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Title: Round the globe through Greater Britain
Editor: W. C. Procter
Author: F. Gell
Mrs. Mitchell Murray
Flora L. Shaw
M. A. Sherring
Release date: October 27, 2026 [eBook #79871]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Thomas Whittaker, 1889
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79871
Credits: Rick Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUND THE GLOBE THROUGH GREATER BRITAIN ***
[Illustration: WOLFE’S COVE, ON THE ST. LAWRENCE.
_By H.R.H. Princess Louise._
Page 22.
]
ROUND THE GLOBE
_THROUGH GREATER BRITAIN_
EDITED BY
W. C. PROCTER
_WITH EIGHTY ILLUSTRATIONS_
NEW YORK
THOMAS WHITTAKER
2 & 3, BIBLE HOUSE
1889
[Illustration]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
INTRODUCTION.
WESTWARD TO NIAGARA.
CHAPTER I. THE ST. LAWRENCE AND QUEBEC.
CHAPTER II. MONTREAL AND OTTAWA.
CHAPTER III. TORONTO.
CHAPTER IV. THE HORSE-SHOE FALL.
CHAPTER V. THE AMERICAN FALL.
OUR RAILWAY TO THE PACIFIC
CHAPTER I. DARING PROJECT.
CHAPTER II. DAUNTING DIFFICULTIES.
CHAPTER III. THE VICTORY.
CHAPTER IV. FROM THE PACIFIC TO WINNIPEG.
CHAPTER V. WINNIPEG TO MONTREAL.
IN THE FIJI ISLES.
CHAPTER I. SCENERY AND NATURAL PRODUCTS.
CHAPTER II. INDUSTRIES AND CUSTOMS.
NEW ZEALAND.
CHAPTER I. NATURE OF THE COUNTRY.
CHAPTER II. THE HOT LAKES.
CHAPTER III. THE WESTERN SOUNDS.
CHAPTER IV. THE WESTERN SOUNDS.—Continued.
AUSTRALIA.
CHAPTER I. GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
CHAPTER II. WATER SYSTEM AND CLIMATE.
CHAPTER III. NATURAL HISTORY.—1.
CHAPTER IV. NATURAL HISTORY.—2.
INDIA.
CHAPTER I. POSITION AND EXTENT.
CHAPTER II. PHYSICAL FEATURES.
CHAPTER III. THE GANGES AND INDUS.
CHAPTER IV. CLIMATE AND PEOPLE.
CHAPTER V. CHRISTIANITY IN BENARES.
CHAPTER VI, CHRISTIANITY IN BENARES.—Continued.
CHAPTER VII. THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN. 1.—A SAVAGE PATRIOT.
CHAPTER VIII. THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN. 2.—TORNA.
CHAPTER IX. THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN. 3.—RAJGHUR AND OTHERS.
CHAPTER X. THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN. 4.—HOW THEY HAVE BEEN TAKEN.
CHAPTER XI. A DAY AT CAPE COMORIN.
CHAPTER XII. THE ISLE OF SPICY BREEZES.
CHAPTER XIII. THE ISLE OF SPICY BREEZES. 2.—KANDY.
MAURITIUS.
CHAPTER I. FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
CHAPTER II. CLIMATE.
CHAPTER III. LOCAL CHARACTERISTICS.
SOUTH AFRICA.
CHAPTER I. GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
CHAPTER II. CLIMATE AND CUSTOMS.
CHAPTER III. NATURAL PRODUCTS.
GIBRALTAR.
HOMEWARD BY GIBRALTAR.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
WESTWARD TO NIAGARA. PAGE
WOLFE’S COVE ON THE ST. LAWRENCE 2
THE ST. LAWRENCE IN WINTER 21
QUEBEC FROM THE CITADEL 23
INTERIOR OF THE CITADEL, QUEBEC 25
CITADEL DITCH, AND RAMPARTS, QUEBEC 27
THE ST. LAWRENCE FROM THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL’S QUARTERS 29
ROUGH LOGS FROM THE FOREST 34
A LUMBERER’S LOG CABIN 36
TORONTO UNIVERSITY 41
THE RAPIDS ABOVE THE FALL 49
THE AMERICAN AND HORSE-SHOE FALLS 51
ROCK OF AGES AND WHIRLWIND BRIDGE 55
OUR RAILWAY TO THE PACIFIC.
VIEW FROM VANCOUVER ISLAND, WITH MOUNT BAKER IN THE DISTANCE 67
VIEW FROM THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE, VANCOUVER ISLAND 71
MOUNT SELWYN, AT THE PEACE RIVER PASS 79
AT CANMORE 90
ON THE FRASER RIVER 91
MOUNT STEPHEN 95
BRANDON 101
THE LAKE OF THE WOODS 109
JUNCTION OF THE GATINEAU AND OTTAWA 115
IN THE FIJI ISLES.
LEVUKA 121
THE REWA IN VITI LEVU 125
SUVA IN VITI LEVU 129
SPECIMENS OF FIJIAN POTTERY 132, 138, 139
CLUBS, SPEARS, AND PILLOWS 135
CARVED WOODEN BOWLS FOR OIL 141
NEW ZEALAND.
AUCKLAND FROM THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT EDEN 147
THE CANTERBURY PLAINS, WITH CHRISTCHURCH 153
ONE OF THE HOT LAKES 159
WET JACKET ARM, AND DUSKY SOUND 173
MILFORD SOUND FROM HARRISON’S COVE 177
AUSTRALIA.
THE HILLS RAILWAY 188
WATERFALL IN THE BLACK SPUR 199
A VICTORIAN FOREST 201
A KANGAROO HUNT 207
THE DUCK-BILLED PLATYPUS 209
THE ADELAIDE LIGHTHOUSE 212
INDIA.
THE GHAUTS, NEAR KHANDALA 219
GANGES BOATS 225, 253
CUTTING THE INDIGO 230
BEATING THE INDIGO 231
PRESSING THE INDIGO 231
A BRAHMIN 236
A CALCUTTA BABOO 237
A BRAHMIN PUNDIT 237
RICE POUNDING 238
DANISH LUTHERAN CHURCH, SERAMPORE 240
THE GANGES AT BENARES 245
WINDOW IN BENARES 247
VISHNU 249
APPROACH TO BALA KILA (LOWER PART) 260
APPROACH TO BALA KILA (UPPER PART) 261
WATER-CARRIER 270
GREAT GATE, RAJGHUR 273
POORUNDHUR 281
HORSE-KEEPERS 283
IN TRAVANCORE 295
BUTTER-MAKING 304
CEYLON.
COLOMBO 309
BARBER 315
PALM-TREES 317
TURBAN-TIER 320
MAURITIUS.
LA CASCADE, BEAU BASSIN 331
SOUTH AFRICA.
CAPE TOWN 343
TREKKING 347
GROUP OF ZULUS 349
ZULU DWELLINGS 351
ZULU AND CLUB 358
ZULU DANCE 361
GIBRALTAR.
GIBRALTAR 373
BAY OF GIBRALTAR 375
THE SIGNAL STATION 377
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION.
It was a happy thought to give the title of “Greater Britain” to the
vast but scattered realms which secure to the English language and
literature a domain “on which the sun never sets.” Never in the history
of the world has there been seen so wonderful an expansion of one race,
speaking one language, as that which is marked by this name.
The purpose of the present volume, however, is not to give a full
and elaborate account of the British colonies and dependencies. It
is intended merely to present to those who have not much time for
reading, and especially to the young, a few vivid glimpses of the
English-speaking world beyond the seas.
Greater Britain has been created partly by colonization, and partly by
conquest without colonization. North America and Australia form the
chief instances of the former method, and Hindostan of the latter. The
separation of the United States from the mother country ought not to
be regarded as severing the great republic from Greater Britain. Our
American brethren speak the mother tongue; the historic traditions of
seventeen centuries are common to them and to us; their constitution is
founded on English experience and English ideas. An American visiting
England has a special interest in it as the home of his forefathers;
and an Englishman going to America feels as though he were visiting
his married children. In fact, in regard to almost all moral, as
distinguished from political bonds of unity, the United States belong
much more really to Greater Britain than does Hindostan or Burmah.
Nevertheless, as these latter countries are under the imperial
government, we must necessarily regard them as provinces of the empire,
and in that sense parts of Greater Britain. But it is with the English
offshoots of the mother country that we are chiefly concerned here.
It is said that when the English first came from Denmark to establish
themselves in Britain, three small ships held them all. They now number
about a hundred millions; they fill two continents, North America and
Australia, besides a large number of islands of the sea. Of course
they have been joined by a considerable population belonging to other
races—German and French and Norse. But this has not substantially
affected the English character of Greater Britain. For with some few
exceptions, the laws are administered in English, the debates of
legislatures are in English, the public schools are taught in English,
and the whole development of each community proceeds from roots in
English history.
Many causes have contributed to this wonderful expansion of Britain,
but they have all been subordinate to the restlessness and adventurous
energy of the race. Religious persecution was one of the chief
secondary causes. This drove out the Puritans, in the days of the
Stuart kings, to form a New England on the distant Atlantic shore.
More recently the rapid increase of population has made it impossible
to find occupation for all who are born in our comparatively small
island. Nearly all the available land has been occupied, and spirited
men who desired to farm their own land have been obliged to seek the
opportunity of doing so in some wild and unsettled country. In the
north of Scotland changes in the land system have caused a considerable
shifting of population. Many of the people have obtained employment in
manufacturing or commercial towns. But perhaps a still greater number
have found homes across the sea. In Ireland a variety of causes that
need not be here discussed, have created an almost constant stream of
emigration during the last fifty years. The population has been reduced
by nearly one-half. About four millions have left their native land to
begin life again, for the most part in the United States, but to some
extent also in the British colonies. Changes also in the course of
trade in produce have induced many landowners to lay down their land in
grass, because grazing appeared to be the most profitable way of using
it. And this, too, has helped to swell the exodus of families from our
rural districts.
Nor must we altogether omit from the causes of emigration, the system
of transportation for crime which prevailed during the earlier part
of this century. It is impossible to regret that this system is now
abandoned. It could not be expected that any British colony would
permanently submit to have our criminal population transferred to its
shores. At the same time it cannot be denied that the system had many
advantages. Many prosperous and virtuous families at the antipodes have
sprung from criminals who, when they found a new world opened to them,
reformed their lives and entered upon a career of honest industry.
At the present day there are several societies maintained for the
purpose of assisting those who have no prospect in this country to
find a new home in the colonies. But their operation is attended with
many difficulties. If they send out the weakly, or the improvident,
or the idle, who fail at home through their own defects, such people
are not very likely to succeed elsewhere. And indeed both the United
States and the British colonies are beginning to refuse to receive
them. On the other hand, if we send out the strong and intelligent and
enterprising, it may be said that we are robbing our own country of the
best elements in its population. On the whole, it seems best not to
interfere too much with individual choice or the operation of natural
causes. Let information as to the opportunities afforded in the British
dependencies be extended as widely as possible amongst the people. Thus
young men who are forming their plans for life will be able to judge
for themselves how far their prospects are likely to be improved by
emigration.
With all these changes the adventurous energy of our race seems as
strong as ever. Our young people find no more attractive reading
than bright pictures of travel, and a kind of personal or family
interest draws them to think of lands where friends have gone before.
It is hoped that the glimpses of Greater Britain here following may
prove both attractive and useful to such readers. They are not dry
disquisitions, but consist for the most part of lively and copiously
illustrated sketches by well-known travellers, who have kindly
permitted us to embody their experiences in this volume. Out of a
number of detached journeys we frame as nearly as possible a continuous
voyage round the world, nearly always amongst English-speaking people.
This plan enables us to retain the vividness of personal narrative,
while at the same time we have the variety afforded by many distinct
observers. Starting from the mother country we cross the Atlantic; we
follow the Canadian line across North America, not without occasional
glances at the United States; we sail over the Pacific Ocean, calling
at Fiji, and then proceed by New Zealand, Australia, India, the Cape,
and Gibraltar, back again to our own land. In conclusion we have to
express our thanks to the writers whose names are given in the table
of contents, and to Mr. John Murray for permission to make some
interesting extracts from the late Dr. Livingstone’s travels published
by him.
W. C. PROCTER.
[Illustration]
WESTWARD TO NIAGARA.
[Illustration]
WESTWARD TO NIAGARA.
CHAPTER I.
THE ST. LAWRENCE AND QUEBEC.
Given three good things, five weeks of holiday, a wholesome liking
for salt water, and fifty pounds; can you do better with them than
go to Niagara? See what you will get by it. First, you will be
boarded and lodged in a ship of a steam fleet, beaten by none in
the Atlantic for safety, comfort, discipline, and cheapness. I mean
Allan’s Canadian line. You will have at least twenty days of the most
pure and invigorating air that human lungs can inhale; and quite
sufficient to set up even a jaded Londoner for a fortnight of rather
sharp travelling. You will have a varied, amusing, and by no means
unprofitable opportunity of studying human nature among numerous
fellow-passengers of all countries, ages, and conditions.
You will see a hundred or so of icebergs, which you certainly would
not see either at Brighton or Scarborough. You will ascend the St.
Lawrence, which, all things considered, is quite one of the most
stately and interesting rivers in the world. You will pass through a
district of Canada, which will bring you into contact with its oldest
civilisation, and its most recent industries, its noblest public
buildings, and the grandest memories of its early time. You may shoot
rapids, gaze on the outskirts of the primeval forest, see native
Indians, travel on railways in gilded saloons, which at night become
bedrooms, or if going by water, in large steamers, some of which may
accurately be described as floating palaces.
Everywhere you will hear your native tongue spoken, you will see your
native flag floating in the breeze, you will be surprised, let us hope
gratified, by a hearty loyalty, you will see a young Empire in all the
flush and enthusiasm of increasing greatness governing itself with
decision, and developing its resources with such an amazing rapidity,
that, as was once said quaintly of the rush of a Canadian spring, if
you would only put your head to the ground, you would hear the grass
grow.
Last, but not least, you will see what all your life afterwards you
will be glad to have seen, and what with every returning summer you
will long once more to visit, if but for one short afternoon, Nature’s
most peerless, most indescribable, most unapproachable, most sublime
marvel, Niagara Falls.
[Illustration: THE ST. LAWRENCE IN WINTER.]
My first impressions of the St. Lawrence, so much more beautiful than
I had ever expected it to be, quite convince me that this is the right
way of entering North America, and not the less so because the voyage
from land to land is two days shorter than to New York. But it was hard
to believe, as we steamed through the bright water, and looked round
on the mountains and woods and sky in all their summer beauty, that in
a few months time winter would be come, and all be a mass of ice. From
Christmas to May the river at Quebec is so thoroughly frozen over as to
be a common thoroughfare for the traffic from shore to shore; and the
entire stoppage of the navigation for more than one-third of the year
must be a serious bar to the progress of the country.
We were two days in Quebec, in that time quite exhausting the sights
of that rather sombre city, and coming to the conclusion about it that
one comes to about so many other places, that it is better to look at
than live in. Yet for the grandeur of its site and the exquisiteness
as well as extent of the views from it, it has but few rivals. The
views from the Esplanade, looking down the river towards the island
of Orleans, quite reminded me of the Bosphorus; but the noblest
prospect is from the Citadel. Northward, over the city and the St.
Charles River, you look away towards far-off azure hills, clothed with
primeval forest, and in all variety of rolling or peaked outline—one
in particular standing all by itself, just like Mount Tabor. Then
down the river, with its ships and steamers, and smaller craft of all
kinds, and the white houses on the island of Orleans, and on the far
horizon, blue with their indescribable blue, a grand mountain range,
the like of which we should never see in Central Canada, nor, indeed,
till we returned there again. Southward, right away into the States,
towards Portland in Maine, is a great expanse of rich and cultivated
country, the sky-line here again bounded by a range of hills. To the
south-west the St. Lawrence stretches away towards Montreal, and, under
a brilliant sun and with a sky just clouded enough for lights and
shadows, the effect was superb.
[Illustration: QUEBEC FROM THE CITADEL.]
The interior of the city is dirty and commonplace; there are but few
fine buildings, and the place has an air of decay. The permanent
removal of the Legislature to Ottawa, and the total withdrawal of the
English garrison, was a double blow from which it is hard to recover.
The streets are steep, rough, and uneven. The side walks are of wood,
which is cheaper than flag, and less liable to injury from the breaking
up of the frost, though more dangerous in case of fire. The tin on the
spires of the churches and on the house-roofs makes them safer from
sparks and the snow more readily falls off; while in the sparkling
atmosphere of Canada, whether in summer or winter, the effect is bright
and picturesque.
There are two romantic waterfalls near Quebec, both of which we
visited. That of Montmorency is about eight miles from the city; and
our pleasant drive to it gave us a good opportunity of observing the
old-fashioned and rather slovenly cultivation of the soil in this part
of Canada—a cultivation, however, peculiar to the French—as well as of
admiring the pretty wooden houses, each with its portico and verandah,
in the village we passed through. We did not observe any large timber,
and the trees were mainly ash, spruce, larch, maple, and sycamore. The
native flora of Canada is poor; and labour is so expensive that few
care much for flower gardens.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE CITADEL, QUEBEC.]
As we approached Montmorency, we crossed the river, with deep brown
pools full of trout, reminding me a good deal of the Roman bridge over
the Lune at Kirkby Lonsdale. Then, passing through a little field
fringed with wood, we came in sight of the fall; the summit of it a
sort of edge of water from shore to shore, about a hundred and ten
feet high, and then the grand plunge of the river over a perfectly
precipitous rock, one hundred and forty feet high, in a mass of white
foam, into a great pool below.
There is a wooden staircase leading down to the foot of the falls,
from which a good view can be obtained; but we preferred the view from
lower down the hill in the field, where with the prospect of the fall
is combined quite the grandest sight of Quebec we had yet enjoyed,
the Citadel, like another Gibraltar, looking down upon the city and
river, the town itself glittering and sparkling in the afternoon sun,
with the gentle murmur of the somewhat distant fall tumbling down
through a setting of green foliage, and in an air far fresher and more
exhilarating than a draught of the best champagne.
The other waterfall is that of Lorette, near what is called an Indian
village. The fall, which acts, in the first instance, as water-power to
an extensive papermill, suddenly dashes down a long and sharp descent,
through a deep gorge thickly covered with wood, on the side of which
a pretty path has been cut. You may easily fancy yourself in a Scotch
glen with the brawl of a big burn all round, and though you miss the
heather, you are compensated by infinite ferns.
[Illustration: THE CITADEL DITCH, AND RAMPARTS.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
MONTREAL AND OTTAWA.
In the afternoon we left for Montreal in a river steamer peculiar to
this continent but which with advantage might be used on the Thames.
Perhaps a Noah’s Ark best describes its queer appearance. Outside it is
three-storied, painted white, and fitted with pleasant green shutters
to all the windows. Inside it is commodiously arranged and sumptuously
furnished, especially in the principal saloon—where there is an
abundance of couches, easy-chairs, tables, a magnificent piano, and
brilliantly burning lamps. All round this drawing-room, which extends
the entire length of the vessel, are the tiny but exquisitely clean and
comfortable cabins. Underneath is the refreshment saloon, where tea is
served from seven to ten. In the evening there is usually good music
with singing, always concluded with “God save the Queen.” The boats are
steered by a wheel in front, and make eighteen miles an hour. They are
crowded with passengers and cargo, and the charge is only four dollars,
which includes the tea, one extra dollar ensuring the comfort of an
entire cabin. We left Quebec at four, and reached Montreal in about
fifteen hours. Both banks of the river are highly cultivated, and well
inhabited. Many a bright little trout stream we saw leaping down into
the great river; and huge stores of sawed timber waiting to be fetched
away.
[Illustration: THE ST. LAWRENCE FROM THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL’S QUARTERS AT
QUEBEC.]
At seven next morning our hundred and eighty miles were nearly
accomplished, and Montreal was in sight. Certainly the approach to
what is incontestably the commercial metropolis of the Dominion is
very fine. The well-built and spacious city, with its numerous church
spires and towers, the Roman Catholic Cathedral grandly dominating
over all; the green mountain as a background; the river bank lined
with noble quays, rivalling even stately Bordeaux; the bustle of ships
and steamers loading and unloading, as if there was not a single hour
to lose; the tubular bridge beyond spanning the glorious stream, ten
thousand feet long, with its pier openings two hundred and fifty feet
in width, and rising in the centre to one hundred feet above high-water
mark, produce an instant impression of life and power, and of the vast
opportunities, of which perhaps the most ambitious city in the Dominion
is fully conscious.
But as the traveller steps on shore, and walks up the busy streets,
his impression of the greatness of Montreal will only be strengthened.
Some of the new warehouses will compete with anything either in
Manchester or London for the solidity of their construction, and for
the admirable taste of the elevation; while, built of a granite as
durable as that of Aberdeen, they are of a far more cheerful colour.
One unvarying indication of Canadian progress is in the post-offices,
which, in the great towns, were either being rebuilt on a large and
costly scale, or had just been completed. The new post-office at Quebec
is a singularly fine building. At Toronto and Montreal they were being
erected of a size that ought to anticipate the needs of the country for
fifty years.
The banks at Montreal are numerous and well-built; but I was most
struck with the number and handsomeness of the places of worship. All
Protestant Churches seem to lay out as much on their spires and towers
as Anglicans; and the Roman Catholics, with vast wealth at their back,
not content with their enormous Cathedral, said to hold ten thousand at
a time, and a Jesuit church adorned with some exquisite frescoes, were
then slowly erecting a magnificent new Cathedral, on the model of St.
Peter’s. The Anglican Cathedral is a handsome new church, built on the
same plan as Salisbury Cathedral, but on a smaller scale, and holds its
own among the other ecclesiastical buildings of the city.
From Montreal we went to Ottawa, on whose river young English ladies
in their earliest attempts at the oars sing “Row, brothers, row.”
The journey occupies a day, and is performed chiefly by steamer on
the Ottawa River, with an interlude of railway to avoid the rapids.
At Lachine we first joined the boat, and were presently on the broad
stream of the Ottawa, which at its junction with the St. Lawrence is
eleven miles across, but soon narrows, and with its diminishing width
becomes much more pleasing. The banks of the river are charmingly
wooded, but all the fine timber has long ago disappeared. Cheerful
villages, with piers for goods and passengers, give the river an air of
life and bustle; in the glorious light of a perfect summer’s day there
was a still golden richness over the scene, reminding me almost of the
Nile, and my heart rose in thankfulness to God for having made his
world so fair, and for having permitted me to see it.
Occasionally there was a long stretch of water with a distant view,
blue as only a Canadian prospect can be; nevertheless, in the lower
part of the river there is nothing to compare in beauty either with
the Danube or the Rhine. As we neared Ottawa, the scenery grew finer.
A bold bluff of land, shutting out the city, acts as a natural bastion
to what lies behind it, and is a feature of real beauty in itself. This
turned, Ottawa came full in view, with its noble Parliament buildings
crowning a grand eminence above the river, the lofty spires of the
Roman Catholic Cathedral on the left, and the city itself, lying
behind, and hardly visible from the water.
These three things, the new Parliament buildings, the view of the river
from the Lovers’ Walk, and the Chaudière Falls, are worth coming a very
long way to see. The noble Parliament buildings and Government offices
are quite unrivalled for purity of style, stateliness of elevation, and
also perhaps for commodiousness of arrangement, by any public buildings
on the North American continent.
The Chaudière Fall is truly an overpowering sight. Our going to it was
altogether owing to the invitation of a friend in one of the Government
departments, who had kindly taken us over the Parliament building in
the afternoon, and after dinner accompanied us to the Fall. It had been
raining hard, and the dusk was coming on, but there was still half an
hour of daylight; and calling a coach we drove rapidly through the back
settlements of the town (mischievous people might call it all back
settlement), and taking our scrambling path over the numerous logs of
an immense timber yard, came out upon the Fall.
[Illustration: ROUGH LOGS FROM THE FOREST.]
We were just where it hurls itself down into the boiling cauldron
from which it takes its name; the light was fading away, the sky was
additionally darkened with driving clouds, and the scene was as sublime
as it could be. There was the great wide river, gloomy and angry under
the lowering sky, rushing down from the frozen north on its way
into the Atlantic. Tossing, heaving, struggling with itself, trying
to resist its fate, but in the end passionately yielding to it, down
it came rushing on in fierce and boisterous eddies till it tumbled
headlong into the seething basin below, where anything solid would
whirl round and round in everlasting circles, till the water dissolved
it into atoms. A great cloud of mist went up and filled the air; and as
we looked down on the water falling, and after it had fallen, writhing
as in contortions and spasms of agony, it was a sight with a strange
spell in it, and quite of a different character in its shape and beauty
from either Montmorency or Niagara.
Going back, we lingered for a moment in a great sawing yard near to
see the process of sawing the logs, as they come down rough from the
forest, into deals fit for the joiners use. All is done by water power.
First, the log is hooked and drawn up out of the water by a strong
chain. Then it is pulled up a groove to an apparatus of eight saws,
which with wonderful rapidity and precision cut it into eight pieces.
These pieces are then trimmed into exact lengths, and by the same force
conveyed away.
[Illustration: A LUMBERER’S LOG CABIN.]
In summer this work is carried on day and night continuously by
relays of men. In winter the same men go into the forests for what is
called lumbering, and are occupied, in spite of the ice and snow, in
felling the timber, and then moving it to the water’s edge ready for
the breaking up of the frost. The conveyance of the logs down stream
is very hard and sometimes dangerous work, for when the river gets
jammed with the timber, men have to get on it and cut it loose with
axes, not infrequently getting themselves terribly crushed, many miles
from surgeon or hospital. But the wages are good. At the end of the
winter, in addition to the board and lodging always provided, a skilful
lumberer will sometimes receive, at Quebec, a hundred pounds for his
labour, which he is too often tempted after the terrible hardships of a
long winter to waste in a fortnight’s frolic.
Political feeling runs very high in Canada, yet, perhaps, nothing in
the long run is more desirable for a young country than that each of
her citizens should feel an interest in her prosperity, an honest pride
in her greatness, and an actual responsibility for her good government.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
TORONTO.
From Ottawa we went to Toronto by railway, a journey of about twelve
hours, through a flat uninteresting country, with nothing to relieve
the fatiguing monotony of an ill-constructed railway but occasional
glimpses of the River St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario, and bright gleams
of woodland.
At Toronto we made our abode at the Rosslin House Hotel, the only
really good hotel we had as yet stayed at. The rooms were airy, the
linen clean, the table excellent, while the charge was half a dollar
a day less than at Quebec or Montreal. The waiters were negroes,
and capital waiters they were. Remarking this afterwards to an
American gentleman, I elicited the instant reply that Providence had
intended them to be servants. From a white man’s point of view this
was a convenient view of the question. But it would hardly be so
self-evident to the black man, who might fairly retort that Providence,
in giving him his freedom, had at least afforded him the chance of
doing as he pleased.
The next day was Sunday, and I was glad of the opportunity of attending
service in the Cathedral, after a visit to the Dean’s Sunday-school,
where the hearty singing was delightful to hear. It is a fine Gothic
church, and the congregation were completing it by the erection of
a beautiful spire. Dean Grasette’s parochial organization seemed
complete, and very much of the same type as that of a large town parish
in England. There is no lack either of church accommodation, or of
what is of still more consequence, zeal and ability among the clergy,
outsiders, and not Anglicans, being witnesses; and an English clergyman
may be permitted to observe of brethren outside his own communion how
ably and acceptably they seem to discharge their duties.
Toronto is a handsome and thriving city on the banks of Lake Ontario,
with a population of 125,000. It had, however, when we saw it, an
unfinished appearance from some few of its principal thoroughfares not
yet being built up; and on the whole it looked best from the water,
where the spires and towers gracefully break the monotony of the
housetops, and the green trees of the park make a pleasing background.
The two principal buildings in Toronto, which also give it the
exceptional importance of being a judicial as well as an educational
metropolis, are the Law Courts and the University. The Law Courts,
otherwise known as Osgoode Hall, are a handsome Greek building in a
grass enclosure railed off from the road, and ornamented with some
shady trees. I did not see the interior, but Mr. Trollope thought that
the internal arrangements as far surpass those of the Four Courts in
Dublin as the elevation of the Four Courts surpasses that of Osgoode
Hall.
But the University is the pride of Toronto. It is erected in a breezy
and spacious park, to the north of the town, in pure Norman style,
and of a durable grey stone at a total cost of £80,000. It was a
great advantage for me to be taken over it by Professor Wilson. I saw
the laboratory, museum, a fine room for academical meetings and the
conferring of degrees, lecture-rooms, and the library. There are also
living-rooms for students, who can be maintained at a cost of £45 a
year, most of which can be met by a scholarship easily gained by an
average amount of industry and ability. The students have their meals
together, but there are separate dormitories. Sitting-rooms can be had
by extra payment. The revenues of the University are large, accruing
from lands with which it was endowed by George IV., so that the
professors are liberally paid, and the best men the country can produce
are forthcoming.
[Illustration: TORONTO UNIVERSITY.]
The University is quite unconnected with any religious body; but Holy
Scripture is read, and prayers said daily for the resident students,
who have the power of absenting themselves if their parents wish for
it. Only twice has the permission been claimed. Some years ago the
University also granted degrees in theology; but from a variety of
causes, it was totally disconnected from the English Church; and an
Anglican College has existed for some years, which confers degrees, and
is extremely useful for training clergymen, but of course with very
scanty resources and a small professorial staff.
I must not omit to mention the Normal Training School, a most important
institution, where teachers are trained for the public schools. The
system of free and rate-sustained schools is here in full operation;
and when I inquired about their compulsory method for enforcing
attendance, I was immediately told there was no necessity for it, as
the children came well enough without. Perhaps closer inquiry might
reveal a different tale.
Toronto must be a pleasant place to live in both from its agreeable
literary society, and also from the temperateness of its climate, which
is much milder than that of Lower Canada. Not, however, that the air of
this continent suits every one. English people accustomed to an island
atmosphere are apt to feel the want of salt in the air of Canada; and
a medical man assured me, from his own domestic experience, that it
was often fatal to young children not acclimatised to it, producing a
constant intestinal irritation, for which the only remedy is sea air.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
THE HORSE-SHOE FALL.
From Toronto to Niagara there are two routes open. One on the Great
Western Railway by Hamilton and the head of the lake to Niagara Town;
the other by steamer across the lake to Niagara River, a passage of
about three hours, and in fine weather fairly enjoyable.
Next morning we took our seats in the train, and, like many travellers
before us, we were soon made to feel that, big as the world may be,
it is not too big for all sorts of unexpected meetings. Whom should I
see walking down the middle of the car but two young London clergymen,
bound west as missionaries for Japan; one the curate of a dear friend
at St. Mary’s, Newington, the other from my old rural deanery, and
himself a native of Canada, come here to say farewell to his friends
before his work began. On this railway I learned yet further to
appreciate my own country from the somewhat qualifying comments on his
native institutions given to me by an American gentleman of strong
sense and agreeable address. “Now, sir, this is what I have to say
about it, that if one of your people, supposing he’s an intelligent
man, after going about among us, and asking all sorts of questions from
people who can give him an answer, don’t go straight home, to put on
all the breaks as fast as he can, and turn out a bigger Conservative
than ever, I’m fixed.”
This railway was through a richly cultivated country, settled full
a hundred years ago, and abounding in corn, wood, pasture, peach
and apple orchards, with here and there a vineyard. It is on a high
table-land, so that there are frequent glimpses of the distant country,
and even of Lake Ontario; and on the right hand we passed the Brock
Monument, a tall and graceful pillar erected in memory of the gallant
General Brock, who fell in the American war of 1812. At Niagara Town
we had a moment’s glimpse of the Falls, but we got out at the Clifton
House Station, an insignificant shed—which here, as at most railway
stations on this continent, is all the accommodation afforded to
the public—and after walking swiftly down the hill, the war of the
Cataracts every moment becoming more audible, at a sudden bend in
the road a great flash of light and foam came across us, and we were
opposite the Falls.
It was a moment in one’s life never to be forgotten; a more than
sufficient reward for time and money, shaky railway and stormy seas;
ranking among one’s past recollections of Mount Lebanon, and the Alps,
and the Bay of Rio, and taking easy precedence of them all. If, indeed,
I am called upon to say whether the first glimpse quite fulfilled
previous anticipations, in strict accuracy I should answer that the
Falls were certainly less high than I had expected, for their great
breadth diminishes the impression of their height; but in this respect
only did they fall short, and then only for a time, of all that I had
hoped to see. But there they were at last; and it was hardly the moment
for severely analyzing the quantity or quality of one’s delight when,
with a perfect summer’s day, in which to sit down and gaze at them
till their beauty became an actual part of one’s memory, the end of my
journey was gained.
The Clifton House Hotel is on the Canadian side, and is so close both
to the American and Horse-Shoe Falls, that, when the wind blows that
way, the spray comes across, and will soon wet you through. What a
delight it was, our rooms first secured, to sit down under one of the
cool and spacious verandahs of that delightful hotel, and gaze on the
Falls in simple ecstasy! But it soon proved impossible to be either
silent or solitary in that crowded place.
People in America are neither so morose nor taciturn as they are
occasionally represented to be. An elderly gentleman came up to me,
and pleasantly asked if I knew a Mr. Bickersteth in England, who had
written a poem that was much admired in America, and had also visited
the country some years ago. On my answering that he was one of my
greatest friends, he became intimate in a moment; not in the least
degree conscious that in that first half hour the only company a man
could wish for was his own thoughts, and the only voice he cared to
listen to the roar of the Falls! Was it very selfish to feel a little
in despair when he suddenly went away and then returned, bringing
with him another gentleman, whom on the strength of his own previous
introduction of himself he pleasantly introduced to me, as if it was
the most natural thing possible? Certainly he was an agreeable and
excellent man, but one who seemed to be but the first of a long series
of sociable idlers, who were to interview the stranger from London
during the fast-flying minutes of one of the most precious days of his
life. But the dinner-gong proved my friend; and a carriage soon rescued
me from the kindly-meant courtesies which at another moment I should
have been only too glad to enjoy.
And now for Niagara, which I must ask to be permitted to describe in my
own way; just premising that those of my readers who are dissatisfied
with what I tell them should ask for Professor Tyndall’s paper on
Niagara, which appeared in _Macmillan_, or the first volume of Mr.
Anthony Trollope’s “North America.”
First, we make our way to an ugly-looking tower, about a mile distant
in Lundy’s Lane, on the road to Thorold, a thriving township on the
Welland Canal, and climbing up many weary steps find at the summit
an old soldier who points out the chief features in a very extensive
prospect, and with military exactness explains the story of a famous
engagement fought between England and the States in 1814, when each
side found it very hard to conquer Anglo-Saxon enemies, and had to be
ultimately content with a drawn battle. Here, also, is the spot where,
in the closing page of the “Spy,” Fenimore Cooper describes the dying
scene of one of the principal characters of his story, Harvey Brooks:
who was supposed to gain his living by the infamy of a spy hireling,
and in whose pocket was found a letter from George Washington that
vindicated his patriotism.
From this tower was distinctly visible a panorama of sixty miles;
northward towards Lake Ontario, westward over the rich flats of
Hamilton and London, southward in the extreme distance a faint blue
mountain range, which the guide declared to be the Alleghany Mountains,
but which could be nothing of the kind, as they were one hundred and
fifty miles away; and nearer in the middle distance, across a fine
champaign of wood and cornfields, Lake Erie, with the towers and spires
of thriving Buffalo rising above the trees. A little to the east, there
is the grand flood of the Niagara river, much wider and statelier than
below the Falls, and bearing with it the drainage of almost half a
continent, passing out of sight as it approaches the Falls, and not
visible again. From this height we see the beginning and the end of
Niagara; its beginning in the one lake, and its end in the other.
Now we descend, and turning back towards the Falls, go to what is
called the Burning Springs; still on the Canada side, and commanding
a view of the river, above the Horse-Shoe Fall. They are just at the
spot where the water, in almost its greatest and grandest width, begins
to stir and toss itself for its headlong journey, the white breakers
on its turbulent current crisping into silvery foam under the dazzle
of a cloudless sky. The sight supposed to be most worth seeing here is
that of some mineral springs, emitting a gas which ignites at a candle,
and affords an opportunity for charging half a dollar. I fear I hurt
the showman’s feelings by avowing my preference for the water over the
fire; the sight of that fresh tumbling river doing one good to behold.
From these springs there is a delightful and very quiet drive by the
edge of what we may still call the Canadian stream, now rushing on
with an ever-increasing velocity, and exactly verifying Mr. Trollope’s
remark about the “much little loveliness,” at Niagara, “loveliness
especially of water.” There are a dozen spots where one could gladly
linger for half a day, listening to the sleepy murmur of the water,
watching its flash and sparkle in the sun, enjoying it all the more,
because the tourists find it much too dull to linger there, and soon
leave you alone with nature.
[Illustration: THE RAPIDS ABOVE THE FALL.]
Fifty yards further, and you are in the thick of the throng: carriages,
horses, tourists all round you; two large bazaars, which you are
invited to enter for the view from the summit, and photographers,
who give you no peace till they have caricatured you on the spot.
While daylight lasts there is no solitude here. Still we must make
the best of it. We are now at the Table Rock, or at least immediately
behind what used to be known by that name. But it has recently been
removed, as it had become unsafe through the action of the cataract.
Here, perhaps more than anywhere else, you will feel that every human
being visiting the Falls has come here to gaze on them, and has a
fellow-feeling with you about it.
The position is a little higher than the great Horse-Shoe Fall. You
see the river rolling and rushing on to the very edge of the cliff.
You see it gracefully and smoothly fall over in a colour of the most
exquisite green—always green, though green in various shades—and down
it falls until it is lost in the cloud of spray that comes up half-way
from below to meet it. The cloud, when the sun is on it, is enveloped
in the haze of an exquisite rainbow, which towards evening seemed to
rise higher and higher into the air. There was a peculiar charm about
this rainbow, for the people of the place had not yet found out how to
make a charge for it, and it was nature’s free gift among a host of
extortions. It was a singular enjoyment to stand watching the water as
it slowly fell over the great lip of the precipice, and then to follow
it through the creamy abyss of foam at the bottom until it slowly
flowed on to join the waters from the American Fall.
The height of the Horse-Shoe is somewhat less than that of the
other, being one hundred and fifty-nine feet against one hundred
and sixty-eight. It is said to be already turning itself eastward
to “excavate its gorge along the centre of the upper river.” Its
horse-shoe shape is supposed to be owing to the great mechanical force
of the water, which also accounts for the greater depth of the river
just below this fall. To my own mind the Horse-Shoe Fall is finer
than the American, but the American has no cause to be jealous about
pre-eminence. Either without the other would forfeit more than one-half
of the combined grandeur of the whole.
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN AND HORSE-SHOE FALLS.]
Now we go on. Goat Island is opposite us, which divides the Horse-Shoe
from the American Fall, and is also the boundary between the Canadian
and American territories. Then comes the American Fall, which presently
we shall visit on its own soil. Beneath us is the Ferry. In front
is the Suspension Bridge and our own hotel. Our destination is the
Whirlpool, a drive of two or three miles, and it is well worth the
trouble. On three sides of the Pool rise lofty banks, thickly covered
with wood, through which a path is cut down to the water. As you look
on the right you see the river emerging from the Whirlpool Rapids,
a few hundred yards above. To your left is an immense basin of deep
green water, where, to borrow the scientific language of Professor
Tyndall, “the sweep of the river prolongs itself in gyratory currents.”
In front, after having made a sharp bend at right angles, the stream
flows calmly but rapidly away in the direction of Ontario, in a narrow
but deep flood, and between well-wooded cliffs, a hundred and fifty
feet high, which tame down out of all their steepness before the river
reaches the lake.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
THE AMERICAN FALL.
It may be convenient here to glance for a moment at the most
probable theory of the origin and the progress of the Falls. And
without wearying my reader, either with extravagant speculations or
contradictory authorities, it may be sufficient to say, as the probable
explanation of them, that in far-back times, the Falls began at the
precipitous declivity which crossed the Niagara from Lewiston on the
American shore to Queenston on the Canadian (see Tyndall’s paper on
Niagara); that the Falls, in the course of many thousands of years,
have gradually worked their way back to where they are now, and are
still working their way, at the rate of perhaps a foot a year, until
the time arrives (may a better Coming have regenerated the earth long
before) when the Falls will have worked their way back into Erie
itself, and so will cease to be.
From the Whirlpool to the Whirlpool Rapids, if we were crows and not
human beings, perhaps three minutes’ steady flying would take us; and
the wide waste of white roaring waters, known by that name, would be
just under our feet. Being what we are, we must return by the way we
came, and then driving through the railway station pass on to the
Railway Suspension Bridge, and with the railway track over our heads
drive slowly into the States on the other side; on our left looking
down at the Rapids, on our right towards the Falls. In a few minutes
we are at the entrance of an elegant saloon at the end of a by-road,
with the wood on each side fenced off with high palisades, to prevent
even a stray rabbit getting a look at the Rapids without paying for it.
Passing through this saloon, you are directed to a lift, in which, if
ignominiously, at least conveniently, you descend towards the river;
and on emerging, after going down a wooden ladder, you can either go
into a small summer-house overlooking the water, or go down to the
river’s edge. Probably, if you have time, you will do both.
These Whirlpool Rapids are certainly one of the most amazing features
of the Niagara Falls. With a width of about three hundred feet, and
through well-wooded cliffs of about one hundred and fifty feet high,
the great river comes tossing on in a sort of frantic passion, the
surface a mass of white boiling waves rushing pell-mell, wave over
wave, in such desperate speed, that every now and then, as if suddenly
bruised on great boulders below, or scooped up and tossed into the
air by the playful hands of giant mermaids, great jets and lumps of
water leap up out of the stream, and then fall back and pass on. Never
have I seen anything so strange, seldom anything so enjoyable. The
rushing sound, the play of the sunlight on the water, the stillness of
the lofty wooded banks, the absolute loneliness of the quiet evening
scene—and then the question what causes it, set one thinking, without
any sort of interruption of the luxury of quiet repose.
[Illustration: ROCK OF AGES AND WHIRLWIND BRIDGE.]
Professor Tyndall’s theory is probably nearest to the truth, that the
Rapids are caused “by a lateral generation of the waves, and their
propagation to the centre;” or to explain it more simply, if not
precisely in his own language, the water striking against the boulders,
which are visible at the sides, produces large waves; and as each wave
is formed, the wave motion is compounded with the rush of the moving
river. If the water was still, the ridges would proceed in circular
curves round what disturbed it. In this case they cross the river
obliquely, and the consequence is that the waves which have been formed
at the side meet at the middle in a coalescence of waves with waves,
making “a grand illustration of the principle of interference.”
Looking back at these Rapids, as I write of them in an English home,
and wishing to reproduce them for my readers as vividly as I can,
though at the possible risk of grotesqueness, I can find no readier
illustration of their eccentricity and impetuousness than by the fancy
that if the legion of evil spirits cast out of the demoniac of Gadara
had flung themselves down from those steep heights into the river
below, their desperate fighting and struggling beneath the torrent of
the drowning waters would have produced just the spectacle that the
traveller gazes at here with a kind of startled delight.
One more drive: this, the longest and perhaps the least attractive of
all, through the town of Niagara Falls and past the huge Cataract Hotel
(where it is worth while to go and stay, if only to form an idea of
American hotel-life on the most complete scale), towards Goat Island.
We need not stop there now. Mr. Anthony Trollope has described, in
language which no one will try to imitate or hope to surpass, the view
over the river from the end of the little wooden bridge. But we will
go into the park; and, as before on the Canadian side, so now on the
American, we drive close to the rushing waters as they fly on faster
and faster to their desperate spring.
There is a little black rock peeping out of the water, and a sad story
hangs to it. A man, who somehow or other had got into the river, and
was drifting down the current to the Fall, managed to get on this rock,
and to hold on there for twelve hours until rescue came. The difficulty
of course was, how the rescue should be made. At last they sent off a
raft towards him, on which he was to spring, and then be dragged to
shore. The critical moment came; but in his eager hurry, as he stepped
off the rock to the raft, his foot slipped; he fell into the foaming
torrent, and in another moment was carried down the fall, never to be
seen again.
And now we are at Prospect Point, which rivals the Table Rock as the
finest sight at Niagara. A strong wall has been built (how could wages
be high enough to recompense the masons for the peril of building it!)
on the very edge of the cataract, and we stand within it and look over.
The river rushes down so close to you that, with a long arm, you can
put down your hand into its boiling stream. Before your very eyes it
leaps down into the tremendous abyss; the whole thing happens as close
to you as the sheet on which I am writing is close to me. By reaching
well over the wall you can look down right into the gulf, and feel the
water falling.
As you look away from the cataract on the surrounding scene, you
see the river itself rushing towards the Whirlpool Rapids under the
pretty suspension bridge. Across is the Clifton House, with its green
verandahs, and its delightful air of coolness and comfort; and then,
not quite opposite, but a little to the left, white and grand under the
gloom of the gathering twilight, is the Horse-Shoe Fall; if possible,
more impressive than when quite near. The feeling that came on me
while looking down the fall was a very curious one. It would be an
exaggeration to say that I felt any sort of wish to leap down it, or
that it was necessary to exert self-control to prevent myself doing
so. Yet I can perfectly understand, not only any one else wishing to
do it, but actually doing it, in an irrepressible moment of nervous
excitement; and of this I am quite clear—that I should be sorry to
bring any one, whose mental equilibrium was the least shaky, under
the strange nervous tension that comes over an excitable spirit in the
immediate neighbourhood of the Fall.
As to the abiding impression left on me by Niagara, this certainly
I can say, that of all the glorious things in God’s creation I have
been permitted to see in the four quarters of the globe—and they have
not been few—Niagara comes first. On various minds, it leaves various
impressions; and perhaps this is significant of its real power. To
Charles Dickens, for instance, it gave the thought of peace. My own
impression of it is not perhaps so much embodied in any one distinct
idea, as in a sort of many-sided quiet yet rapturous enjoyment that
possessed me about it. It made me so wonderfully happy to see it then;
it still makes me so happy to recollect it now.
There is its colour, as it falls so dazzlingly white, before it falls
so exquisitely green, the greenness of emeralds. There is its motion,
for ever going on, day and night, summer and winter, year after year,
age after age; the very embodiment and idea of quiet but irresistible
power, wearing away the rocks, defying the wind to drive it back, and
the frost to congeal it, with always the same volume of water, in
heat or cold, in drought or rain. It is changing every moment, yet
it is everlasting, ever bringing down fresh fountains from the lakes
and hills of the north; in its actual substance, different moment by
moment. Yet for almost infinite years before the first human foot
trod those woodland solitudes, or human face gazed tremblingly down on
its awful beauty, it has been rolling on, unseen except by its Maker,
towards the distant sea.
And then its sound! The wonderful thing is that it does not sound more.
No doubt when you are close to it, there is a vast majesty in its deep
roar; but it is never grating, or harsh, or startling; never a sound of
terror, though it is indeed a voice of strength. Sweet, penetrating,
winning rather than forcing its presence on you, it lulls you gently to
sleep, as you listen to it from afar. And if I may so express myself
without irreverence, I seemed while listening to it to understand as
with a new intelligence how the Apostle John must himself have been
listening with a like lingering rapture to the soft sweet music of some
distant cataract, when, writing by the Spirit of God about Him who is
Himself God’s Word and mouthpiece, he said, “His voice was as the sound
of many waters.”
Returning east from the Falls, we took the steamer all the way to
Montreal, a journey of about thirty hours; of which half may have been
spent on Lake Ontario, and half on the St. Lawrence. At the rather
early hour of three in the morning, the passage through the Thousand
Islands begins. These islands are prettily wooded and variously sized,
some of them just big enough for a goat and his family to live upon,
others as large as twenty or thirty acres, which rise out of the clear
water, and in the bright dawn of a summer morning have a pleasing and
almost picturesque effect. I am not, however, prepared to say that
I should care to get up at three o’clock in the morning to see them
again, or that they deserve the very rapturous eulogy that natives
bestow on them. This, however, I soon found to be an exceptional
and distasteful opinion; and having once or twice hinted it only to
encounter strong disapprobation, I afterwards held my peace, secretly
determining to console myself by recording my convictions here.
At Prescott we were transferred into a smaller steamer, to enable us to
shoot the rapids, which are numerous in this part of the river; and as
under the guidance of a strong and skilful hand the vessel shook and
quivered under the shock of the hissing waters, the question occurred,
if the game was quite worth the candle. The last rapids, at Lachine,
just above Montreal, are really dangerous, and I am not ashamed of
confessing that I should decline to shoot them again. We passed on the
very edge of the reef the bones of a wrecked steamer, which had come to
grief there, and the evening of the day after we passed through them
safely, the steering chain of the steamer snapped, and the passengers
had to be transferred in open boats in the dark from the vessel to the
shore. One passenger contrived to get off with the captain before the
rest, so as to catch the train, and save his passage to England. I
asked him what would have happened if the steering chain had snapped
one minute sooner. “Every soul on board would have been smashed to
atoms.”
As I began, I end. My stay at the Falls was short, but, if measured
by the new thoughts, and the deep fresh happiness they gave, it was a
thing of months, nay, years. Like all other sorts of happiness, it must
be interrupted and finished; yet, when once possessed, it never can be
all lost. Sitting by the fire, walking in the noisy streets, sleepless,
or careworn, he who has once been to Niagara, can by an act of will
turn his memory westward, and he is there again.
“Flow on for ever in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead; and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet; and He doth give
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him
Eternally—bidding the lip of man
Keep silence, and upon thine altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise. For thou dost speak
Alone of God, who poured thee as a drop
From His right hand—bidding the soul that looks
Upon thy fearful majesty be still,
Be humbly wrapped in its own nothingness,
And lose itself in Him.”
MRS. SIGOURNEY.
A. W. ROFFEN.
[Illustration]
OUR RAILWAY TO THE PACIFIC
[Illustration]
OUR RAILWAY TO THE PACIFIC.
CHAPTER I.
DARING PROJECT.
Before we speak of the new railway, let us look at the sketches taken
in that island to which the “Canadian Pacific” leads, namely, Vancouver
Island, that earthly paradise lying off the western mainland coast, and
shielding it from the storms of the outer ocean. Along its southern
shore the island is also protected; for the long range of the mountains
of Washington Territory defend it from the south-westerly gales.
One of the sketches, on page 71, shows this “Olympian Range” as seen
from the house of the governor of the island. The hills are sixteen
miles away, across the straits of San Juan de Fuca. The other sketch,
on page 67, shows the lonely and gorgeous Mount Baker, veiled in mist,
but lifting its double cone over ten thousand feet above the still
waters of the archipelago. The low island blending with the mainland
shore from this point of view is San Juan, about which there was so
much contention between the British and American Governments. The King
of Prussia, who was called in as arbitrator, decided that according
to the wording of the treaty in dispute, it must be reckoned American
territory. The drawings give a very accurate idea of the beauty of the
landscape. There is no fairer land in the world than the country about
Victoria, the capital of Vancouver. The climate of much of the island
is like that of Devonshire or Jersey. A more rigorous winter is to be
met with at its northern end, and the high mountains which stud most of
it afford opportunities of seeking an occasional snow-field in winter.
But about Victoria the snow never lies long, and its inhabitants are
far more ignorant of the art of skating than are their English cousins.
The great coal mines of Nanamo, near one of the best harbours on the
island, are seventy-five miles distant, and their produce is brought
by rail and steamer to “the city.” A quaint and charming town it is,
with very pleasant society, many English and Canadians having recently
settled there. There is good land to be bought at moderate prices.
But the chief attraction is the sport, the climate, and the beautiful
scenery. Other minerals besides coal are known to exist. Great woods of
Douglas fir cover the whole region, and there is a lovely undergrowth
of arbutus, sallal, an evergreen shrub, and small maples, while
underneath all grows a luxuriant vegetation of fern and other plants,
giving proof of the mildness characteristic of the coast.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM VANCOUVER ISLAND, WITH MOUNT BAKER IN THE
DISTANCE. _By H.R.H. Princess Louise._]
Many Chinese and some thousands of Indians live in this part of British
Columbia. The Chinese make excellent servants, but the Celestials
are not popular, and it is probable that their numbers will be much
diminished in a few years. The Indians are wholly unlike their brethren
of the plains of the interior. They are almost wholly fish-eaters.
On the islands to the north they build houses of carved woodwork,
reminding the traveller much of the Sandwich Islanders’ habitations.
They are not inclined to warfare, and readily take employment in the
steamers on the rivers, and in the industries connected with the
catching and preserving of the salmon which swarm in every creek and
stream from March to October. The results we see in the provision shops
in Britain, where the potted fish are sold in enormous quantities.
In the shops and banks are to be observed the nuggets and gold dust
parcels brought from the neighbouring mainland. These have been won
from the soil and gravel of the workings in the Fraser and streams
farther north, and the nuggets are often worth from £60 to £100 apiece.
The crushing of the gold-laden quartz rocks will now become a prominent
industry in the mountains, for the necessary machinery can by rail be
easily imported. Vast mines of silver and copper will also be worked.
Although the amount of agricultural land cannot be compared with that
to be offered to emigrants in Alberta or Saskatschewan, there is a good
deal still to be had, and the delta of the Fraser only wants good dykes
to make it a closely peopled country. On account of its beauty and the
many charms afforded by its society, sport, and natural advantages,
Victoria is sure to become a favourite place of residence.
Let us now turn to the railway which has connected Vancouver Island
with the Atlantic. The following letter shows the interest which this
great work awakened at the centre of the empire:—
“OTTAWA, November 6th, 1885.—I am desired by His Excellency the
Governor-General, to acquaint you that he has received her Majesty’s
commands to convey to the people of Canada her congratulations on the
completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway. Her Majesty has watched
its progress with much interest, and hopes for the future success of
a work of such value and importance to the Empire.”
So wrote Lord Melgund, in giving the message sent by the Queen to
Mr. (now Sir) George Stephen, the President of the Canadian Pacific
Railway Company. The message conveyed a wish in which all her Majesty’s
subjects heartily joined, and not they alone, but all the dwellers
in North America, who have now three lines traversing the continent.
Not long ago there was but one. The southernmost should perhaps also
be included, although it cannot be called direct, passing as it does
the Mexican frontier, and then turning northward through Southern
California.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE, VANCOUVER ISLAND. _By
H.R.H. Princess Louise._]
No one expected that the British road would be completed so soon. The
news seemed too good to be true, when one of the men who was first
connected with the enterprise, namely, the distinguished engineer and
man of science, Mr. Sandford Fleming, was enabled to telegraph, “First
through train from Montreal arrived at Vancouver; most successful
journey; average speed, including stoppages, twenty-four miles per
hour. Before long possible to travel from Liverpool to Pacific by
Canadian National Line in ten days. Physical difficulties have been
overcome by gigantic works skilfully executed, with marvellous
rapidity.” Then came the official announcement, “This completes the
Company’s main system, covering a distance of 3,053 miles.”
Few would have believed, ten years ago, that such an announcement would
be made during the present century. The work stands as the unrivalled
national effort of a people only four and a half millions in numerical
strength. That these should have not only deemed it possible, but
should have persuaded others to think so also, is a success altogether
unknown in history.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
DAUNTING DIFFICULTIES.
Evident as it was to the ministers of successive Cabinets, that the
north-western prairie lands must be settled and mapped out with roads
and railways and provincial boundaries, men feared to undertake the
enormous outlay. “Times were bad,” and migration brought comparatively
few to the British-American shores. Twenty or thirty thousand was
considered a fair number for the country to have attracted during one
year. There was no regular communication with the prairie, beyond the
great Lakes, unless the Hudson’s Bay freighters could be considered as
making those distant regions accessible. Courteous as were the officers
of the Company, and hospitable to any traveller going for sport or
curiosity to visit their fur-trading posts, not one of them could be
found who would not deprecate the idea of “opening the country for
settlement.” They could not foresee that a favourable bargain for the
Company would be made in reference to their lands, and they only looked
upon an immigrant invasion as the expulsion of the fur-bearing animals,
which alone afforded a good trade. Had they been able to prophesy, they
would have welcomed the tide of the white races, whose advent would
enhance a thousandfold the value of the as yet useless grass ocean
around them. On the other hand, the influx of settlement can never
penetrate into the northern forests, where for an apparently endless
vista of years, the muskrat, beaver, skunk, fox, and wolverine will
yield their annual tribute for the European and American market.
But the Hudson’s Bay people had had enough trouble in years long past
with their competitors of the old North-west Company, and having passed
these troubles and procured a monopoly, they did not desire neighbours
who might become interlopers and usurpers. So it was said that grain
would not grow, that even roots were difficult to “raise,” and that an
arctic climate made life unbearable in winter, even for the buffalo. It
was known that these spirited members of the ox tribe liked the country
in summer; but who ever heard of their staying during the winter? and
why should people in the comfortable groves of Ontario desire the
comparatively bleak grassy levels of the Red River? Who knew if the
virgin soil was worth the plough?
Such was the language industriously employed. But there were doubts
whether it was right that the country should be left to the musk-rats
and buffaloes. Lord Selkirk had persuaded some of the Highlanders, who,
at the beginning of the century, thronged so easily to the emigrant
vessels, to sail into Hudson’s Bay, and to ascend the Nelson River, and
to settle to the south of Lake Winnipeg. They formed a most flourishing
colony, and the French voyageurs, who had taken unto themselves Indian
wives, also throve and multiplied. Then again the Americans, higher up
the Red River, which casts its dirty waters into the lake, had found
the valley most fertile, with a soil marvellously black and rich.
It became evident that vast wheat-fields, affording far more space and
scope than any heretofore occupied, had been hidden away in that dim
green north land. The old provinces of Canada, magnificent as they are
in area, had their best tracts already used for agriculture, and that
craving for novelty, and for yet better land and for new soil, which is
the wholesome characteristic of the Transatlantic farmers, was strong
among Ontarians and New Brunswickers, and Nova Scotians. Had not the
Americans derived new life and hopes from the time that civilisation
was carried inwards from the coast? The mere fringe of the New England
colonies, with the Carolinas and New York, had blossomed and bourgeoned
into a nation controlling the Mississippi, and master of all the
regions which pour their wealth through the great market-place on the
shores of Michigan, the city of Chicago.
Why should not Canada also have its Chicago? To be sure there was the
rocky desert to the north of Lake Superior, and a further stretch
of country which, like the north shore, was fit only for wood and
minerals; but had not the United States also their desert beyond the
flats of Nebraska? Was this rocky tract, which would very likely prove
rich (as a part of it had already proved) in silver and copper, so bad
an impediment as that horrible plain, so many hundred square miles
in extent, filled with alkali dust and ugly sage scrub, called “the
American Desert”? Did not that brown Sahara extend almost to the Rocky
Mountains on Uncle Sam’s territory, and had the Canadians anything so
disagreeable and useless?
No; on the contrary, it was known that once past the marshes and
rocks and woods of Keewaytin, there was in Canadian territory one
uninterrupted stretch of grass for eight hundred miles right up to the
Western Mountains. And as to the quality of the soil, the veil had
been lifted. Even Richardson, the traveller and naturalist, famous in
boyhood’s memory as the man who had once, on an arctic expedition, shot
one of his companions, an Indian, because morally certain that the said
Indian had begun, in his hunger, to kill and eat Richardson’s white
comrades—even Richardson long ago had declared the Saskatchewan country
to be good.
Then, in our own time, Colonel Butler had written a charming book,
describing with ecstasy the riches of a region which, in spite of the
ice and snow covering enveloping it during the season of his journey,
he had found to possess an excellent climate and promising soil. So
the world began to believe in the north-west; and Canada saw that she
must have it soon under control, or the active American might go in and
possess it; and she decided to build a railway.
She was so keen about doing this that, in order to get an indispensable
member of her future sisterhood of provinces under the national
government, she promised British Columbia that the line should be made
so as to reach the Pacific in a very few years. At that time such a
promise looked as if the Government expected a miracle to be wrought
on their behalf, for Mr. George Stephen had not at that date appeared
above the political horizon. It was Mr. Stephen’s assent to form a
company to undertake the work that virtually produced the results we
now witness. This may seem a remarkable statement, but it is the bare
truth.
If we look back we see how government after government had been
floundering in the slough of half measures, and in the “muskegs” or
bogs of the political difficulties always attendant on the undertaking
by the State of any great public work. The smaller the State, and the
more party conflicts centre around the domestic quarrels involved
in the giving of contracts to firms or companies, or even on the
appointments by Government Departments to offices in connection with
docks, railways, or canals, the more impossible does it become that
the direct action of the State can prove a satisfactory method for the
prosecution of an undertaking. A strong executive can alone provide the
best means, and the best means can alone be found in a powerful company
with an able chief. To these agents it is essential to confide the
business under proper conditions. Witness the ineffective progress made
under Mr. Mackenzie’s Government; although, with the best intentions,
surveys were pushed forward, and work commenced. The difficulties
seemed almost insurmountable; and almost as soon as the facile promises
had been given they were repented of, because the regions, hitherto
unknown, showed obstacles, as soon as they were examined, enough to
daunt the stoutest heart. The north shore of Superior was known to be a
mass of rock. Then mighty mountain chains barred the way to the western
coast, and no one knew of a pass on the most direct route through the
“Rockies.” There was one far to the north, and it was resolved to lay
the line across the plains so as to reach it, and then take a zigzag
course down the easiest river courses. But it was soon acknowledged
that much more time must be given to surveying.
[Illustration: MOUNT SELWYN, AT THE PEACE RIVER PASS.]
Meanwhile the twenty thousand white men in British Columbia were
exhorted to patience and moderation, qualities which, in view of the
promises formerly made to them, they found it difficult to exercise.
They spoke as if their union with Canada must be repealed. They
objected to the employment of Chinese, although it was not possible,
except at enormous expense, to get the necessary amount of white
labour to begin the road. Hardly anything was done on any section,
so that men began to lose faith in the earnestness of the desire to
bind the provinces together. Parties with theodolites and scientific
paraphernalia, although most necessary pioneers of labour, did not
strike the popular imagination to the same extent as would a party of
navvies.
But events were hastening towards more definite conclusions. St. Paul
and Minneapolis, in Minnesota, had become great facts. Flourishing
cities had been created there on lands in no way superior to those of
the lower part of the Red River. Settlement was rapidly progressing,
and the Americans had pushed their communications to our border. Most
fortunate of all, one of those who had seen the advantages of the
country was Mr. Stephen. He had control of a tract which virtually gave
him as much land on American soil as exists in the whole of Lowland
Scotland. The improvement made in that part of Minnesota through the
energy of himself and his friends was phenomenal.
Full of eagerness as was the Government of Sir John Macdonald to
open up Manitoba, it was difficult to see how the feat could be
accomplished; for, although there was not much opposition to the
laying of a railway over the prairies, there was still hesitation as
to the direction it should take, and no one believed that it would be
possible to overcome the opposition excited by any proposal to push
the line through the sterile and unpromising portions of the route.
Indefatigable as was the Minister of Railways, and capable as he had
shown himself of proving that a State road could be managed without
loss, by the manner in which the “International,” between Halifax,
in Nova Scotia, and Quebec had been administered, it was manifestly
adding a tremendous load to that already placed on the shoulders of his
department to saddle it with the task of another great undertaking.
Even his indomitable will might recoil from such a prospect.
On the other hand, there was no want of volunteers who deemed
themselves able to build a railway to the moon if they could only get
the contract on terms which might pay for bridging the interstellar
spaces. New York and London vied with each other in producing men,
who had talked the matter over in club smoking-rooms, and were quite
ready to certify to the soundness of their own financial condition,
and to become the pillars of a nation. Even in Canada itself there
were several who declared themselves ready to cope with any emergency.
But it was much to be desired that a syndicate should be formed which
would command the confidence of men in the Old as well as in the New
World, and, above all, that they who had the experience in Minnesota
to guide them should come forward. Would they be induced even to look
at the new country? Eminent Englishmen, guides of London opinion, had
been persuaded to go as far as St. Paul; but in some cases had refused
to look even at Niagara, unless from American soil, and had positively
refused to look at Winnipeg, believing all things Canadian to be
“cracked up” and only a future northern fringe of Washington dominion.
But the patriotism of Mr. Stephen made him at all events go to judge
for himself of the value of Manitoba. He came back, as many a man
since has come back, convinced that in the north-west lay the future
prosperity of Canada. But the Government terms were hard, for they had
to satisfy public opinion, which is always suspicious of bargains made
with individuals, however eminent for integrity and pluck. Pluck was
the quality required, and in the case of the future president of the
Canadian Pacific Railway there was no doubt that this existed, combined
with many others which we need not mention here. With true Canadian
patriotism he finally launched out into the work, gathering round him
distinguished men of the commercial world in Canada, London, and New
York.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THE VICTORY.
From the moment that these gentlemen put their shoulders to the
wheel, we felt that the affair was only a question of time, and that
victory must soon crown the desire to span the continent and unite the
provinces. It was only an affair of time, and with Mr. Stephen at the
head of the organization, the time would be made as short as possible.
Now for the necessary support! It was obviously the interest of the
country to get these men as their best agents, and then to help them
through thick and thin, through evil report and good report; to allow
no detraction to turn the Government from the honest path of backing
those who were proving themselves the indispensable friends of their
country.
The object was a national one, for how can a country live in isolated
sections, barred each from each, except by passage through a foreign
land? How can a political whole be cemented together, when there is no
backbone for the limbs? A railway traversing the Dominion on its own
soil was only to be delayed at the price of secession, disintegration,
and destruction of the Union. Completed, it would give new life and
hope to the enormous territory, would carry emigrants direct to
the place where they would be settled, would give to the farthest
communities a pledge that their interests were not to be neglected or
sacrificed, and would brace with the invigorating influence of national
feeling the cohesion and solidarity of Canada.
In 1881 the incorporation of the new company took effect, and with a
capital of 100,000,000 dollars the start was made. Cash to the amount
of twenty million dollars was to be given by the Government, and an
equal number of acres of good land in the new territories was to be
added. The small “bits” of the road already begun were to be completed,
and handed over when finished. These portions traversed country that
was formidable enough from an engineer’s point of view, and very little
labour had been “put in” upon them. The first was that between the
Lakes Superior and Winnipeg, a distance of no less than four hundred
and twenty-eight miles, and these were miles covering an unbroken
series of lakes, bogs, rocks, and woods, where no settlements were
possible, where much cutting and “filling in” had to be done, with the
probability that in many cases the stuff put in the treacherous swamps
would sink, and have to be again brought up to the requisite levels.
But nitro-glycerine and giant powder were soon at work, and the pretty
lakes gemmed with countless waterlilies, and the little islets tufted
with their crown of pine, and the lonely forests silent but for the
knocking of the woodpeckers and the hooting of the owls, heard the
blasts that gave passage to the wide liberty of the open plains.
Again, in the far west, at the very limit of this track, almost
nothing had been done. There the labour was far more serious, and
great cañons,[1] between immense precipices had to be threaded, and
ledges made and tunnels bored along the mountain’s face, over torrents
that rose with the summer melting of the snow a hundred feet in
perpendicular height, sweeping with tremendous violence through the
bottom of the gorges. Yet the Government promised to carry out the plan
here also, and two hundred and thirteen miles of road-bed had to be
laid and furnished to the satisfaction of the company.
It was even undecided where the terminus was to be; but this was soon
settled, and a lovely fiord running far up into the hills was chosen,
having at its mouth an excellent harbour. Along the shore of this ocean
inlet grew wondrous specimens of the Douglas fir and gigantic cypress,
to the height of 150 and 250 feet, and of a girth of 25 and 30 feet.
These stand close to the water’s edge, and it is on the borders of
such sheltered coasts that the tallest trees are found.
Inland there are magnificent groves of the same species clothing the
valleys of the Columbia River; but the finest are to be seen near the
sea, and it is to be earnestly desired that they may be preserved in
some area chosen as a national park, that travellers may have the
attraction of visiting the tremendous aisles where the great shafts
rise from the thickets of glossy-leaved shrubs, to be lost to sight
in the dark green gloom above. I do not think there is any scenery
more solemn and beautiful than the interior of such a grove. It wants,
of course, the intense colour and the sunlit glory of the liana-hung
woods of the south, and the undergrowth is not so varied or bright. But
the russets and browns, the greys and sombre greens, the purple tints
on the straight stems, varied by the vivid hues of the moss, which
provides a compass for the wanderer, because it grows most abundantly
on the side which feels the western sea moisture—all are most delicious
to the eye. And overhanging the sea margin, in crannies of the
rocky bays or covering the jutting promontories, are the beautiful
madrona-trees, the large-leaved arbutus, with the trunks as red as
coral. All this forest is evergreen. Winter strips the scattered maples
of their autumnal fire, but makes little change on the steep slopes of
these deep lochs.
Away above, the hills become whiter, and the snow comes far down,
driving the wild sheep and goats to the valleys. But the frost is light
except in the interior. The temperature, however, was often quite low
enough for the Chinese labourers even near Burrard’s Inlet; and as they
hewed a lane through the woods and graded the track, they used every
half-hour to rush away to warm themselves over little fires lit at
intervals by the wayside. Crouching over these, the small blue figures,
with their saucer-shaped straw hats, could be seen acting on the Indian
principle that many tiny fires are better than one big one. “You make
fire so big you must run away from it; make small, then can sit close,”
says the Indian, and the Chinese seem to agree with him. For the cold
weather to be encountered in the winter time on the higher ground white
men were alone found to be of real use, and where they were employed
the work went forward merrily.
The big mountain buttresses were bored through; trestle bridges, to
be quickly made more substantial, carried the construction trains, so
that the navvies had house and food carried along with them as they
progressed. Curious obstacles had to be overcome, and one which was
unique was encountered near where the Thompson River joins the rushing
Fraser. At this spot a remarkable land slide seems to be in perpetual
operation. Probably owing to the action of some springs of water,
all the soil of a whole mountain slope is slowly descending at the
even rate of about eight feet per year. It is like the movement of a
glacier, very slow, but very constant. Big blocks of earth, bearing
on their tops shrubs and higher growth, are to be seen toppling over
near the road. They look as if they would fall, but the pressure of
the soil above, where the like masses are seen in apparently the same
predicament, is gradual, and there is no danger of sudden descent.
Each year the lowest blocks are pushed down into the impetuous river,
and are taken to form atoms of the delta plain which affords such good
land to the settler by the sea. The engineers, I hear, have avoided
the unusual difficulty by crossing over to the other bank, where firm
gravel gives security to the road bed. Very grand are the views of peak
and snow-fields from points in this tract of the valley, and at one of
the finest prospects a bend had to be made, giving the traveller an
opportunity to let his eye dwell on beauties which are too often seen
in such journeys only for an instant.
Dangers of another kind have to be guarded against in this Alpine
country, where the snow-slides or avalanches had to be taken into
account. So much practice has been afforded by experience of
difficulties of this kind on the American railways, that the only
question is one of expense. So many “snow-sheds” have to be placed
where the falls are heaviest. These are like the coverings seen on
Swiss bridges. Stout timbers, of which there is no lack, support a
strong roof capable of resisting the impact of any ordinary slide; and
spots where heavy falls occur are avoided, or the safe shelter of the
rocks themselves is used by the process of tunnelling beneath them.
Wherever high wooden bridges are necessary (and there is one which is
perhaps the highest in the world), the lowest supports rest on masonry
of the strongest kind. Cobweb-like as these wooden structures appear
from a distance, it is wonderful what strength they possess, and how
extremely rare accidents have been upon them, universal as is their use
all over the American continent. The trains go over them at a leisurely
pace, and the conductors usually call the attention of the passengers
to the outlook; otherwise they might never notice the extraordinary
nature of the road they are traversing. The traveller, roused to
attention, then finds that he is proceeding along a narrow way just
wide enough to hold the pair of rails forming the single track, and
with an abyss below him of two or three hundred feet.
In the snug cars the transit is no more trying than is the walk across
London Bridge. But if a man unaccustomed to heights tries to walk
across as an experiment, the sensation is not so pleasant. The “ties”
or sleepers are only a short distance apart, but between each yawns the
gulf below, and many a person finds it advisable to halt and gather
nerve as he goes on his way stepping from timber to timber; for his eye
gets confused in the effort to look through the intervals and to the
next resting-place for the foot. Perhaps the shortest-sighted are the
least inclined to giddiness in making such an effort. Many, of course,
laugh at the idea of such weaknesses, but the strongest in body often
prove the weakest in head.
[Illustration: AT CANMORE.]
The engraving of Canmore gives a good idea of one of the fine hill
views. The first surveys of these ravines and hills looked like one of
the old physical geography charts of our boyhood, where all the acutest
and tallest peaks of the globe were gathered together at the top of the
map to show their relative heights. Such a formidable row of uneven
sharks’ teeth was never seen. It seemed impossible to run a straight
line anywhere among them. And for a long time it was believed that
none could be found. Man after man who had explored the ranges had come
back with the tale that as far as he could see through the dense forest
unbroken range succeeded unbroken range.
[Illustration: ON THE FRASER RIVER.]
The entrance to the Fraser cañon is not difficult. The engraving gives
the outlook from near the foot of its great ravines. Every one knew
the Fraser gorge could be penetrated, costly as it would be; for a
waggon road had already been made to cling to the precipice walls above
the foaming floods, and this had carried the gold miners up to regions
where in old days the Indians could hardly get a mule along the craggy
footpath scarcely fit for a goat. Then there was the Thompson River,
giving access by more easy paths to Kamloop’s Lake, and beyond again,
by streams overshadowed by woods, to Lake Shuswap, a beautiful sheet of
water, winding with many arms among the forest slopes. Then again, yet
farther, there was the Eagle Pass to the Columbia River, which was a
little difficult, but was certainly passable.
Ah! then came the puzzle! We might follow the Columbia round its great
bend of seventy-five miles and so reach the foot of an awful “coll”
or neck, which might be reached by climbing three thousand feet, and
so down over the “Kicking Horse Pass” to the eastern side of “The
Rockies.” But could the Columbia bend be avoided? All accounts said,
“No, it is impossible; we see no chance of it.” But Major Rogers, an
American engineer, thought he would make another attempt. Through
perils innumerable, from the difficulty of getting food, and with
dreadful fatigue, he accomplished his object. Following a stream called
the Illecillowat, he took observations, with the result that he came
down from the entangled forests declaring that the thing could be done.
He had found a practicable pass. Few believed him but he was “not to be
denied,” and taking with him Mr. Sandford Fleming and Principal Grant,
two men who, like himself, believed that nothing was impossible, he
went over the route again, and light broke in on the darkest problem of
this stupendous enterprise. The sea range in the Cascade Mountains had
been traversed, the “Rockies,” the most eastern, would give trouble,
but a bit could be placed in their rugged jaws, and now the central or
“Selkirk” range had also been conquered, for where the surveyor says
the navvy can go, the iron horse can follow.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
FROM THE PACIFIC TO WINNIPEG.
The task is done, and done in less time than many governments would
take to talk of it. The Canadian Railway spans the continent. Nowhere
can finer scenery be enjoyed from the window of a car than upon this
line. There is no doubt that the favourite Transatlantic excursion
will no longer be to New York, Niagara, Montreal, and Quebec only, but
that all who have a month’s time to spend will go to the Pacific by
the Northern American line, or come back that way, making the Canadian
Railway their object on the outward or return journey. By the “Union
and Central,” striking as is some of the scenery on the western slope,
there is very little worthy of note until the woods are reached; for
one is borne to the top of the high ranges without knowing it, so
gradual and so tame is the ascent. But on the two northern roads the
approach to the mountains is most remarkable, and the view from the
Canadian “Susa,” namely, Calgary, is very grand.
[Illustration]
Clear from the long swells of greensward spring the rock walls and
serrated ridges of the Western Alps. It is among these rock masses
that it has been found in one place necessary to make a long tunnel
under Mount Stephen, a formidable barrier to the line. The accompanying
engraving shows this “little difficulty.” As the train leaves the
hills, standing steel-blue against the golden sky of sunset, and we
depart from this fascinating Alpine land, let us listen to the words of
one of the latest settlers within its valleys, and beguile half an hour
in the smoking-room of the train by hearing what he says.
There is nothing so interesting as the recital of recent experience;
and the following letter was received by me a few weeks ago. It was
written by an English officer who, last year, determined to try his
luck in the ranche country; and it gives so graphic a picture of life
among the valleys of British Columbia, near to the borders of America,
and a hundred and fifty miles from Alberta Territory, that it is worth
far more than any general description.
“I have now,” he writes, “been over a twelvemonth in this lovely
country, and am therefore in a position to give an account of it
which may be of value. Thanks to letters of introduction, my way was
smoothed on my arrival at Victoria, and, accompanied by my son, I
made my way here last winter. We had a hard time of it—in a tent up
to last January, with the thermometer occasionally 40° below zero of
Fahrenheit; but from the 24th of January we had the most exquisite
weather imaginable. The winter was an unusually severe one, but I
purposely braved it, in order to gain experience of the country at its
worst season.
“First let me give a brief description of the country and valley
where we are located. Starting from the Kicking Horse Pass, where
the Canadian Pacific Railway meets the Columbia River, we have a long
valley formed by the Rocky Mountains on one side and the Selkirk Range
on the other, and stretching for two hundred and fifty miles to the
American boundary. About half-way along the valley is a flat piece
of land of about two thousand acres area, with the foot-hills of the
Rockies and Selkirks coming down on each side of it. This flat is,
curiously enough, the watershed of the two great rivers, the Columbia
and the Kootenay, there being only a difference of eleven feet between
the two. The former flows north, and then makes a great bend to the
south, the latter flows south and then makes a great bend to the north.
“We thus have a long valley of two hundred and fifty miles, with the
Columbia and Kootenay rivers flowing in opposite directions from its
centre. Both these rivers are navigable for the above distance, and it
is contemplated to put steamers upon them next year, which will bring
the whole valley into water communication with the Canadian Pacific
Railway. The width of the valley varies from fifteen to twenty miles,
and it is composed of foot-hills, benches, or river-terraces, and
bottom lands, all covered with bunch grass (an excellent, nutritious
grass, making the best beef in the world), and a considerable quantity
of magnificent pine and larch timber. It may be described as open
forest with small prairies scattered through it.
“North of the watershed there is no pine, and very little larch, but
Douglas fir is scattered over the grazings. The bunch grass gives
way to pine grass about eighty miles north of the watershed. Good
agricultural land is very much scattered in patches varying from three
hundred acres to fifty, here and there, but the former quantity in one
piece is rare. The soil is generally a sandy loam, with a gravelly
sub-soil, and it bears splendid crops of potatoes, oats, barley, peas,
and wheat, but where the sand predominates over the clay irrigation is
necessary. There are many streams flowing into the main river, which
afford means for irrigation. Father Fouquet, the Roman Catholic priest,
who has lived in the valley for fifteen years, declares that irrigation
is not necessary; but I should be loath to farm some of the lands
without the power of irrigation on an emergency.
“There are parts which must originally have been lakes, where the soil
is deep and exceedingly rich, forming a dark vegetable loam, and I am
fortunately located on such a spot. This year I had over ten tons of
potatoes from one acre, and without manure or irrigation. An acre of
oats averaged five feet three inches in height—and some stalks were six
feet six inches. Turnips, carrots, and beet do admirably, but it is too
cold for Indian corn to flourish. Currants, raspberries, gooseberries,
and strawberries, together with numerous other berries, grow wild in
the greatest profusion. There is also a wild vetch, a wild pea, and a
wild onion.
“As to climate, I have found it perfectly delightful. There is
generally a heavy fall of snow at this season (October), or early
in November, which disappears in a few days. Just before Christmas
the second snowfall occurs, and the snow lies until March, when it
commences to thaw, and is generally gone by the first of April. The
average depth of the snow is about fifteen inches. Horses do admirably
on the wild grazings without any other food in the winter, and come
out in the spring in admirable condition; but unless a man is fond of
gambling he should feed his cattle for three months in the winter,
otherwise he might lose a large proportion of them in a very severe
year.
“Horses, or rather large ponies, may be bought at 27 dollars per head,
taking a number of various ages; cattle at 30 dollars in the same way.
Wages and food are very high at present: labour 45 dollars and food
per month in summer, and 30 dollars and food per month in winter. Beef
sells at 13 cents, pork at 20 cents, flour at 10 cents, potatoes at 3
cents per pound. But the local market is limited at those prices. Herds
of cattle can be readily sold at Fort McLeod, distant two hundred miles
from here, at 40 dollars per head.
“The future of the valley is dependent on its mining, timber, and
cattle-ranching resources. There is an almost certain prospect of a
very large mining population growing up in the valley, as gold is found
in all the creeks, and one locality has given out over three million
dollars within the last twenty years. The country is yet in its infancy
as far as mineral prospecting is concerned, but valuable discoveries
are constantly being made. A clever mining engineer who has lately
visited us, considers this to be one of the richest mining districts on
the American continent.
“There is no doubt that the lumber trade will also develop, as the
timber lies conveniently for supplying the north-west provinces.
Cattle-ranching, with ordinary care, must prove very profitable, and
there is yet a field open for settlement in that direction. There is
no doubt that when communication is easy, the valley will become one
of the great tourist routes, as the lake, river, and mountain scenery
could not be surpassed.
“The district is admirably suited for English gentleman emigrants,
provided they have capital. A steady man with a commonsense head and
with not less than £3,000, would be sure to succeed; and with patience
and hard work he might in twenty years have an income of as many
thousands a year as he had capital to start with. But the man without
capital should not come here; he will find the cost of food and wages
so great that it will crush him before he can get returns from his
farm, and he cannot count upon any returns worth mentioning under three
years.
[Illustration: BRANDON.]
“As to sport there is plenty of game; but it is difficult to get at,
on account of the immense extent of forest on the mountains. There
are grisly, brown, and black bears; here and there elk and cariboo,
besides numbers of black and white-tailed deer, mountain sheep and
goats, several kinds of grouse, wild swans, geese, and ducks; but a
large bag cannot be made. There are quantities of splendid trout in all
the rivers and they take the fly readily. Hitherto we have been very
much out of the world; but with steamers on the Columbia and Kootenay
rivers we shall be within fourteen days of England.
“I ought to have mentioned that although in the winter months there are
one or two cold waves of three days’ duration, the remainder of the
time has given us most enjoyable weather. February, March, and April
were most lovely months. The altitude of the valley has never been
accurately measured, but I make it about 3,000 feet above the sea. I
would not advise any gentleman emigrant to bring out a wife at first;
he should come himself for a year, and get things settled up, and then
bring out his wife.
“Yesterday an old man, over seventy years of age, came to me. Where had
he come from? He had been born and bred in Golspie. I gave him some
of the whiskey of the country, and told him that when he next came I
might be able to give him a glass of Clyneleish whiskey from Brora. I
was amused at his remark of thanks, for the curse of this region may be
put down as whiskey-drinking in excess. Such scruples had evidently not
troubled my friend, for when I announced my expectation of the arrival
of mountain dew from Sutherland he said, ‘Weel, now, sir, ye’ll just
be the making o’ this country!’”
It may be mentioned in passing that the cattle droves have thriven
marvellously of late on this side of the mountains, among which the
writer of the foregoing letter is settled; and that whiskey is not a
commodity allowed to be sold in Alberta, so that the old Sutherland
emigrant had better remain where the country has the best chance of
such “making.”
If the reader has not gone to sleep already he may do so now, as
the train passes on. He will miss the junction of the line to the
coal-mines, and the crossing of the Bow River, with the swift and clear
water of the South Saskatchewan, whose waters are already made muddy
by the alluvial deposits of the flat country. He will miss Regina,
the official centre of the new provinces; but he may console himself
if he awakes when the morning’s light shines upon cultivated fields,
grain elevators, substantial stations, near busy little towns like that
of Brandon, a three-year-old city. These are springing up like the
flowers in spring-time all over the prairie country. They are not yet,
as a rule, free of their aboriginal structures of plank, but they show
church-towers and public buildings.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
WINNIPEG TO MONTREAL.
Winnipeg itself deserves a more than passing look, for the site gives
promise of great wealth. The Assiniboine joins its waters to those
of kindred hue in the Red River’s stream. Fine buildings, wood-paved
streets, gas, and handsome shops show the vigorous growth of the young
capital of the West. It is strange to think that only fifteen years
ago, Riel the leader of two revolts, who has lately expiated his second
crime by death, believed himself secure here when he raised the flag of
a mongrel separate state, and bade defiance to the British Empire. His
last crime was the worst, for he attempted to raise the red against the
white man; but peace to these recollections, which may be deemed the
last trouble of the newest country in the New World.
Henceforward let us hope that an uninterrupted time of ever-progressing
prosperity lies before the great grain provinces of Canada. What they
may do in the future has been shown this last year, when, in spite of
insurrection and disturbance, more than eight million bushels of wheat
were ready for export. With careful sowing, the early frosts of autumn
can be made harmless, and, to judge by the looks and words of the
people, there are health and comfort to be found in the wide north land
now open to all who love independence, and toil remunerative in the two
great requisites of health and contentment.
No one who has knowledge of the present condition of affairs dreads any
Indian trouble, any more than death at a London crossing. The chiefs
knew too well what was their sole chance of getting food, and did not
join Riel. The exceptions were men living far to the north of the
railway, and in contact with the half-breeds. The grievances of Riel’s
deluded followers, the so-called Metis, have been fully investigated
and remedied. No redskin would have dreamed of resistance to the
law had it not been for the instigation of his evil-minded cousins.
The exceeding promptness with which the Canadian troops were sent
westwards, their swift tracking of the insurgent bands, the summary end
put to the armed rebellion on the far away Saskatchewan, and the just
and certain doom dealt out to the murderers, have produced the desired
lesson.
The land along the railway may still be obtained at prices which
are ridiculously cheap. Branch lines are being pushed in various
directions. The whole of the eight hundred miles to the west of
Winnipeg pays tribute to her advancing prosperity. The cattle ranches
have proved as successful as was expected in Alberta, and where
cattle cannot be easily grazed all the year round, a large amount
of horse-breeding will probably be carried on, for horses appear to
thrive well all over the plains, and especially in the north during the
winter cold. The coal mines opened by Sir Alexander Galt have already
reduced the price of coal at Winnipeg to eight dollars per ton. There
is an apparently endless amount of good fuel, so that as other mines
are developed, and a double track laid, the best provision can be made
against winter’s severity.
The last news given to the Directors of the Hudson’s Bay Company is
good. “There is,” says their Land Commissioner, “a decided improvement
in mercantile affairs in Manitoba. The bank deposits, are largely
increasing; so much so, that the rate of interest is being steadily
reduced. The wholesale and retail business throughout the city shows
a marked improvement. Similar reports are received from Brandon and
other points. The price of grain is much better than last year, and
the quantity of first-class wheat much greater than was expected in
September. The branch lines now being constructed are of benefit,
both from the expenditure incurred and the improving transportation
facilities for grain which they are creating. The Fall has been fine
and very dry. A large amount of land has been ploughed, and will be
ready for early sowing next year.”
There is no doubt that, although in 1881 there was an undue amount
of speculation, and the resultant recoil, together with the general
depression in business, produced much disappointment and distress,
the country is now finding its level. The national highway must reap
the benefit of this solid and satisfactory advance: the dangers which
menaced it have been conquered. These consisted not so much in the
rocky wildnesses of the Lake Superior shore, sufficient as they had
been to make men decry the honest purpose of pushing the undertaking.
No; the real danger lay in persistent detraction by interested rivals,
and in the attempts of New York rings to cut down stocks that might
compete favourably with those supported by themselves.
If once this gigantic effort, made by a people of such comparatively
small numbers, should succeed, there was no doubt that the southern
“combinations” would have to look to their laurels. What other company
possessed, as did this new upstart, harbours on each ocean, entirely
free only to themselves, relieving them from the obligation of parting
with the “earnings of the most remunerative traffic”? How could the
fact be passed over that there was a saving in distance of more than
four hundred miles, and that, if one looked at the saving in reaching
Asia, the gain was enormous? Opposition was natural. But it must be
acknowledged that the public opinion of the great people of the United
States overlooks the small jealousies of competing companies, and
regards only the “greatest good of the greatest number;” and it hails
with joy the opening of a new access to the West.
No more appreciative notice has come from any quarter than that given
by a Chicago writer. “A transcontinental railway parallel to, and
in many respects a competitor with, those of the United States, but
independent of them in respect to all agreements, is now completed. The
Canadian Pacific has a continuous track from Port Moody, a distance of
2,900 miles; the longest line in the world. A few days ago its trains
commenced running from Montreal to Winnipeg, 1,430 miles, and from
the latter point they already run west 1,000 miles. The entrance of
this line into the field will soon develop some new phases of railway
competition. The Canadian Pacific has been built as a national highway,
and to develop the region through which it passes. Travel and freight
traffic between Europe and Asia is to be diverted from the long all-sea
route, and from the railways now reaching the sea at Portland and
San Francisco; and the trains of the Canadian Pacific, and the fast
steamers which will ply in its interest between Vancouver Island and
Japan and China, will offer all possible inducements.
[Illustration: THE LAKE OF THE WOODS.]
“There is no fear that American railroads will not hold their share
of transcontinental business against this new rival; but it is not
unlikely that rates may be materially reduced in the struggle. The
suggestion that this ambitious railway may also reach down and take
business right from under the eyes of American roads seems comical,
and yet it appears to be apprehended. Thus the _Gazette_, published
at Billing’s, Montana, advocates the building of a branch from the
Northern Pacific north-westerly to Fort Benton. The Canadian Pacific
Railway has a great and useful work to perform in developing the vast
country which has called it into being, and in this the people of
the United States will be glad to see it succeed. If it is operated
on the principles of fair and reasonable competition it will receive
honourable treatment from the railways of the United States; and in
time the growth of the continent, which all transcontinental lines will
help to develop, will give them all ample support.”
Of the difficulties overcome north of Superior some idea may be formed
from the annexed statement:—
With the exception of about sixty miles, the principal material
encountered was rock of the hardest description known to engineers and
contractors, and the oldest known to geologists—sienite and trap. Over
two and a half million cubic yards of solid rock excavation of this
description—a mixture, chiefly, of feldspar, hornblende, and quartz—had
to be removed, besides large quantities of loose rock and hardpan.
The task may be judged of by the fact that for fifteen months one
hundred tons of dynamite per month were used. The explosive property of
dynamite is considered to be equal to twelve or thirteen times that of
gunpowder; so that for every month, for fifteen months, if gunpowder
had been employed, enough would have been required to freight one
of the Company’s large steel steamers running on Lake Superior. The
dynamite was manufactured on the works.
The operations went on without intermission, winter and summer, day
and night, controlled by an army numbering for the greater part of the
time not less than twelve thousand men. There were also employed from
fifteen hundred to two thousand teams of horses, supplemented in the
winter by about three hundred trains of dogs. To house and accommodate
this vast host, nearly three thousand buildings of various descriptions
were erected on the works.
We can give no estimate of the quantities of food for men and dogs
and forage for horses which were brought in; but in the fall of the
year seven months’ provision had to be made for this hungry host, with
appetites so whetted by the hard out-door work and the eager nipping
air that each man consumed on an average five pounds of solid food per
diem. To bring in these supplies and the material for the works, the
company had seven steamers running, and the contractors five. For the
same purpose fifteen docks and storehouses were built by the company
along the shore of the lake, requiring three million feet of lumber
in construction. The shore was so rough that supply roads could not
be built except at enormous expense; so the supplies and material
were landed at these docks, and thence distributed by fleets of small
boats along the line. And not only were there difficulties by land,
there were difficulties by water as well. Michipicoten was one of
the most valuable points of distribution along the entire coast; but
it could not be advantageously availed of, owing to the fierceness
of the storms. Here two docks were built, each in turn to be washed
away by the violence of the sea, and here also two steamers were
sunk. Consequently the supplies had to be landed four miles west of
Michipicoten, and distributed from that point instead.
The labour and expense of getting in the stuff from the coast at
Michipicoten to the railway inland on the north may be estimated from
the following: First, a road through the rocks had to be built seven
miles in length; then a lake six and a half miles long was struck, to
traverse which a steamboat had to be constructed. A stretch of sixteen
miles of rough mountainous country, requiring large rock blastings and
cutting, had then to be encountered. That accomplished, a second lake
eleven miles long was reached, where another transport steamer was
built. Two and a half more miles of road intervened between this lake
and Dog Lake, where a third steamer was built. This boat ran from the
point of taking in the supplies fourteen miles to the north-west angle
and twelve miles to the north-east angle of Dog Lake, distributing
her freight along the works, which were now at last reached—about one
hundred miles of the road east and west being in this way supplied from
Michipicoten. On these inland lakes six docks and six warehouses were
built. As many as eight hundred and sixty derricks were used on the
works.
Between Nipigon and the Pic there are five tunnels, and not less
than ten rivers had to be diverted from their natural courses and
carried through rock tunnels excavated underneath the road bed. One
of these rivers measures in width one hundred and fifty feet. There
are along the coast eleven miles where in the living rock a shelf has
been formed for the road bed of the railway, averaging twenty feet in
width, in some places considerably wider. The rivers crossed by the
line are spanned by iron bridges, the abutments—indeed, the stone work
throughout—being the best kind of masonry. There is some temporary
trestle work, which has mostly now been filled in. As a further
evidence of the quality of the work, it may be remarked that no grade
exceeds fifty-two feet to the mile, and the curvature is generally
good, only two curves exceeding six degrees.
There were few accidents to call the hospitals into requisition, and
such was the care exercised in the dynamite factories that no casualty
whatever arose in the manufacture of the tons upon tons of explosives.
There was, however, one serious result from culpable ignorance and
temerity, four men having brought dynamite into one of the houses and
placed it on the stove to thaw! The experience was a severe one, but
to these poor fellows it carried no benefit. The survivors were more
cautious. After the works were completed, care was taken to demolish
the dynamite factories so as to render them innocuous.
Although last winter was very severe, with heavy falls of snow, Mr.
Ross regards it as exceptional, and he does not apprehend difficulty
in working the line. The winters of 1882–3 and 1883–4 north of Lake
Superior were, he says, delightful, with only about two feet of snow,
and no drifts. The character of the country, he states, is very
different from the dreary waste between Port Arthur and Selkirk, being
bold and, with the lakes and rivers, exceedingly changeable in its
aspects, striking and picturesque.
The work would have been completed earlier even than it was but for
the transport of the troops to suppress the Riel rising, the labour of
laying track and building bridges having to be suspended in order to
take the forces round the gaps. The first troops reached the division
about April 1st, and were through by the 20th. Fifteen days later a
train passed over without a break. The last troops went past on May
19th, fully equipped with sleeping and dining cars.
Once the north-eastern shores are left behind the route runs through
the woody country skirting Nipissing, and so by the Upper Ottawa to
familiar ground around the capital of the dominion. Crossing the
Gatineau River, the junction of which with the Ottawa is here shown,
we are reminded that colonisation is being actively carried on by the
French Canadians in the valleys of the tributary streams, such as the
Gatineau, Lièvre, and others, giving a “back country” to the Ottawa and
St. Lawrence valleys. Montreal is reached in less than two hours from
this point.
[Illustration:
JUNCTION OF THE GATINEAU
AND OTTAWA RIVERS.—
_By H.R.H. Princess Louise._
]
Controlling interests have been secured by the Canadian Pacific Railway
in Ontario over other roads to prevent hostile intrigues. In brief,
the history of the greatest undertaking of this age is seen at a glance
in the following table:—
CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY.
INCORPORATED FEBRUARY 16TH, 1881.
Commenced building westward from Winnipeg, May, 1881. Owns in
November, 1885:—
Miles. Miles.
Main Line 2,894·7
Branch Lines, East 403·4
„ „ West 221·2
Leased Lines 698·3
——————————————————
4,217·6
Which have come into the Company’s possession
in the following manner:—
Built by Government and handed over to Company 706·5
Acquired by purchase, lease, or otherwise 1,370·5
Built by Company since May, 1881 2,140·6
——————— 4,217·6
———————
The mileage operated by the Company next year
will (approximately) be 4,235
Dollars.
Net earnings, 9 months ending 30th September, 1885 2,289,000
I am sure it will be the wish of all patriotic men, be they British
or Canadian, that this backbone of the Dominion may, year after year,
draw ever-increasing profits. Troops and freight may thereby be sent
by a route several hundreds of miles shorter than any other to China
and Japan. Mail service, if sent over by this way, will be greatly
accelerated, and none but British ground, and none but British ships,
need be touched from London to Hong Kong. It is a noble work nobly
performed.
LORNE.
IN THE FIJI ISLES.
[Illustration]
IN THE FIJI ISLES.
CHAPTER I.
SCENERY AND NATURAL PRODUCTS.
Fiji, with its hundred and fifty isles, looks in the distance very much
like many other isles a good deal nearer home—Harris, Lewis, and Skye,
for instance—especially as seen on the day of our arrival. Thick mist
alternated with such downpours of rain that we had to beat about for a
considerable time just outside the coral reef (which lies about a mile
from the shore of Ovalau), actually within sound of the church bells,
but seeing literally nothing, till a lull in the storm revealed the
passage, _i.e._ the opening in the barrier reef. Through this we passed
into the quiet harbour of Levuka, when a bright gleam of sunshine fell
like a ray of promise on the little town, with its background of richly
wooded hills, and dark craggy pinnacles far overhead, appearing above
the white wreaths of floating mist.
I confess that Levuka greatly exceeds our expectations. We had imagined
it was still the raffish haunt of uproarious planters and white men
of the lowest type, described by visitors a few years ago; instead of
which we find a most orderly and respectable community with strongly
church-going tendencies. Besides the native chapels there are three
well-attended churches of the Episcopal, Wesleyan, and Roman Catholic
persuasions. We are told that the reformation in the sobriety of
the town is partly due to the Good Templars, who here muster a very
considerable brotherhood. Doubtless their work is greatly facilitated
by the increased price of gin, which in former days flowed like water,
at the modest price of a shilling per bottle, but has now risen to five
times that sum.
As concerns shops, or, as they are here called, stores, they are many
and various, and if not troubled with a useless frontage of plate
glass, they are at least fully stocked with all things needful; and
there are several boarding-houses and hotels which, if not luxurious,
at least provide the necessaries of life.
The situation of Levuka is by no means a desirable one for a capital
which may become so important as that of Fiji, as it consists only of
a very narrow strip of land on the edge of the sea, backed by steep
hills, running up to nearly three thousand feet. Though, of course, the
lower spurs of these may gradually be dotted with villas, there is
no possibility of extending the town, unless by expensive terracing.
Only within the last few months has there been anything like what
is ordinarily called a road—even the main street being only a strip
of rocky sea-beach, and the few other footpaths are of the roughest
description.
[Illustration: LEVUKA.]
So, from the moment we leave the very untempting sea-beach, all our
excursions must be on foot; and such exhausting scrambles I have rarely
been driven to attempt. The hills are so very steep, and, moreover,
so densely wooded, that a moderate walker really need not attempt
them, though the bluff faces of crag and rock pinnacle are certainly
attractive.
There is no means of locomotion save walking and boating; the various
Indian methods of carrying are unknown, and great was the amazement
of the natives when the first horse was landed at Levuka. So gigantic
a creature had never visited them in dreams, and one poor fellow
still bears grievous traces of a frightful kick received while too
confidingly taking hold of the unknown animal by the tail. Greater
still was the wonder when, on one of the larger islands, a couple of
mounted horsemen appeared for the first time at some of the inland
villages, and were, naturally enough, hailed as supernatural beings, at
whose approach the affrighted people fled precipitately, seeking refuge
in the tallest palms, or wherever else they could find shelter.
This island of Ovalau, though important by virtue of its being the
site of Levuka, the present capital, is, in point of size, somewhat
insignificant; considerably larger, however, than Bau, the tiny isle
on which King Thakombau’s own particular town is situated. Both these
isles lie off the coast of Viti Levu,[2] which is by far the largest
of the whole group. Viti Levu simply means Great Viti, which is the
name by which these islands are always called by their own people;
the name of Fiji, which we have adopted, being simply the Tongan
mispronunciation of the word.
The majority of these isles are protected by a partial rim of coral,
which acts the part of a natural breakwater, and encloses a calm lagoon
of shallow water whereon the smallest canoes can sail in safety; and as
there seems invariably to be a break in the reef opposite the mouth of
every stream, there are not lacking passages by which to enter these
harbours of refuge. Moreover, many of the isles lie so near to one
another, that you can often travel for a considerable distance, almost
always profiting by this shelter, and avoiding the dangers of the open
sea. Others, however, lie as far asunder as the Scilly Isles from the
Hebrides or the Orkneys, and Fiji is composed of several groups quite
as distinct as these.
Certainly nature has done her part well in offering surroundings of
infinite beauty. There are innumerable sites on these breezy hillsides
whence, looking down through a veil of glittering palm-leaves and
rich foliage, the eye that loves exquisite colour can never weary of
simply watching the ever-changing scene outspread below; for the
calm sea-lake, whereon vessels of all sizes float so peacefully, is
separated from the great purply ocean by a crystalline rainbow. The
coral reef acts the part of a submarine prism, producing a gleaming
ray, wherein blends every shade of aquamarine, mauve, emerald green,
sienna, and orange, for ever varying with the ebb and flow of the tide,
which at high water covers the reef to the depth of several feet. The
highest edge of the reef lies towards the ocean, and a line of dazzling
white surf marks where the great breakers wage their ceaseless warfare
on the barrier; but the passage through the reef is plainly marked by
a break in the white line, and a broad roadway of deep blue connecting
the inner waters with the great deep. All along the horizon,
“Like sweet thoughts in a dream,”
.ti 0 lie the neighbouring isles, their beauty sorely at variance with
such deeds of ruthless bloodshed and extermination of whole tribes as
have been thereon enacted in very recent years.
The great barrier reef is not our only marine rainbow, for a labyrinth
of smaller patches crops up everywhere, making the navigation of
these waters a thing of infinite danger to the uninitiated. But for a
never-failing sensation of delight, I commend you to floating over the
reef in a boat of very light draught, so that you may peer down into
all the crevices of those wondrous coral gardens, where every tinge of
delicate pink, lilac, and blue recalls the flowers of earth. Alas!
these sea-flowers fade away so soon as we take the beautiful tufts to
land; for the colour is given by the gelatinous coral insect, which
drips its life away when taken from its home, and, in a few hours,
leaves us only its white skeleton—a very poor substitute for the lovely
thing we saw and coveted.
[Illustration: THE REWA, IN VITI LEVU.]
The beautiful vision, moreover, like all that submarine garden, derived
much of its charm from the medium through which we beheld it—the clear,
translucent water. Sometimes we look down on patches of many-coloured
weed, where exquisite fish of vivid hues congregate in families, some
striped with crimson, some with black; some are vivid yellow, with a
collar like peacocks’ feathers. The commonest of all are either green
or blue, each more dazzling than any brush could paint. Some of the
loveliest of these are so tiny that you can keep a dozen in a tumbler;
others are about the length of your finger.
Sometimes we pass over great tables of dark coral, whereon lie lumps
of brain and mushroom coral, sponges, and madrepores. Of course, to
secure these prizes it is necessary to step on to the reef; which,
however tempting in some respects, is not altogether pleasant walking,
the sharp points of the coral cutting through the thickest boots, while
deceptive appearances make it probable that you will plunge into a
much greater depth than you expected. But to the natives, untroubled
by overmuch raiment, the reef is a source of endless amusement and
profit, and often at low tide they sail thither in their picturesque
canoes, with large yellow mat sail, and curious outrigger attached to
one side.
These canoes are always objects of interest, especially those of the
chiefs, which, besides carrying a flag, sometimes have a fringe of
great streamers floating from the sail, while the canoe is richly
adorned at both ends with glistening white shells (the _Cyprea ovula_)
which are also a favourite decoration for the main beam on roofs of
houses. The boatmen (who rejoice in such quaint rendering of scriptural
names as Luki, Joeli, Isaia, Ilijah, Solomoni, Zachausi, Methusela,
&c.) beguile the time by singing monotonous songs, which, but for the
almost invariable and very peculiar accompaniment of clapping hands,
would often recall the Gaelic lays of our own northern boatmen. Some of
these are invocations of the idle wind, nor is the familiar custom of
whistling for a breeze by any means unknown.
Imagine the aggravation of day by day paddling over this warm sunny
sea, sorely tempted to bathe therein, and yet knowing full well that
the sharks here hold high revel and have an especial eye to white
limbs; not that they are particular, having no objection to eating
turtles, shell and all, or anything else that comes in their way.
As regards climate, our impressions are highly favourable. We see white
men who have been here for years, going about without any of the
ordinary precautions deemed necessary in tropical climates. White
umbrellas and solar hats are alike neglected, and a white puggaree is
considered ample protection in a country where sunstroke and fever
are alike rare. The thermometer at 90° marks an exceptionally hot
day, and with the exception of occasional tropical showers, we have
generally fine weather—hot certainly, in the mid-day hours, but almost
invariably tempered by a balmy breeze and soft grey clouds. December
is supposed to usher in midsummer heat and heavy rains—not incessant,
but very much in earnest while they last, and for three months we may
be liable to hurricanes, which, however, are not an invariable part of
the programme; nor can they possibly be as severe as those of the West
Indies, or all the frail buildings which compose this little capital
would inevitably have long since been levelled with the ground.
One unattractive characteristic of these isles forces itself on
my notice all the more cruelly, coming in sharp contrast with the
profusion of wild-flowers in Australia—namely, that they scarcely
produce a blossom. I have walked day after day till I was weary,
without finding so many flowers as would fill a small vase.
[Illustration: SUVA IN VITI LEVU (THE FUTURE CAPITAL) WITH THE NAMOSI
PEAKS.]
The strange lack of animal life is one of the most remarkable
peculiarities of these isles, where the only indigenous four-footed
creatures are rats and flying foxes. Even the pigs, which now run
wild in the jungle, were originally introduced by the Tongans, who
also brought ducks and fowls; and as to other animals, such names as
_seepi_, mutton; _goti_, goat; _pussi_, cat; _ose_, horse; _collie_,
dog, and _bullamacow_, beef, sufficiently betray their origin. Happily,
the list of Fijian reptiles is equally small. The snakes are few, and
not venomous. Scorpions and centipedes are very rare, so that flies and
mosquitoes are almost the only foes we have to combat. Even fire-flies,
which we look upon as a positive right in all tropical lands, are very
few and very dim.
However great may be the shortcomings of Fiji in the matter of flowers,
she may safely divide honours with Australia in respect of ferns, which
grow in richest profusion, and are of innumerable species. Nothing can
be more beautiful than a damp ravine in either country, with luxuriant
masses of exquisite ferns hanging from every bough of the grey old
trees, and here and there the stem of a magnificent tree-fern rising
thirty or forty feet above the sea of greenery below, bearing its noble
crown, and having its lower fronds all tangled with glossy-leaved
creepers or festoons of the delicate climbing fern, the tender leaves
of which hang mid-air on long hair-like trails.
But if Fiji has her lovely tree-ferns, she also has her tree-nettles,
which attain the growth of large forest trees. Beautiful and
treacherous are their large smooth leaves, veined with purple or white,
so tempting to the eye, so cruel to the unwary hand outstretched to
gather them. Days will pass by ere the pain of that burning sting
subsides. As regards the general foliage, it is almost identical with
that of Ceylon, though perhaps scarcely so rich.
[Illustration: SPECIMENS OF FIJIAN POTTERY.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
INDUSTRIES AND CUSTOMS.
Every available corner of the ravines is laid out in tiny terraced
fields, or rather miniature swamps, for the cultivation of the yams and
taros, which form the staple of native food. Both these roots more or
less resemble coarse potatoes, especially the former, which attain to a
gigantic size, from one to ten feet in length, and are said sometimes
to weigh one hundred pounds. The taro is of a bluish-grey colour, and
both in appearance and consistency resembles mottled soap. As its name
suggests (_Arum esculentum_), its leaves are like those of our own
arum greatly magnified; while those of the yam are like a very rich
convolvulus, as is also its habit of growth, each plant being trained
along a tall reed. A great many varieties are cultivated, including one
the root of which is throughout of a vivid mauve. The sweet potato
is also in common use, and breadfruit and bananas are abundant. The
favourite method of preparing the two latter is to wrap them up in a
large leaf and bury them till they ferment. The stench when the leaf is
dug up is simply intolerable to the uneducated nose of the foreigner;
but the Fijian inhales it with delight, therein scenting the _mandrai_
(bread) and puddings in which his soul delights.
These puddings are sometimes made on a gigantic scale, on the occasion
of any great gathering of the tribes. We were told of one that measured
twenty feet in circumference, and on the same occasion there was a
_dish_ of green leaves prepared, ten feet long by five wide, whereon
were piled turtles and pigs roasted whole; also a wall of cooked fish,
five feet in height and twenty feet long. Certainly the masses of
food accumulated on these great days beat everything we have heard of
ancient Scottish funeral feasts. Mr. Calvert describes one festival at
which he was present where there were fifteen tons of sweet pudding,
seventy turtles, fifty tons of cooked yams and taro (besides two
hundred tons which were judiciously reserved), and as much yangona-root
as would have filled five carts.
[Illustration: CLUBS, SPEARS, AND PILLOWS.]
The mode of laying the table on these occasions is peculiar. All food
is arranged in heaps: a layer of cocoa-nut as foundation, then baked
yams and taro; next the gigantic puddings on green banana-leaves, the
whole surmounted by pigs and turtles. These are roasted whole in huge
ovens, or rather pits in the ground, perhaps ten feet deep and twenty
in diameter, which are first lined with firewood, on which is laid
a layer of stones; when these are heated the animals to be roasted
are laid on them, with several hot stones inside to secure cooking
throughout; then comes a covering of leaves and earth, and the baking
process completes itself.
When all is ready certain men are told off, who carefully apportion
this mass of food amongst the representatives of the various tribes
present, these subdividing among themselves; and great is the need
for punctilious observance of all ceremonies and points of etiquette,
as the smallest breach thereof would inevitably be noted, and involve
certain revenge—or rather would have done so before the people became
Christians.
But prior to that great change a feast would have been held of small
account which was not graced by abundant human flesh; and if by chance
there was no war on hand to provide this delicacy, there was rarely
much difficulty in finding victims. A defenceless troop of women
from some neighbouring village, a canoe driven ashore by stress of
weather, or failing these, a few insignificant serfs, or wives who
had lost favour with their lords, supplied the place of home-farm
produce. Several peculiarities were observed concerning the _bokala_,
or human flesh. It was considered indigestible unless eaten with
certain herbs, which were purposely grown in every village (_Solanum
anthropophagorum_). Moreover, it was the only meat which was preferred
rather high, and which must not be handled, from a belief that it would
produce skin-disease. Therefore it was invariably eaten with a peculiar
round wooden fork with four long prongs.
Some of the most noted cannibals, who gloried in the multitude of
men whom they had eaten, actually kept a record of their number by
erecting lines of stones. One of these registers numbers eight hundred
and seventy-two! and the Christian son of this ogre declares that
his father ate them all himself, allowing no one to share with him.
Another member of the same family had registered forty-eight, when his
becoming a Christian put a stop to the amusement, and compelled him to
be satisfied with commonplace beef. In fact one of the excuses urged
by Thakombau for so long adhering to cannibalism was that he and his
people had no other substitute for English bullamacow. It is, however,
more than twenty-five years since he abjured the vile custom and
accepted Christianity; but many of the islanders kept it up till quite
recently.
Strange, indeed, is the change that has come over these isles since
first Messrs. Cargill and Cross, Wesleyan missionaries, landed here in
the year 1835, resolved, at the hazard of their lives, to bring the
light of Christianity to these ferocious cannibals. Picture it in your
own mind. Two white men, without any visible protection, landing in
the midst of these bloodthirsty hordes, whose unknown language they
had in the first place to master. Slow and disheartening was their
labour for years; yet so well has that little leaven worked, that the
eighty inhabited isles have all abjured cannibalism and other frightful
customs, have _lotued_—_i.e._ become Christians—and are now, to all
appearance, as gentle and kindly a race as any in the world.
[Illustration]
The common objects of industry in these isles are certainly superior to
those of most savage people. Their baskets and mats are excellent, and
of very varied pattern. So also is the carving of their war clubs, and
the numerous variety of bowls of all sorts and forms—sacred bowls for
the priests, and for the national beverage, _yangona_; also for oil.
Most elaborate of all is the carving of the war spears, and greatly
may we marvel when we recollect that the only tools possessed by these
artists were stone axes, precisely similar to those familiar to our
antiquarians, and which were firmly bound with cord to a wooden handle
shaped at one end like a letter V. The fine carving was all done with
saws of rats’ teeth set in hard wood, and the spines of the echini were
also occasionally turned to account.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The sinnet or string work, and the manufacture of tapa, _i.e._ cloth,
are both positively works of art, so elaborate are the patterns
produced. The manufacture of pottery is far in advance of that in any
other isles of the Pacific, and although the potter’s wheel is unknown
some of the forms are most artistic. The clay used is unfortunately
very friable, or perhaps its extreme brittleness is due to lack of
proper baking. The pots are simply roughly modelled, glazed with pine
resin, and lightly baked in a fire of grass and sticks.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
We are greatly struck by the wonderful quickness of these people in
noting differences in white men, as well as the justice of their
conclusions. One of the native princes gave us his opinion of the
captain of a man-o’-war who had treated him very hospitably, and
supposed that he had made a great impression. He said, “You know he
is not exactly what _we_ should call a gentleman.” On the other hand,
Thakombau (or, as he is generally called, the Vunivalu, or root of war)
summed up his opinion of the governor, Sir Arthur Hamilton Gordon,
by saying, “He is quite our idea of a gentleman,” that is, always
courteous and considerate, and punctiliously observant of the most
minute details of native etiquette—a matter far too generally ignored
by white men in their rough-shod intercourse with brown races.
No better example exists of the curious combination I have just noted
than the Vunivalu himself. He commenced his career of bloodshed at
the early age of six, when with his own little hands he clubbed a
playfellow two years older. From this time forward he was noted for
every species of atrocity, till the age of fifty, when he resolved
to “lotu.” Yet, throughout his whole life, he has been noted as a
most courtly and dignified chief, especially when seen presiding at
a council of minor chiefs. Now he does all in his power to help the
progress of order and good, and says he would rather have things as
they are and see his people enjoy the blessings of peace, than recover
all his old power.
[Illustration: CARVED WOODEN BOWLS FOR OIL.]
His ideas on all subjects were vastly enlarged by his visit to
Sydney, and when you remember the amazement with which one horse was
beheld here, that any form of wheeled vehicle is unknown, and that a
two-storied house built by the missionaries at Viwa was considered a
perfect miracle of construction, you can understand how wonderful so
great a city as Sydney must have appeared in his eyes. He told us that
the vastness of the crowds gave him some idea of what the gathering of
people in heaven must be! We said we wished he could see Westminster
Abbey. He replied that he could well imagine that the city, of which
Sydney was but an offshoot, must indeed be of surpassing grandeur.
“Would he come to London?” “No; he feared to die at sea, and be thrown
overboard.” “But _we_ had run that risk to see his isles, and here
we were safe.” “Oh, it was only his age that deterred him; his son
might perhaps go.” We were greatly amused at the reason he assigns for
never opening his lips in English, which he doubtless knows pretty
well. He says he has heard Englishmen speak Fijian, and that is quite
sufficient. His favourite companion in Sydney was a tiny white child,
grand-daughter of Sir Hercules Robinson, who delighted to ensconce
herself on his knee, sometimes looking up in his face, with a sudden
qualm of doubt, to whisper, “Please don’t eat me! You won’t eat me,
will you?” It would be a pretty picture, would it not, the fine old
chief lying on his mat, with his treasured Bible, which he cannot read,
lying beside him “because it makes him feel so good,” and the little
fair English girl nestling beside him? Would that all triumphs of our
Christian civilization were equally satisfactory!
C. F. GORDON CUMMING.
[Illustration]
NEW ZEALAND.
[Illustration]
NEW ZEALAND.
CHAPTER I.
NATURE OF THE COUNTRY.
New Zealand is said to have been discovered by Tasman nearly two
hundred and fifty years ago. Very little, however, was known of the
country until it was more carefully explored by Captain Cook, little
more than a hundred years ago.
New Zealand consists of two long islands and several small ones. The
two larger islands are called the North and South Islands, and are
divided by a passage of water less than twenty miles wide, known as
Cook’s Strait. Stewart Island, almost uninhabited, lies to the south.
The two large islands cover an area a little larger than that of Great
Britain.
The islands are mountainous. The broader part of the North Island
has three long ranges of mountains, with broad and fertile valleys
between. The mountains rise from 3,000 to nearly 10,000 feet high, some
of the peaks being capped with eternal snow.
In the centre of the North Island there is a volcanic region, with many
extinct craters and a few still active. In this region a vast number of
hot springs abound—some actually throwing up boiling water. Some are
used as medical baths, and also by the natives to cook their meat and
vegetables; and alongside bubbling mud-holes and hot springs there are
streams of icy coldness sent from the snow-capped mountains farther
south.
The only important river of the North Island is the Waikato. This river
rises in Mount Ruapehu, and flows northward through the large lake
Taupo, and finally enters the ocean on the west coast. The Waikato,
about twenty-five miles from its exit from the lake, passes through
a remarkable group of hot springs, extending for more than a mile
along its banks. The river here plunges through a deep valley, and
its floods, whirling and foaming round rocky islets, dash with a loud
uproar through the defile. Along its banks white clouds of steam ascend
from hot cascades falling into the river, and from basins full of
boiling water shut in by masses of white stone. Steaming fountains rise
at short intervals, two or more playing simultaneously, and producing
endless changes, as though experiments were being made with a grand
system of waterworks.
[Illustration: AUCKLAND FROM THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT EDEN.]
Mountains are a more prominent feature in the South than in North
Island. Both ends of it are broad, and laced with hill ranges after
the manner of the Grampians in Scotland, spreading in all directions.
The central part has two long and almost straight chains running
from the north-eastern to the south-western “bosses” or groups. The
ridges almost resemble the handle of a “dumb-bell,” while the “bosses”
represent the end knobs. Between these long ranges, some of whose
peaks, clad with snow, tower 12,000 feet above the level of the sea,
there are great valleys and plains, many of them exceedingly fertile.
Mount Cook, the giant of New Zealand mountains, attains an elevation of
13,200 feet.
The rivers never lack water, many of them being fed by the melting
snows and glaciers; and, running down steep valleys and glens, are
broken by cascades, thus enhancing the beauty of the scenery. The lakes
are all of fresh water, and are embosomed among wooded mountains.
The coast-line is more broken on the east than on the west. On the
south-west, however, the coast is indented by long and deep arms of
the sea, which, in their length and narrowness, and in the grandeur of
their lofty cliffs and dark woods, resemble the fiords of Norway.
New Zealand has been suitably termed the Britain of the South. The
seasons are very much like those of the British Isles, except that,
being in the opposite hemisphere, they occur at opposite periods. There
are no great extremes of heat and cold; the climate is moist, regular,
and mild.
The chief difference between New Zealand and England is that in the
former the summer is a little warmer and longer, and the spring and
winter also a little warmer. On the plains the frosts are so slight
that farming suffers no interruption.
The amount of rainfall in the colony is large, and thunderstorms are at
least as frequent as in Great Britain. The east coast is drier than the
west, as in England and Ireland. The rain falls more abundantly than in
Britain while it lasts, but there are more dry days, except in winter.
From the dryness and evenness of the climate disease of the lungs is
almost unknown there.
The great characteristics of New Zealand scenery are the forests, the
ferns, and the grassy plains. The flowers are comparatively few but
peculiar. The forest trees are mostly different species of pine not
found elsewhere. Of these the Kauri pine furnishes splendid timber. The
ferns attain the size of small trees.
Animal life in New Zealand is not so abundant as in most countries.
There are no wild animals at all dangerous to man, and in fact few of
any kind. Birds are more numerous, especially the large running birds,
such as the emu and ostrich. The remains of a very gigantic bird are
occasionally discovered buried in the soil, but no living specimen has
been found. Fish are plentiful in the neighbouring seas, but insects
are very scarce.
The natives are called Maories. They are a fine race of people,
tall, active, brave, and strong, quick to learn, and intelligent.
Their colour is that of the European gipsy, of various shades. Though
formerly addicted to cannibalism, they have now, under the influence of
missionaries, adopted the habits of civilised life. The race, however,
is rapidly dying out. Tribal wars and insurrections against the
colonists, and the famine and hardships attendant thereon, have greatly
reduced their numbers. The diminished tribes—probably numbering in all
between 40,000 and 50,000 people—live peaceably in the North Island,
many of them as farmers and traders.
The soil varies very much, and with the fine climate produces corn
and a great variety of fruits, &c. In North Island tobacco and cotton
are cultivated, and fruits of a sub-tropical kind flourish. The South
Island has the finest pasture-land and the most fertile plains and
valleys; and it is here that farming is carried on to the greatest
perfection, and with the most extensive use of agricultural machinery.
Potatoes, first introduced by Captain Cook, are grown in great
profusion, two crops a year being produced off the same piece of land.
There are more than 13,000,000 sheep grazing in the colony, the larger
portion in the South Island. Horses, cattle, pigs, and poultry are
numerous. All these (as well as sheep) have been imported, none of them
being native to the country.
Minerals are abundant, but the mining industry as yet is almost in
its infancy. There are some good coal-fields, but gold is the chief
item of mineral wealth. The first discovery of the precious metal was
made in the year 1840, but there was no systematic working until 1852,
when a field was worked east of Auckland, in the North Island. In the
year 1861 more fields were found in the province of Otago, in the South
Island. Since that date gold has been found in almost every part of
the South Island, and in various districts of the North. It has been
found that on the west coast the alluvial drifts (water-washed soil)
containing quantities of the valuable metal stretch a distance of 200
miles under the sea. As this soil is being constantly cast up by the
ocean tides, there is a regular supply of gold, and gold-finding is a
busy occupation for a large number of people. During the last quarter
of a century the total value of the gold washed ashore and dug out of
the fields has been more than £30,000,000.
In New Zealand, as in Australia and elsewhere, it is not so much the
value of the gold that has enriched the country, as the impulse it has
given to immigration and enterprise by the hope of finding it. As a
rule, the gold-diggers have made much less money than the butchers,
bakers, and others who have followed them to supply their wants, and
have been able to get very high prices. Iron, copper, silver, lead,
sulphur, and lime are found in various quantities.
The Government of New Zealand consists of a Governor, appointed by the
British Crown, and two “Houses of Parliament.” The “Houses” meet at
the small town of Wellington, on the south coast of North Island. The
Governor is also Commander-in-Chief of the forces.
The country was formerly divided into nine provinces—four in the North
Isle and five in the South; but in 1875 the provinces were sub-divided
into counties, and the whole united as one colony. The provinces are
now called provincial districts.
Auckland, in the district of the same name, is the largest town of
the North Island; and Dunedin, on the harbour of Otago, is the most
important city of the South Island. Christchurch is the most populous
town of Canterbury, and Lyttleton is its port. None of the towns are
very large; indeed, the total population of the colony is scarcely over
half a million.
In succeeding chapters we shall give some interesting notes by
observant travellers on two most remarkable natural features of the
country, the hot lakes with once splendid terraces, now unhappily
destroyed by earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, and the western
sounds, which rival the fiords of Norway.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE CANTERBURY PLAINS, WITH CHRISTCHURCH IN THE
DISTANCE.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
THE HOT LAKES.[3]
Last May, when purposing to return from Australia viâ America, all
our friends advised H. and myself to visit the Hot Lakes on our way;
and though very few of them could speak from personal experience, the
recommendation was so strong that we broke our journey at Auckland, and
took the first little coasting steamer down to Tauranga. This pretty
little place, snugly ensconced in an almost land-locked bay, is chiefly
notorious for the Gate Pah massacre, a most unfortunate business,
which, like the American War, Britons do not care to remember.
By some cunning arrangement of the hotel-keeper, a buggy and horses
were not forthcoming for our forty-mile drive to the lakes until
the morrow, so we spent the day in visiting the scene of the fight,
and the little cemetery which contains the victims of that day’s
mismanagement. The Pah has entirely disappeared, and it is difficult to
trace the progress of the fight, but the truth will ever be patent to
the visitors of that little graveyard: how the Maories in their flight
from the Pah were met by the Marines, how they hurried back again in
desperation to their only shelter, how the bullets of the Marines fell
over their heads into the ranks of the 45th, how the soldiers began to
run, and their officers one and all remained to be shot down almost to
a man, is a story which receives there a terrible confirmation. In the
small enclosure within the cemetery are the graves of eleven officers
and fifteen private soldiers.[4] The disproportion tells the tale only
too truly.
The next morning, at an early hour, the buggy and a pair of horses were
at the door of our inn, and having been joined by a small squatter, who
was also on his way to the lakes, we started off in the pouring rain
for Ohmenintu. The first twelve miles were easily surmounted, although
the rise was nearly three thousand feet from the bay; but we then
entered the bush, where, though the scenery was magnificent, the road
was a swamp. We had not gone two miles before we stuck fast at the
bottom of a perpendicular-looking hill of black mud, with the prospect
of two fallen trees to surmount half-way up. The wheels were two feet
in clay, and the horses most evidently broken-winded.
There was nothing for it but to get out and shove, and all but the
squatter, by far the heaviest man of the party, plunged boldly into
the slough. He had a regular colonial idea of driving. The horses were
meant to drag him, not he the horses. If it killed them it didn’t
matter much. Horses were cheaper than corn, and as for spending the
night in the bush, he rather liked it than otherwise. However, we had a
different opinion; for though very beautiful, the bush was very damp,
and we were not colonial enough to make a pipe of tobacco serve for
breakfast. So, after a good deal of persuasion, and threats of leaving
him behind altogether, we not only got his sixteen stone out of the
buggy, but prevailed on him to help in lifting the wheels out of the
mud and over the trees.
At the top of the hill the horses appeared to revive, and another hour
brought us to the half-way house. It was inhabited by a Yorkshireman
and his wife, a pretty little Jersey woman, very nervous at living
all alone in the bush, and continually alarmed by the Maories, who
constantly visited the hut. A change of horses was happily awaiting
us, and we hastened on to get out of the bush before dark. The horses
were in much better condition than the last, and after another twenty
miles, during most of which it was so dark that the white of the road
in front of us was all we could see, we were warned by a strong smell
of sulphur that we were driving along the shore of Lake Botonia. Half
an hour brought us to the village of Ohmenintu, and we gladly descended
at Morihanna’s Hotel, had a hot bath in one of the pools, a hot supper,
and went to bed. The next morning, after a swim in the Hot Lake, a body
of water about the size of Windermere, and which becomes quite cold
towards the centre, we made our way to Waranamantau, a collection of
pools about three miles away. Its chief characteristic are the geysers,
and we hoped to see them in full play.
The pools here have an awkward habit of changing their topography from
time to time, and it was always on the cards that some portion of the
path would give way under an unusual weight. The squatter at once
decided that the place was of very minor interest, and sat down to wait
for us, keeping himself, as he hoped, out of danger. An old and ugly
Maori woman, with little clothing except a print skirt of Manchester
make, acted as our guide, and, followed by a troop of copper-coloured
urchins, we walked very circumspectly in her very footsteps among
the boiling pools and heaving crusts of earth. It was certainly very
marvellous. The country round appeared to be on fire, and the naked
figures of the young Arawahs, as they glided through the clouds of
steam, reminded one strongly of Dante’s demons on the banks of the
Phlegethon.
The Great Geyser, which we were told has been known to play to the
height of eighty feet, was apparently not in working order, for with
the exception of a succession of vast heaves and gurgles there was
nothing to be seen. That the Maories are not deficient in cunning
we had often been told, and now experienced an instance of it. The
old woman, who had hitherto walked silently in front of us, suddenly
stopped in a narrow pass between two boiling mud marshes, and demanded
black-mail. Of course she was entitled to something, but it was
ludicrously undignified to be so entirely at the mercy of an old woman
at whom we had been laughing the whole way. It was too dangerous to
retrace our steps without a guide, and we could not pass her without
stepping into the boiling mud. So we submitted and found she was
contented with a shilling from each of us, skipping away like a
school-girl after the bargain had been completed.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE HOT LAKES.]
We now wished to try the virtues of the sulphur baths, and having
luckily met a Scandinavian woman, who had lately brought her husband
to the lakes to be cured of rheumatic fever, we obtained clean
towels, and followed her good man down to the strongest pool. It was
very hot and very delicious, the strong smell of sulphur being by no
means disagreeable. It was very amusing to see the Maories squatting
solemnly down in the shallow places. There were several there of
both sexes, and there they spent a great part of the day, smoking if
they are fortunate enough to possess any tobacco, but if not, quite
contented to sit for hours doing absolutely nothing. Among the natives
were four or five white faces. These were visitors come to try the
baths for various complaints. They all professed themselves to be
immensely benefited even after a few days’ trial, but the way in which
they are at present compelled to live must neutralise the good effects
of the water to a great extent.
The Maories, from some hidden, probably superstitious, motive, refuse
to allow any habitation to be erected there by Europeans, and as yet
their own notions of architecture are of the most primitive kind. A
few sticks of supple-jack and wattle tied and pegged to two or three
upright posts, a roof of tea-tree and rushes, and a door laying bare
one side of the house, constitute the native warri. The boiling pools
supply all the needful cooking apparatus, and therefore neither a
fireplace nor chimney is added; and though the one room is thus saved
from that stifling atmosphere of smoke which pervades most savage
dwellings, yet the floor is very damp, and the room so draughty that a
man suffering from rheumatic fever would under ordinary circumstances
have little chance of recovery. The Maories themselves suffer very
greatly from consumption, no doubt brought on from their suicidal
practice of sitting for hours in a pool almost at boiling-point, and
retiring to bed in one of these damp, unwholesome warris.
On coming out of our bath, we were met by a little Maori boy, who after
pulling our coats, like a sagacious dog I once read of, induced us
to follow him to where we had left our friend. Caution is, alas! not
always the safest policy. Our squatter, rising to inspect a boiling
pool, had stepped into a boiling mud hole. Two Maori women were already
in attendance, and a man had been sent off to the lake to obtain some
famous black mud. Till he returned the foot was kept in a hot pool, to
the great relief of our friend, who appeared to feel little or no pain.
The man returned in about half an hour, during which time the women
were singing a monotonous chant to frighten away the evil spirits.
We had now an opportunity of seeing some native doctoring. While one of
the women stood ready with a large lump of mud, the other withdrew the
injured limb from the water, with a jerk which terribly discomposed the
equilibrium of our fat friend. A moment after, his leg up to the knee
was well plastered with the mud, and, after carrying him to the nearest
warri, we were obliged to leave him in the hands of his new friends and
make the best of our way back to our inn. It was not likely he would be
able to walk for a fortnight, during which time the mud-washing process
was to be repeated twice a day. The virtue of this treatment is most
extraordinary, and whereas several Europeans, it is said, have either
died or lost their limbs under European treatment, very few fatal cases
have been known among the Maories, if they can completely exclude the
air in time.
That evening, grieved at the loss of our companion, who had acted
as our interpreter hitherto, we drove by way of two beautiful cold
lakes, called “the blue” and “the green,” to Wairoa, a village on Lake
Terawera. It was getting late when we reached our inn, but our Maori
host, Mr. Paroa, had collected a number of children to welcome us with
a “laka,” or native dance; and to this infliction we had to submit for
an hour before we could get supper.
At length, however, even Paroa was satiated, and after serving out a
large quantity of hard biscuit (at our expense) to the dancers, he
sallied forth with a couple of friends and removed them forcibly from
the doors.
But we yet had to satisfy the wants of the elder portion of the
community. They, being personal friends of the landlord, were admitted
into our apartment, and Paroa, with the utmost liberality, served out
a liberal allowance of rum, which we found duly charged in the bill
next morning. It was in vain that we remonstrated, urging that they had
not even danced, but were silenced by the remark that they were quite
prepared to do so, and as our crew was to be selected from them next
morning, hospitality triumphed.
After a substantial colonial breakfast, consisting of mutton in
various forms, we went down a winding path to the lake, and found that
the chief to whom we had applied had provided us with a substantial
English-built boat and a crew of six men, who did no injustice to the
Maori fame for stature and strength. We at once embarked, but it was a
good half-hour before we could prevail on our escort to do the same.
Whenever Maori meets Maori, they must have a talk, and for the next
twenty minutes these fellows kept up such a furious jabber that we
expected to see knives and tomahawks out at every instant. At last they
all took their seats at the oars, and away we started at a great pace,
and in less than two hours we landed on the other side.
The warm stream that flowed from the hot lake above was too rapid to
contend against in anything but light canoes; and having laden two of
the crew with our luncheon and rugs, we proceeded to walk the remaining
mile to the White Terraces. The scenery already was pretty enough, but
we were quite unprepared for the wonderfully beautiful sight which
suddenly burst upon us as we turned the last corner. A vast marble
staircase rose above us, streaming with water. At the summit a cloud
of steam rolled slowly up from some gigantic boiling pool, and floated
away among the hills. We were soon at the foot of the hill, and a
nearer inspection only enhanced its beauty.
The broad flat steps were worn by the action of sulphuretted water in
an exact imitation of white coral, and on every platform rested a
basin of the bluest, clearest water. As each of these was filled from
the basin above, it overflowed into the basin below, and from being at
boiling point at the top, the water became almost cold at the bottom.
As we ascended, the steam became more and more dense, until we stood on
the brink of the topmost boiling pool, wet to the skin and unable to
see a yard in front of us until some friendly gust of wind carried the
vapour away. And these occasional glimpses revealed the most curious
sight of all. The pool was almost regularly circular, and hollowed by
nature so exactly that its sides might compare favourably with the best
paved bath in London. A mass of blue clear water writhed and tumbled
within, now rising with a burst to the height of some twenty feet, now
sinking into a furious whirlpool. The sight was beautiful and terrible,
and one could no longer doubt that the Maories had here chosen a
fitting habitation for their gods: indeed, who but gods could dwell in
a spot so unnatural, so unearthly?
Though fast assuming the consistency of a wet sponge from the thick
vapours, I could have stayed there for hours, had not our guides
hurried us away to fresh scenes of wonder. But the enchantment was
broken for all lesser wonders, and we threaded our way among smaller
geysers and smaller pools as though we had been born in their midst.
Lake Notomahana was soon reached, and leaving our bow-oar to cook our
luncheon of mutton and potatoes in a handy pool, we all embarked
in a long canoe, and paddled over to the Pink Terraces. Though of a
strangely beautiful pink colour, they were by no means so beautiful as
the white, and we thought it no sacrilege to apply the pool to the base
uses of a hot bath.
Of course, here again the higher we climbed the hotter became the
water, and it was extraordinary what heat we found our bodies could
stand with pleasure, if we crept gradually up from the bottom. H. and
I did not stop until we had reached the third pool from the top, and
I believe Maories have been known to enter the one immediately above.
By the time we had thoroughly enjoyed our wallow, and finished up with
a swim in the lake itself, shouts from the other side proclaimed that
our luncheon was ready, and we were soon paddling back across the
lake. But now occurred a contretemps which might have had an awkward
termination. H., excited by the numerous flights of teal and duck which
passed directly over our heads, cautiously loaded his pistol and fired
a shot into the midst of them. In a moment arose a terrible uproar from
our crew. The paddlers ceased paddling, and everybody appeared to be
speaking at once. I at first conceived that it was a mutiny, but the
unfortunate pistol soon proved to be the cause of disturbance. From
what I could understand from the coxswain, who knew a few words of
English, the lake was _tapu_ (or sacred), and consequently the ducks
and teal belonged to the gods or chiefs or somebody, who would not be
satisfied with anything less than a fine of five pounds; and I expected
a sensational story of a narrow escape from a cannibal feast, after the
manner of Mr. Fenimore Cooper. But as we were dealing with civilised,
or rather degenerate, savages, we escaped the dread penalty of being
cooked.
We were now tired even of seeing hot pools, and refusing to visit the
Green Terraces or the Steam Whistle, we re-embarked and set off for our
long row home. But before we reached the other side, it was necessary
to exert all our diplomacy to remove the bad impressions produced by
the pistol. They had at first demanded its forfeiture, but H., like any
other boy of sixteen, refused to surrender the treasure but with his
life, and whispered in a murderous manner that he had a bullet ready
for each of the crew. But he was already rather a favourite, and after
singing them an English song in return for each of their Maori chants,
we quieted their consciences and hurried off to our buggy directly the
boat touched the shore.
Our visit to the lakes was ended, and we drove away amid the cheers of
the village.
Of all the beautiful sights we saw in our journey round the world, the
White Terraces were the most beautiful, and I shall ever look back upon
those four days at the Hot Lakes as, if not the happiest, at least the
most interesting of my life.
GEORGE MERIVALE.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THE WESTERN SOUNDS.
I am going to ask my readers to accompany me for one brief half-hour
round the Western Sounds of the island, which the advertisements
truthfully call “the wonderland of the Pacific.” The whole of the
western coast of the middle island[5] of New Zealand, for a distance
of five hundred miles, is ironbound, and offers no shelter for
shipping, excepting in the singular fiords or sounds which penetrate
its south-west shore between the parallels of 44° and 46° S. latitude.
These are thirteen in all, and are all included within a space of
little more than one hundred miles.
Captain Cook explored and described, as early as 1773, Dusky Bay. Since
then it lay unheard of and unknown until it was examined by H.M.S.
_Acheron_, in 1851. There was no temptation for colonists to settle
there, nor indeed can those inhospitable coasts ever serve a more
useful purpose than to be the playground of tourists and the lovers of
nature. But what a playground! Approaching the west coast coming from
Australia, one is confronted by a huge line of precipitous cliffs,
disclosing in many places a range of snow-capped hills behind, and
clothed with luxuriant vegetation down to the water’s edge.
“The New Zealand Pilot,” to whom I must acknowledge my indebtedness for
many facts, states that in approaching from seaward it is difficult to
distinguish the entrance of one sound from another. It is, in fact,
difficult to mark the entrance of any of the sounds, so narrow are they
and difficult to distinguish from mere recesses in the rock line. The
entrances are commonly at a distance of eight miles or so from each
other, and all run in an easterly direction. They penetrate into the
interior for a distance of from six to twenty miles, their breadth
rarely exceeds a mile, and they are studded with islets, all of which
are clothed with a dense and almost impenetrable vegetation.
“The Pilot,” whose views are accurate, but professional, states that
“their most remarkable feature is their great depth of water.” I
should have thought it was rather the marvellous combination of lofty
mountains above with luxuriant vegetation below. But their great
depth must be “remarkable” from a seaman’s point of view, for it is
impossible to cast anchor in them, as soundings can rarely be obtained
under eighty fathoms, and vessels anchoring there generally need to
secure themselves to the trees growing on their side, to prevent
being drifted off the deep bank by a “flaw” of wind. So high are the
mountains which environ the Sounds that the sun cannot penetrate there
for more than four hours of the day, though it is fair to say that in
summer he makes his presence felt quite unmistakeably.
The rainfall is very great, and this, coupled with the sandflies, which
are found in millions, are the great drawbacks to the visitor’s comfort
in the sounds generally. The latter pests seem to possess the tact of
an inquisitor, or of the gout, in finding out one’s weak points and
applying tortures to them. I have seen a healthy man’s hand, on being
bitten by them, swell up to twice its usual size in a very short time.
There is a remedy sold by the chemists in Dunedin as a prophylactic,
but it has the effect of making those who use it smell so disgustingly
that they frighten their friends more than the sandflies.
The fish in all the sounds are numerous and easily caught; the blue cod
and the trumpeter are the most common, but my friend, Doctor Hector,
told me that there are, I think, ninety-two species in Dusky Sound
alone, and these are mostly good for food. So unsophisticated are
they that you only have to let down your hook, baited with a piece of
fish, and you catch something. In some places the bottom of the fiord
is actually moving with large crayfish, which are easily caught, and
resemble in flavour our lobster.
No description of the wild animals is necessary, for the same reason
that none is necessary of the owls in Iceland: none exist in the
islands excepting those which have been turned loose by European
settlers, or the descendants of such, of which the wild pigs whose
ancestors were liberated by Captain Cook, and the rabbits, are the most
numerous. The former of these have curiously changed their type from
that of the domestic pig, and have come to resemble in shape rather the
boar of India, though they are much larger than even he is, and are
covered with long coarse hair.
The rabbits, as is well known, are so numerous that in some parts
of Otago they threaten to extirpate the settlers, and indeed whole
stations have been ruined by these pests. Some settlers offered a
reward of twopence per tail, thinking thus to extirpate their enemies,
but it was found that trappers caught them, cut off their tails, and
liberated them to “do again.” These swarm on the other side of the
mountain wall which bounds the fiord country, but none have as yet made
themselves visible in the forests which fringe the fiords.
Here, however, you may see the weka, or woodhen, in numbers. It is
an impudent, amusing bird, about the size of a French partridge; it
shows no fear, and if you are camping out, it has no hesitation in
making its way into your tent and making off with a toothbrush, or
any other trifle whose worth is enhanced in proportion to its distance
from civilisation. The kiwi, or apteryx, is frequently heard, but
unfrequently caught. It is getting rarer and rarer, and will apparently
die out as certainly as the native race of the Maories. The kakapo
also, or owl-parrot, is sometimes to be seen; a singular bird, which
has developed the habit, since sheep were introduced into the island,
of perching upon them and regaling itself on their kidneys. Professor
Brown, of Christchurch, informs me that it has lately gone farther, and
applied this cheerful habit to horses as well.
Besides these, ducks and pigeons of several varieties are to be seen;
the latter are stupid enough to allow sportsmen to approach them quite
closely, when they of course fall an easy prey. Dr. Hector amused us
all by imitating the cries of several native birds with such precision
that he attracted several flocks in succession from their haunts in the
wood. The Maories entice them in this way and catch them in springes,
or knock them down with sticks.
No inhabitants are known to live in these sounds, with the exception
of one or two Europeans, who settle, now in one sound, now in another,
to shoot birds for the sake of their skins, which fetch a good price
in the market. Those whom I met dwelt alone, and it seemed to me that
they must live a dreadfully solitary life in those pathless forests,
absolutely cut off from civilisation. A Government ship is sent round
at certain intervals to take them provisions and mails, and they spoke
quite contentedly of their healthy out-door life.
These sounds are very near to civilisation, and are yet wholly removed
from it. They belong to the sea. The mountain barrier is rendered
impassable, not merely by the precipitous nature of its sides, but also
by the dense nature of the scrub which clothes it. Prominent among the
plants in this scrub is that known to colonists by the _sobriquet_ of
“lawyer,” from the fact that it is easier to get into its clutches
than to get out again. It is a straggling creeper, which climbs from
plant to plant, and renders any passage it has once barred perfectly
hopeless. There is, indeed, a track made across from Martin’s Bay, by
which Dr. Hector crossed to the other side when the _Dido_ was wrecked;
but even by this the passage is exceedingly difficult.
The sound first visited by the excursion steamer, which generally makes
the round annually, is Preservation Inlet, eighty miles distant from
Port William, the nearest port of Stewart Island, and the same from
Bluff Island. This sound put me much in mind of Loch Lomond. It is
studded with small islands, behind which rises a low range of hills,
covered with verdure, and broken by waterfalls. The anchoring-ground
is called Cuttle Cove; and it is a strange and weird spectacle to see
the moon breaking through the fleecy clouds, and shedding its fitful
radiance on island and headland, and on the snow-capped ranges in the
far distance. Proceeding north, the vessel passes through Chalky
or Dark Cloud Inlet, which lies immediately to the north-west of
Preservation Inlet, being separated from it only by a high peninsula
ending in Gulch’s Head.
[Illustration: WET JACKET ARM AND DUSKY SOUND.]
After a few hours we pass into Dusky Sound, as it was named by
Captain Cook. The peculiarity of this sound is the vast height of the
mountains, which seem to rise sheer out of the sea. The sides of many
of these are covered with a deep green vegetation, here and there
relieved by the fiery blossoms of the sata, or iron-wood; and their
base is fringed with a tangled tapestry of ferns. The variety and
beauty of these it is impossible to describe; you seem to have before
you the productions of tropical heat and moisture under the sky of
France. In some places the verdure is relieved by numerous waterfalls,
which now disappear beneath a screen of foliage, and then far below
flash forth again as they bound into the fiord beneath. I could not
help thinking what a glorious time one might have here in a yacht or a
steam-launch! How numerous are the anchorages, each opening up a new
point of view! And in the far future, when picturesque Dunedin shall
have become one of the chief marts of the southern hemisphere, what
magnificent building-sites for her wealthy and over-wrought citizens
will these sounds afford!
We have the great advantage of passing into Breaksea Sound in still
water, through Acheron Passage, formed by the barrier of Resolution
Island, and we come to anchor in Wet Jacket Sound, which runs from
Acheron Passage for a distance of six miles into the eastern shore of
the arm. On either side rise towering mountains to the height of about
four thousand feet. Breaksea Sound, which is reached shortly after Wet
Jacket Sound, was so called by Captain Cook himself, from an island at
its entrance. The same combination meets us here again of picturesque
islets and magnificent mountains; and about two-thirds of the way
up from the junction of Acheron Passage the sound divides into two
arms—the towering cone of Chatham Point, three thousand feet high,
forming the bluff at the bifurcation.
The steamer generally proceeds up Vancouver’s Arm, which is _par
excellence_ the fiord of streams, and retracing its course passes into
Doubtful Sound or Inlet. On the northern side the prominent objects are
All Round Peak and Mount Groznoz, from four thousand to five thousand
feet high; to the south are passed two remarkable peaked rocks, called
the Hare’s Ears. Almost the most striking spot amid so much beauty is
Hall’s Arm, a branch of Doubtful Sound. We steam along the bushy Rolla
Island, and find ourselves in a nook with lofty mountains on three
sides of us, and the dark blue fiord behind. Hundreds of small penguins
dived before our ship, and we could clearly trace their course through
the clear water of the fiord. Very curious, too, are the nests of these
same penguins; they abound all along the bush-clad banks of Hall’s Arm;
they were full of soft feathers and of fishes’ bones; but I could not
find any young birds. Seals are tolerably numerous throughout all the
sounds; the terror expressed by their great soft human eyes is very
manifest at the approach of the steamer with its unknown noise and
strange appearance.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
THE WESTERN SOUNDS.—_Continued._
In the case of the beauties of the Western Sounds, nature has acted
the part of a good hostess, and kept her greatest treat till last.
The coast-line between George and Milford Sounds is a magnificent
spectacle. Six miles to the north-east of George Sound is passed Bligh
Sound, the entrance of which is rendered conspicuous by two remarkable
mountains, called respectively Mount Longsight and Table Mountain,
both mountains attaining an elevation of over four thousand feet. I
believe that this sound again has been very imperfectly surveyed, and
needs great care in navigation. I have never entered it myself, but the
captain told me that he did not at all like taking a vessel into it.
[Illustration: MILFORD SOUND FROM HARRISON’S COVE.]
It may be noticed that the exploring party of the _Acheron_ alleged
that in this sound, in what is known as the “Third Arm,” or “Bounty
Haven,” into which flows a considerable river, they came upon the
tracks of some natives whom they heard scuttling away among the
brushwood. They added that these people belong to a small isolated and
almost unknown tribe, rarely seen even by their own countrymen, by
whom they are called “wild men of the mountains.” Personally I am very
sceptical as to the existence of any such tribe; if such did exist, it
must surely have been seen by one or other of the isolated settlers who
haunt some portions of the Western Sounds.
From Bligh Sound to Milford Sound is a distance of sixteen miles. The
“Rugged Mountains” and “Llawrenny Peaks” rise there above the shore to
a height of nearly seven thousand feet. It has been my lot to visit
Milford Sound three times in all, and each time have its beauties
struck me as more baffling to put into words. The first time we came
over from parched and seething Australia in the midst of her summer
heat. We had to lie off shore for an hour or two before dawn, in order
to make the entrance without any difficulty. As the dawn broke, the
dim wall of cliffs loomed upon us, weird and mysterious, rising above
a range of hills immediately springing from the sea, and covered with
wood; the mountains are so steep and precipitous that nothing can grow
upon them; but snow lies on their sides wherever these are not too
steep. Here and there a cataract is seen leaping from the bottom of an
ice field down the craggy sides of the mountain to the sea.
The entrance is so narrow that one wonders where the ship is going to
find room to pass into the land-locked bay within. When fairly abreast
of the entrance we descry Pembroke Peak, about three miles inland,
rising on the north side to a distance of nearly seven thousand feet,
while the Llawrenny Peaks on the south side rise to nearly an equal
height. Immediately abutting on the fiord, and overshadowing it on its
south side, is the fantastic Mitre Rock, so called from its form; it
attains a height of five thousand five hundred and sixty feet. As the
eye wanders from the deck of the steamer up these stupendous heights,
one appreciates the marvellous effects that nature can produce by
simple abruptness.
As we pass into the centre of the sound a fine gorge opens on our view
to the north, and a pretty glacier on Mount Pembroke catches the eye
in the background. To the back of this lie mountain ridges covered
with eternal snow. The cascades which fall into the sound on either
side are far more striking than those in the Lauterbrunnen Valley. But
their size and number depend upon the amount of the rainfall. On one
of the three occasions of my visiting Milford Sound the cascades were
all in flood, and as the wind was blowing in great gusty “flaws” down
the sound, its sides seemed enveloped in a drapery of moving spray. On
another occasion we had a bright Italian sky, and little rain seemed
to have fallen for some time, so that the cascades, instead of rushing
down in tumultuous torrents, presented the appearance of thin blue
or white threads, now losing themselves in the tangled drapery of the
ferns, now breaking forth to plunge into the torrent below.
About half way up the sound the steamer stops and fires a gun to wake
the echoes, which seem, indeed, not to need much rousing, and, after
booming round each neighbouring rock, produce the effect of a salvo
of artillery fired from crags apparently half-way between earth and
heaven. One of the most conspicuous objects is the Stirling Falls,
where a large body of water falls sheer into the fiord from a height
of four hundred feet, scattering afar the foam and the spray. We pass
close beneath Mount Kimberly, whose frowning brow looks menacingly down
on our deck from a height of two thousand five hundred feet. Here and
there, where a ledge is broad enough to admit of it, the native bush
struggles to find a hold, and some of the trees seem to be throwing out
their branches in despair before taking a leap for life into the waters
below.
But the most striking object in all the sound is, to my mind, the Bowen
Fall, which is the outlet of the waters running from the Benton and
Barren Peaks respectively. It first runs down a steep rocky channel
for some fifty or a hundred feet, and falling into the hollow of a
rock, leaps up again and forms a huge bow; then its waters plunge, as
Mr. Green says, with a deafening roar, some three or four hundred feet
sheer down into the fiord. There are some objects in nature and in art
which are so wonderful in their beauty or in their magnificence that
the senses seem to need an apprenticeship before they can appreciate
them. Such is the picture of the Sixtine Madonna, such is the Church
of St. Peters at Rome, and such is the Bowen Falls. The scenery around
is on a scale so stupendous that the falls hardly stand out in due
prominence. The eye needs careful training to take in the size of the
surrounding hills, and to realise the vastness of the volume of water
which leaps so vigorously into the sound. Mr. Green, in his “High Alps
of New Zealand,” has given a very good account of the whole sound, and
so has Mr. Bracken in his excellent “New Zealand Tourist.” But there is
plenty of room for a description more exhaustive than either of these,
which should give the names and heights of each peak one passes, and
not omit some account of the wonderful geological formation of the
sound.
At the head of the sound lies Freshwater Basin, the easternmost of
two coves, between which a low tongue of scrub-covered land runs into
the sound. Here the passengers are landed, and time is given to make
a two or three hours’ excursion into the scrub. On the land abutting
on this cove stand two small shanties, lately erected, where one or
two settlers are trying to make a living by shooting birds for their
skins. They receive a packet of papers and some fresh provisions with
intense delight. The solitude of the spot would oppress most men, but
these did not seem to find it irksome; and, indeed, some compensation
for the loss of society may be fairly claimed in the purity of the
air and the water, while nature has abundantly provided them with any
quantity of fish for the trouble of catching them. When I see in the
large and wealthy town of Liverpool, from which I write, the numbers of
men and women, squalid, poor, and hopeless, that meet my eye each time
I go out, I cannot but think that I would prefer a hundred times to be
monarch of all I survey, beneath an Italian sky, and fronting an azure
fiord, with store of food at my door, rather than remain an inmate of
a city for the sake of exchanging notes on the prevailing state of
poverty and hopelessness with my neighbours.
H. A. STRONG.
[Illustration]
AUSTRALIA.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
Leaving New Zealand we turn our face homewards, and with a western
course we arrive within a few days on the shores of one of our greatest
dependencies.
Australia, although an island, is so vast in area, and has so many
separate colonies—which are like so many countries—that it is often
termed a “continent.” There are within it five separate states, four
of them having complete powers of self-government by means of elected
Parliaments, while the Governors are appointed by the Crown. The system
in Western Australia is somewhat different, the Governor being assisted
by a Legislative Council of twenty-one members, fourteen of whom are
elected by the people, while seven are named by the Crown.
The great island may be regarded as divided into three sections or
broad strips, which stretch from north to south. The western strip
is called Western Australia, and the central South Australia.[6] The
eastern strip is divided into three colonies—Victoria in the south,
New South Wales in the middle, and Queensland in the north. The island
of Tasmania, which lies south of Australia, is also a separate colony,
with complete self-government.
Australia was discovered by different navigators at different times;
and various parts of the country bordering the coast are named after
the discoverers or explorers.
A large portion of the island was first traced out by the Dutch,
which accounts for the number of Dutch names in the country. These
discoveries were made early in the seventeenth century. Later on,
Englishmen were very industrious in navigating the waters around the
South Sea Islands. First among them was Captain Cook, who sailed along
the whole of the east coast of Australia. One part of this coast was
named by him Botany Bay, from the large number of new plants which he
found there. The mountainous country inland from Botany Bay he named
New South Wales, from its fancied resemblance to the southern part of
Wales. It was on the recommendation of Captain Cook that the English
Government decided to found a penal settlement there for the employment
of British convicts.
At various dates afterwards English colonies were formed in different
parts of the island. The interior of the country, however, has never
yet been thoroughly explored. Many attempts have been made, and one or
two travellers have crossed from north to south, but few have succeeded
in reaching to any great distance inland from the west or east for want
of water.
We now call the country Australia, as the name of the greatest island
among a group called Australasia, or Southern Asia. It was, however,
formerly known also by the name of New Holland—a name given by the
Dutch in honour of their own country, Holland.
In shape Australia is not unlike a bishop’s mitre, and in size it
surpasses any other island on the globe, being about four-fifths the
size of Europe. Its area is about 3,000,000 square miles, and its coast
line measures about 8,000 miles. The regions along the coast (except
at the north) are to a great extent rugged and mountainous, while the
interior appears to be a vast plain of sand and stones, partly covered
with “scrub”—a very wilderness which seems to have been, at no remote
period, the bottom of a great inland sea. The coast line is very
regular, when we take into account the great area of the island.
There are three distinct mountain ranges—one parallel to the east
coast, one along the west coast, and one through the middle, running
parallel to the other two. The ranges that run nearest to the coasts
are strictly mountain chains, but the heights that occur through the
middle of the land are clusters of hills rather than a continued chain.
[Illustration: THE HILLS RAILWAY.]
All these ranges run in one direction, from north to south, and stretch
from one end of the island nearly to the other, but they all become
lower as they approach the north. The chief chain is the one on the
eastern side, called the “Dividing Range.” This range extends for a
length of about 2,000 miles, and runs in a broad band parallel to the
coast at a distance of from 30 to 90 miles from it. The southern half
of the range, known as the Australian Alps, is the highest, its chief
peak (Mount Kosciusko) being 6,500 feet above the level of the sea.
The northern heights, called the Blue Mountains, from their assuming a
blue colour when seen at a distance, although of less elevation, are
more rugged than the southern half of the range. The Blue Mountains
are broken in rents and chasms, and have steep naked walls of rock,
some of them standing 2,000 feet high. The eastern plains, between
the mountains and the coast, are rich and fertile, and have numerous
bays and harbours. For this reason these districts have been specially
selected for colonisation by a large portion of the emigrants who have
left their mother country to seek a living in this distant land.
The most romantic feature of the coast is the Great Barrier Reef, a
double chain of rocky islets which stretch for 1,000 miles along the
north-east. This rocky chain stands out at sea 25 to 30 miles from the
shore, and in some parts from 50 to 70 miles. In one respect it plays
the part, on a large scale, of the Goodwin Sands off the south-east
coast of England—that is, by breaking the rolling waves and preventing
their surging on to the mainland, it forms a channel in which vessels
can lie at anchor or proceed with safety.
On the western side of the island there is one great inlet. The surface
in this part consists mostly of granite cliffs, downs, and wavy hills,
salt lakes and swamps, with a soil by no means noted for fertility.
These regions are so dreary that few people are tempted to settle there.
Although Western Australia is deemed a cheerless district, a party of
explorers succeeded, in 1879, in discovering no less than 25,000,000
acres of land that had been supposed to be a sandy desert, but which
proved to be a rich country for sheep-farming. Mr. Forrest and his
party started from Perth, the western capital, and travelled a long
distance northward along the coast. They then struck inland and
eastward until they reached the Fitzroy River, and marched along its
banks for 150 miles to the south-east, and then for 100 miles to the
north-east. They found this to be a noble stream, teeming with fish,
and navigable for 100 miles inland. The mud-flats along the banks have
one drawback—they are apt to be flooded; but as there are highlands
only a few miles from the river, it is thought that cattle and sheep
might be driven to the heights, where they could remain during the
rainy season.
But when the party left this rich region, and struck into the central
area proper, they met the same fate as befell previous travellers.
After passing through a land suited for sheep-farming, and leaving the
Victoria River, they came to “an almost waterless country.” Within a
hundred miles of the telegraph line which they were trying to reach,
their food supply failed them. Forrest and one of his companions
started to find the telegraph station, and to fetch food for their
comrades. They had a terrible march under a blazing sun. Their store
of water dried up, and, day and night, while toiling on for sheer
life, they suffered all the agonies of desperate thirst. Their tongues
swelled up until they were nearly choked, and they were utterly
speechless during the last two days of their march. Their horses had
to be led, and the only temporary relief the pioneers could get was
from sucking the moisture from the body of a snake which they happened
to have killed by the way. Fortunately, these gallant fellows reached
the telegraph station at last, and their comrades were soon rescued.
They have the satisfaction of knowing that their heroic endurance
has not been in vain; for they have not only added to our stores of
geographical knowledge, but have brought to light 25,000,000 acres of
habitable land of which we were formerly ignorant.
On the north, where the shores are low, there are several estuaries of
large rivers; but they are not much used, for of the people who have
tried to settle there, nearly all have deserted it on account of the
hot and unhealthy climate.
The southern shores, along a coast line of about 700 miles, are lofty.
In some parts the cliffs along the Great Bight vary from 200 to 400
feet in height, and at other parts there are hills and mountains from
1,200 to 3,000 feet high; but the coast here is entirely without
harbours or river mouths.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
WATER SYSTEM AND CLIMATE.
Australia is deficient in fresh water, whether in the form of rivers
or lakes. Shallow lakes, it is true, are numerous, but they are mostly
of salt water, as are also many rivers, on account of their running
through salt regions. Many rivers flow inland, and never reach the sea,
but are lost in salt marshes. For their length, the rivers have the
smallest volume of any in the world. In dry seasons many of them become
mere chains of pools or mud-holes, and the land for miles on either
side becomes baked and cracked by the heat of the sun.
On the north there are many streams, but they are of little use for
the purposes of navigation, as the climate is too hot for permanent
settlement by Europeans. The chief rivers are the Victoria, Albert,
Gilbert, Roper, and Flinders, which flow constantly, being fed
by heavy periodical rains, as in other tropical countries.
On the west there is only one river of any note, called the Swan River,
about 180 miles long, on which stands the town of Perth. The streams,
as a rule, on this coast rise to a great height during the rains, and
generally disappear during the dry season.
On the east there are many streams, but they are of necessity short, as
they flow down the sides of the mountain range, which runs parallel to
the coast, and leaves but a narrow margin of land between the heights
and the sea. These streams afford plenty of ports all along the east
coast, but they form only a minor feature in the river system of the
country. The coast called the “Ninety Miles Beach,” at the southern end
of the country, is lined for a length of about 150 miles with a long
series of lagoons, to which the sea gains admission by narrow straits
between spits of sand or low islands, forming a network of water
passages suitable for navigation.
In the whole of this vast island there is in reality only one great
outlet to the sea. This is the River Murray, which opens to the ocean
in Encounter Bay, on the south coast. The Murray, with its great
tributaries, the Murrumbidgee, Lachlin, Macquarie, and Darling, drains
all the western slopes of the Great Dividing Range and the Australian
Alps. Its basin measures half a million square miles.
The river is generally shallow, but is navigable for boats for about
1,500 miles during floods, and sometimes all the year round. At its
mouth it expands into the shallow brackish Lake Victoria. This lake
communicates with the sea at Encounter Bay by a very narrow passage,
not very favourable to navigation.
It was formerly believed that there must be a great lake in the
interior of Australia, as so many rivers flow inland from the mountain
slopes. It has been found, however, as we have pointed out, that a
great part of the interior is occupied by sandy plains, some having
rich, wild vegetation, others consisting of sand dunes, and some of
marshes covered with reeds. There may be many lakes in these regions
which man has not explored, but the sand alone would absorb such large
quantities of water as to account for the disappearance of many streams.
Still there are known to be many lakes in various parts of the island.
Captain Sturt describes one which he found on his memorable journey,
as a sheet of water measuring 80 miles in length from east to west,
to which he gave the name of Cooper’s Creek. There are others—notably
Lake Torrens in South Australia—which are only lakes in the wet season,
and at other times for the most part dry, with occasional mud holes
and separate pools. In a country where rain was abundant, Lake Torrens
would be a permanent lake; but here, where there are long dry seasons,
it is merely a large depression during a great part of the year.
The word “creek” has become common, in the language of the colonists,
to represent the small streams in the interior of the island.
The seasons in Australia are the reverse of those in Great Britain. The
country being on the opposite side of the globe and in the southern
hemisphere, the sun is seen in the north at mid-day. For the same
reason the months of June, July, and August are the coldest months,
and December, January, and February the hottest. Farmers, therefore,
reap their crops at that part of the year when we are sowing seeds,
and Christmas Day and New Year’s Day occur in the hottest part of the
summer. Unlike England, the northern portion of the country is warmer
than the south, for it is nearer to the equator; indeed, it is within
the tropics.
The great peculiarity of the climate is the extreme dryness of the air.
Being dry, it is not weakening to the human frame like the hot moist
air of some countries; but, generally speaking, except in the north, it
produces an elastic feeling, raises the spirits, and gives increased
power of enduring fatigue. Another peculiarity is the evenness of
temperature; for the heat of summer and that of winter differ very
little in the south and south-east, where the great bulk of the
population is settled. There are very few sudden changes, except about
four times during every summer, when in the south-eastern regions the
hot wind blows from the interior for perhaps as long as two or three
days.
Almost the only discomfort of the climate is the suffering experienced
by the colonists from these hot winds. They produce soreness of throat
and eyes, and a flow of blood to the head. The leaves of plants become
sere and yellow, figs and vines are partially destroyed, and whole
fields of wheat and potatoes are occasionally blasted in a few hours.
These winds are often laden with fine hot dust gathered in the desert,
which finds its way through the crevices of doors and windows, so that
escape from their effects is scarcely possible. As they blow from the
north-west, they strike most forcibly on the colonies of Victoria and
New South Wales, but do not spread to South Australia, or to Queensland
at the north-east, neither of these being in the course of the winds.
Rain, in the tropical parts of the north, falls at regular periods,
as is common in tropical countries. At the south-eastern part of the
island it is fairly regular, but in other parts the rainy season lasts
for only three months in the year—from June to September, which is the
winter season. During these three months the rain sometimes falls in
such torrents that the rivers are suddenly swollen to a great height,
and the valleys are covered far and wide with muddy waters.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
NATURAL HISTORY.—1.[7]
In Australia, the vegetable, no less than the animal kingdom, presents
features altogether different from those of other continents, and
the naturalist finds himself in a strange and isolated world, having
comparatively little in common with other divisions of the earth.
The extensive seaboard is everywhere characterized by a vegetation
of a remarkably sombre and uniform colour, occasioned mainly by the
peculiar foliage of the Eucalyptus and scrub, the leaves of which lack
that striking contrast of shade on their outer and under surfaces
which contributes so largely to the shifting tints of our European
woodlands. Instead of spreading out horizontally, the foliage mostly
hangs vertically from the branches, hence producing little shade in
the forests. Travelling is thereby rendered all the more fatiguing in
the hot mid-day sun.
The uniformity of the vegetation is more wearisome because of the great
area over which the same forms extend. The change of the seasons also,
elsewhere causing the fresh and vivid green of the early spring to
be succeeded by the softer summer hues and glorious golden tints of
autumn, is marked by no such striking contrasts in the unvarying mantle
of dull olive-green clothing the Australian woodlands.
Yet in the midst of this apparent monotony we light occasionally on
spots covered by a gigantic and exuberant growth, here and there
disposed in stately avenues free of scrub or underwood, elsewhere
opening on sunny glades and sloping valleys, watered by purling
streams, and clothed by the softest verdure. In other places the
woodlands form a fringe round an open country, varied with hill and
dale, and pleasantly relieved with isolated clusters of forest trees,
covered with richest herbage, and decked with flowers of the most
varied hues and forms. Or else the woodlands change to an interminable
thicket, where countless flowering shrubs and lovely twining plants
form an impenetrable mass of tangled foliage, such as can be matched by
the virgin forests of Brazil alone.
[Illustration: WATERFALL IN THE BLACK SPUR.]
A striking contrast to this luxuriant vegetation of the woodlands is
presented by that of the various kinds of “scrubs” and heath which
cover so large a portion of the surface of Australia. Just as Tartary
is characterized by its steppes, America by its prairies, and Africa
by its deserts, so Australia has one feature peculiar to itself, and
that is its “scrubs.” Not only do they recur constantly with the same
soil and the same peculiarities, but even in widely distant districts
their flora is very similar.
One of the most common of the scrubs is that termed “Mallee” by
explorers, from its being composed of dwarf species of Eucalyptus
called “Mallee” by the natives. The appearance of the “Mallee” is
something like a bushy willow, or osier, the stems growing close
together like reeds, so close that there are often ten or twelve on a
square foot of ground. They grow fourteen feet high without a branch,
and when a road is cut through a scrub of this kind, it appears like
a deep trench, or as if enclosed by high walls. The aspect of such
a country is very gloomy. From any eminence you can see nothing but
a dark brown mass of bushes as far as the eye can reach. The soil
is generally a yellow sand, and where a patch of it is visible, it
gives an air of sterility in exchange for the monotony of the scrub.
But the surface is generally unbroken, seeming like a heavy ocean of
dark waves, out of which, here and here, a tree starts up above the
brushwood, making a mournful and lonely landmark. On a dull day the
view is most sad, and even sunlight makes it little more cheerful,
for seldom bird or living thing gives variety to the scene, while
light only extends the prospect and makes it more hopeless. In the
south-eastern part of South Australia there is a tract about 9,000
square miles in extent covered with an unbroken expanse of this scrub,
and similar tracts of it occur over every part of the southern half of
Australia.
[Illustration: A VICTORIAN FOREST.]
Still more dreaded by the explorer is the “Mulga” scrub, consisting
chiefly of bushy acacias. These grow in spreading irregular bushes,
armed with strong spines, and, where matted with other shrubs, form
a mass of vegetation through which it is impossible to penetrate.
Fortunately this is far less common than the “Mallee,” or the labour of
the explorer would be still more distressing than it is.
Other scrubs are formed chiefly by the “tea-tree” of the colonists.
This beautiful flowering shrub is allied to the myrtle, and is very
abundant in all parts of Australia. These do not grow in such dense
masses; and, mingled with a variety of other shrubs, form one of the
ordinary and least disagreeable of the scrubs which occupy so much of
the interior.
Next in extent to the “Mallee” scrubs is the country occupied by dwarf
shrubs, and generally known as “heath.” This usually consists of vast
level sandy tracts, dusty in summer and boggy in winter, supporting
no grass, and but a few stunted trees, and everywhere covered with a
tangled mass of woody vegetation about two feet high. In spring this
country is excessively beautiful from its varied and bright-coloured
flowers, among which are many species which we in England consider as
ornaments to our greenhouses.
Mingled with these are larger bushes. One of them—the Banksia—is
sometimes abundant, and is called the native honeysuckle, or
bottle-brush tree. It is an irregularly branched bushy tree, with
wedge-shaped leaves, and studded all over with yellow flowers, shaped
like a bottle-brush; but as the old decaying leaves and seed-vessels
remain for years on the tree, it always looks more or less unsightly.
The most terrible production of the Australian interior is, however,
the “spinifex,” or porcupine grass, a thorny herb which extends for
hundreds of miles over sandy plains, and probably covers a greater
amount of surface than any other Australian plant. Fortunately it
does not appear south of about 28° S. latitude, so that the settled
districts are wholly free from it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
NATURAL HISTORY.—2.
Many remarkable kinds of vegetation give a special character to
Australian scenery. Foremost among these are the noble gumtrees of
the genus _Eucalyptus_. These often attain a height of more than 250
feet, and a girth of from 12 to 20 feet. The banks of the rivers and
the watercourses are generally bordered by these gigantic trees.
They mark the course of the stream for a long distance as it wanders
through the open plains or low desert scrub. Other species form dense
forests on the mountain slopes, and among these have been discovered
the tree giants of the vegetable kingdom, surpassing even the far-famed
Wellingtonias of California. In the Dandenong Range, about 40 miles
east of Melbourne, the ravines contain numerous trees over 420 feet
high, and one fallen tree was discovered of the enormous height of 480
feet—undoubtedly the grandest tree in the world. The numerous species
of Eucalyptus, known as red-gum, blue-gum, stringy-bark, iron-bark,
box, peppermint, and many others, produce valuable timber, each having
special qualities adapting it for certain uses.
The Beefwood, or Shea-oak, of the colonists, forms a remarkable group
of leafless trees, whose long drooping, rigid branchlets, resembling
those of our “horse-tails,” render them the most singular and
picturesque objects of the Australian flora. The wood is as good as our
oak, and of the colour of raw beef, whence its name. These trees are
most common in the south and west, but are often found in the barren
wastes of the interior.
The grass-trees form another peculiar feature in the Australian
landscape. From a rugged stem, varying from two to ten or twelve feet
in height, springs a tuft of drooping, wiry foliage, from the centre
of which rises a spike, not unlike a huge bulrush. When it flowers
in winter, this spike becomes covered with white stars, and a heath
covered with grass-trees has an appearance at once singular and
beautiful.
Nowhere in the world are Acacias so abundant as in Australia, which
contains nearly 300 species of this genus. These trees, more commonly
called “wattles,” abound in all parts of the country, and their elegant
yellow flowers, usually fragrant, add greatly to the beauty of the
country in early spring. Aromatic foliage and odoriferous flowers are
especially abundant in Australia, so that the bush is more or less
fragrant throughout the year.
[Illustration: A KANGAROO HUNT.]
In contrast to the usually arid and somewhat monotonous aspect of
Australian vegetation, many of the deep ravines and sheltered valleys
of the eastern slope of the mountains of New South Wales are clothed
with forests of wild luxuriance. On descending into these valleys we
leave a dry and barren country, with a stunted vegetation, and find
ourselves in a damp and humid atmosphere, sheltered by rocky barriers,
and presenting on every side a luxuriant wealth of foliage. Here are
graceful palms rising to 70 or even 100 feet; the Indian fig, with its
tortuous branches clothed with a drapery of curious parasites; while
graceful tree-ferns, 30 feet high, flourish in the damp atmosphere of
the sheltered dells. The forest is often so rank with creepers, ferns,
and vines, as to be quite impassable, and the gigantic stag-horn fern
grows from the topmost limbs of the loftiest trees.
Among the most striking individual plants of Australia are the
“flame-tree” and the “fire-tree.” The former, when covered with
its large spikes of red flowers, renders the Illawarra Mountains
conspicuous for miles out at sea. The latter, when in flower, is so
covered with its orange-coloured blossoms as to be compared to a tree
on fire. Still more remarkable is the rock-lily, a giant among its
allies, for it sends up a flower stalk 30 feet high, bearing at its
summit a crown of lily-like flowers several feet in circumference.
Lovely bulbous plants and strange-flowered orchids also abound; so
that, although much of the Australian landscape is barren-looking, and
for many months of the year the grass and herbage are almost completely
parched up, yet no country in the world affords a greater variety of
lovely flowers, or more strange and interesting forms of vegetable life.
The animal kingdom, as developed in Australia, presents us with
anomalies and peculiarities perhaps even more remarkable than
are exhibited by the plants. Judged by its highest group—the
mammalia—Australia is by far the poorest and most isolated of all
the continents. There are no apes or monkeys; no oxen, antelopes, or
deer; no lions, tigers, elephants, or pigs; no cats, wolves, or bears;
no hedgehogs, hares, squirrels, porcupines, or dormice. The only
representatives of all these familiar groups are a number of peculiar
species of rats and mice, and the “dingo,” a half-wild dog, probably
introduced by the earliest inhabitants. Yet there is a considerable
variety of indigenous mammals very peculiar in structure. These are
the pouched animals—the kangaroos, wallabies, “opossums,” the curious
duck-billed platypus, and many others.
[Illustration: THE DUCK-BILLED PLATYPUS.]
Among the temperate countries of the world, Australia stands unrivalled
for the variety of form, the beauty of plumage, and the singularity of
habits characteristic of its birds. Its parrots and cockatoos are more
numerous and beautiful than those of most tropical countries. Among the
most remarkable of the birds of this continent are the lyre-bird, the
emu, the brush turkeys, the bower-birds, and the gigantic kingfisher.
Reptiles are abundant in Australia, there being no less than 140
different kinds of lizards, and between 60 and 70 snakes. Many of the
latter are venomous. Frogs and toads are numerous.
Almost as peculiar and as isolated as the flora and the fauna are the
black aborigines of Australia, who are now fast disappearing before the
European settler. The handful that still survive are split up into a
number of tribes, but form collectively a special type, to be carefully
distinguished from the dark, woolly-haired Papuans, and from the
olive-yellow lank-haired Malays and Polynesians.
Physically the native Australians are much inferior to Europeans.
The limbs are thin, and the body is corpulent. The skull is long and
narrow, and the forehead receding. The nose is somewhat squat, the
mouth is large and unshapely, while the teeth are, on the contrary,
fine and white. The complexion is oftener coffee-brown than actually
black, the hair is richly developed, and the men show a thick growth
of beard and whiskers. The pitch-black hair itself is somewhat curly,
without, however, being woolly, and, when cleaned from the mass of
grease and dirt that usually clogs it, is fine and glossy.
The mental qualities of these savages are decidedly inferior to those
of most other savage races. They are skilful in tracking and running
down game, and in the use of the simple implements—the spear and the
boomerang—used in securing game; but they have little foresight or
self-restraint. No care is taken for the morrow, and life is passed
in alternations of eating and sleeping, hunger and the chase. Each
recurring winter brings famine and privation, but no attempt is ever
made to store up food in time of plenty. Their clothing is of the
scantiest, and their dwellings of the rudest type. A cave, or a shelter
of boughs, covered with turf or bark to keep off the rain, usually
satisfies this primitive people. Their food is very varied; of animal
food they eat almost everything living. Not only mammals, birds, and
fish, but lizards, snakes, frogs, and even insects are eaten, and in
some of the tribes human flesh is preferred to any other. All efforts
have hitherto failed to reconcile these native tribes to civilised
life. It is our manifest duty to do all we can to protect them against
violence and injustice. But it is too probable that, like the North
American Indians, they will pass away, and all habitable parts of
Australia will be occupied by European immigrants.
[Illustration] [Illustration: THE ADELAIDE LIGHTHOUSE.]
INDIA.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
POSITION AND EXTENT.
If we start from the port of Adelaide in South Australia and sail
westwards we find ourselves in a vast expanse of ocean, with no land
except a few lonely islets within thousands of miles. Within a week or
so we strike the 90th meridian of west longitude. Then if we turn due
northwards along this line, within another week we cross the equator
into the northern hemisphere. Still continuing due north we enter the
Bay of Bengal, and at its upper end, when we can sail no farther, we
find ourselves on a low coast through which several mouths of a mighty
river pour their waters into the sea. That river is the Ganges; and
entering one of its mouths called the Hoogly, we slowly make our way
up a sluggish stream until we are abreast of a great city. This is
Calcutta, the commercial capital of India.
India is a country of special interest to English people. It is a
part—and a very important part—of the great empire that has grown up
through British enterprise and energy. Its people are supposed to
number not far from 250,000,000, of whom nearly 200,000,000, or about
six times as many as the population of the British Isles, are our
fellow-subjects. The country, too, is so large, that tribes who live
among the forests and mountains know as little of the rest of the
country as the savages of an island on the other side of the globe know
of Europe.
Hindostan (for this is one of its names) is so named from the people
called _Hindoos_, and _stan_, a “country;” thus it is the country
of the Hindoos. There are many other races in India, but the most
important people are the Hindoos. They invaded the country thousands
of years ago, coming from the high lands of Central Asia. The people
living in those high lands at that distant time were called _Aryans_,
and from them nearly all the Western nations, including the English,
have sprung, as well as the Hindoos. Thus this large part of the Indian
population is much more nearly related to us than the Chinese, for
instance, or the Negroes.
The other races in India, with some remarkable exceptions, to be
explained later on, are remnants of the people whom the Aryans
conquered. The term _India_ means the country beyond the river
“Indus”—a name given in olden times by the Persians, whose land
used to stretch eastward to the banks of that river. Hindostan has
mountains—the highest in the world—which seem to reach the sky: heights
covered with snow on whose summits no human foot ever trod, nor can
tread. It has plains, too, stretching away flat as the sea.
The general name of India includes two sections of land—the one
known as India Proper, and the other as Farther India. They are both
peninsulas, but the former is compact and definite in shape. The
latter includes a group of independent countries, and certain British
territories, of which the most important is Burmah.
India Proper is shaped like a wedge, or tongue—the narrow end pointing
southward towards the equator. The tapering part of the wedge,
including more than one-third of the whole surface of the empire, lies
within the tropics. To the south-east of the extreme point there is the
large island of Ceylon, the only island of any consequence on the whole
of the coast. The peninsula has the Arabian Sea on the west and the Bay
of Bengal on the east, both being parts of the great Indian Ocean.
As a help in conceiving the extent of India, take the following
figures. Its length from the mountain limits of Cashmere to Cape
Comorin, the most southern point in the Indian Ocean, is 1,900 miles,
and its breadth from the delta of the Indus on the west, to the extreme
border of Assam on the east, 1,600 miles. The area, inclusive of
Farther India (60,000 square miles) and the island of Ceylon (24,000
square miles), is altogether 1,500,000 square miles, or about thirteen
times the extent of the United Kingdom.
It must not be supposed that the whole of India Proper is entirely
under British control: only about two-thirds of it are completely so.
Of the remainder, a portion consists of tributary states—states ruled
by native princes on condition of their paying tribute in the form of a
sum of money annually to our Indian Government; and a smaller portion
consists of nominally independent states.
The British possessions in India formerly consisted of three
_presidencies_, each ruled by a governor or president. They were those
of Bengal, Madras, and Bombay. As a political description, the term
presidency is now obsolete. It applied to the time when the three
settlements of Fort William (at Calcutta), Fort St. George (at Madras),
and Bombay were under separate presidents. India, for administrative
purposes, is now divided into eight provinces or governments. Bombay
and Madras retain their old names, and enjoy a greater share of
self-government than the others. The latter are more immediately under
the direct control of the Governor-General. Calcutta is the capital and
the seat of the Central Government. Madras and Bombay are under their
own Governors, and are not often visited by the Viceroy.
[Illustration: THE GHAUTS, NEAR KHANDALA.]
The coast-line of India is very extensive. Much of the shore is low
and little indented, but there are some large openings with harbours
where ships can be repaired and fitted; and the vast rivers, the
Indus and the Ganges, but especially the latter, are great highways
of inland commercial intercourse. The gulf of Cutch and the gulf of
Cambay are the principal openings on the west. A smaller inlet, skirted
by various islands, forms the harbour of Bombay. Southwards to Cape
Comorin the coast bounds a maritime belt from twenty to thirty miles
wide. Innumerable short rivers run from the Western Ghauts, or mountain
ranges, before reaching the shore, and they spread out into long
low-lying lagoons.
There are fewer openings on the east coast than on the west, and no
good harbours except that of Coringa, on the bay of Bengal. The coast
of the Carnatic, an old native state in the south-east, is washed by
such shallow seas that vessels only of the smallest burthen can pass
through the gulf of Manaar and Palk Straits, which separate Ceylon
from the mainland, and even these require careful navigation through
a single narrow channel about a mile wide. The shores, from Point
Calimere to the mouth of the Kistna, are known as the Coromandel coast.
Along this coast, and as far as the delta of the Ganges, the absence
of harbours and the gradually shelving shores oblige vessels to anchor
several miles out at sea. The important town of Madras, for instance,
possesses no harbour, and communication between the shore and the ships
which lie at anchor in the roadstead is made by means of native boats.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
PHYSICAL FEATURES.
The physical features of India are as well defined as its natural
borders. It is a country of mountains and valleys, table-lands, plains,
and river-basins in their fullest grandeur. Most prominent of all is
the northern rampart of the mighty Himalaya Mountains, with the snowy
peaks of Everest, Dhawalagiri, and many others, each soaring from five
to five and a half miles towards the sky.
The Himalayas form rather a mountainous region than a mountain chain.
They extend in a direction from north-west to south-east for a
distance of 1,800 miles, and have a breadth varying from 100 to 500
miles. Hundreds of the peaks of this region are far above the line of
perpetual snow, and few of the passes across the main ridges are at
a less altitude than 15,000 feet. The upper valleys are filled with
glaciers, in comparison with which the glaciers of Switzerland are puny
ice-streams.
The basins of these rivers are divided by the Aravulli ridge; and
farther southward the Vindhya Hills and their branches traverse east
and west, forming, with the systems of the Ghauts[8] running near the
east and west coasts, a rough triangle pointing southwards to Cape
Comorin. The Western Ghauts rise abruptly from their base, leaving a
mere strip of land by the sea, and are more lofty and continuous than
the Eastern Ghauts, which are farther in from the sea, and broken
through by many rivers from the interior. The two ranges of Ghauts,
following their respective coast lines, unite in Travancore, from which
point northwards to the Vindhyas they border a series of terraces
or table-lands of increasing altitude—those of Mysore and the Upper
Carnatic, of the Nilgherries and the Deccan. Gaps of considerable
breadth occur at intervals, forming the loveliest of valleys, whilst
the mountains themselves are clothed with dense woods or jungle.
There is much difference in the character of the eastern and western
lowlands between the Ghauts and the sea. That on the west is a mere
narrow strip running along the Arabian Sea, with wall-like cliffs in
the background. The low land on the east is of varying width, and in
some places opens into wide plains. One of these plains, that of the
Carnatic, is 550 miles long and 80 miles wide.
Fenced in by the Eastern and Western Ghauts on the sides, and towards
the pointed end of the peninsula by the Nilgherry Mountains (crossing
from the one series of Ghauts to the other), there is a great territory
of plain or table-land. This is called the Deccan (from “Dakshina,” the
south country); but latterly the northern part only has been so called,
and the southern part, which extends to the Nilgherry Hills, is now
termed the Plain of Mysore.
The _great plains_ of India lie between the southern region of
table-lands and the northern mountain district. They are chiefly
occupied by the basins of the Indus and the Ganges, which slope
very gently to the sea-shore on the western and eastern side of the
peninsula. But one remarkable region, extending from the Runn of Cutch
(the dried-up bottom of an inland sea on the west coast) northward to
the river Sutlej, and eastward to the base of the Aravulli, is a sandy
desert, covering a surface of 150,000 square miles, or a tenth of the
area of India. This sterile tract is called the Great Desert. Except
near the Indus, or where a few wells are found, vegetation exists here
only during the rainy season, the surface drying again in the “heats”
into fine drifting sand.
The Runn of Cutch is no less singular than the Great Desert. It is
6,500 square miles in area, a lake during the rainy season, and a dry,
salt, sandy plain, with a few patches of vegetation, in the dry season.
Its boundaries are as exact as the paths in a garden. The traveller
steps at once from a surface teeming with verdure to a treacherous soil
full of dangerous quicksands, with no sign of fen or swamp to mark
their locality. When the waters retire into the Gulf of Cutch, the
ground is left covered with dead fish, prawns, and other marine forms;
and the dreary solitude is given up to untamable wild asses, apes,
porcupines, and flocks of large birds.
Connecting the plains of India with the mountain region is a strip of
territory known as the _Terai_, varying from three to fifty miles in
breadth, where the combined influences of heat, moisture, and fertile
soil produce the utmost richness of vegetable life. It is overgrown
with trees, twining plants, and brushwood, the haunt of the wild
elephant, tiger, black bear, hare, fox, jackal, wild hog, antelope and
monkey; but so marshy and pestilential is it, that the neighbouring
natives dare not approach this “Belt of Death” during a part of the
year.
An interesting fact about the Himalaya Mountains may usefully finish
our description of the mountains and plains of India. Like most other
mountain ranges, the Himalayas present their counter slope or steepest
side to the nearest sea. The true slope facing the north is more
gradual and easier of ascent. It is a singular fact that their snow
line is from 2,000 to 3,000 feet lower on the southern side, facing
a tropical sun, than on the northern side. Several causes account
for this fact. The south-west monsoons which blow for half the year
from the Arabian Sea come laden with moisture, which is condensed
by the cold mountain peaks, and falls as snow on the south, so that
those winds are comparatively dry when they roll over the mountain
range. The counter currents from the north-east blow over the vast
Asiatic table-lands and plains when intensely heated by the sun, and
reach the Himalayas as dry winds. The reflected heat from the land
during this season is very great, and influences the atmosphere of the
mountain side, so that less snow falls on the northern slopes. Other
peculiarities of climate combine to reverse, as at first it seems, the
order of nature’s laws.
[Illustration: A GANGES BOAT.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THE GANGES AND INDUS.
The _Ganges_ is the principal river of India, and has one of the
grandest river basins in the world. It issues from a glacier cave,
13,800 feet above the sea, amid a mountain group 22,800 feet high, and
flows through the great plain of Hindostan—which spreads out on both
sides in rich alluvial flats—increasing its volume by all the affluents
flowing down the southern slopes of the Himalayas. About 200 miles from
the sea a great expansion of the stream takes place, and so reduces the
force of its flow that the sand and mud which it holds in suspension,
and brings down in large quantities, are deposited in bars and shoals.
These spread out into a delta as large as Wales, and form a maze of
streams and creeks which enclose a multitude of islands. The many
mouths of this river deposit, every year, as much mud in the Bay of
Bengal as would load a fleet of 2,000 ships, each carrying 1,400 tons.
The Ganges enters the sea on the north-eastern side of India by many
channels, the two extreme openings being 200 miles apart. The whole
delta is 240 miles long. The Hoogly, one of the delta streams, which
passes Calcutta, is nearly the only one fit for sea-going vessels, but
thousands of boatmen ply their traffic on the other branches, and on
the main stream above the delta. The banks of the Hoogly down to the
sea are dreary and desolate, but the river is regarded by the Hindoos
as the true Ganges, and therefore held sacred. Some parts of the Ganges
are held to be especially sacred, as at Gangotri, near where the river
takes its rise; at Allahabad, where the Jumna joins it; and at Benares;
and to these places come devotees from all parts of India to pray, and
wash in the holy water.
The practice has not yet died out of bringing the dying and dead to
the river banks for the tide to carry them to Paradise; and even in
the Hoogly the offensive sight of decomposed bodies floating up and
down with the tide is of no rare occurrence. The great tidal wave from
the Indian Ocean, increasing in height as it reaches the narrower,
funnel-shaped head of the Bay of Bengal, rushes into the Hoogly with a
crest 20 feet high, and with a roar as of thunder. The advancing billow
is called the “bore,” or “bore-head.” Navigation is interrupted by the
“bore,” and likewise impeded by the shifting sands and mud of the river.
The pestilent marshes or islands of the delta are named Sunderbunds.
They are dotted with dense forests, with the rankest undergrowth of
jungle, the lair of serpents and tigers, and are deadly to human
beings, even natives. The low trees spread their arms so far across the
lagoons and arms of the sea, as often to entangle the masts and sails
of boats which ply in those narrow waters.
Only second in interest to that of the Ganges is the less extensive
basin of the _Indus_. The river Indus rises on the northern side of the
Himalayas, at a height of 17,000 feet above the sea. According to an
ancient tradition of Tibet, the Indus flows from a lion’s mouth, the
first part of its course having a name with that meaning. The Indus
proper runs at the base of the Sulieman Mountains, from Cashmere,
through Scinde, to its delta in the Arabian Sea, receiving in the
country of the Sikhs four tributaries, which, with the Indus, give the
name of _Punjaub_, or the region of the “five rivers,” to the plains
which they fertilise; while the triangles of land between the forks
of two streams are designated _Doabs_. The rivers which unite to form
the Lower Indus are the Jhelum or Upper Indus, Chenab, Ravee, Beas,
and the Sutlej. Navigation is not without difficulty in this system of
rivers. Part of the course of the true Indus is through a narrow and
deep gorge, where at the season of the melting of the snow the force of
the current is perilous to ships. The flow of the tide rushes up from
the Arabian Sea with a violent bore-head, and the district is subject
to furious storm blasts. Further, the channels of the delta, the two
extreme openings of which are 125 miles apart, are constantly changing,
new channels forming, and old ones filling up every year.
The _Brahmaputra_ or _Burrumpooter_, rising on the north of the
Himalayas, and flowing for a great part of its course through an almost
unknown country, brings down a greater volume of water than the Ganges,
and is probably of greater length. It has numerous tributaries in Assam
(to the east of India), where it turns sharply round to the west, and
flows into the sea through the same delta with the Ganges. In the rainy
season it floods a large part of the country on its banks. Its length
from the glen where it breaks the Himalayas to the sea is 650 miles,
and its great breadth gives it the aspect of a maritime inlet rather
than a river.
Of the fertile valleys of the Ganges and Brahmaputra, a writer[9] on
India says:—“They teem with every product of nature, from the fierce
beasts and irrepressible vegetation of the tropics to the stunted
barley which the hill-man rears and the tiny furred animal which he
hunts within sight of the unmelting snows. Tea, indigo, turmeric,
lac, waving white fields of the opium-poppy, wheat, and innumerable
grains and pulses, pepper, ginger, betel-nut, quinine, and many costly
spices and drugs, oil-seeds of all sorts, cotton, the silk-mulberry,
inexhaustible crops of jute and other fibres; timber, from the feathery
bamboo and coroneted palm to the iron-hearted _sál_-tree; in short,
every vegetable product which clothes and feeds a people, and enables
it to trade with foreign nations, abounds.”
[Illustration: CUTTING THE INDIGO]
[Illustration: PRESSING THE INDIGO.]
The animal world in India is of exceeding interest. Beasts of prey
infest the jungle, and alligators the rivers and river-banks. Various
species of deer abound everywhere. Buffaloes are native to the country.
Elephants and rhinoceroses are numerous. Hundreds of elephants are
caught and tamed every year in Assam and Ceylon. In the sandy parts of
Cutch and the Great Desert the camel is the beast of burden, and wild
asses roam at large. Indian horses are ill-formed and but little used;
and the oxen are not eaten, but used as beasts of burden and regarded
as sacred. Birds are more remarkable for their plumage than their song,
but many have delicate flesh and are eaten. Our common varieties of
poultry, except turkeys, which came from America, are natives of India.
Bramah, Cochin China, and Bantam fowls still indicate their origin in
their names. Fish abound in the rivers and seas. Insects swarm in the
air, many being of commercial value. Kermes produce a bright scarlet
dye, and the climate favours the cochineal. Silkworms yield four crops
of silk in the year, inferior to Chinese and Italian silk, but so
abundant as to make the culture very profitable. Oysters are met with
on some parts of the coast, small, but of good flavour; and the shores
of Ceylon and Coromandel have been noted from antiquity for their pearl
fisheries.
[Illustration: BEATING THE INDIGO.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
CLIMATE AND PEOPLE.
The peninsular part of India being almost wholly within the Torrid
Zone, and the northern part nowhere far removed from the Tropic of
Cancer, the country is open to the burning influence of the sun’s
vertical rays, tempered only by the mountains and the winds. Such,
however, is the diversity of surface, that the climates of provinces,
and even smaller areas, are more strongly marked than mere differences
in latitude would lead us to expect. In the lowlands of the north and
north-east the heat is scarcely less than in the Upper Carnatic, and
the average temperature of Calcutta in the delta of the Ganges is
higher than that of Madras. In Upper India the hot winds are described
as blowing like hurricanes from a furnace. The hottest parts of India
are the sandy levels of the Lower Carnatic. Here, indeed, within a few
miles, every gradation of climate is represented; so that while the
plains are burnt up by unendurable heat, they are flanked by mountains
capped with never-melting snow. Between these extremes the hills,
to which Europeans repair for health and relaxation, rival in every
delight of climate the most favoured regions of the Mediterranean Sea.
Frosts do not occur in the Deccan or any part farther south except on
the mountains; and in the table-lands the mean temperature is lessened
by the altitude.
The most remarkable feature of the climate of India is the periodical
winds, which blow over the country for half the year from the
south-west, and the other half from the north-east. These winds are
called the _monsoons_, that is, “season winds.” They are the same
as the ocean trade-winds, which blow all the year round in the one
direction from east to west, but are modified over India by the heated
surface of the land. The monsoons follow the course of the sun, and
their effects are chiefly felt in the south. The south-west monsoon
reaches the western coast about the middle of April and lasts till
September. The north-east monsoon reaches the eastern coast in October,
and continues to blow till the following April. It is easy to trace the
course of these winds and their effect upon the seasons.
The south-west monsoon, during its path across the Indian Ocean, gets
freighted to its full capacity with moisture from these heated waters,
and, being arrested by the Western Ghauts, discharges a portion of
its burden down the mountain slopes in deluges of rain. The whole
west coast to the basin of the Indus is exposed to the force of this
monsoon, and the amount of rainfall in the rainy season has been
known to exceed 250 inches, which is more than in any other part of
the earth. The water is said to fall as cataracts rather than as
rain-drops, and the devastation caused by these rain-storms is such
that no vegetation or soil can exist on the mountain side, which
presents an aspect of water-worn, bare, rugged, and lofty cliffs. The
monsoon having crossed the Ghauts, refreshes the Deccan and the plain
of the Ganges with a moderate rainfall, and then again deluges the
colder slopes of the Himalaya Mountains.
The north-east monsoon very much resembles the south-west, but is less
violent in character. Starting from the heated table-lands of Eastern
Asia, it arrives at the bay of Bengal dry, and in its short passage
across the bay it absorbs less moisture than in the Indian ocean. Thus,
though it brings a rainy season to the eastern coast, in quantity of
rain it bears no comparison with that of the opposite monsoon. Having
traversed the whole of India, it brings a dry season to the western
shores, and going forward over the Indian Ocean, thirstily sucking
up its waters, it carries a rainy season to the east coast of the
continent of Africa. Thus the monsoons are wet or dry according to the
path they have traversed, and thus have they performed their endless
and beneficent office, to and fro, through immeasurable time.
The native races of India are popularly known under the common name
of Hindoos, yet there are at least thirty distinct nationalities.
These races are unlike in feature and build, manners, customs, and
occupations. In the north the people are tall, fair, manly, strong, and
warlike; in the south, slight, dark, and timid. The Hindoo complexion
varies from an olive-brown, through gradations of bright clear brown,
to nearly black. It is difficult to explain the shades of complexion,
for high-caste Brahmins are sometimes dark, while the outcast Pariah is
as often fair.
Nine-tenths of the people profess their faith in the religion of
Brahma—a system full of cruel and revolting rites and ceremonies.
But it was not always so impure. In the oldest of its sacred books,
written in the Sanscrit language, there are many true things said, and
some fine hymns preserved. Very early, however, this religion became
so debased, that the first thought a really good man had was to free
himself from it.
About 700 B.C. a preacher arose in Northern India who taught a
simpler religion, consisting mainly of pure maxims of morality. He
was afterwards called Buddha, or “the one who knows.” At first his
followers had great success, but after awhile the Brahmins again
asserted their superiority. In Ceylon, however, the religion of
Buddha, very much corrupted, remains to this day the profession of the
majority of the people. It also found so many converts in other parts
of the world, that it is said to control one-third of mankind. But it
has sunk into a mere superstition. In India the Buddhists now number
nearly 3,000,000, the worshippers of Brahma about 140,000,000, and the
Christians less than 1,000,000. About 41,000,000[10] are supposed to
be believers in the prophet Mohammed. They are chiefly the descendants
of Arabs, who invaded India at different times, and brought that faith
with them.
[Illustration: A BRAHMIN.]
Another sect is called the Parsees, or fire-worshippers, who think
of the divine being as the Father of Light, and worship fire as his
emblem. These are chiefly descendants of Persian immigrants.
The social state is peculiar, as compared with that of England. The
people are very simple in their habits, and their dwellings are mostly
of the lightest materials. In Bengal the cottages have cane walls
and thatched roofs; in the Deccan they are of mud and stone; in the
north-west regions they are of unburnt brick, and tiled. The cottage
furniture is scanty; there are no tables; a mat serves the purposes
of a chair. Many of the villages are walled, or have a fence; each has
a temple and a bazaar, holds an annual fair, and celebrates an annual
festival. The mud walls are of great strength, with stone gateways.
The public roads pass near them, but not through them. The walls were
needed at one time as a defence in time of war and against wild beasts;
they remain to remind us of past days, before the English ruled the
land and secured the people against robbery and violence. Those “good
old days” are now nightmares of history: the days of war, plunder, and
cruelty are gone.
[Illustration: A CALCUTTA BABOO.]
[Illustration: A BRAHMIN PUNDIT.]
Travelling by rail is fast increasing under British rule, but in
districts where there are no railways there are various modes of
carriage. Some people ride on elephants, some are drawn in carts by
bullocks, and those who can afford it ride in palanquins. Although
the Hindoos will serve Europeans they will not eat with them, as the
practice is forbidden by the law of caste. Even if it were not so,
Europeans could scarcely mix with the natives at meals, as every
Hindoo, however high his rank, eats as his forefathers did, squatted on
a carpet, and uses his fingers in place of knife, fork, and spoon.
[Illustration: RICE POUNDING.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
CHRISTIANITY IN BENARES.
Benares, on the river Ganges, is one of the most ancient cities in
the world. The following account by the late Rev. Dr. Sherring of the
progress made by Christian influence there, brings out very clearly
some special points of interest characteristic of this city.
In these days of Christian enterprise, when thirty-five Protestant
Missionary Societies are striving to evangelize the vast population
of India, numbering two hundred and forty millions of people, it is
difficult to realise the fact, that, at the beginning of the present
century, it was impossible for any work of this nature to be undertaken
in the British portion of the Indian Empire without meeting with
violent opposition from the Government of the country. Dr. Carey had
laid the foundations of his great mission in Serampore, under the
protection of the Danish Government, having been unsuccessful in
his efforts to establish a mission in British territory. The London
Missionary Society sent its first missionary to India in the year 1798;
but after remaining in Calcutta for a time, he evaded the obstacles
which beset him by quitting that city, and settling at Chinsurah,
twenty miles distant, then under Dutch rule.
[Illustration: DANISH LUTHERAN (NOW ENGLISH) CHURCH, SERAMPORE.]
Occasionally the British Government relented, and allowed missionaries,
under certain severe conditions, to commence their Christian labours.
For example, the Rev. Messrs. Chamberlain and Peacock, of the Baptist
Society, men of zeal and earnestness, were permitted to reside at
Agra, in the North-Western Provinces. Yet so harsh and fickle was the
Government that in less than eighteen months Mr. Chamberlain, having
fallen under the censure of the commandant of the fort of that city,
was sent under a guard of sepoys out of British India, to the Danish
settlement at Serampore, a distance of eight hundred miles.
As late as 1812 the Government issued a general order that all
missionaries who might arrive from abroad should be at once expelled
from the country. Five American missionaries were thus expelled, one
of whom was the Rev. Dr. Judson, who afterwards proceeded to Burmah,
and founded a mission there which has gradually become one of the
most important and prosperous of modern times, yet which, but for the
banishment of its eminent founder, would not have been established till
many years subsequently. The following order, which was served on the
Rev. Mr. Thompson, of the London Missionary Society, on his arrival in
Madras, on his way to Bellary in that Presidency, is a specimen of the
communications sent to missionaries on landing in India, and of the
summary treatment which they received:—
“MADRAS POLICE OFFICE, _May 22, 1812_.
“REV. SIR,—I am directed to acquaint you, that the Honourable the
Governor-in-Council is precluded, by the orders of the Supreme
Government, from permitting you to reside in any place under this
Presidency. You will, therefore, return to the Isle of France, or to
Europe, by the first opportunity.
“I am, Rev. Sir, Your obedient Servant,
“J. H. SYMMS,
“Superintendent of Police.”
The conduct of the Government in determining to exert its authority
to the utmost in preventing the entrance of the Gospel into India
provoked the indignation and violent opposition of the religious
public of England. When the old Charter of the East India Company,
granted in 1793, which had enabled the local Government to withstand
the missionaries, and to wage constant hostilities with them, with
more or less virulence, for twenty years, was about to expire, the
opportunity was seized by Christian people in this country to move the
two Houses of Parliament to an entire reversal of the policy which had
been pursued. And they were successful. But the struggle was hot and
fierce. After a prolonged discussion in the House of Commons, sustained
chiefly by Wilberforce, on the one side, and retired old Indian
officials and merchants, on the other, the famous clause in the new
Charter, introduced by Lord Castlereagh, under pressure from without,
and overpowered by the immense multitude of petitions with which every
night both Houses were inundated, was carried.
The new Charter came into effect on the 10th April, 1814, from which
time, properly speaking, dates the commencement of those multiform
Christian labours which are being carried on over the whole of India,
and which have for their object the deliverance of Hindoos, Mahomedans,
and other races from the false religions, gross superstitions, and
immoral usages under which they have been in slavish bondage for ages.
All restrictions to Christianity being removed, immediately the various
denominations of Christians throughout Great Britain began to stimulate
one another in their zealous efforts to plant the Gospel in India.
While the restrictions lasted it would have been a hazardous
undertaking, as the government was in favour of upholding the Hindoo
religious rites and customs, to attempt to establish a mission in
Benares, the holy city of the Hindoos; but as soon as possible after
their removal, it was right that missionaries should establish
themselves in this citadel of idolatry, with the hope of effecting its
destruction, and of building up a Christian Church upon its ruins.
Three societies in succession entered on the work there. The first
in the field was the Baptist Missionary Society, which founded a
mission in Benares in 1816. Next came the Church Missionary Society,
whose mission dates from the following year. The third mission was in
connection with the London Missionary Society, and was commenced in
1820. To snatch Benares from Hindooism, and to transform it into a
Christian city, was a task equal in difficulty and in importance to the
evangelization of ancient Rome by the apostles and their successors.
This will be manifest by a brief consideration of its history and
reputed sanctity.
Twenty-five centuries ago, at the least, Benares was famous. It is
a point on which all Buddhist historians are agreed, that Buddhism,
which was once the paramount religion of India, and which has become
the national religion of China, Japan, Burmah, Ceylon, and Nepaul, was
founded at Benares by Sakya Muni, or Buddha. This event occurred in
the sixth century before the Christian era, when Benares was already
the sacred city of the land. Long before this period, however, it
was regarded as a very holy spot; and allusions to its splendour and
sanctity are exceedingly abundant in early Sanscrit literature. When
Babylon was struggling with Nineveh for supremacy, when Tyre was
planting her colonies, when Athens was growing in strength, before
Rome had become known, or Greece had contended with Persia, or Cyprus
had added lustre to the Persian monarchy, or Nebuchadnezzar had
captured Jerusalem, and the inhabitants of Judea had been carried into
captivity, Benares had risen to greatness, if not to glory.
Not only is the city remarkable for its venerable age, but also for the
vitality and vigour which, so far as is known, it has ever exhibited.
While many cities and nations have fallen into decay and perished,
its sun has never gone down. Its illustrious name has descended from
generation to generation, and has always been a household word,
venerated and beloved by the vast Hindoo family. And now, after
the lapse of so many ages, this magnificent city still maintains
most of the freshness, and all the beauty, of its early youth. For
picturesqueness and grandeur, no sight in all the world can well
surpass that of Benares as seen from the river Ganges.
[Illustration: THE GANGES AT BENARES.]
Macaulay’s graphic description of its appearance towards the close of
the last century, in his essay on Warren Hastings, is, for the most
part, applicable to its present state. He speaks of it as “a city,
which in wealth, population, dignity, and sanctity was among the
foremost in Asia. It was commonly believed that half a million human
beings were crowded into that labyrinth of lofty alleys, rich with
shrines, and minarets, and balconies, and carved oriels, to which the
sacred apes clung by hundreds. The traveller could scarcely make his
way through the press of holy mendicants, and not less holy bulls.
The broad and stately flights of steps which descended from these
swarming haunts to the bathing places along the Ganges were worn every
day by the footsteps of an innumerable multitude of worshippers. The
schools and temples drew crowds of pious Hindoos from every province
where the Brahminical faith was known. Hundreds of devotees come here
every month to die; for it was believed that a peculiarly happy fate
awaited the man who should pass from the sacred city into the sacred
river. Nor was superstition the only motive that lured strangers to
that great metropolis. Commerce had as many pilgrims as religion. All
along the shores of the venerable stream lay great fleets of vessels
laden with rich merchandise. From the looms of Benares went forth the
most delicate silks that adorned the balls of St. James’s and of
Versailles; and in the bazaars the muslins of Bengal and the sabres
of Oude were mingled with the jewels of Golconda and the shawls of
Cashmere.”
[Illustration: WINDOW IN BENARES.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI,
CHRISTIANITY IN BENARES.—_Continued._
Benares, like Athens in the days of St. Paul, is a city wholly given
to idolatry. For the sanctity of its inhabitants, of its temples and
tanks, of its wells and streams, of the very soil that is trodden, of
the very air that is breathed, and of everything in it and around it,
the city has been celebrated for thousands of years. The Hindoo ever
beholds it in one peculiar aspect, as a place of spotless holiness
and heavenly beauty, where the spiritual eye may be delighted and the
heart may be purified; and his imagination has been kept fervid from
generation to generation by the continued presentation of this glowing
picture. Relieving all he has read and heard concerning this seat of
ideal blessedness, he has been possessed with the same longing to visit
it as the Mahomedan to visit Mecca, or the Jewish exile to visit
Jerusalem; and having gratified his desire, he has left the memory of
his pious enterprise to his children for their example, to incite them
to undertake the same pilgrimage, faithfully transmitting to them the
high ambition which he himself received from his fathers.
[Illustration: VISHNU.]
It would be difficult to count the small shrines, the larger temples,
and the sacred niches abounding in the city; and it would be an
impossibility to enumerate the idols worshipped by the people; but they
certainly exceed the number of the people themselves, though multiplied
twice over. You may sometimes see twenty, fifty, and even a hundred or
more idols gathered together in one shrine or niche, many of which will
receive as much homage as the god who is exalted to the chief and most
honourable seat.
It should always be remembered that the Hindoo is a religious man of
very great earnestness, but his religion takes the form of idolatry.
Idolatry enters into all the associations and concerns of his life. He
can take no step without it. He carries his offerings publicly in the
streets on his way to the temple in the morning, and receives upon his
forehead, from the officiating priest, the peculiar mark of his god,
which he wears all the day long, as the symbol of the worship he has
paid him. As he walks about you may hear him muttering the names and
sounding the praises of his gods. In greeting a friend he accosts him
in the name of a deity. In a letter on business or on any other matter,
the first word he invariably writes is the name of a god. Should he
propose an engagement of importance, he first inquires the pleasure of
the idol and asks a lucky day for undertaking it.
It was a day of much importance in the history of Christianity in
India when missionary operations were commenced in the sacred city of
Benares. Humanly speaking, were the city to abandon its idolatrous
usages, and to embrace the gospel of Christ, the effect of such a step
upon the Hindoo community over the whole of India would be as great
as that produced on the Roman empire when Rome adopted the Christian
faith. We shall presently see what signs there are of the coming of
such a day.
The three missions which were established in Benares, upwards of sixty
years ago, continue to the present time. Though encountering opposition
of a varied nature during parts of this period, all direct opposition
has long since ceased. The people have gradually come to regard the
missions as permanent institutions of the city, to respect the motives
and aims of the missionaries, and to entertain for them sentiments
of friendship and esteem. The Rev. William Smith, who was appointed
to the Baptist mission in 1816, and continued at his post for forty
years, furnished a remarkable illustration of the powerful influence
which sanctity of life and unwearied kindness exert upon the minds of
Hindoos in subduing their prejudice, and in exciting their confidence
and good-will. It is a well-known fact, that on occasion of a great
disturbance in the city, when the English magistrate durst not expose
himself to the rage of the populace, on the approach of Mr. Smith the
crowd parted, and allowed him to pass harmlessly through.
Many kinds of Christian work have been performed by the missions in
Benares. Much has been done by them all in the way of preaching the
gospel in the vernacular languages in the streets and bazaars of the
city, and in the neighbouring villages. Much has been done also by
the agency of schools, in teaching the youth of both sexes the great
truths of Christianity. The Baptist mission has been mostly engaged in
the former department of labour, namely, that of preaching, although
for many years it possessed several useful schools, which were closed
thirty years ago, at the request of one of the secretaries of the
society, who thought that missionaries should devote their time and
energies more especially to the direct proclamation of the Gospel.
The other two missions, however, have always paid attention to both
branches of Christian effort. The Church Society’s Mission has taken
a very distinguished part in promoting the religious and intellectual
welfare of the natives of Benares. It has ever had a considerable staff
of vernacular preachers, consisting of missionaries and their native
catechists, who have day by day expounded the Truth to the people.
It has a large college of six hundred and fifty students, Hindoos
and Mahomedans, with a few Christians, all of whom receive a sound
Christian and secular education. This was established in the year 1817,
by the Rev. Mr. Corrie, then Chaplain of Benares, afterwards Bishop
Corrie of Madras. The mission has, in addition, many schools for the
education of natives of both sexes; a large orphanage in which more
than a hundred children are supported, and are trained in the Christian
faith; a normal institution, in which upwards of forty native Christian
girls are educated, in order to become fitted to teach in the schools
of this and other missions; an infant school; two native Christian
villages, one for the residence of Christians in Benares, the other
for those in the country who are farmers and agricultural labourers;
a lace manufactory, for the support of widows and other females of
the mission; and two Gothic churches, which are in the charge of two
ordained native pastors.
[Illustration: A GANGES BOAT.]
The London Society’s Mission, while extensive in its range and
operations, has never been in a position to attempt the multiform
labours which members of the Church Society have undertaken, and in
prosecuting which they have been so successful. It should be added
that ladies in connection with two other societies devote their time
exclusively to giving instruction to native women and girls in the
zenanas, or female apartments, in the large houses of the city.
Four native Christian communities, the fruit of missionary labour, are
now scattered about Benares and its suburbs, which hold their Sunday
and week day meetings for the worship of God through Jesus Christ His
Son in as many churches and chapels. During the last twenty years the
number of native Christians in the city has considerably more than
doubled. The three missions had, in 1871, twenty-nine schools and
colleges, with forty-eight native Christian teachers, and in these
institutions two thousand two hundred and twenty Hindoo and Christian
scholars, male and female, received a good education based upon the
Word of God. They had likewise a staff of nineteen native preachers or
catechists, of whom three were ordained.
These results, however, are no proper criterion of the great work which
has been accomplished among the natives of Benares by the influence of
Christian truth, of education, of just government, and of the general
civilising elements which for many years have been in operation in
their midst. It is no exaggeration to affirm that native society in
that city, especially among the better classes, is hardly the same
thing that it was a few years ago. An educated class has sprung into
existence, which is little inclined to continue in the mental bondage
of the past. The men composing it may be compared to the bud ready to
burst into the blossom under the united influence of light and heat.
In the Government college and schools of the city the Bible is not
permitted as a text-book; yet it is none the less true that the English
education they impart, by reason of study of such books as “Paradise
Lost,” and the like, which are suffused with Christian sentiments, is,
in no slight degree, of a Biblical character. Thus it has come to pass
that the light which precedes and accompanies conviction has been shed
upon many minds in this seat of Hindooism. A new era of intellectual
freedom and religious life has already commenced. Of not a few it may
be said that “old things have passed away;” and of the great mass of
the inhabitants, that “all things are becoming new.”
I believe very few indeed of the educated class in Benares—that is,
educated on the English model—are thorough and hearty idolators. As I
was conversing one day with an educated native gentleman of Benares, a
near relative of the chief native prince of the city, he made a remark
of great significance, as showing the feeling of men of his own class,
attached by association to idol-worship, and yet prepared for something
better, if only a movement were commenced, and if some one of courage,
of force of character, and of genuine enthusiasm, would lead the way.
“We need,” he said, “a Luther among us;” as though he would say, that
under the guidance of a Martin Luther he himself, with the rest, would
break away from Hindooism, and that all who were longing and who were
ready to be free, but not bold enough to act for themselves, would
rush eagerly to the standard of such a man, and under his leadership a
new era of religious reformation would be inaugurated in the land.
It must not be imagined, however, that the outward manifestations of
Hindooism have undergone much change. The superstitious observances
connected with it are still kept up by the people generally, in the
temples, at the sacred wells and tanks, on the spacious stone stairs
leading down to the Ganges, and in the holy streams, with enthusiasm
and punctiliousness. Nevertheless, it is undoubted that there are
thousands of persons in this city alone who, while counted rigid
Hindoos, and daily performing the customary rites, are altogether
dissatisfied with them. In appearance, Christianity has been more
successful in many places in India than in Benares; yet when the
peculiar difficulties and antagonisms which exist in that city are
taken into consideration, I believe it is not too much to say that it
has, in the aggregate, accomplished as much there as in any city of
the land. One thing is clear and certain, the Gospel there is sapping,
rapidly and effectually, the foundations of the most powerful form of
idolatry.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN.
1.—A SAVAGE PATRIOT.
The land of India is rich in memorials of the past. It is an ancient
country which has experienced many invasions, revolutions, and changes
of religion; and these movements of bygone days have left their record
in many lonely shrines and ruined forts which tell of the aspirations
and the struggles of departed generations. Amongst these the remarkable
Hill Forts of the Deccan are worthy of some detailed description,
because they tell us much about the state of India in the century when
they were built. In this and the following chapters we shall give the
observations made on these forts by a clergyman who visited them.
* * * * *
Oriental annals are most often either dull or painful. A monotony of
murder is their most permanent material, seldom relieved by heroism
in the murdered or the murderers. But, amid the crowd of slaves and
tyrants who tried in vain, for so many centuries, to rule India, the
strong individuality of the great Sivaji Maharaj—the great Mahratta
leader—stands out in sharp relief. Englishmen know but little of him,
except as perpetrator of two or three astounding treacheries. But there
remain indications enough to prove that Sivaji was a really great man.
Nearer than any man of his day or country, he approached the lofty
character of a patriot. The history of his life is a romance which only
waits a Walter Scott to make it vie in interest with those of Bruce or
Douglas. Sivaji was a man of forts. Born in a fort, dying in a fort, he
was, mentally and physically, formed to make the most of them. We can
fancy the wiry little man, with his eagle eye and eagle beak, weighing
only ten stone, but with disproportionately long arms; a climber by
nature, and full of lofty love of high places. The forts were made by
him what they became—the terror of all India; the cradle of his nation;
the basis of his conquests; the steps to his ambition, his home and
his joy. I do not hesitate to say, that apart from Sivaji no man can
understand the history of Western India, more especially of its earlier
and nobler passages. For the Mahrattas had little nationality before
the genius and energies of this great spirit consolidated them for a
while; and no one can study that time, as well as it deserves to be
studied by those to whom India belongs, without the aid of that vivid
realisation of historic scenes which is afforded alone by some personal
acquaintance with these great fortresses, and with the rugged districts
amid which they stand.
It may be considered a somewhat remarkable fact that no description
of the forts of the Deccan has ever been written. Some materials for
describing their present condition once existed in the Quartermaster
General’s office, in dusty and ant-eaten corners, but whether still
extant I have no means of knowing.
These official lists had but one word, sometimes, as descriptive
of their military condition, which as regards most of them was,
“Deserted.” Such a list was made out in 1849. It has the names of one
hundred and forty forts in the limits of the Poona division of the
army; but it is roughly calculated that the country included in the
term “Maharashtra,” from the Taptee to the Toombudra, contains no less
than one thousand; though of this large number many would, I think, be
found unworthy of an elaborate description.
[Illustration: APPROACH TO BALA KILA—LOWER PART.[11]]
It will soon be noticed by one who begins to examine these “castles in
the air,” that most of them bear close resemblance to each other. There
is, on near inspection, found to be great diversity, both of situation
and plan of fortification. Generally speaking, however, they are formed
by nature exactly in the same way. On first approaching one of them,
we observe the sloping hillside, ribbed with great horizontal bands of
rock, about the same thickness and general distance from each other;
steeper and steeper it rises to a summit, capped by a mass of hard
rock, which is scarped by nature, and varying in height from forty to
four hundred feet. On the topmost edge of this scarp, walls are built,
as frequently weakening as strengthening the natural fortification; and
at certain accessible places, where perhaps a spur leads up from the
plain, massive gates are constructed. Within the area, on an undulating
table-land, we find the storehouses and residences of the garrison, or
their ruins; and often, rising several hundred feet higher still, is an
elevation called the Bala Kila, or Upper Fort, generally fortified with
additional strength, as the last resort of the beleaguered garrison.
[Illustration: APPROACH TO BALA KILA—UPPER PART.]
The natural history of the sites of these forts, scattered over the
Deccan, is everywhere the same. The whole Deccan is geologically of
one formation. From Agra to Goa, and eastward nearly to Orissa, there
is a monotonous similarity, the whole of the country being covered
with the same kind of rocks. They are all volcanic, and contain the
same ingredients in every variety of combination, chiefly augite,
porphyry, basalt, laterite, tuff, and trap. It would appear, that a
long series of overwhelming waves of lava, issuing slowly or rapidly
from many eruptive centres, poured themselves at uncertain intervals
over this whole country. In these successive layers of molten matter
all trace of organic structure has been destroyed: some of them
deposited above, perhaps others under the waters; some giving off
their gases rapidly and cooling into the loose stratum of trap, others
cooling more slowly, and hardening as they cooled into the compact
basalt; some crystallizing into porphyry, as may be seen so curiously
at Poorundhur; others built up into the rude subcolumnar structure
which is characteristic of most of the scarps on which the forts are
built; in others again a large admixture of oxide of iron reddens
the stratum into what is called “laterite” (from “_later_” a tile,
not from “_latus-eris_” a side).[12] I have often mistaken, for tiles
of pottery, bits of this stratum, baked in the mighty kilns of the
pre-adamite world. This stratum it is which, when comminuted into fine
red dust, makes Mahableshwur such an expensive place for the ladies.
These various strata being deposited, were thenceforward subjected to
the gentle violence of the air and water, assisted by successive heat
and cold. A process of denudation commenced, which is still slowly
proceeding (for nature, like society, is gradually levelling); and
streams cut through the softer strata, undermined the harder—cleaving
their way, and letting down “by the run” great blocks of indurated
basalt from above; which when ground to powder by degrees, and mixed
with other materials, became the black cotton soil of the plains below.
Whenever any cause had hardened a particular portion of the strata,
that part resisted the disintegrating process; an isolated block of
the upper stratum remained, which required little from the hand of
man to become an almost inaccessible fortress. Thus when man began to
crawl and quarrel on the surface of this fair earth, he found these
strange islands in a sea of hills, which gave him security from his
brother man, and from the wild beasts of early times. He cut steps up
the scarps, climbed to their summits, and was safe. And it is highly
probable, that ever since the first dispersion of our race, these forts
have been places of the greatest importance to the security of the
inhabitants.
Sometimes they rise amid the level plains, but more frequently they
run in chains. The hills, called the Chandor range, dividing the
valley of the Godavery from that of the Taptee, are from six hundred
to eleven hundred feet above the plain; then rising again above is a
series of abrupt precipices of from eighty to one hundred feet high,
so wonderfully scarped that only the great number of them—more than
is necessary for the defence of the country—prevents one, at first
sight, from supposing them the work of the chisel. Almost all are
supplied with good water on their summits, and possess little more of
fortification than a flight of steps cut on or through the solid rock,
and a number of intricate gateways. This strange line of inaccessible
and, if well defended, impregnable forts, stand like giant sentinels
athwart the northern invaders path, and tell him what he will have to
meet with as he penetrates southwards to the Ghautmatha of the Deccan.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN.
2.—TORNA.
I shall never forget the _coup d’œil_ this giant chain above described
presented when I first saw it—it was at sunrise—and from the top of
the very loftiest peak in all Western India—a point seven hundred feet
higher than Shortrede’s Cairn on the upper platform at Mahableshwur.
The name of this peak is Kulsubaee. During the night before, I had
mounted this king of the Deccan hills, the ascent of which was more
than usually precipitous. At one place, the only possible advance,
where the scarp had to be surmounted, was through the branches of a
sturdy little tree, which conveniently grew out of a cleft, and formed
a ticklish sort of staircase to walk up in the middle of the night.
When we reached the foot of the knot of rocks which form the highest
bit of earth in the Deccan, a nightwind so chilly struck us that my
guides declined the further ascent, and assured me there was nothing
whatever on the top, which we, being so close under the rock, could not
see. Scrambling up, I found a little temple dedicated to my Lady of
Kulsu, on the bit of platform, only a few yards in circumference, at a
height of 5,409·3 feet above the sea-level. I knew the sunrise would
give me a fine prospect, and I was not disappointed.
Below, to the northward, lay a ruck of hills, sinking into the great
plain of the Godavery—the great rocks of Trimbuck, Unjinere, and
Hursch, at its source, distinctly observable. A shade of green in the
far plain showed where lay the ancient and holy city of Nassick, over
which ran the Dheir and Ramsej forts on a lower range of hills. Above
and beyond that, the Chandor range extended like a vast curtain across
the horizon, successively lifting their peaks against the morning sky;
and beyond Chandor, which lay in a hollow, just hidden from my view by
two forts projecting from the Kulsubaee range, were the well-known twin
forts with the curious name of “Unkye-Tunkye,” which command the road
between Nuggur and Malligaum, and which were taken by our troops under
Lieutenant-Colonel McDowall, on the 30th March, 1818.
On the Kulsubaee range itself was another series of strongholds. To
the south, the eye ranged over dense jungle; and rising from out of
it, along the line of mountains, were several more forts, chiefest of
which is the peerless Hurrichunderghur. Beyond, to the south and west,
lay the Konkun, resting on which, like a great stranded ark, lay the
fortress of Mowlee. Farther to the south the Matheran range was dimly
visible, like islands floating on a sea of wavelike hills.
But it is not necessary to go far from Poona to see perhaps the most
interesting fort of the Deccan. Its bastions and scarp may be observed
on a clear day just rising over the north-west spur of our own Poona
fort, “Singhur;” and perhaps many persons who look at it are unaware
that it is a fort at all. When I first visited it there was no one but
myself in Poona who had passed a night within its venerable walls;
yet it is within an easy ride of Poona (only some twenty-five miles),
and on its farther slope, out of which springs the source of the
Neera River, is, I am told, one of the finest tiger-jungles in this
country-side. It is the fort of Torna, or, as Sivaji tried to rename
it, Prutchundghur. It does not belong to us, and the valley in which it
rises like a grand monarch is not British territory. The Punt Sucheo of
Bhore, the last relic of the Brahmin sovereignty, is still nominally
its master.
Torna has been well called “the cradle of Maharashtra,” and for
this reason. In 1646, Sivaji, being only then a well-born lad of
nineteen, formed the bold design of obtaining possession of this lofty
stronghold; and from thence casting off the yoke of the Great Mogul,
and resisting all the power of Delhi. He did gain possession of the
fort, and thence dated his independence. There, when repairing the
fortifications, he declared he dug up vast treasures, said to have been
buried at a remote period, and revealed to him in a vision, but more
probably amassed by himself and his friends Yessaji Kunk and Tannaji
Maloosee, in dacoitee expeditions into the Konkun. With this money he
commenced a life-long struggle with the crumbling Mahomedan Raj (_i.e._
the supremacy of the Mahomedan dynasty at Delhi), a struggle with
which, notwithstanding the bloody treacheries which stained it, it is
impossible not to sympathize.
From long before his time this fort had doubtless been the seat of rule
over the surrounding mawuls, or valleys. It is considerably higher than
Singhur, possesses a good supply of water, and has sufficient area
within its walls for a garrison of three thousand men.
The mountain on which this fort is built sweeps majestically up from
the valley of the Kannind on its north to a towering summit, where,
hanging far above, its towers and battlements may be descried from
below. The path, by a long and tedious spur, becomes narrower as it
rises, till at last it consists of steps merely, the size of the foot,
cut in the shelving rock—perfectly safe to those whose nerves are not
affected by a precipice above and a gorge below. Passing up some steep
steps the main gate is entered—a fine old piece of masonry in the
Mahomedan style. Inside are several tanks, and many ruins. Besides the
Delhi gate, at which we entered, there is a gate leading towards the
Konkun, on the south-west angle; and, jutting out from the east face,
at a low level, as may be seen from hence, a long fortified point of
rock; and to the south another spur, also fortified. There is also the
_machi_, or dependent village.
As the setting sun cast clearer shadows, the vast landscape visible
from the summit became more and more interesting. Southward, across
the jungles, lay the great deep wall of the Syhadri range, which here
forms an inlet, as it were, into the Deccan. Beyond this, visible
over the nine-mile level back of the Raireshwar mountain, was to be
seen the yellow thatch of Mount Malcolm at Mahableshwur; and beyond,
to the right, Mukramghur and Myputghur, so well known to Mahableshwur
visitors. More to the westward, the great mass of Rajghur, the
most regal of all the forts, lifted its head above the edge of the
Deccan, from the scarp of which, and nearer, rose the black pillar of
Linganaghur.
These forts I had not then visited, and saw with delight for the first
time. Far away the sea gleamed in the last rays of the sun, while
the surpassing interest of the panorama was completed by turning my
glass to the northward, where a tiny upright line of grey could just
be descried, which I well knew to be the spire of our own St. Mary’s
church. I never remember a more peculiar sight than that I saw the next
morning, when daylight opened upon a vast sheet of tossed and slowly
moving mist, rolling up from Konkun like an angry sea, breaking into
a thousand waves of cloud, then leaping slowly over the edge of the
mountain on to the Deccan, and rolling down each valley at my feet
like cold white lava, each flake soon gilded and then dissolved by the
rising sun.
[Illustration: WATER-CARRIER.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN.
3.—RAJGHUR AND OTHERS.
When Sivaji had gained Torna and set out on his stormy and adventurous
race for independence, his eye soon lit upon a black mass of the same
height as Torna, three miles to the eastward of it—the Mountain of
Morbudh. This, as his dangers thickened, he scaled, and commenced to
fortify with unusual care, labour, and success. He called it, proudly
enough, Rajghur. It is perhaps the most inaccessible fort in the
Deccan, and its construction gained for its builder from Aurungzebe the
bitter epithet of “that mountain rat.” Few, indeed, nowadays of our
countrymen visit it, and of these few, fewer still care to scale its
citadel, long Sivaji’s favourite hiding-place, and a curiosity in its
way.
During the troubles of 1857 Mr. Rose went up, and threw over an old gun
or two that remained, and which might have tempted some one to fix
on this wild crag, so full of historic associations, as a haunt, from
whence dislodgment, while provisions lasted, was almost impossible.
When the lower forts are gained (they are on three great spurs, at
a level of about four thousand three hundred feet, reached only by
goat-paths from the jungle), there rises above them a perpendicular
rock, crowned with towers, several hundred feet higher, with no
semblance of an accessible slope at any point. A path leads along the
steep eastern side to a doorway, guarded by towers, and here commences
the most extraordinary ascent one can imagine, and which I recommend to
the notice of the curious in such matters.
[Illustration: GREAT GATE, RAJGHUR.]
First a few steps towards the crack or crevice in the black basalt,
which runs up the junction of the half-crystallized block. In this
niche—for it is scarcely more—is cut a rock ladder. There is at one
place a little assistance from a slight wooden bridge and balustrade;
but at last, for a short way, this, the only way by which the top was
ever reached, becomes a climb of toes and fingers, clutching hold
of little places not visible till the hand naturally finds them in
ascending; the scarp so steep, that on looking down, one could see a
map of the valleys far below stretched out between one’s knees. Then
come more steps, and at the top, at last, appears a fine carved gateway
of handsome masonry, flanked by octagonal towers, and communicating
by a wall with other towers, round the top of this strange triangular
block which constitutes the citadel of Sivaji. This craggy loft, for
fifteen years of constant, and generally successful warfare, was the
principal residence of the Maharaja—_i.e._ from 1647 to 1663. Part of
this residence still stands, and I slept in the teak-pillared hall, now
very indifferently thatched, where sharp justice was administered by
the great robber chieftain, and under which were buried vast treasures,
the sack of Surat and the plunder of convoys. Here had been concealed
gold in bars, silver from China, and dollars of all coinages; English
money, too, from the factories, Dutch, French, and Moorish; khiluts,
valuables, arms, ivory, and gems; “gold and barbaric pearls.”
Rajghur has been sometimes confounded with Raieghur, a very different
place, and which merits some description, though strictly speaking it
is not a Deccan but a Konkun fort. Its history is briefly this:—
When Sivaji began to rise into almost imperial power, Rajghur became
too small for his enormous retinue, and in 1662—63 he selected a
mountain called formerly Rairee, situated on the edge of the Ghauts,
not far from Rajghur. This mountain is like a great wedge split from
the Deccan, and standing off from it, leaving a deep gully a mile or
two across. On its flat summit—a mile and a half in length, and half a
mile broad, being well supplied with water—the great offices of state
were erected; and on the death of his father, here Sivaji was crowned,
hence he issued his coinage, and here he died in 1680. Raieghur was
soon afterwards taken by the Moguls. Sivaji’s son’s wife and her son
Shao were captured in it. The celebrated sword “Bhowanee,” and that
also which Sivaji had taken from Afzool Khan, were conveyed thence
to Aurungzebe, who long after restored them again to the heir of his
ancient foe. They are now in our possession at Sattara.
When I visited the neighbourhood of Raiegurh and examined the fort,
besides many fine ruins, I only observed the enclosure and temple
of Mahadeo still standing, which rises near the tomb of the great
Mahratta; and as a religious, if no longer a political standard,
the bugwa-junda (a swallow-tailed pennant of a tawny colour),
Sivaji’s emblem as well as Mahadeo’s, still waves above the seat
of his rockbuilt royalty. The fort has only one entrance, and is
everywhere else surrounded with a precipice a thousand feet in almost
perpendicular descent, which renders any wall or fortification
superfluous. The gates and offices were built by Abbaji Sonedeo, and
all the pageantry of royal state was once enacted on that now desolate
rock!
Near it on the ghaut-edge is a very curious fort. It is called the
Lingana. It was built in 1649—50 by Sivaji, at the same time as Tola,
Gossala, and another Rairee in the Konkun, to secure his hold upon the
Konkun estates which he had then conquered. I had often seen from a
distance this singular fort, which is a vast pillar of basalt on the
very edge of the mountain. So starting from Poona one morning, I took
luncheon on the top of Surghur, and descending early in the afternoon
to meet my horse on the west side, pursued a narrow path through the
valley and crossed the Pabek Khind, the peaks of which may be seen from
Poona, over the near hills a little to the right of Torna. Descending
on the other side into the bed of the Valwand, I passed up the valley
to the westward, leaving Torna on my left, till I arrived by sundown
at the little village of Geonda, prettily situated on the hillside.
The path being no longer passable for a beast, I with some difficulty
secured the services of two stout Mahars as guides, and set out for as
wild and beautiful a midnight walk as I ever took.
The path lay along the side of the mountain, and rose gradually up
its side till the tall ferns began to mark the altitude, and the air
grew cooler as we emerged at last on the summit, when I found it was a
narrow ridge more miles long than are shown by the chart; and we wound
in and out, up and down, the crest of the hill rising and falling like
a wave, till nearing the Konkun edge of the ghaut we struck off the
hill and entered a deep and shady forest on its western declivity. At
length, after five hours’ hard walking, we reached a little village
embosomed in the trees, from whence, across a wide and wooded chasm of
unseen depth, the black column of basalt of the fort could be dimly
seen not far off in the moonlight. It appeared, however, that near as
it stood there was no way of approaching it except by a bad footpath
down into the Konkun, and then passing round to the other side of the
fort.
By dawn next morning we were descending the deep jungly chasm towards
a rock-cut path, called by courtesy the Asanallee Ghaut. As daylight
broke we were amid rushing streams and sheer precipices of stupendous
depth and great beauty; while hanging above us, on the top of a black
scarp, toppling smooth and perpendicular, was the inaccessible haunt of
robbers of which I was in search. As we descended into the Konkun, the
great mountain of Raighur, close opposite, darkened our path through
a Konkun forest to the little village of Banee, at the foot of the
Lingana. The patel, or headman, had never been into the fort—no one
ever had, since it had been dismantled! However, pushing up the hill,
after a fatiguing tug we reach the base of the works, passing some
ruins by the way. I then discovered that this fort had never had even a
rock ladder, and that the only means of entrance within the walls had
been by a bamboo ladder, long since destroyed, which was triced up and
let down at the pleasure of the inmates.
If I understood aright, there had also been, in remote times, a bridge
of some kind connecting the basalt column with the Deccan, across the
deep chasm which lay between; but that, too, had been broken away by
some unromantic invader, with no sympathy for even such interesting
thieves as harboured in this rude fort, which I could see into but
could not enter. Descending therefore again into the Konkun, I had
to reascend the Deccan by another of Sivaji’s wild paths, called the
Nishnee Ghaut, part of which consists of notches cut in the trunk
of an old tree placed nearly upright against the rocks, where the
upper overhang the lower, like the mountains which closed in the
happy valley of Rasselas; and the rest of the path consists of a
rude sort of steps from stone to stone of a waterfall. I recommend
this two days’ expedition to any young officer desirous of obtaining
an insight into the character of the country; and if he will take
a bamboo scaling-ladder with him he may do what I could not there
do, and describe to us, with military precision, the details of the
fortifications of Linganaghur.
It sometimes happens that nature has made these crags so difficult of
approach, that nothing in the way of a gate is required to defend the
path by which they are scaled. This is the case with Hurrichunderghur,
eighteen miles north-west of Jooneer. This is described briefly in
Murray’s handbook of Western India; and Eastwick says, I think truly,
that it presents some of the sublimest scenery in the whole range of
the western mountains. The top of the mountain is of considerable
extent, and as it has a small but very comfortable set of caves for
residence, and reputation for bears enough to allure the sportsman
(though I confess I saw only buffaloes), I wonder this cool and lovely
solitude is not oftener visited. Lord Elphinstone had the apertures
measured for glazing, and intended to live there in the hot weather.
It is four thousand feet above the Konkun immediately below, and has
a scarp of three thousand feet nearly perpendicular height. A stone
pitched over takes eleven seconds before it strikes for the first
time. Captain Eastwick speaks of the tremendous roaring blasts, which
seem nearly to have swept him off the spot; but when I visited it I
sat under an umbrella for some hours, on the very topmost peak, which
hangs over the abyss, without a single breath of wind, amid a deep
mid-day silence which was almost painfully profound. There are on the
lower levels ruined tanks and temples, and near the caves beautiful
water in abundance. Altogether it is a delightful spot.
Not far from Hurrichunderghur at Seunere, near Jooneer, is a fine
fort, interesting as having been the birth-place of the builder of so
many others. It was granted in 1594 to Sivaji’s grandfather, Malogi
Bhonslay; and in 1627 the great Sivaji first saw the light within its
walls. It was often taken and retaken; once, in 1670, the forces of
Sivaji himself were beaten back by its Mogul garrison. Besides its five
gates and solid fortifications, it is celebrated for its deep springs.
They rise in pillared tanks of great depth, supposed by Dr. Gibson to
be coëval with the series of Buddhist caves which pierce the lower
portion of the scarp near the gate (there is only one into the fort,
to which the others lead up). They point out the extensive ruins of
a large and solid building, said to have been the Rajah’s palace and
Sivaji’s birth-place; but at the northern end are the remains of a fine
Mussulman structure in the best style of their architecture, called
Bibichewara, or the ladies’ houses, which may have been standing then,
and in which I think Jijibai, his mother, most probably resided. From
its projecting windows a fine view is obtained down the vale of the
Kokuree a tributary of the Goor and Bheema.
While wandering through this forsaken fortress one could not help
picturing the eager youth who spent his childhood within its walls,
and drank in together with its refreshing breezes the stories of the
Bugwut, the Ramayan, and the Mahabarat,[13] and filled his young heart
with hatred of the Mussulman Empire which oppressed his country. That
great and gorgeous empire was even then falling to pieces from its
unwieldy size, and his own indomitable spirit, more than any other
external cause, assisted to hasten its dissolution. This fort, with
Hursur, Chawund, and Joodhun, commands the road leading to Nanaghaut
and Malsejghaut at a point formerly one of the great outlets of the
upper country into the Konkun.
Poorundhur Fort, of which a sketch is given opposite, taken from
Weizeergurh—a fort opposite to it, on the same range, at no great
distance—is a favourite sanitarium for residents at Poonah, from which
it is about twenty miles distant. It is 4,300 feet high, and on the
ridge some romantically situated bungalows afford an asylum from the
heat of the plain during the hot season. One of them which belonged to
the writer is at least five hundred years old, having been originally
a granary in the early days before currency, when the tribute was paid
in grain. The trap-doors on the vaulted stone roof show where the grain
was poured in from above. A small but solid and ancient temple on the
south side of it made a convenient nursery, when the presiding genius,
a huge red-painted, shapeless block of basalt, was removed to guard the
gateway just below. The barracks, church, hospital, and commandant’s
residence, &c., near the tank may be observed on the shelf at a lower
level.
[Illustration: POORUNDHUR.]
Some forts possess, in addition to their political and military,
considerable religious importance. Such an one is Trimbuk, a very
strong and interesting place among the mountains twenty miles
south-west of Nassick. This is perhaps the most sacred to Hindoos in
Western India, because from the rocks of this fort rise the first
bubbles of the holy Gunga or Godavery. The path which leads to the
village suburb, at the foot of the fort, is always being travelled
by strings of pilgrims from even the farthest confines of India, who
come to worship in the great temple of Trimbuk, or the Three-Eyed (a
name of Mahadeo), and, having washed away their sins in a pool called
“Kooshaverut,” to visit in deep reverence the birth-place of the holy
Gunga. It is a place well calculated to strike awe into the mind of a
beholder, and especially so if he be some wondering wanderer from the
plains of the Ganges, or from the delta of the Godavery. Great detached
pillars of rock two hundred feet high stand round the little valley,
like giant sentinels, in the midst of which the Trimbukeshwar temple,
of unusual size and beauty, lifts its lofty towers above the many
temples of the village, and sends forth ever and anon the sounds of its
clear-toned bell, as some poor pilgrim takes his longed-for “durshun,”
or “glimpse,” of the god, which is the only reward of his long and
toilsome journey.
This place has always been a nest of Brahminism; and, since it was
richly endowed by Baji Rao, a caldron of political intrigue. During
the Mutiny the energetic Collector of that district penetrated to its
inmost recesses and dragged out one of its chief Poojaris, a near
relative of the Peishwa’s and of Nana Sahib’s, and there and then
hung him, “to encourage the others.” Lake’s “Sieges” gives a plan of
this sacred fortress, illustrative of its capture by our troops under
MacDowall in 1818.
[Illustration: HORSE-KEEPERS.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
THE HILL FORTS OF THE DECCAN.
4.—HOW THEY HAVE BEEN TAKEN.
It is now time to say a few words illustrative of the way in which
these forts have been taken and retaken. Fortunately but little
professional knowledge is required, as their fortifications are
generally of the simplest construction. Art has done little, nature
much, for these native strongholds—so much, that, according to Lake,
it would seem as if a maximum of pluck and luck, with a minimum of
science and skill, was generally displayed in our attacks upon them.
But “Fortune favours the brave,” and we have seldom been signally
unsuccessful. Before the days of artillery, treachery and starvation
could alone subdue them if the garrison were on their guard; a number
of forts Sivaji, however, captured by surprise. This was done by his
men disguised as thatchers, who, with bundles of chupper (thatch) on
their heads, beneath which arms were concealed, obtained admittance;
and then, throwing down their bundles of grass and leaves, put the
guard to the sword and possessed themselves of these places. The
escalade by night of Singhur by Tanniji Maloosre and his son, with one
thousand Mawullees from Torna, is a known instance of early Mahratta
courage. It is given by Grant Duff, and has been copied out of his book
by Eastwick. The place where it was done is, according to tradition,
in the gorge at the back of Singhur; that is, on the south-west side,
where a high wall of solid masonry now completely protects the fort
from the highly improbable danger of a similar attempt.
The Moguls used chiefly bribery and bad artillery, and against one
(Ransej, which long held out) a “cavalier” was erected. This was a high
wooden platform, from which besiegers could fire over the walls. It did
not do, however, and had to be burnt by the retreating army, to whom
the garrison called out that they had better cover themselves with its
ashes—a galling and significant taunt from a Hindoo to a Mussulman.
Frequently, by a severe and continued fire, a fort has been made too
hot to hold its garrison.
Escalading has been a favourite method from the earliest times. The
Duke of Wellington, speaking of these fortresses, says he always
attempted to blow open the gates, but never succeeded, and adds, “I
have always taken them by escalade;” which, however, in another place
he says, “is uncertain in its issue, unless the attack can be made on
more points than one at the same time, and the advance well covered by
musketry, and by enfilading the parts attacked.”
MacDowall’s party approached Trimbuk on the 15th of April, 1818, and
occupying the village, found, on reconnoitring, that the fort was a
stupendous place, having a scarp four hundred feet high, five miles
round, and with only two gateways—one at the south, with no road
leading up to it for guns, and one on the north, so precipitous that
the ascent might have seemed impossible in the face of any one who
could roll down a stone.
That the enemy expected the attack from the south was plain, from the
fact that the wells on the south side were poisoned. Fifty Europeans, a
hundred and fifty horse, and fifty spahis guarded the approaches, with
two six-pounders, lest the garrison should escape. On the north side a
battery was erected in the night, and a few six-pounders and howitzers
got ready by the morning; and soon after opening fire they silenced
the fort guns, seventeen of which were in very good order. A party of
men were sent up, to make a rush for a ruined hamlet about one hundred
yards from the towers of the gate. They, however, thought it was no
use waiting till all was ready to support them; and therefore, instead
of staying quietly under cover of the ruins, had the inconceivable
hardihood to try, in broad daylight, to force their way up a bluff two
hundred feet in perpendicular height, and through a gate at the top of
it in a curtain supported by two towers! This was too much even for a
Hindoo garrison. Down came the big stones, accompanied with a sharp
fire of small arms, and cleared away the assailants with some loss;
but, strange to say, the desperate courage shown in making the attempt
so cowed the killedar that he begged to be allowed to give in, and was
graciously permitted to do so.
Thus Trimbuk fell, the strongest and most sacred fort in the country;
and I confess that, when I stood upon the high wall surrounding the
temple and looked up at that great flight of natural steps which leads
towards that gate, so steep at the top that only one can move up at
a time, and he must do so with both hands and feet, I could not help
feeling that _there_ was enough to account for, if not to justify, the
English rule of India—that Englishmen could do that, and that natives
of India could not prevent them. Seventeen other forts surrendered
after Trimbuk, and the whole country became ours, almost without a
struggle.
Lake says that thirty fortresses, each of which, with a man as its
master, would have defied the Anglo-Indian army, fell in a few weeks
after; and this vast Mahratta empire, which had overshadowed all the
East, soon became another example of the instability of thrones the
foundations of which are not laid in the affections of the people.
Trimbukji Danglia tried to take the fort two months after by the stale
device of pretending religious zeal to worship the source of the Gungo;
and though he managed to kill the sentry, the gate was shut, those who
got in were kept in, and the rest of the party were hurried down the
precipice more speedily than they had come up.
We naturally ask, why these forts now are of such small account
compared with what they once were? Without pretending to go into all
the military questions involved in the answers, I may call attention
to the pregnant words of the Great Duke, who, in 1801, in his
celebrated memorandum on Seringapatam, points out both the value and
the valuelessness of these fortresses. “In fact,” he says, “no fortress
is an impediment to the operations of a hostile army in this country,
excepting it lies immediately in the line on which the army must
necessarily march; or excepting it is provided with a garrison of such
strength and activity as to afford detachments to operate upon the line
of communication of the hostile army with its own country.”
For various, and perhaps sufficient, reasons, orders have gone out to
dismantle many of these fortresses. It is difficult to help regretting
it, however necessary and expedient it may be. Is it impossible that
the time may come when India will be emptied of troops by the urgent
needs of some great European struggle, with which we shall sympathize
too much not gladly to make every sacrifice? Then we, a handful of
men, amid angry populations, may again wish for strongholds of
security to fly to till the storm is over. Who can tell? Of late years,
indeed, changes in the modes of war have shorn the forts of their
honours. As living powers in the country, they are now comparatively
unimportant. We are no longer afraid of them. The descendants of
their former owners have almost ceased to put any trust in them. They
are things of the past. It is not impossible, indeed, that they may
some day be again manned with warriors, and play their stirring part
in future struggles of their country; but now they lie neglected
and forsaken, or put to uses quite other than those for which so
many lakhs were expended on their construction. But I am not sure
that the pleasure of living in the past, rather than in the present,
together with the sympathy one feels with fallen greatness and dimmed
glories, has not added a charm of which they could not otherwise have
been possessed; and one loves the giant crags and rude and crumbling
fortifications none the less because they have been distanced in the
race, and are now decidedly behind the age, standing, amid their
highland summits and fern-clad hills, with a melancholy grandeur, no
longer what they were. The world has swept past them; “civilisation”
declines to acknowledge them, and the busy nineteenth century knows
them not.
Once they were everything—the active centres of political life, and the
great nurseries of military spirit; the keys, and keepers too, of the
surrounding countries; the refuge in every storm of hostile invasion;
the founts from whence, like lava from mighty craters, flowed forth
the fiery hordes which desolated India. They were the receptacles of
wealth and of wisdom; the much-desired prizes for which each conqueror
strove; the seats of the government; the schools of youth; the resource
of a dignified old age. Undoubtedly, too, they were the foster mothers
of Mahratta nationality, and interwoven with every element of the
national greatness. They reared the hardy tribes which have been called
the Goths of India. If a time of prosperity came it was spent in
strengthening their fortifications; if of adversity, in defending them
to the death; disaster was only hopeless when they had to be given up.
On these summits treaties were framed, and terms were signed with
the luxurious princes of the plains of India; to their subterranean
chambers was carried the plunder of the great cities in all parts of
Asia, and in their dungeons, still horrible to behold, were confined
the captives, male and female, torn from the homes of the enemies of
their country. Doubtless many a dark and thrilling deed of blood and
cruelty has been perpetrated in their now silent recesses. Along their
proud ramparts, troops of richly-dressed and well-armed men were ever
moving. Bright silken ensigns threw broad folds over their towers, and
the numerous cannon of their bristling battlements woke up ever and
anon the echoes of the surrounding mountains. It was a gay and gallant
scene. Alas! they are nothing now. In a very few of them a havildar[14]
and a few spahis still keep the gate, but hundreds of them—by far the
greater number—are marked in the lists of the Quartermaster-General as
“deserted” or “destroyed.” They are all silent now, witnessing indeed
to later times and to degenerate races of the great deeds of their
forefathers, of self-sacrificing heroism, and desperate courage, and
high hopes, which seem as if they have for ever mouldered cold and low.
But whatever yet survives of the ancient Mahratta spirit is to be found
among the children of their defenders; the old men who in humbler
positions still live in the villages which lie around their bases. And
there, by the dim glimmer of their winter fires, or the brighter glare
of their summer noon, stories of the olden time are still told by the
descendants of their hereditary garrisons; and “folk lore” is retailed
which keeps from total extinction, at least among the aboriginal
tribes, the old spirit of independent patriotism. But their tales are
“Tales of their Grandfathers” now—of times when men ruled who were of
the same faith and the same blood with themselves, and when their arms
went out to give laws to vast populations, and to gather tribute from
all the wide plains of India which lie between the Coleroon and the
Indus.
FRANCIS GELL.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
A DAY AT CAPE COMORIN.
Cape Comorin is the “Land’s End” of India, the extreme southern point
looking across towards Ceylon. It belongs to the little kingdom of
Travancore, which retains its independence under the protection of the
imperial power of Great Britain. A lady, the wife of a distinguished
Scotch Missionary, describes in the following words her experiences of
an excursion to the Cape, which she made while on a visit to Nagercoil.
* * * * *
All had been prepared for our expedition the night before, and so
at two o’clock one morning we stole out of Mr. Duthie’s verandah as
noiselessly as if we had been a pair of depredators, and took our seats
in two light cane chairs slung on long thick bamboos. There were eight
bearers to each chair, half the number doing duty at a time; and thus,
each “borne of four,” we set out on our twelve miles’ march. It was
rather a dreary, sleepy start, for the young moon had set, and it was
pitchy dark. We had no flaming torches either, which usually accompany
night-travelling in India. However, the clouds soon gathered themselves
away to the mountain-tops, and the beautiful stars shone out through
the dark.
As soon as we had cleared the mission-compound,[15] the bearers set
up a plaintive sort of chant in a high monotone, which was rather
pleasing on the whole, while they trudged cheerily along, changing
shoulders continually. After a steady march of a good three hours,
a few faint lines of delicate colour began to appear in the eastern
sky; the silvery dawn, with its tender grey light, crept softly over
the scene; we heard the murmur of the sea, and we found we were
approaching our journey’s end. The land had gradually narrowed. The
cultivation now was more rude, the soil had become sand, and the
trees looked knotted and gnarled, with bared roots and storm-driven
branches, like veteran tars who had met many a tempest in the shrouds.
Then came the palmyra-fringed coast, and then the wide sea looking
shivery and slate-coloured, with strange fishing craft, and boats and
canoes in great number close to the shore. Our friend Mr. Lee, one
of the missionaries of the London Missionary Society in Nagercoil,
had come out the day before to one of his village stations, and now
rode up to us on his stout little cob. He took us to a large bungalow
standing high over the water, belonging to the British Resident at the
Maharajah’s court in Trevandrum, where we had some coffee, a welcome
refreshment after our long night march; and then, leaving our chairs
behind, we proceeded to explore.
Although Travancore as a whole is full of natural loveliness, yet just
at the Cape there is nothing very striking in the scenery. There are
no bold headlands, nor precipitous crags lighthouse-crowned, only a
few island-rocks with the white surf dashing over them, and always
the beautiful glittering sea stretching away to the far horizon. But
there are other things interesting and new. It was curious to watch
the long-shaped narrow canoes—the catamarans of the coast—each with
its most picturesque occupant, a stalwart, broad-shouldered bronze
fisherman, entirely undraped but for a bit of rag round his loins,
standing erect in his boat with an oar or fishing-net in his hands,
suspending operations while he stared at the intruders.
Then another feature was the endless forests of the palmyra-palm. Along
the shore on every hand there stretches a broad margin of deep sandy
waste, which is filled with thousands of these stately remarkable
trees—the only thing in vegetation which could find sustenance in this
unkindly soil, because it strikes its roots down deep enough until it
finds what it needs. I don’t know that it is so beautiful a tree with
its tufty top as the cocoapalm is with its grand coronal of graceful
fronds; but it is a real staff of life to the poor population of the
coast.
[Illustration: IN TRAVANCORE.]
From the palm forests we scrambled down among the rocks until the green
waves rippled at our feet, and there we found new “treasures of the
deep,” which seemed to me more strange and beautiful than any I had
seen before. I need not say that these were the marvellously-coloured
sands which embellish this curious shore. There was a great bed of fine
soft sea-sand entirely black; then, close to it, but quite distinct,
another of brilliant ruby-red, sparkling and shimmering in the sunlight
like crushed diamonds and rubies. Then another bed, much the same size,
of yellowish white, rough and large-grained, called “rice-sand,” and
exactly like unboiled rice. Then came another bed of the brilliant red,
and another, and another, of black, garnet, and white, alternating
like beds in a flower parterre, and quite as distinct, the colours
always keeping apart; only by digging a little way down we found the
colour often underlying the yellow, white, and _vice versâ_. We halted,
long surveying these ocean-wonders; then I filled some bottles with
specimens of each colour, and brought them carefully away.
By-and-by we strolled up toward a village which crowned a little
eminence over the sea. Some men had come down to look at us, and
altogether our appearance seemed to create much wonderment; but the
people were always pleased when Mr. Lee spoke to them in their own
tongue. They are certainly the strangest-looking savages we have yet
seen. The women look specially wild, with their hair standing on end
in a brush on the top of their heads, and no clothing beyond the bit
of dirty rag called “a cloth” hung round from the waist. We passed
unmolested through the Brahmin street—a great concession, for there is
a large temple here, dedicated to the god Shiva, and it is esteemed
a specially holy spot. There were many dark-visaged naked men, much
besmeared with white ashes and paint, loafing idly about, who did not
seem to relish our presence, and who point-blank refused to let the
gentlemen enter even the outer enclosure of the temple.
It was now pretty hot, as the sun was rapidly mounting in the heavens;
and, being tired, I sat down in the shade, while the gentlemen went
in search of some of the villages where the Roman Catholic fishermen
were to be found. There are many Roman Catholics on this coast, where
Xavier commenced a mission in 1542, and most are fishermen. The
gentlemen entered one or two villages which were unspeakably filthy,
with swarms of children and dogs, and hideous with smells. They found
in one of them two cars like those of the god Juggernath, which are
drawn about during festival times; one is dedicated to St. Joseph, and
the other to the Virgin Mary. Meanwhile I was soon surrounded by a
crowd of women and children with a ring of men outside, all staring at
the white-faced stranger most unmercifully and keeping up a chorus of
begging.
It was a strange place. Within a stone’s-throw of where I sat was
a large Hindoo temple, also a _mandapam_, or temple-court, with
innumerable grotesque little carved deities stuck over every place;
then a little way off several white pyramidal stones used by the
Shānars for their devil-worship; and in the midst of all a tiny Roman
Catholic church surmounted by a cross. Behind me a noisy school of both
boys and girls occupied the verandah of the mandapam, shouting their
lessons at the top of their voice, or scratching their “copies” in an
irritating way, with a dagger-like stylus, on slips of palm-leaf. These
slips were very neatly cut, and the little urchins were proud to show
me their accomplishment in writing on these novel copy-books. I was not
sorry when the gentlemen reappeared.
We got into our chairs, and, preceded by Mr. Lee on his good little
steed as a guide, set out for the village where we were to spend the
day. Mr. Lee once interrupted a devil-dance in this place. A crowd
surrounded a man who was gesticulating frantically and spinning
round in a kind of dance, pretending to be “possessed.” He tried to
frighten the pony, and so get rid of the rider, but Mr. Lee made the
frisky little creature caper about a little, when the man bolted,
terror-stricken; the fickle crowd shouted in derision, and finally
heard the missionary with quiet attention for an hour while he preached
to them from his saddle. Afterwards some of them came regularly to
seek him and hear him at his nearest preaching station.
Our route lay over the sand, through the thick palmyra forest. Here
this “prince of trees,” as it is rightly called, exists in all its
majesty and usefulness. A proverb says of it, “If you plant it, it
will grow for a thousand years; if you cut it, it will last a thousand
years.” They also say that it can supply every real need of a man’s
life. With its wood he can build his house or his canoe; the branches
provide the thatch and the enclosures; also his punka, umbrella, rope,
stationery, and a thousand things; while the sap is so nutritious he
can almost live upon it.
We stopped for a little while to watch the climbers go up a tree, and
to let our men have some of the juice to drink. It was most amusing to
see them clamber up the straight, bare, branchless stems like monkeys,
making skilful use of hands and toes alike, sometimes to the height of
eighty or ninety feet. This they do to remove the sap or juice, which
has been drawn off in a little earthen pot at the top. They have the
little pot hooked on to the waist-cloth behind; they ascend with great
rapidity, remove the full pot, make a fresh incision in the bark,
fasten on the empty one, and descend as rapidly as they went up. There
are frequent accidents, however, we were sorry to hear, and our medical
missionaries often have cases in their wards of men who have fallen
from their lofty perches in these tree-tops, who are often thus led to
the Physician of souls. The juice is excellent when fresh, a luscious
sort of drink; after it ferments it becomes intoxicating, and I am
afraid it is most popular in this condition, and is much used by the
Shānars, especially in their orgies at their festival times; but its
chief use is to manufacture sugar—a coarse dark sort of soft stuff,
called jagry, much used by the people. These climbers ascend as many as
forty or fifty trees in a day, often indeed twice a day; and this is
only one of the hundred ways in which this wonderful palm ministers to
the wants of the inhabitants, who but for it would be badly off indeed
in these sandy wastes.
We saw a good many specimens of the “umbrella-tree,” as it is called,
a sort of acacia, with a short bare stem, and a mass of thick thorny
bush spread out flat at the top like a Japanese umbrella. It is very
curious, and gives a dense and perfect shade. By-and-by we came to a
clearing where we found a considerable native village. Groups of neat,
tidy cottages, with deep overhanging eaves, thatched and enclosed with
branches of palm-leaf, stood under some large trees, and in the midst
of them a little Christian church. This was a native Christian village,
one of Mr. Lee’s stations, and here we were to spend the day. It may
be imagined with what interest we entered it, once the dwelling-place
of demon-worshippers, where the horrible rites of this degrading
superstition were practised, and now filled with the inhabitants of
those who had been rescued from it.
The kind people gathered out of their homes to welcome us, headed by
their pastor and “the Dresser,” a young medical student trained by Dr.
Thompson, medical missionary of Neyoor; for besides the church there
is a small dispensary and also a school. They took us at once to the
church, and we found, in a little room behind—a prophet’s chamber,
used by the missionary on his visits—a comfortable breakfast prepared
for us. The village is called Agustees-puram, after the Tamil sage
Agustee, who once lived here. It is one of the oldest stations of the
Nagercoil Mission, and has a congregation of six hundred, who support
their own pastor and pay their schoolmaster. One interesting point to
us was, that the church was built by Ringeltaube, the first Protestant
missionary who ever came to Travancore. It is a plain, substantial,
barn-like structure, with whitewashed walls, bare floor, and a simple
rail across the upper end, where a small reading desk stands. The
windows give the whole place a quaint old-fashioned look, there being
no blinds or glass, but the frames filled with waved bars of wood, very
ingenious and pretty, and the work of Ringeltaube, admitting light and
keeping out intruders, while the glare is completely softened by the
shady trees without.
After breakfast the church-bell rang out, and presently the whole place
was filled to overflowing, while groups stood at every window. The
people sat on the floor closely packed, the men on one side and the
women on the other, while within the rails the pastors, catechists,
and elders of the Church sat on chairs on each side of the pulpit.
The great majority of all present were converted Shānars. There were
six pastors, who had come to meet us from distant stations, one of
whom, a venerable gentle-faced man, was the grandson of the first
convert in this region. He was a sort of religious mendicant, who in
his wanderings had heard Christ preached by one of the Khollhoffs
at Tanjore. He accepted the truth, and was the means eventually of
bringing Ringeltaube to Travancore. This was in 1806.
After the men had been introduced to us and we had had some talk, the
service began. The patriarchal pastor prayed in the most fervent way.
Shutting my eyes I could have fancied it was the earnest, reverential
tones of one of our own “men” of the Highlands, pouring out his soul
at a Gaelic communion-time, a feeling which only grew stronger when,
at the singing which followed, the “precentor” _read out the line_
before it was sung. I confess, however, that afterwards the delusion
was broken when a fiddle was used as an accompaniment! My husband next
preached a good long sermon; then afterwards gave an address, and the
people never moved or seemed to tire. Several of the pastors knew
English well, and interpreted for him. Mr. Lee spoke, and some of the
pastors did the same, many earnest prayers were offered, and there was
a deep impression. So it went on all day.
I had a most interesting hour too, with the women, who during a pause
in the services gathered round me, bringing their lace-pillows with
them, and working neatly and deftly while we talked. I also visited
some of the homes, which were clean and neat; and afterwards we had a
great deal of talk with the men, who gave us many interesting facts
regarding the condition of the people formerly, contrasting it with the
improvement of the present. They spoke especially of the rise there is
among the Christians in social position and standing, also in their
own characters morally and spiritually, and we were glad to be assured
that caste-feeling is decidedly declining among them. They spoke
also hopefully of the change there is for the better in the heathen
community generally, and gave many striking proofs that enlightenment
and progress are entering even dark, Brahminical, caste-ridden
Travancore.
Altogether this was one of the most interesting “mission-days” we had
had, but too soon it came to a close. At five o’clock Mr. Lee announced
that it was time to go; so, after many leave-takings and kind words
from the people, we got into our chairs and started. The evening was so
lovely that all the fatigues of the long exciting day were forgotten.
The scenery of this “garden of South India,” as Travancore is called,
is famed for its beauty, and most justly, for nature has bestowed
on it of her treasures with a lavish hand. As we left the forest
behind, and turned our faces towards the mountain ranges which tower
over Nagercoil, the views became grander at every turn. The sun was
going down in a glorious surrounding of massive clouds in every shade
of brilliant colour, lighting up the ridges and dyeing the slopes,
_glintin’_ down among the green valleys, and gleaming with rosy light
on the still faces of the little sheets of water which abounded all
along our route, and looked like tiny lakelets. The roads were skirted
by fine spreading trees, which threw long deep shadows on the grass.
The scene grew more and more peaceful as darkness closed in, until
the bearers hushed their intoning of their own accord. Altogether the
evening was a fitting close to the memorable day.
M. MURRAY MITCHELL.
[Illustration: BUTTER-MAKING.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
THE ISLE OF SPICY BREEZES.
Before leaving our Indian possessions we shall pay a visit to Ceylon
in the company of a brilliant writer whose narrative of his own
experiences there will be found interesting. Ceylon is the only island
of importance off the coast of India. It lies near the southern
extremity of the peninsula. The interior of the island is mountainous,
but generally low near the coast. The summits of some of the mountains
exceed 8,000 feet in height. The most remarkable one, 7,420 feet high,
is known as Adam’s Peak, from which Buddha (the founder of Buddhism) is
said to have ascended to heaven, and the people point out a depression
which they believe to be the imprint of his foot. From Ceylon,
stretching nearly to the mainland of India, there is a ridge of islets
and sand-banks, known as Adam’s Bridge.
The island is richer in precious stones than in the more useful metals,
but iron and plumbago are found in abundance. The forests abound with
ebony, rose, satin, and other woods, and palm-trees. The animals are
numerous, and include elephants, bears, hyenas, jackals, monkeys; also
alligators, and other reptiles; but, curiously enough, there are no
tigers, although there are leopards.
For administrative purposes the island is separate from India, and is
ruled by a governor, aided by a legislative council of fifteen members.
The exports, consisting mainly of cocoa-nut oil, cocoa-nut fibre, and
coffee, amount to the value of £4,500,000 a year. Of a population
of two and a half millions, only about 19,000 are British, or of
European descent. The chief town is Colombo. We shall now introduce our
traveller who shall tell his tale in his own words.
1.—COLOMBO.
We sighted Ceylon early in the morning, and throughout a summer day,
with the sea like grass and the sky sapphire, we skirted the island,
making for Colombo, which within the past two years has inherited the
advantage and distinction of being the port of call for the P. and O.
steamers. Passengers familiar with Bishop Heber’s hymn went sniffing
about in search of the “spicy breezes” that “blow soft o’er Ceylon’s
isle,” and were evidently disappointed at not realising the dream of
early infancy. But the Bishop knew what he was writing about, and the
spicy breezes are due to no effort of the imagination or exigency of
rhyme. Captain Atkinson, of the _Verona_, tells me he has sniffed the
spicy breezes when steaming fifty miles off the island. It all depends
upon the state of the weather in Ceylon and the direction of the wind.
We landed in the early morning, Adam’s Peak, forty miles off, shining
in clear outline against the golden sky, through which the sun was
rising.
We crossed the harbour in a catamaran, a kind of gondola of which the
Cingalese have obtained the monopoly, and are likely to keep it. The
craft consists, to begin with, of the log of a tree roughly hollowed
out. On this is built a structure of pole and canvas, which is in no
part broader than two feet, and tapers to the ends, which are on the
average 20 feet apart. It is clear that a boat on this plan would not
float, a difficulty triumphantly overcome by attaching to it, by two
arched poles 10 or 12 feet long, a heavy spar, which floats on the
water. This balances the catamaran and makes it seaworthy in moderately
fine weather. Should the catamaran be caught in a stiff breeze, the
proceedings of the captain and crew are simple and efficacious. If it
is what they call a “two-piecey-man breeze,”[16] two men climb over the
arched poles and, descending on to the spar, sit there, regardless of
the raging sea. If it is a “three-piecey-man breeze,” the requirements
of the occasion are uncomplainingly met. In a big catamaran, with large
sail hoisted, scudding before the monsoon, as many as nine men have
been counted holding on to the spar, apparently half the time under
water.
Our boatmen, favoured by quiet weather, sat one in the bow and
the other in the stern, and rapidly paddled us ashore. They were
fine-looking fellows, with a full measure of the national love of
jewellery and gay clothes. Both had massive ear-rings, apparently of
gold, and one wore a silver bracelet on his wrist.
All the people in Ceylon, from babes just “feeling their feet” to old
men and women, their steps tottering on the brink of the grave, wear
gold and silver ornaments. They even invent new places for carrying
them, and it is no uncommon thing to see a Cingalese belle with the
top of her ears covered with gold plate or wire, a large pair of rings
pendent from the lobes of the ear, a gold or silver circlet round her
hair, her nose adorned with rings, bracelets on her wrists, rings on
her fingers, and silver plates on her toes. This is the perfection
of adornment; but in one or other of the fashions, or in several of
them, the Cingalese woman, of whatever station in life, is set forth.
I saw running out of a house a sturdy little boy two years of age who
had nothing on but a silver key fastened round his waist by a girdle
of silver wire. The men take their pleasure less expensively. They
delight in gold ear-rings and rings, but beyond this are content to
entrust the recommendation of their personal appearance to a fine
tortoise-shell comb of circular shape, set on the crown of their heads,
with the ends towards the forehead. The men evidently pride themselves
on their hair, which is generally drawn back from their forehead and
tied in a neat knot at the back. As they wear ear-rings, and not always
whiskers or moustache, it is not easy at first sight to distinguish man
from woman.
[Illustration: COLOMBO.]
The funereal gharry does not make its appearance at Colombo, the public
being served by a conveyance something like a dogcart on four wheels,
with an awning, indispensable protection against the tropical sun. They
are very cheap. I had one for three hours, for which I was charged two
rupees, a little over three shillings, and was overwhelmed with thanks
for a trifling and evidently unexpected _pourboire_. The horses are
poor creatures, the real draught animal of Ceylon being a plump and
well-shaped little bullock. These are yoked singly or in pairs to light
waggons roofed with dry palm leaves, and can upon occasion get up quite
a respectable trot. They are artistically branded, characters being
stamped all over their sides. It is pretty to see a crawler—a light,
palm-thatched waggon, drawn by a pictorial bullock, driven by a man in
a red turban and white robes—hailed by a native, who gets in behind,
sits on the floor, with his feet dangling down, and is trotted off.
Bishop Heber’s well-known description of Ceylon as a place—
“Where every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile,”
is open to criticism on both assertions. There is much in Colombo
which does not please, the town for the most part being squalid,
dirty, and ill kept, the streets flanked by hovels, comparison with
which is to be found only in the south-west of Ireland. On the other
hand, both men and women, particularly the latter, are strikingly
handsome. It is not only their flashing black eyes, their well-shaped
faces, or their graceful drapery that please the eye. They have the
rarer gift of graceful carriage. A Ceylon girl walks like a young
empress, if empresses are particularly good walkers. I use the simile
in despair, since I do not know anything in common Western life that
equals or approaches the manner of the commonest Ceylon woman in moving
about the streets. It is the custom in the island to engage women
as street-sweepers, and in the matter of what Mr. Turveydrop called
deportment, it is a liberal education to watch one of them swaying the
long flexible brush of bamboo twigs.
Both men and women chew the betel-nut, which incidentally serves the
purpose attained by other means by young girls in Japan, giving a red
tint to their lips, an effect in some cases by no means unbecoming. In
the country districts the men wear nothing but a pair of ear-rings and
a narrow loin cloth. Taken in conjunction with the tall palms, leafless
for 20 or 30 feet, and then breaking out into a tuft of green leaves,
they realise, with gratifying fidelity, the picture on the cover of
the _Juvenile Missionary Magazine_. In towns, and near them, men dress
generally in a single robe, thrown about them with infinite grace. One
colour frequently recurring in the gay procession was a dead gold,
which, set against the tawny flesh and the straight, lithe figure, was
a constant refreshment to the eye.
The first thing people do on arriving at Colombo is to take the train
for Kandy; for which slight Colombo may find consolation in the
reflection that if Kandy were the point of arrival, visitors would rush
off to the railway-station to catch the earliest train for Colombo.
There is nothing particular to see at Kandy, certainly nothing more
than at Colombo, unless it be the Botanical Gardens. But the journey
through the country is well worth taking, and affords a convenient
opportunity of seeing the island. This is not marred by any undue
rapidity on the part of the train, which takes four hours and a quarter
to do the seventy-two miles. It should be added that the gradient is
for half the way very steep, clambering the hills, and presenting a
splendid view of the country. I suppose Ceylon is green all the year
round. Certainly nothing could surpass its verdure in mid December.
At Kandy rain falls on about two hundred days in the year, the annual
rainfall being 85 inches. This is a bountiful supply; but the peculiar
good fortune of Ceylon is that it is pretty equally divided throughout
the year. Unlike India, the island knows no alternations of wet or dry
seasons, with the earth green for so many months and bare brown for so
many more. In October and November the north-east monsoon is blowing,
and in June, when the south-west monsoon is taking its turn, the rains
are heaviest. The dry season, such as it is, happens in February and
March. But even then the earth is at no distant intervals refreshed
with genial showers.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ISLE OF SPICY BREEZES.
2.—KANDY.
As the train slowly mounts the steep ascent, on the level height of
which stands the capital of the old Kandian kings, the view grows in
beauty, sometimes closely verging on grandeur. Below is the green
valley, a great dip in the circle of hills, with the water on the
rice fields glistening in the sun. Beyond is a range of hills, ever
varying in shape as the train creeps higher; and all the way, sometimes
within reach of hand, is a tropical wood, rich with cocoa-nut and
banana-trees, glowing with the blood-red hibiscus, fair with countless
wild flowers, and cool with fern-clad rocks, down which musically
trickles the bountiful water.
Kandy is a pretty town, with its white roads, its green foliage, its
flowers, its lake, and its sentinel guard of mountains. In the native
quarter, though the streets are broader, the houses and shops are not
much better than in Colombo. Anything in the shape of four walls and a
roof will do for the Cingalese to live in. The look of the streets is
further damaged by the widely-spread appearance of shut-up tenements.
When the Cingalese family go forth to their daily work they put up
a shutter in the place where the door ought to be, and all that is
needful is done. There being no windows to the houses, a row, when thus
shut up, looks like an agglomeration of deserted sheds.
The artisans of Kandy turn out some simple brass-work and a curious
kind of pottery. These are soon examined, and Kandy, from a tourist’s
point of view, lives chiefly on the beauty of its Botanic Gardens.
These are situated in the suburb called Peradeniya, and are reached by
a drive of nearly four miles along the high-road to Colombo. We drove
out early in the morning, long before the sun was in full blaze. We
met a long stream of men and women hurrying into town carrying baskets
of vegetables and fruit and bundles of packets. The principal industry
on the long stretch of road appears to be the barbers’. There was a
barber’s shop at every few hundred yards, a low shed, in which a man
was squatted on the floor beside the implements of his art awaiting
custom—sometimes, with better luck, actually engaged on a job. The
process is a little peculiar. Artist and subject squat on the ground
face to face and knee to knee, the artist pulling the subject’s
head about as his convenience may require. As frequently as not the
Cingalese does not squat on the ground, but, stooping down, hangs
his weight on his knees with only his feet on the ground. I saw two
acquaintances meet on the high-road. After an interchange of salutation
they both sank down in this position, and, putting up their umbrellas,
prepared for a morning’s gossip.
[Illustration: BARBER.]
Kandy, being the principal object of attraction for the British and
American tourist, has suffered the consequent demoralisation of the
floating inhabitants. Boys and men hang about the door of the hotel in
search of any odd job that shall look like work and bring in annas.
Another art, brought to curiously high perfection, is that of mutually
helping each other to prey upon the foreigner. Being told that a small
boy hanging about the hotel was a useful guide, well up in botany and
arboriculture, I engaged him for the day, and at once discovered that
he was utterly useless.
“What’s that?” I asked him, pointing to a curious white flower.
“A kind of flower,” he replied with perfect confidence, and brimming
over with self-satisfaction at coming out successfully from an early
test.
“What’s that?” I asked a little later, indicating an unfamiliar member
of the palm family.
“A kind of tree,” he promptly answered.
One of his minor triumphs was to point out what he called “a
bunyan-tree,” meaning a banyan; and once, when we heard a familiar
whistle and roar, he, with a wave of his hand towards the passing
object, said, “A train.” All of which made us glad we had taken a guide.
He accompanied us to Lady Horton’s Walk, and had not gone many
paces when we were joined by another youth, whom our guide genially
introduced, and who accompanied us on the walk, confirming the younger
one as to this being “a kind of flower” and that “a kind of tree.” When
we got back to the hotel our budding courier said, with a patronising
wave of the hand, “You give him something?” I said I would do so with
great pleasure, and consulted him as to the precise amount, explaining
that I had meant to present him with a rupee for himself, and
expressing my appreciation of his generosity in desiring to share it
with his companion. Hereupon the youth’s advocacy of his friend’s claim
abruptly cooled, and I heard nothing more on the subject. Something
better still happened on driving to the station. The coachman drove off
without waiting for his fare. Presently, when we were seated in the
railway carriage he sent a friend for his fare, and the friend _asked
for something for himself for conveying the money_!
[Illustration: PALM-TREES IN CEYLON.]
The Botanic Gardens cover nearly a hundred and fifty acres of land,
and stand fifteen hundred feet above the sea. The climate is admirably
suited for garden cultivation, being hot, moist, and very equable. I
learn from Dr. Trimen, the director, that the mean annual temperature
is about 77°, April and May being the hottest months and December the
coldest. The gardens were established sixty years ago, being partly
formed out of a royal park attached to the palace of the kings of
Kandy. They are beautifully situated, lying within a loop of the river
musically named Mahaweli, which surrounds them on all sides except the
south, where they are bounded by the high-road. We took our guide with
us, but the little impostor was stopped at the gates, as he knew he
would be. This is done on the principle of division of plunder. The
attendants within the gardens have the perquisite of showing strangers
round, and brook no rival near the throne. It is a nuisance, greatly
marring the pleasure of strolling through the gardens, for one cannot
take a turn without being accosted by one of these men wanting to sell
a handbook, to “show the fernery,” or presenting a flower or specimen
of fruit, with a too obvious eye for annas.[17]
The gardens are, however, quite good enough to compensate for petty
annoyances of this kind. Whilst rare specimens of tree and plant are
lovingly cultivated, the original beauty of the ground, its undulating
sweep, and in some spots its virgin jungle, are left undisturbed.
Always there is the flowing river, with the view caught here and there
of the satinwood bridge that crosses it like a network of gossamer.
Following the various walks there are found nearly all the choice trees
of the tropics.
On the left of the pathway are three mighty trunks, dead to themselves,
but living outside with what looks, at a short distance, like masses
of ivy, but is a flowering creeper, gemmed with a pale violet blossom.
Here is the indiarubber-tree, and importations from Perak which yield
gutta-percha. Here, their branches almost intermingling, are the
Himalayan cypress, the pencil-cedar of Bermuda, the Norfolk Island
pine, and the champak of India, sacred in the eyes of the faithful.
Here is the coco-de-mer, the Columbus of treefruit, which, found
floating on the Indian Ocean or washed up on the shores of Ceylon, was
for two centuries a mystery to man, till its home was found among the
least-known islands of the Seychelles group. The growth of the tree is
as slow as its offspring is adventurous, putting forth a single leaf
a year, and so taking something like an eternity to reach its normal
height of a hundred feet. Here is the candle-tree of Central America,
with its fruit hanging down like tallow dips ten to the pound. Here
is a banyan-tree, whose branches cast a shadow two hundred feet in
diameter. Here is the Ceylon iron-wood tree, beautiful in life with
its scented flowers, its leaves, born blood-red and growing into green
above and white below, and in its death useful for household purposes.
Here is a tree local to Ceylon, whose leaves serve with cabinet-makers
the purpose of sandpaper; and here—the glory of the gardens—is a long
avenue of palms, whose stems run up, round and smooth as if turned by a
lathe, and are suddenly crowned at the top with a coronet of fan-like
leaves. Many of these plants and trees are to be seen carefully
nourished under glass at Kew; but they look infinitely better at home
in the clear atmosphere and under the sunny skies of the tropics.
HENRY W. LUCY.
[Illustration: TURBAN-TIER.]
MAURITIUS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
This radiant Easter Sunday morning finds us almost becalmed on the
eastern side of Mauritius, with what air is stirring dead ahead, but
only coming in a cat’s-paw now and then. Except for one’s natural
impatience to drop anchor, it would have been no penance to loiter on
such a day, and so make it a memory which would stand out for ever in
bold relief amid the monotony of life. “A study of colour” indeed,
a study in wonderful harmonies of vivid blues and opalesque pinks,
amethysts, and greens, indigos and lakes, all the gem-like tints
breaking up into sparkling fragments every moment, to reset themselves
the next instant in a new and exquisite combination.
The tiny island at once impresses me with a respectful admiration.
What nonsense is this the geography books state, and I have repeated,
about Mauritius being the same size as the Isle of Wight? Absurd! Here
is a bold range of volcanic-looking mountains rising up grand and clear
against the beautiful background of a summer sky, on whose slopes and
in whose valleys, green down to the waters edge, lie fertile stretches
of cultivation. We are not near enough to see whether the pale shimmer
of the young vegetation is due to grass or waving cane-tops. Bold
ravines are cut sharply down the mountain sides, and lighted up by
the silvery glint of rushing water; and the breakers, for all the
mirror-like calm of the sea out here, a couple of miles from shore, are
beating the barrier-rocks and dashing their snow aloft with a dull thud
which strikes on the ear in mesmeric rhythm.
Yes, it is quite the fairest scene one need wish to rest wave-worn and
eager eyes upon, and it is still more beautiful if you look over the
vessel’s side. The sea is of a Mediterranean blue, and is literally
alive with fish beneath and lovely sea-creatures floating upon the
sunlit water. It appears as if one could see down to unknown depths
through that clear sapphire medium, breaking up here and there into
pale blue reflections which are even more enchanting than its intense
tints. Fishes, apparently of gold and rosecolour, or of a radiant blue,
barred and banded with silver, dart, plunge, and chase each other
after the fragments of biscuit we throw overboard. Films of crystal
and ruby oar themselves gently along the upper surface, or float like
folded sea-flowers on the motionless water. A flock of tiny sea-mews
are screaming shrilly and darting down on the shoal; but as for their
catching them, the idea is preposterous, for the fish are twice as big
as the birds.
At last an apology for a wind gets up and takes us to anchorage.
In the daytime, as I now see it for the first time, Port Louis is
indeed a crowded and busy place; and its low-pitched warehouses and
unpretending-looking buildings hold many and many thousand tons of
miscellaneous merchandise coming in or going out. But at sunset an
exodus of all the white and most of the creole inhabitants sets in,
leaving the dusty streets and dingy buildings to watchmen and coolies
and dogs. It is quite curious to notice, as I do directly, what a
horror the English residents have of sleeping even one single night in
Port Louis; and this dread certainly appears to be well founded, if
even half the stories one hears be true. Some half-dozen officials,
whose duties oblige them to be always close to the harbour, contrive,
however, to live in the town; but they nearly all give a melancholy
report of the constant attacks of fever they or their families suffer
from.
Certainly, at the first glance, Port Louis is not a prepossessing place
to live, or try to live, in. I will say nothing of the shabby shops,
the dilapidated-looking dwellings one passes in a rapid drive through
the streets, because I know how deceitful outside appearances are
as to the internal resources or comforts of a tropical town. Those
dingy shops may hold excellent, though miscellaneous goods, in their
dark recesses, and would be absolutely unbearable to either owner or
customer if they were lighted with staring plate-glass windows. Nor
would it be possible to array tempting articles in gallant order behind
so hot and glaring a screen, for no shade or canvas would prevent
everything from bleaching white in a few hours.
As for the peeled walls of house and garden, no stucco or paint can
stand many weeks of tropical sun and showers. Everything gets to look
blistered or washed out directly after it has been renovated, and great
allowances must be made for these shortcomings so patent to the eye of
a fresh visitor. What I most regretted in Port Louis was its low-lying,
fever-haunted situation. It looks marked out as a hot-bed of disease,
and the wonder to me is, not that it should now and for twenty years
past have the character of being a nest for breeding fevers, but that
there ever should have been a time when illness was not rife in such
a locality. Sheltered from anything like a free circulation of air by
hills rising abruptly from the sea-shore, swampy by nature, crowded to
excess by thousands of emigrants from all parts of the coast added to
its own swarming population, it seems little short of marvellous that
even by day Europeans can contrive to exist there long enough to carry
on the enormous trade which comes and goes to and from its harbour.
Yet they do so, and on the whole manage very well by avoiding exposure
to the sun and taking care to sleep out of the town.
This is rendered possible to all by an admirable system of railways,
which are under Government control, and will gradually form a perfect
network over the island. The engineering difficulties of these lines
must have been great, and it is an appalling sight to witness a train
in motion. So hilly is the little island, that if the engine is
approaching, the chances are it looks as if it were about to plunge
wildly down on its head and turn a somersault into the station, or
else it seems to be climbing painfully up a steep gradient, after the
fashion of a fly on the wall. But everything appears well managed, and
the dulness of the daily press is never enlivened by accounts of a
railway accident.
For two or three miles out of Port Louis the country is still flat and
marshy, and ugly to the last degree; not the ugliness of bareness and
trim neatness, but overgrown, dank, and mournful for all its teeming
life. By the roadside stand, here and there, what once were handsome
and hospitable portals, but are now abodes of desolation and decay.
The same sad story may be told of each: how their owners, well-born
descendants of old French families, flourished there, amid their
beautiful flowers, in health and happiness for many a long day, until
the fatal “fever year” of 1867.
One effect of the epidemic which then desolated Port Louis has been
the creation of the prettiest imaginable suburbs or settlements within
eight or ten miles of the town. These districts have the quaintest
French names—Beau Bassin, Curépipe, Pamplemousse, Flacq, Moka, and so
forth, with the English name of “Rosehill” standing out among them
in cockney simplicity. My particular suburb is the nearest and most
convenient from which F—— can compass his daily official duties, but
I am not entitled to boast of an elevation of more than eight hundred
feet. Still there is an extraordinary difference in the temperature
before we have climbed to even half that height, and we turn out of a
green lane bordered by thick hedges of something exactly like English
hawthorn, into a wind-swept clearing on the borders of a deep ravine,
where stands a bungalow-looking dwelling rejoicing in the name of “The
Oaks.” Yes, it is home at last, and very homelike and comfortable it
all looks after the tossing, changing voyaging of the past two months;
for I have come a long way round.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
CLIMATE.
I feel as if I had lived here all my life, although it is really more
unlike the ordinary English colony than it is possible to imagine; and
yet (as Lewis Carrol has it) this is “scarcely odd,” because it is not
an English colony at all! It is thoroughly and entirely French, and
the very small part of the habits of the people which is not French is
Indian. The result of more than a century of civilisation, and of the
teachings of many colonists, not counting the Portuguese discoverers,
early in the sixteenth century, is a mixed but very comfortable code
of manners and customs. One has not, here, to struggle against the
ignorance and incapacity of native servants. The clever, quick Indian
has learned the polish and elegance of his fresh masters, and the first
thing which struck me was the pretty manners of the native—or, as
they are called, creole—inhabitants. Everybody has a “bon soir” or a
“salaam” for us as we pass them in our twilight walks, and the manners
of the domestic servants are full of attention and courtesy.
Mauritius first belonged to the Dutch (for the Portuguese did not
attempt to colonise it), who seem to have been bullied out of it by
pirates and hurricanes, and who finally gave it up as a thankless task
about the year 1700. A few years later the French, having a thriving
colony next door at Bourbon, sent over a man-of-war and “annexed,”
unopposed, the pretty little island. But there were all sorts of
difficulties to overcome in those early days, and it was not even found
possible, from mismanagement of course, to make the place pay its own
working expenses.
Then came the war with England at the beginning of this century, and
that made things worse, for of course we tried to get hold of it, and
there were many sharp sea-fights off its lovely shores, until, after
a gallant defence, a landing was effected by the English, who took
possession of it somewhere about 1811. Still it does not seem to have
been of much use to them, for the French inhabitants naturally made
difficulties, and declined to take the oath of allegiance; so that it
was not until the great settling day, or rather year, of 1814, when
Louis XVIII. “came to his own again” and definitely ceded Mauritius to
the British, that we began to set to work, aided by the inhabitants
with right good-will, to develop and make the most of its enormous
natural resources.
[Illustration: LA CASCADE, BEAU BASSIN.]
I really believe Mauritius stands alone in the whole world for variety
of scenery, of climate, and of productions, within the smallest
imaginable space. It might be a continent looked at through reversed
opera-glasses, for the ambitious scale of its mountains, its ravines,
and its waterfalls. When once you leave the plains behind—it is all on
such a toy scale that you do this in half an hour—you breathe mountain
air, and look down deep gorges, and cross wide rushing rivers. Of
course the sea is part of every view. If it is lost sight of for five
minutes, there is nothing to do but go on a few yards and turn a corner
to see it again, stretching wide and blue and beautiful out to the
horizon. The chances are—nay, the certainty is—that three miles in any
direction will show you a greater variety of beautiful scenery than the
same distance over any other part of the habitable globe.
This is the beginning of the cool season, which lasts till November,
and really the climate just now is very delightful. A little too windy,
perhaps, for my individual taste, but that is owing to the rather
exposed situation of my house. The trade-winds sweep in from the S.E.,
and very nearly blow me and my possessions out of the drawing-room.
Still it would be the height of ingratitude to quarrel with such a
healthy, refreshing gale, and I try to avoid the remorse which I am
assured will overtake me in the hot season if I grumble now. Of course
it is hot in the sun, but ladies need seldom or ever expose themselves
to it. The gentlemen are armed when they go out with white umbrellas;
and keep as much as possible out of the fierce heat. At night it is
quite cold, and one or even two blankets are indispensable; yet this
is by no means one of the coolest situations in the island, though it
bears an excellent character for healthiness.
In our daily evening walk we cut off a corner through the bazaar,
and it is most amusing to see and hear the representatives of all
the countries of the East laughing, jangling, and chatting in their
own tongues, and apparently all at once. Besides Indians from each
presidency, there are crowds of Chinese, Cingalese, Malabars,
Malagasys, superadded to the creole population. They seem orderly
enough, though perhaps the police reports could tell a different tale.
If only the daylight would last longer in these latitudes, where
exercise is only possible after sundown! However early we set forth,
the end of the walk is sure to be accomplished stumblingly, in profound
darkness.
Happily there are no snakes or poisonous reptiles of any sort, nor have
I yet seen anything more personally objectionable than a mosquito. I
rather owe a grudge, though, to a little insect called the mason-fly,
which has a perfect passion for running up mud huts (compared to its
larger edifices on the walls and ceiling) on my blotting-books, and
between the leaves of my pet volumes. The white ants are the worst
insect foe we have, and the stories I hear of their performances would
do credit to the Arabian Nights. I have already learned to consider
as pets the little soft brown lizards which emerge from behind the
picture-frames at night as soon as ever the lamps are lit. They
come out to catch the flies on the ceiling, and stalk their prey in
the cleverest and stealthiest fashion. Occasionally, however, they
quarrel with each other, and have terrific combats overhead, with the
invariable result of a wriggling inch of tail dropping down on one’s
book or paper.
Whenever I say to a resident how delicious I find it all, he or she
is sure to answer dolefully, “Wait till the hot weather!” That there
is some very different weather to be battled with is apparent by the
extraordinary shutters one sees to all the houses. Imagine doors
built as if to stand a siege, strengthened by heavy cross pieces of
wood close together, and, instead of bolt or lock, kept in their
places by solid iron bars as thick as my wrist. Every door and window
in the length and breadth of the island is furnished with these
_contre-vents_, or hurricane shutters, and they tell their own tale.
So do the huge stones, or rather rocks, with which the roofs of the
humbler houses and verandahs are weighted.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
LOCAL CHARACTERISTICS.
There is not much animal life astir around me in the Belle Island.
It is too cold still for the butterflies, and I do not observe much
variety among the birds. There are flocks of minas always twittering
about my lawn—glossy birds very much like starlings in their shape
and impudent ways, only with more white in the plumage, and with
brilliant-orange coloured circles round their eyes. There are plenty of
paroquets, I am told, and cardinal birds, but I have not yet seen them.
A sort of hybrid canary whistles and chirps in the early mornings, and
I hear the shrill wild note of a merle every now and then. Of winged
game there are but few varieties—partridges, quails, guinea-fowl, and
pigeons making up the list; but, on the other hand, poultry seem to
swarm everywhere. I never saw such long-necked and long-legged cocks
and hens in my life as I see here; but these feathered giraffes appear
to thrive remarkably well, and scratch and cackle round every Malabar
hut. I have not seen a sheep or a goat since I arrived, nor a cow or
bullock grazing. The milch cows are all stall-fed. The bullocks go
straight from shipboard to the butcher; and the horses are never turned
out.
This is partly because there is no pasturage, the land being used
entirely for sugar-cane, or else left in small patches of jungle. As
might be expected from such a volcanic-looking island, the surface
of the ground is extremely stony; but the sugar-cane loves the light
soil, and I am told that it thrives best where the stones are just
turned aside, and a furrow left for the cane-plant. After a year or so
the furrow is changed by the rocks being rolled back again into their
original places, and the space they occupied is then available for
young plants. The wild hares are terrible enemies to the first shoots
of the cane, and we pass picturesque _gardiens_ armed with amazing
_fusils_, and clad in every variety of picturesque rag, keeping a sort
of boundary guard at the edges of the sprouting cane-fields.
The horses are better than I expected. When one hears that every
four-footed beast has to be imported, one naturally expects dear and
indifferent horses; but I am agreeably surprised in this respect.
We have horses from the Cape, from Natal, and even from Australia,
and they do not appear to cost more here than they would in their
respective countries. I scarcely, however, ever see any one on
horseback; people never seem to ride, to my great regret. I am assured
that it will be much too hot to do so in the summer evenings, and that
the hardness of the roads prevents riding from being an agreeable
mode of exercise. Every village can furnish sundry _carrioles_ for
hire—queer-looking little conveyances like a minute section of a
tilt-cart mounted on two crazy wheels, and drawn by a rat of a pony.
As we drive swiftly along the level sea-shore, it is beautiful to see
the clear outlines of the distant hills against the tender tints of
the morning sky, for our _tournée_ must be ended and over long before
eight o’clock. I wonder how the ponies manage to keep their feet, for
although the ground is level enough, the sand is firmly bound together
by a liane which creeps closely on the ground, and is precisely like a
network of ropes. I tried to walk over it, and stumbled at every step;
but we met with no misadventure.
The whole island is merely the top of a volcano, or series of
volcanoes, which project above the water not more than one thousand
eight hundred feet at the highest point. You can see the distinct
circle of jagged tooth-like hills, with here and there a tremendous
rent in their sides where the lava has torn its burning way through
and flowed down to form the foundation of these fertile plains. The
steep sides of the hills are as straight as a wall towards the top and
utterly inaccessible, not affording foothold to a goat nor earth enough
to grow a blade of grass. When you see the whole panorama the effect
is exactly that of a magnificent and ambitious range of mountains, of
which only the points are sticking up above the surface. The rest, you
feel, is down below, and has yet to grow, like a child’s tooth.
One of my greatest pleasures here is my afternoon walk, and I still
keep up my English habits of exercise. A few evenings ago we hurried to
some rising ground about a mile off to “see Bourbon.” Perhaps you do
not understand what an atmospheric achievement _that_ is. Bourbon is an
island a hundred miles off and can only be seen two or three times in a
year. But it would have been worth going any distance, or waiting any
length of time, to stand, as I stood that balmy evening, and look over
the green sloping foreground which fell gradually away at my feet for
a stretch of five miles or so down to the sea-shore, where the white
girdle of reef foam only divided one brilliant water-blue from the
other. My eyes could not linger, however, on the fair fields close at
hand, for they could be seen every day and every hour. Apparently only
ten miles off, the great Cildas range of Bourbon, with the lofty _Piton
de Neige_, ten thousand feet high, cuts the wonderful sky as sharp and
clear as our own hills close by. The outline is beautiful; but anything
must needs be beautiful against such a background of western sky,
glorious with crimson and amber, purple and green, with palest blue
between. It is a sight to gaze at in reverent silence, for speech would
jar.—_Lady Barker in “Good Words.”_
SOUTH AFRICA.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
From the Mauritius we set sail in a south-westerly direction, and
soon come in sight of the Isle of Bourbon, or Réunion, which is a
French possession. Leaving this on our right, we look out towards the
north-west, if by chance we may catch a glimpse of Madagascar. On the
third day from Mauritius we note some shadowy outlines on the far
horizon, and we learn that these are the central heights of that most
interesting country. We should dearly like to visit it. But that cannot
be; and we must content ourselves with a glimpse of the low southern
coast, as we pass within a few miles on our south-western course. Then
several days elapse in which we are far out of sight of any land. And
now all eyes are strained to catch the first glimpse of the great “dark
continent,” which has kept its central wonders secret from all the
rest of the world until the life-time of the present generation.
Several fragments of the British Empire are scattered round the
African coast. But the only important colonies are those which occupy
the narrow end of the continent jutting out into the southern ocean.
The chief of these is Cape Colony. And after sailing some days with
occasional glimpses of distant mountains on our right, we change
our course sharply to the north, and then run due east into the
safe harbour of Table Bay. The handsome town lying before us is the
capital of a great territory, so large that no detailed description is
possible. All we can do is to gather up the chief facts and illustrate
them by some quotations from great travellers.
The _Cape of Good Hope_, the southern end of Africa, was formerly
called the “Cape of Storms,” on account of the rough and stormy
weather which prevailed when the promontory was approached by Diaz, a
Portuguese navigator. King John of Portugal at a later period named it
the Cape of Good Hope, as it gave new hope of a clear passage by sea
to India. This was nearly 400 years ago, up to which time, so far as
is known, Europeans had not voyaged to any great distance along the
western coast of Africa.[18]
[Illustration: CAPE TOWN.]
Not far inland from this cape is Cape Town, the chief town of the large
district known as Cape Colony. The headland or Cape thus gives three
names—the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Town, and Cape Colony. The town
itself is finely situated, overlooking the sea, and sheltered by three
bold mountain summits, called Table Mountain, the Lion’s Head, and the
Devil’s Peak.
The original inhabitants of South Africa seem to have belonged to two
different races—the Hottentots dwelling in the centre and along the
west coast, and the Kaffirs dwelling to the east and the north-east.
The Hottentots include various tribes, and are mostly of a deep brown
or a yellow-brown colour, which contrasts very strikingly with the
white of their eyes; their heads are small, their eyes sunken, the nose
flat, and the lips thick. Their hair is black, either crisp or woolly,
and they have little or no beard. The Hottentot is lively and humorous,
and is said to be a capital shepherd and herdsman.
The Kaffir tribes are distinguished by a dark skin and woolly hair,
which varies much in length and quantity, but is never sleek or
straight. Many of the tribes are robust and brave.
When the new passage to India by the Cape was found, the trade passed
almost entirely in that direction, and in 1650 a Dutch surgeon planted
a colony at the Cape, believing it to be a good situation from which to
supply ships passing between Europe and India. The result showed that
he was right, for a good trade was soon established, and the colony
spread and grew rapidly.
The Hottentots receded with their flocks and herds, to escape being
seized as slaves. In 1774 the whole of the race of natives who remained
on the frontier of the colony were ordered by the Dutch Government to
be seized or killed; and military parties went in pursuit of them, and
executed the order with great barbarity. The Dutch held the colony
till the year 1795, when a British squadron took it from them without
resistance. It was restored to the Dutch at a later period; but Holland
being drawn into the war which ensued between France and Britain,
British forces were sent again to take possession of this important
settlement.
On the 4th of January, 1806, the British soldiers arrived in Table Bay;
a landing was effected on the 6th, and after a sharp action on the 8th,
in which the Dutch were defeated, the British advanced to Cape Town,
which at once gave up the struggle. The surrender of the whole of Cape
Colony followed, and at the close of the war between our own country
and France and Holland it was agreed that this valuable possession
should remain to Great Britain.
Various wars have ensued between the colonists and the Kaffirs and
Zulus,[19] arising sometimes from the inroads made by the Europeans
upon the lands of the natives, and at others from the attacks upon
the colonists by the native cattle-stealers. The _Boers_ (_i.e._
the farmers who are descended from the old Dutch colonists) often
complained that the British Government did not protect them from the
assaults of the native tribes, and in their fits of grumbling “trekked”
(the Dutch word for “tracked”) farther to the north-east into the
lands of the natives, and founded the country called the Transvaal,
that is, the country beyond the Vaal. The Orange River States form an
independent Boer republic.
In British South Africa there are a number of states, but there are
only two governments—Cape Colony and Natal. Cape Colony takes charge
of the dependencies of Griqualand West and the southern Kaffir States;
and Natal has annexed part of Zululand, the rest being constituted a
separate dependency under British rule.
The main physical features of Cape Colony are the ranges of mountains
which run more or less parallel with the southern coast. The one
nearest the coast-line, at a distance of from 20 to 60 miles, is called
Lange Bergen, which means a long range, and parts of it are called
Lange Kloof, meaning the Long Pass. The second range, about 100 miles
farther north, is a much higher chain, known as Zwarte Bergen, or Black
Mountains. The third range, still higher (almost 10,000 feet above the
sea), is called the Nieuwveld (New Heights), or Sneeuw Bergen, meaning
Snow Mountains, as they are topped with snow.
[Illustration: TREKKING.]
On the margin of the sea, between the shore and the Lange Bergen, the
plain has a deep and fertile soil. It is watered by numerous streams,
well clothed with grass, and is rich in shrubs and trees. The second
plain, between the two ranges known as Long Mountains and Black
Mountains, is no so well watered, nor is it so fertile as the sea-belt.
The third plain, called the Great Karroo, between the Black Mountains
and the Snow Range, is about 400 miles long and 60 miles broad. It
consists of a dry soil mixed with salt, on which no vegetation is seen
except after heavy floods of rain. Then for about two months a little
verdure springs up, on which the farmers send their sheep and cattle
to graze. These three plains are like three terraces, the second being
a shelf higher as compared with the first, and the third a still higher
shelf than the second one.
At each end of the cross ranges of mountains already described, a chain
extends in a slanting direction in a line with the coast, although
at some distance from it. The one on the eastern side is known as
the Storm Bergen, or the Drakensberg, meaning Dragon Mountains; and
a portion of the chain on the west is called the Roggeveld Bergen.
All these names and those of numerous towns and villages are of Dutch
origin. They show how the Dutch settlers have moved from the coast
farther northward and eastward before the advancing tide of British
immigration, until they reached the region which they have named
Transvaal.
The river system of South Africa is limited and curious. Through a
dearth of regular rain many of the streams are dry during several
months of the year; and then after heavy floods they become swollen
torrents. The chief stream is the Orange River. The river is formed by
two streams that take their rise in the Drakensberg Mountains on the
east.
In the above description of the country the survey is taken from south
to north, that is, in belts of latitude. But if we proceed from east to
west, dividing the territory into certain belts of longitude, some no
less interesting facts are observable. On this point we may quote the
illustrious Dr. Livingstone, who in the account of his earliest travels
writes as follows:—
[Illustration: GROUP OF ZULUS.]
“Our route to the north lay near the centre of the cone-shaped mass of
land which constitutes the promontory of the Cape. If we suppose this
cone to be divided into three zones, or longitudinal bands, we find
each presenting distinct peculiarities of climate, physical appearance
and population. These are more marked beyond than within the colony.
At some points one district seems to be continued in and to merge into
the other, but the general dissimilarity warrants the division, as an
aid to memory. The eastern zone is often furnished with mountains,
well wooded with evergreen succulent trees, on which neither fire nor
droughts, can have the smallest effect; and its seaboard is clad with
gigantic timber. It is also comparatively well watered with streams
and flowing rivers. The annual supply of rain is considerable, and the
inhabitants (Caffres or Zulus) are tall, muscular, and well made; they
are shrewd, energetic, and brave; altogether they merit the character
given them by military authorities, of being ‘magnificent savages.’
Their splendid physical development and form of skull show that, but
for the black skin and woolly hair, they would take rank among the
foremost Europeans.
“The next division, that which embraces the centre of the continent,
can scarcely be called hilly; for what hills there are are very low.
It consists for the most part of extensive slightly undulating plains.
There are no lofty mountains, but few springs, and still fewer flowing
streams. Rain is far from abundant, and droughts may be expected every
few years. Without artificial irrigation no European grain can be
raised, and the inhabitants (Bechuanas), though evidently of the same
stock originally with those already mentioned, and closely representing
them in being an agricultural as well as a pastoral people, are a
comparatively timid race, and inferior to the Caffres in physical
development.
“The western division is still more level than the middle one, being
rugged only near the coast. It includes the great plain of the Kalahari
Desert which is remarkable for little water and very considerable
vegetation.”[20]
[Illustration: ZULU DWELLINGS.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
CLIMATE AND CUSTOMS.
The _climate_ of the whole of South Africa is deemed healthy for
Europeans. The great defect is the want of regular and steady rains. In
some districts bordering on the Great Karroo, on the west, there has
been an absence of rain for two or three years together; at other times
the rain falls in floods. On the south and east coast the rainfall is
about the same as in England. Over the south-west maritime region the
rain is brought by winds from the west or north-west, which prevail in
winter, from April to October. The eastern district, on the contrary,
has its rainy season in the summer months—September to April—when the
wind blows from the east or south-east.
The suffering often caused by want of rain has had its effect on the
superstitions of the natives. There is a class of men who pretend that
they have power to bring rain by means of magical arts. They say they
have “medicines,” or charms, which relieve the most hopeless drought.
They require handsome payment, and therefore the natives endure a good
deal of dry weather before going to the expense of consulting them.
Thus it occasionally happens that their help is not asked until the
drought is nearly at an end, and a change of weather is impending.
Then, when the showers fall, they get the credit, and thus sustain
their reputation as “rain-makers.” Dr. Livingstone gives a conversation
with one of these men, which is well worth quoting. A medical
missionary falls in with a native “rain-maker,” and elicits from him an
amusing defence of the superstitious practices which the latter finds
so profitable.
“_Medical Doctor._—Hail, friend! How very many medicines you have about
you this morning? Why, you have every medicine in the country here!
“_Rain Doctor._—Very true, my friend, and I ought; for the whole
country needs the rain, which I am making.
“_M.D._—So you really believe that you can command the clouds? I think
that can be done by God alone.
“_R.D._—We both believe the very same thing. It is God that makes
the rain, but I pray to him by means of these medicines, and, the
rain coming, of course it is then mine. It was I who made it for the
Bakwains[21] for many years when they were at Shoknane; through my
wisdom, too, their women became fat and shining. Ask them; they will
tell you the same as I do.
“_M.D._—But we are distinctly told, in the parting words of our
Saviour, that we can pray to God acceptably in His name alone, and not
by means of medicines.
“_R.D._—Truly! but God told _us_ differently. He made black men first,
and did not love us as he did the white men. He made you beautiful, and
gave you clothing, and guns, and gunpowder, and horses, and waggons,
and many other things about which we know nothing. But toward us he had
no heart. He gave us nothing, except the assegai,[22] and cattle, and
rain-making; and he did not give us hearts like yours. We never love
each other. Other tribes place medicines about our country to prevent
the rain, so that we may be dispersed by hunger, and go to them, and
augment their power. We must dissolve their charms by our medicines.
God has given us one little thing, which you know nothing of. He has
given us the knowledge of certain medicines by which we can make
rain. We do not despise those things which you possess, though we are
ignorant of them. We don’t understand your book, yet we don’t despise
it. _You_ ought not to despise our little knowledge, though you are
ignorant of it.
“_M.D._—I don’t despise what I am ignorant of; I only think you are
mistaken in saying that you have medicines which can influence the rain
at all.
“_R.D._—That’s just the way people speak when they talk on a subject of
which they have no knowledge. When we first opened our eyes, we found
our forefathers making rain, and we follow in their footsteps. You,
who send to Kuruman for corn, and irrigate your garden, may do without
rain; _we_ cannot manage in that way. If we had no rain, the cattle
would have no pasture, the cows give no milk, our children become lean
and die, our wives would run away to other tribes who do make rain and
have corn, and the whole tribe would become dispersed and lost, our
fire would go out.
“_M.D._—I quite agree with you as to the value of the rain; but you
cannot charm the clouds by medicines. You wait till you see the clouds
come, then you use your medicines and take the credit which belongs to
God only.
“_R.D._—I use my medicines, and you employ yours; we are both doctors,
and doctors are not deceivers. You give a patient medicine. Sometimes
God is pleased to heal him by means of your medicine, sometimes not—he
dies. When he is cured, you take the credit of what God does. I do the
same. Sometimes God grants us rain, sometimes not. When he does, we
take the credit of the charm. When a patient dies, you don’t give up
trust in your medicine, neither do I when rain fails. If you wish me to
leave off my medicines, why continue your own?
“_M.D._—I give medicine to living creatures within my reach, and can
see the effects though no cure follows; you pretend to charm the
clouds, which are so far above us that your medicines never reach
them. The clouds usually lie in one direction, and your smoke goes in
another. God alone can command the clouds. Only try and wait patiently;
God will give us rain without your medicines.
“_R.D._—Mahala-ma-kapa-a-a!! Well, I always thought white men were wise
till this morning. Who ever thought of making trial of starvation! Is
death pleasant then?
“_M.D._—Could you make it rain on one spot and not on another?
“_R.D._—I wouldn’t think of trying. I like to see the whole country
green and all the people glad; the women clapping their hands and
giving me their ornaments for thankfulness, and bulls lowing for joy.
“_M.D._—I think you deceive both them and yourself.
“_R.D._—Well, then, there is a pair of us (meaning both are
rogues).”[23]
The apparent success of the “rain-makers” is sometimes even greater
than their dupes desire, and the storms of rain that fall are dangerous
and even destructive.
The summer thunderstorms in the inland districts are sometimes
fearfully grand. “The air is at one moment perfectly calm, the next
wild with terrific storms. The sky, so sweetly serene at noon, will,
before half an hour passes, be darkened by clouds which shroud the
land as with a pall. For months the long droughts parch the earth, the
rivers may be forded on foot, the flocks and herds pant for refreshing
waters and green herbage. Suddenly, a cloud no bigger than a man’s
hand appears on the horizon, and lo! the elements rage and swell,
thunder booms upon the air, darkness covers the land, and the arrows
of the Almighty dart from the angry heavens, striking death and terror
wheresoever they fall. From the far desert a torrent of sand comes
sweeping on, obscuring the air, and making its way into your very house
in such profusion that you may trace characters in its dry depths on
the window-sill. The skies open, the floods descend, the rivers burst
their bounds, trees are uprooted from the soaked earth, and through
the roof of your dwelling the rain beats heavily; the walls crack, the
plaster falls, the beams that support the thatch groan and creak with
melancholy moan; the voices of angry spirits seem to howl and shout
around you; the poor birds on frightened wing wheel past your windows;
the cattle disturb you with their lowing, the dogs howl, and the
unearthly tones of the Kaffir or Fingo herdman’s song are no pleasant
addition to the wild scene stirring before you. The tempest subsides
as suddenly as it arose, the voices of the storm spirits die away in
the distance over the mountain tops, the dark pall of clouds is rent
by a mighty hand, the swollen rivers rush on, bearing evidence of
devastation, but subsiding at last into a more measured course. The
sun lights up the valleys and the hillsides, the air is clearer, the
sky brighter than ever; and but for its history of devastation, and
oftentimes of death, and the knowledge that for weeks the country will
be subject to these violent convulsions of nature, the terrors of the
tempest would soon be forgotten.”
[Illustration: ZULU AND CLUB.]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
NATURAL PRODUCTS.
Agriculture is the chief industry of both the Dutch and the English
settlers. Cattle and sheep are among the staple products of the
country, and amongst the great exports are the wool of the merino sheep
and the hair of the Angora goat. A source of great profit during the
past twenty years has been the trade in ostrich feathers. The ostriches
are kept in enclosures as cattle are, and are quite as tame as ordinary
poultry. But they are very strong, and to take their feathers without
danger requires a little management. For this purpose they are crowded
as tightly as possible in pens; and men, creeping in amongst their long
legs, with sharp shears cut off the feathers close to the skin without
causing them any pain. Sheep-walks, which have been worn out by the
constant feeding of sheep, are restored to freshness when ostriches are
reared on them. Goats also are profitable stock.
Wheat, Indian corn, millet, grapes, vegetables, and all kinds of
European fruits are grown to perfection, although not so extensively as
in England; but dairy farming is much neglected. The vine grows freely,
the grapes of Constantia being justly celebrated; and there is a large
exportation of wine, chiefly to England.
Cape Colony is naturally deficient in timber. Towards the east there is
a wild wooded territory called the Bush, but the west is almost barren.
Natal and Caffraria, to the east of Cape Colony, consist largely of
grassy plains with rivers fringed with trees, and mountains clothed
with woods.
The _wild animals_ of South Africa include wolves, hyænas, elephants,
hippopotami, lions, and antelopes, but they have been to a great extent
either killed or driven to great distances inland by the colonists. In
place of these, cattle and sheep have multiplied, and the breeds have
been much improved. Wild ostriches are met with on the great plains,
and eagles among the mountains; and snakes abound everywhere. Vultures,
pelicans, flamingoes, cranes, and turtle-doves are common in many
districts.
[Illustration: ZULU DANCE.]
Amongst the animals native to South Africa the most interesting
undoubtedly are the elephant and the lion. They are neither of them
now found south of the Orange River, and, indeed, the elephant is
almost entirely confined to Central Africa. The famous Jumbo, perhaps
the most popular animal that ever lived, was an African Elephant.
The difference between the African and Asiatic species lies chiefly
in the enormous ears possessed by the former, but also in its greater
size. Jumbo was a very tractable creature, though it must be confessed
he owed his tragical death at an American depôt to his own obstinacy
in refusing to yield right of way to a locomotive engine. In general,
however, he was very obedient; and it seems strange that African
elephants have not in modern time been used as beasts of burden in
their own land. In ancient times it was different. Hannibal, the
Carthaginian general, made great use of African elephants in his wars
against the Romans.
As to the lion, it is still heard roaring over the greater part of
Africa; and it was not far from the northerly boundary of Cape Colony
that Dr. Livingstone had his encounter with a lion which so nearly
proved fatal. The writer of these words well remembers the amused
indifference with which the great missionary answered eager enquiries
about this adventure, when on one of his visits to England. The broken
bone of the upper arm could never be properly set, and when asked
whether he suffered any inconvenience from this cause, he said “he did
not know; it had given him an additional joint, that was all; it made
him weaker at the anvil; but otherwise it might have its advantages.”
The following is his own account of the adventure:—
“The Bakátla of the village Mabotsa were much troubled by lions, which
leaped into the cattle-pens by night, and destroyed their cows. They
even attacked the herds in open day. This was so unusual an occurrence
that the people believed that they were bewitched—‘given,’ as they
said, ‘into the power of the lions by a neighbouring tribe.’ They
went once to attack the animals, but, being rather a cowardly people,
compared to Bechuanas, in general on such occasions, they returned
without killing any.
“It is well known that if one in a troop of lions is killed the others
take the hint and leave that part of the country. So the next time the
herds were attacked I went with the people, in order to encourage them
to rid themselves of the annoyance by destroying one of the marauders.
We found the lions on a small hill about a quarter of a mile in length,
and covered with trees. A circle of men was formed round it, and they
gradually closed up, ascending pretty near to each other. Being down
below on the plain with a native schoolmaster, named Mebálwe, a most
excellent man, I saw one of the lions sitting on a piece of rock within
the now closed circle of men. Mebálwe fired at him before I could, and
the ball struck the rock on which the animal was sitting. He bit at
the spot struck, as a dog does at a stick or stone thrown at him, then
leaping away, broke through the opening circle and escaped unhurt. The
men were afraid to attack him, perhaps on account of their belief in
witchcraft.
“When the circle was reformed, we saw two other lions in it; but we
were afraid to fire lest we should strike the men, and they allowed
the beasts to burst through also. If the Bakátla had acted according
to the custom of the country, they would have speared the lions in
their attempt to get out. Seeing we could not get them to kill one of
the lions, we bent our footsteps towards the village; in going round
the end of the hill, however, I saw one of the beasts sitting on a
piece of rock as before, but this time he had a little bush in front.
Being about thirty yards off, I took a good aim at his body through the
bush, and fired both barrels into it. The men then called out, ‘He is
shot, he is shot!’ Others cried, ‘He has been shot by another man too;
let us go to him!’ I did not see any one else shoot at him, but I saw
the lion’s tail erected in anger behind the bush, and, turning to the
people, said, ‘Stop a little till I load again.’
“When in the act of ramming down the bullets I heard a shout. Starting
and looking half round, I saw the lion just in the act of springing
upon me. I was upon a little height; he caught my shoulder as he sprang
and we both came to the ground below together. Growling horribly close
to my ear, he shook me as a terrier dog does a rat. The shock produced
a stupor similar to that which seems to be felt by a mouse after the
first shake of the cat. It caused a sort of dreaminess in which there
was no sense of pain nor feeling of terror, though quite conscious of
all that was happening. It was like what patients partially under the
influence of chloroform describe, who see all the operation, but feel
not the knife. This singular condition was not the result of any mental
process. The shake annihilated fear, and allowed no sense of horror in
looking round at the beast. This peculiar state is probably produced in
all animals killed by the carnivora; and if so, is a merciful provision
by our benevolent Creator for lessening the pain of death.
“Turning round to relieve myself of the weight, as he had one paw on
the back of my head, I saw his eyes directed to Mebálwe, who was trying
to shoot him at a distance of ten or fifteen yards. His gun, a flint
one, missed fire in both barrels; the lion immediately left me and
attacking Mebálwe bit his thigh. Another man, whose life I had saved
before, after he had been tossed by a buffalo, attempted to spear the
lion while he was lifting Mebálwe. He left Mebálwe and caught this man
by the shoulder, but at that moment the bullets he had received took
effect and he fell down dead. The whole was the work of a few moments,
and must have been his paroxysm of dying rage. In order to take out the
charm from him, the Bakátla on the following day made a huge bonfire
over the carcase, which was declared to be that of the largest lion
they had ever seen. Besides crunching the bone into splinters, he left
eleven teeth wounds on the upper part of my arm.
“A wound from this animal’s tooth resembles a gun-shot wound; it is
generally followed by a great deal of sloughing and discharge, and
pains are felt in the part periodically ever afterwards. I had on a
tartan jacket on the occasion, and I believe that it wiped off all the
virus from the teeth that pierced the flesh, for my two companions in
this affray have both suffered from the peculiar pains, while I escaped
with only the inconvenience of a false joint in my limb. The man whose
shoulder was wounded showed me his wound actually burst forth afresh in
the same month in the following year. This curious point deserves the
attention of enquirers.”
The true resources of Southern Africa consist, not in its interesting
animals, nor in its opportunities for adventure, but in its soil and in
the inducements it offers to labour.
Among _minerals_, copper and coal are found in large quantities, also
lead, gold, and marble. But of late years diamonds have been the most
remarkable production of South Africa. In the year 1867 a few of these
precious stones were discovered in the district west of the Orange Free
State, and there was soon a rush of people to dig for them, and a new
state was formed called the Diamond State, or Griqualand West. There
are now very extensive mines, employing a large number of people. The
gold is found in greatest abundance in the basin of the Orange River,
and the diamonds most abound about the Vaal River.
GIBRALTAR.
[Illustration]
HOMEWARD BY GIBRALTAR.
Setting our faces homeward again, we sail far out into the South
Atlantic Ocean, and after a few days we catch a distant glimpse of St.
Helena, the lonely isle where the great Napoleon passed the latest
years of his life as a captive. But we have no time to call; and still
pressing onwards with favouring winds, we cross the equator, and
approach the coast of Africa again at the northern limit of the Gulf of
Guinea. It comes into sight at Cape Verd, the westernmost point of the
continent. Then we pass successively three interesting groups of isles,
the Cape Verd Islands, the Canaries, and Madeira. The Atlas Mountains
appear on the horizon, and as we continue our course the heights of
Spain come into view. Between these points is the narrow entrance to
the Mediterranean Sea. Here we will make our last pause on our journey
home. For here is the stronghold of Gibraltar, which though it is one
of the smallest, is also one of the most remarkable of British foreign
possessions. Let us listen to a lady who made some stay there, and has
a good deal that is interesting to tell us.
GIBRALTAR.
What can be said of Gibraltar that has not been said already? Holding
the position it does on the maritime highway of the world, it is almost
necessarily visited by every one who leaves his own country; and to the
majority of travelling Englishmen it is probably as familiar as Charing
Cross Station. Yet it is not for travellers that we write home when
we travel; but rather for those who are kept by circumstances within
that forty mile range which Carlyle used to declare sufficient for
reasonable men.
The Campo of Gibraltar spreads into the mainland and belongs to Spain,
forming a province of which the General, resident at Algeciras, still
bears the title of Governor. The spot which interests us—our British
Gibraltar—is a mountain, only three miles long and three-quarters of
a mile broad, which faces and is, in fact, joined to Spain by a flat
and narrow strip of sand, but belongs evidently by natural formation
to the African range across the Straits. Its northern front is a sheer
wall of grey marble, which rises perpendicularly for something like one
thousand four hundred feet; and from the north the marble range runs
with a sharp, pinnacled and broken crest to drop at the southern end
in rocky flats and ledges to the sea.
Above the Mediterranean, the eastern face shows, as it were, the
backbone of the mountain. Bare precipices stand upon each other;
here and there on the lower levels a ledge has afforded room for the
construction of a bastion; here and there on higher ranges, a goat
tract winds under a cliff; there is even one little cove where, down by
the waters edge, a village of Genoese fishermen nestles on the sand;
but for the most part it presents an unscalable wall rising from the
sea to the full height of the mountain crest. It is on the western side
facing the Atlantic that there is alone any foothold for the town.
Here, too, precipices redden in the setting sun, but some of the slopes
allow of being mounted to the top, and along the shore there lies a
strip of rich soil where wild olive and palmetto change to orange,
and fig, and pepper-trees; and a town of about twenty-four thousand
inhabitants has squeezed itself upon terraced streets between the rock
and the water.
It was at the northern end of this strip, on a shoulder which commands
a good view of the mainland, that the Moorish commander, Tarik, who
led the Arabs in their first conquest of Spain, built the castle of
which the remains still form the most prominent architectural feature
of the older town. It is perhaps the earliest Moorish construction in
Europe, for though it was finished later by other hands, Tarik began it
within two years of his conquest in 711. Phœnicians, Carthaginians,
Romans, and Christians had held the mountain in turn before that time,
but except in tradition they have left no mark behind them, and the
history of the place begins with the discovery of its importance as a
military fortress by the Moors. They became its godfathers to modern
Europe—changing the classic Calpe to Gebr-al-Tarik, or the mountain of
Tarik, from which the name Gibraltar is contracted—they fortified it,
they constructed aqueducts, they planted its little strip of fertile
soil with gardens, they made it, in fact, very much what it is. They
gave it during an occupation of seven hundred and fifty years the
political traditions of an alien fortress upon the mainland, and so
strong is the impression of their individuality that to this day we
seem to hold it in direct succession to the Moors.
[Illustration: GIBRALTAR.]
The town, as it lies now round the western base of the rock, runs
from the Moorish castle at the north end to the lighthouse at Europa,
straggling only somewhat thinly into barracks and officers’ quarters
as it stretches to the point. It is divided into north and south by an
Alameda or public garden—the tradition of which is another legacy of
the Moors—where over a considerable space of ground pepper-trees, bella
sombra, and table pines spread a most welcome shade, and paths edged
with aloe and cactus lead through mazes of flowering shrubs. I think of
snow at home, and look out to see the scarlet aloe, blooming freely,
edge every walk with flame colour; violets are fragrant, and roses and
heliotrope blossoms as in summer at home. Orange flower also begins to
scent the air, and lilies are opening.
Behind the Alameda, cliffs of red sandstone vary the prevailing marble
of the rock, and the luxuriant growths that cover their base and spread
on every ledge that gives roothold combine with the public and private
gardens to frame the town in verdure. Orange and lemon trees, yellow
with fruit, give the southern sense of productiveness so charming to
English eyes, and here and there a date-palm or a banana introduces a
touch of cosmopolitanism into the vegetation which recalls the eastern
origin of the first planters. A garden the size of a dinner table will
supply its owner with a profusion of flowers for the whole year, and
every hot wall has its tufts of geraniums and aloe; but there is no
room for extensive cultivation.
The idea of terracing the western face of the rock in Italian fashion
for cultivation does not seem to have been entertained, and the
space along the shore is needed for houses. They press each other in
rectangular blocks which bear a mark of the south in their green outer
shutters, and of the sea in the plaster of pebbles and shells with
which the greater number are covered. The barracks only differ from
other houses in being larger. All alike are devoid of architectural
beauty. Yet they gain a certain picturesqueness from the irregularities
of the ground on which they are built. Most of the streets are
connected by steep flights of steps, and in the upper part of the town
every opening to these narrow ramps, every street end, and every garden
gate left ajar, frames views of the bay and the Spanish hills which
leave no room for criticism of the immediate foreground.
[Illustration: BAY OF GIBRALTAR.]
The beauty of the situation is so great that it neutralizes all we can
do to destroy it. On the Spanish coast the Sierra Carbonera and Sierra
de la Luna circle the water, making with Gibraltar a bay of some five
miles in width and eight miles long. Seen from a height above the north
end it has the appearance of a vast inland lake, of which the African
mountains form the southern boundary. The sweep of the Spanish hills
partially hides the outlets of the Straits, and in the glow of a clear
sunset Tangier appears, like Algeciras and San Roque, to be one of the
towns on its shore. The effect of the southern sunshine is to give a
purity as of snow to distant buildings, and though experience modifies
any delusions about the condition of Spanish and Moorish towns, their
appearance upon the sea-shore is as of spotless habitations of marble.
San Roque stands back upon a height at the north end of the bay,
Algeciras lies close to the waves very nearly opposite to Gibraltar.
Between them two rivers run into the sea, determining by their course
some of the nearer sweeps of the hills. The Spanish ranges swell gently
round the coast, and during the greater part of the day they hold in
their wooded hollows air as blue as the bay beneath or the sky above.
Summit behind summit leads the eye north to the Rondas, where just
now snow glistens upon the higher crests. Gibraltar and the African
mountains, on the contrary, rise in bold lines and grey and barren
crags sheer up, as it seems at times, from the water to the clouds. If
Atlas veils its head, it is usually in a sunny glow which speaks of
equatorial regions beyond.
[Illustration: THE SIGNAL STATION.]
There is life in the harbour. Little steamers from the African coast,
laden with supplies for our poultry-market, come in side by side
with five-masted _Agincourts_ and _Minotaurs_ of the Channel fleet.
Men-of-war of all nations, merchant ships from every quarter of the
world, the mail lines steaming east and west; gun-boats, fishing-boats,
torpedo-boats pass one another; and, mixed with these, are all sorts
of queer and tiny craft, which present the appearance of nothing more
dignified than troops of water beetles by day, while at night they
contribute to the picturesque effect of the scene by dotting the water
with the double lights of reflected lamps.
First Moorish, then Spanish, then English, the fortress, as well as
the town, of Gibraltar bears the mark of each occupation. Current
military criticism of the condition of our defences is not altogether
respectful, but to the ordinary non-military observer the town appears
to be ringed with cannon. Guns in a bastion on Europa Point command the
approach from the Atlantic and from the Mediterranean. A sea-wall, with
a system of curtains, flanks, and bastions, runs along the western base
of the rock, cutting off the houses from the sea; retired batteries
hold commanding positions on every ledge of rock above us, and the
north front gapes with holes, behind which we know, though we cannot
see, that our guns stand threatening Spain.
There is a piece of flat ground immediately under the north face
of the rock, which, though it is not within the defences, has
come to be included in our possession. We use it as a race-course
and drilling-ground. The entrance by the Land Port is over a
drawbridge—still taken up every night—and under a covered way which
leads into a barrack square. It happened to me the other day to ride
in behind a regiment within a few minutes of evening-gun fire. The sun
had nearly gone, and against the red glow of the sky the face of the
rock rose grey. There was not a break in its lines from base to summit,
except the grim holes blackened by powder, which mark the course of the
galleries; the drawbridge echoed to the tramp of men; under the covered
way lights had been already lit, which flashed on the drawn swords of
the officers acknowledging the salute of the guard as they entered; a
band was playing in the square within. It needed but a small effort of
imagination to reset the scene in the heart of the Middle Ages, or to
conceive of another reason besides the shape of the rock for a name
by which the fortress is known to the Spaniards. They call it “The
Crouching Lion.”
The thews and sinews of the said lion may be allegorically supposed
to consist of the six thousand soldiers who form the military
part of the population. The civil population divides itself into
English, Spaniards, Moors, Jews, Maltese, Genoese, and, by no means
least numerous, the native race, born on the rock, and known to the
contemptuous Briton as “scorpions.” Add to these main divisions a
sprinkling of Turks, Greeks, and Egyptians, and all the travellers and
sailors whom passing ships land temporarily upon the shore, and it will
be seen that the cosmopolitanism already noticed in the vegetation and
in the flags of the bay is fully borne out. Cosmopolitanism is the
distinguishing feature of the place. Our daily dealings are with Jews,
Turks, Saracens, and other infidels.
The narrow streets behind the sea-wall are perpetually thronged. There
the soldier’s wife, in her unmistakable English bonnet, bargains for
fish or oranges side by side with Spanish women, whose black mantillas
strike the observer always anew as the most graceful head-dress in the
world. There water-sellers drive little donkeys with picturesque loads
of three barrels apiece, and charcoal-sellers dispose of the fuel,
brought from a distance in big baskets covered with bay. There old
women, wrinkled and brown as their old dried fruits, sit under bella
sombra trees with a little stock outspread of dates and nuts and the
sweet roots of the palmetto, which are eaten by monkeys and the poorer
part of the population. Every costume may be seen, and every language
heard. It is hardly a figure of speech to say that the stones are worn
by the feet of the world. Its Moorish masters had a more comprehensive
thought than the Spaniards when they called it—as in some of their
histories—“The Mountain of Entrance.”
It is a strangely fascinating place. Each new figure met in the street
suggests new forms of civilisation; but of all the races over which our
flag flies here, there is naturally none which interests the Western
mind more than the Moor. What has become of him who was once the master
and civiliser? To find him we must go down to the market, and there
we shall see him, not at all pathetically interesting, broken down,
or depressed, but in appearance well-to-do and satisfied with daily
life. Even now he seems to bring in his white rolled turban and the
folds of his haïk, something of the sun and the dust of the desert. His
figure is usually fine, his carriage majestic, his face, burnt brown,
shines with fleeting expressions in which a vivacious good humour
prevails. He appeals to the eye as no unfit representative of a people
once dominant here, and will sell eggs with the gestures of a Haroun
Alraschid.
But it must be confessed that he seems to have kept only the form of
his ancestors. His occupation in Gibraltar is wholly commercial. It
is said that in Morocco a Moor who is rich dare not let his riches
be seen, lest he be “squeezed” for the benefit of the Sultan or
other superiors. Here the Moors who keep the poultry market are—with
deferential exception of staff officers—the best-dressed members of
the population. Their caftans are often beautiful both in material
and colour; the kumja or shirt which they wear fastened in front
with numberless little buttons, is sometimes a miracle of fine work;
their white draperies are spotless. They vary of course very much in
appearance, the common porters wearing only a rough woollen jelabeer,
or sack-like overcoat with a hood, and no turban; but the majority
of the better-class Moors, even when plainly dressed, have an air of
material prosperity which is unmistakable. The residents number between
two and three hundred. They have a consul here, and a part of his house
is used as a mosque.
But it is difficult to learn much about them. Their women and children
do not appear, nor do the Moors take any leading part in the life
of the town. The dead, no matter how poor, are always taken back to
Morocco for burial. It seems that they will have no dealings with us
except those of trade. As traders they serve us and we serve them,
perhaps even better, without much thought on either side of the
historic irony involved in the situation.
That this should be a practical possibility is among the facts which
count on the better side of English military domination. Personally, I
have no special sympathy with our war note upon the Mediterranean; but
it is beyond question that we have made Gibraltar characteristically
different from its neighbouring towns. It is clean, free from smells,
well drained, and well supplied with water,—this last no easy
matter when the position of the rock is considered. Roads have been
constructed upon every available level. There are good schools for the
people, and trade flourishes. Some part of its material value as a
market to the Spanish neighbourhood, may be estimated by the fact that
several thousand people come in with daily permits from the mainland,
transacting business here and going away again before the gates are
closed at gun fire. Notwithstanding this foreign element, added every
day to the already mixed population, the average of crime is very low.
Health generally is good. If any one wishes to compare Gibraltar to
Spanish neighbouring towns, he has but to ride across the lines. The
first thing that will happen to him will probably be to find his horse
splashing across the barrack square of Linia, through green puddles in
which every kind of rubbish lies festering; and as he goes on his way
through the rough and roadless country, where lovely nature seems to
have done all that she can do without help, he will have occasion for
many reflections on the benefits of freedom, individual enterprise, and
energy.
“Only speak English loud enough and it will be understood all over
the world!” I feel that I am speaking English a little too loud. The
charm of Gibraltar is perhaps to a certain extent made current by the
civilisation which we have brought with us; but it lies deeper than
anything England can do. I do not remember to have read in descriptions
of the place any allusions to the lovely and quite unique walks which
are to be taken within—or shall I rather say upon—its limits. I have
not space to describe them in any detail. But no one knows Gibraltar
who has not walked above the town. To mount from the narrow and crowded
streets through the town gardens, out and up over shoulders of rock
where the only growths are the wild herbs of the mountain, and the
prospect, widening with each level gained, includes the meeting-point
of two continents and two seas, is an experience which is to be had
nowhere else.
The mixed peoples left behind upon the shore and the rough wild way,
with its strewing of asphodel and olive, combine to bring Dantesque
readings to the memory and recall the climbing of another rock which,
“ever at the bottom down below is tiresome, but aye the more you mount
the less it hurts.” Here too the feet are lifted as they mount; and
when the summit is reached and, standing among crags where eagles have
their rests and the wind blows unimpeded from Asia Minor to America,
we see Europe upon the left hand and Africa upon the right, while the
Atlantic rolls from the sunset, and the sea of history itself spreads
eastward, there is no imagination so sluggish that it will not be
stirred, no mind which can altogether resist the influences moving it
to sympathy with the successive developments of civilisation. Egypt,
Phœnicia, Greece and Rome, Arab and Italian, Celt and Teuton, all start
to life upon the magic shores, all pass in one procession, and the
Mountain of Entrance is no longer British, but belongs to the races of
the world.
FLORA L. SHAW.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Narrow mountain passes with lofty precipices on either side are in
America called cañons.
[2] Pronounced “Veetee Layvoo.”
[3] The following narrative, written some years ago, now possesses a
melancholy interest from the fact that the scenes described were either
wholly destroyed or frightfully disfigured by the dreadful earthquake
of 1886.
[4] I think nearly sixty soldiers are buried here, but those I have
mentioned fell in the actual fight.
[5] Sometimes called the South Island, as in Chapter I. The real south
island (or Stewart Island), is so small that it is often left out of
account.
[6] Because the settled portion is in the south.
[7] The substance of the account here given is based on Wallace’s
“Australasia.”
[8] _Ghaut_ means properly a pass or passage. It is applied to mountain
passes, and hence to the mountains themselves. The Western and Eastern
Ghauts are names given to mountain ranges stretching along the eastern
and western coasts of India.
[9] Dr. Hunter.
[10] These numbers are exclusive of the native states.
[11] Only from a balloon could a sketch he made of the ascent to the
Bala Kila, or Upper Fort of Rajgurh; but some idea may be formed of it
by piling up, one on the top of the other, the accompanying sketches,
and supplying the intervals by steep-stepped rockwork, up which the
climber toils, till at last the great gateway at the summit rises
suddenly before him.
[12] The name is given because of the tendency of the stratum to break
up into bits like flat tiles.
[13] These are works belonging to the social literature of the Hindoos.
[14] Captain.
[15] This term is applied to a set of houses and offices within an
enclosure.
[16] [This, a specimen of “pidgin English,” that is, the dialect spoken
by Chinese and other Orientals in their dealings with English traders.
The plural is expressed not by a change of the word, like _horse_,
_horses_, but by the addition of the word “piece,” altered to “piecey.”
Thus “two-piecey-man” means “two men.”—ED.]
[17] A small Indian coin.
[18] The Carthaginians, however, in the time of their prosperity had
made long voyages in that direction, and had even rounded the Cape.
[19] The Zulus came from the north to their present country within
comparatively recent times.
[20] Livingstone’s Missionary Travels, 1857, p. 94.
[21] Or Bechuanas.
[22] The native spear.
[23] Missionary Travels, 1857, p. 23.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page |Changed from |Changed to
| |
127 |or years, going about without |for years, going about without
|any of the ordinary |any of the ordinary
| |
158 |be cured of rheumatic fewer, |be cured of rheumatic fever,
|we obtained clean |we obtained clean
| |
192 |Gilbert, Roper, and Flinder, |Gilbert, Roper, and Flinders,
|which flow constantly |which flow constantly
Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
Renumbered footnotes and moved them all to the end of the final chapter.
Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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