.

No. 3 Jogga Wogga water, described as saline, Dr. Burdett said he was uncertain about. It might be from certain parts of the Yarra, or it might be from the tide-way opposite Captain Stringer’s wharf.

In conclusion, he publicly challenged Captain Stringer to indicate the position of the Jogga Wogga springs, offering to pay £1,000 if such springs could be proved to have an existence.

The reply to the attack appeared next morning. It was dated

‘Melbourne Heads, S. S. Hooker.

‘My dear Dr. Burdett,

‘You are quite right, and as you have discovered the true source of the Jogga Wogga waters, you are perfectly free to carry on my business during my absence in America. I may not return for some time.

‘Yours affectionately, ‘Captain Stringer.’

We returned to Melbourne by rail. For some distance after leaving Ballarat the country was hilly, but after that it was flat—dead flat. It looked like a placid green ocean. Once it had perhaps been a fiery ocean of lava, which, by the processes of time, had been smoothed over to an even surface. Crossing the plains, you saw long lines of wire fencing getting lower and lower until they vanished as a black line in the direction of the horizon. What opportunities to study space of two dimensions! What cricket grounds! All the teams in the world might play upon these plains and not one would know of the existence of his neighbours. I suppose the flatness of Australia has had much to do with their success at cricket. Every boy could play. An exactly similar argument will apply to their success at rowing. The numerous and magnificent rivers which traverse the Australian continent in all directions—no, that’s wrong. They have no rivers. They took to rowing out of perversity.