FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR A JOURNEY AROUND THE WORLD BY MARK TWAIN SAMUEL L. CLEMENS

 Part 4

CHAPTER XXX. 

Nature makes the locust with an appetite for crops; man would have madehim with an appetite for sand. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

We spent part of an afternoon and a night at sea, and reached Bluff, inNew Zealand, early in the morning. Bluff is at the bottom of the middleisland, and is away down south, nearly forty-seven degrees below theequator. It lies as far south of the line as Quebec lies north of it, and the climates of the two should be alike; but for some reason or otherit has not been so arranged. Quebec is hot in the summer and cold in thewinter, but Bluff's climate is less intense; the cold weather is not verycold, the hot weather is not very hot; and the difference between thehottest month and the coldest is but 17 degrees Fahrenheit. 

In New Zealand the rabbit plague began at Bluff. The man who introducedthe rabbit there was banqueted and lauded; but they would hang him, now, if they could get him. In England the natural enemy of the rabbit isdetested and persecuted; in the Bluff region the natural enemy of therabbit is honored, and his person is sacred. The rabbit's natural enemyin England is the poacher, in Bluff its natural enemy is the stoat, theweasel, the ferret, the cat, and the mongoose. In England any personbelow the Heir who is caught with a rabbit in his possession mustsatisfactorily explain how it got there, or he will suffer fine andimprisonment, together with extinction of his peerage; in Bluff, the catfound with a rabbit in its possession does not have to explain--everybodylooks the other way; the person caught noticing would suffer fine andimprisonment, with extinction of peerage. This is a sure way toundermine the moral fabric of a cat. Thirty years from now there willnot be a moral cat in New Zealand. Some think there is none there now. In England the poacher is watched, tracked, hunted--he dare not show hisface; in Bluff the cat, the weasel, the stoat, and the mongoose go up anddown, whither they will, unmolested. By a law of the legislature, postedwhere all may read, it is decreed that any person found in possession ofone of these creatures (dead) must satisfactorily explain thecircumstances or pay a fine of not less than L5, nor more than L20. Therevenue from this source is not large. Persons who want to pay a hundreddollars for a dead cat are getting rarer and rarer every day. This isbad, for the revenue was to go to the endowment of a University. Allgovernments are more or less short-sighted: in England they fine thepoacher, whereas he ought to be banished to New Zealand. New Zealandwould pay his way, and give him wages. 

It was from Bluff that we ought to have cut across to the west coast andvisited the New Zealand Switzerland, a land of superb scenery, made up ofsnowy grandeurs, anal mighty glaciers, and beautiful lakes; and overthere, also, are the wonderful rivals of the Norwegian and Alaskanfiords; and for neighbor, a waterfall of 1, 900 feet; but we were obligedto postpone the trip to some later and indefinite time. 

November 6. A lovely summer morning; brilliant blue sky. A few milesout from Invercargill, passed through vast level green expanses snowedover with sheep. Fine to see. The green, deep and very vivid sometimes;at other times less so, but delicate and lovely. A passenger reminds methat I am in "the England of the Far South. "

Dunedin, same date. The town justifies Michael Davitt's praises. The people are Scotch. They stopped here on their way from home toheaven-thinking they had arrived. The population is stated at 40, 000, byMalcolm Ross, journalist; stated by an M. P. At 60, 000. A journalistcannot lie. 

To the residence of Dr. Hockin. He has a fine collection of booksrelating to New Zealand; and his house is a museum of Maori art andantiquities. He has pictures and prints in color of many native chiefsof the past--some of them of note in history. There is nothing of thesavage in the faces; nothing could be finer than these men's features, nothing more intellectual than these faces, nothing more masculine, nothing nobler than their aspect. The aboriginals of Australia andTasmania looked the savage, but these chiefs looked like Romanpatricians. The tattooing in these portraits ought to suggest thesavage, of course, but it does not. The designs are so flowing andgraceful and beautiful that they are a most satisfactory decoration. Ittakes but fifteen minutes to get reconciled to the tattooing, and butfifteen more to perceive that it is just the thing. After that, theundecorated European face is unpleasant and ignoble. 

Dr. Hockiu gave us a ghastly curiosity--a lignified caterpillar with aplant growing out of the back of its neck--a plant with a slender stem 4inches high. It happened not by accident, but by design--Nature'sdesign. This caterpillar was in the act of loyally carrying out a lawinflicted upon him by Nature--a law purposely inflicted upon him to gethim into trouble--a law which was a trap; in pursuance of this law hemade the proper preparations for turning himself into a night-moth; thatis to say, he dug a little trench, a little grave, and then stretchedhimself out in it on his stomach and partially buried himself--thenNature was ready for him. She blew the spores of a peculiar fungusthrough the air with a purpose. Some of them fell into a crease in theback of the caterpillar's neck, and began to sprout and grow--for therewas soil there--he had not washed his neck. The roots forced themselvesdown into the worm's person, and rearward along through its body, suckingup the creature's juices for sap; the worm slowly died, and turned towood. And here he was now, a wooden caterpillar, with every detail ofhis former physique delicately and exactly preserved and perpetuated, andwith that stem standing up out of him for his monument--monumentcommemorative of his own loyalty and of Nature's unfair return for it. 

Nature is always acting like that. Mrs. X. Said (of course) that thecaterpillar was not conscious and didn't suffer. She should have knownbetter. No caterpillar can deceive Nature. If this one couldn't suffer, Nature would have known it and would have hunted up another caterpillar. Not that she would have let this one go, merely because it was defective. No. She would have waited and let him turn into a night-moth; and thenfried him in the candle. 

Nature cakes a fish's eyes over with parasites, so that it shan't be ableto avoid its enemies or find its food. She sends parasites into astar-fish's system, which clog up its prongs and swell them and make themso uncomfortable that the poor creature delivers itself from the prong toease its misery; and presently it has to part with another prong for thesake of comfort, and finally with a third. If it re-grows the prongs, the parasite returns and the same thing is repeated. And finally, whenthe ability to reproduce prongs is lost through age, that poor oldstar-fish can't get around any more, and so it dies of starvation. 

In Australia is prevalent a horrible disease due to an "unperfectedtapeworm. " Unperfected--that is what they call it, I do not know why, for it transacts business just as well as if it were finished andfrescoed and gilded, and all that. 

November 9. To the museum and public picture gallery with the presidentof the Society of Artists. Some fine pictures there, lent by the S. OfA. Several of them they bought, the others came to them by gift. Next, to the gallery of the S. Of A. --annual exhibition--just opened. Fine. Think of a town like this having two such collections as this, and aSociety of Artists. It is so all over Australasia. If it were amonarchy one might understand it. I mean an absolute monarchy, where itisn't necessary to vote money, but take it. Then art flourishes. Butthese colonies are republics--republics with a wide suffrage; voters ofboth sexes, this one of New Zealand. In republics, neither thegovernment nor the rich private citizen is much given to propagating art. All over Australasia pictures by famous European artists are bought forthe public galleries by the State and by societies of citizens. Livingcitizens--not dead ones. They rob themselves to give, not their heirs. This S. Of A. Here owns its buildings built it by subscription. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

The spirit of wrath--not the words--is the sin; and the spirit of wrathis cursing. We begin to swear before we can talk. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

November 11. On the road. This train-express goes twenty and one-halfmiles an hour, schedule time; but it is fast enough, the outlook upon seaand land is so interesting, and the cars so comfortable. They are notEnglish, and not American; they are the Swiss combination of the two. A narrow and railed porch along the side, where a person can walkup and down. A lavatory in each car. This is progress; this isnineteenth-century spirit. In New Zealand, these fast expresses run twicea week. It is well to know this if you want to be a bird and fly throughthe country at a 20-mile gait; otherwise you may start on one of the fivewrong days, and then you will get a train that can't overtake its ownshadow. 

By contrast, these pleasant cars call to mind the branch-road cars atMaryborough, Australia, and the passengers' talk about the branch-roadand the hotel. 

Somewhere on the road to Maryborough I changed for a while to asmoking-carriage. There were two gentlemen there; both riding backward, one at each end of the compartment. They were acquaintances of eachother. I sat down facing the one that sat at the starboard window. Hehad a good face, and a friendly look, and I judged from his dress that hewas a dissenting minister. He was along toward fifty. Of his own motionhe struck a match, and shaded it with his hand for me to light my cigar. I take the rest from my diary:

In order to start conversation I asked him something about Maryborough. He said, in a most pleasant--even musical voice, but with quiet andcultured decision:

"It's a charming town, with a hell of a hotel. "

I was astonished. It seemed so odd to hear a minister swear out loud. He went placidly on:

"It's the worst hotel in Australia. Well, one may go further, and say inAustralasia. "

"Bad beds?"

"No--none at all. Just sand-bags. "

"The pillows, too?"

"Yes, the pillows, too. Just sand. And not a good quality of sand. Itpacks too hard, and has never been screened. There is too much gravel init. It is like sleeping on nuts. "

"Isn't there any good sand?"

"Plenty of it. There is as good bed-sand in this region as the world canfurnish. Aerated sand--and loose; but they won't buy it. They wantsomething that will pack solid, and petrify. "

"How are the rooms?"

"Eight feet square; and a sheet of iced oil-cloth to step on in themorning when you get out of the sand-quarry. "

"As to lights?"

"Coal-oil lamp. "

"A good one?"

"No. It's the kind that sheds a gloom. "

"I like a lamp that burns all night. "

"This one won't. You must blow it out early. "

"That is bad. One might want it again in the night. Can't find it inthe dark. "

"There's no trouble; you can find it by the stench. "

"Wardrobe?"

"Two nails on the door to hang seven suits of clothes on if you've gotthem. "

"Bells?"

"There aren't any. "

"What do you do when you want service?"

"Shout. But it won't fetch anybody. "

"Suppose you want the chambermaid to empty the slopjar?"

"There isn't any slop-jar. The hotels don't keep them. That is, outsideof Sydney and Melbourne. "

"Yes, I knew that. I was only talking. It's the oddest thing inAustralia. Another thing: I've got to get up in the dark, in themorning, to take the 5 o'clock train. Now if the boots----"

"There isn't any. "

"Well, the porter. "

"There isn't any. "

"But who will call me?"

"Nobody. You'll call yourself. And you'll light yourself, too. There'll not be a light burning in the halls or anywhere. And if youdon't carry a light, you'll break your neck. "

"But who will help me down with my baggage?"

"Nobody. However, I will tell you what to do. In Maryborough there's anAmerican who has lived there half a lifetime; a fine man, and prosperousand popular. He will be on the lookout for you; you won't have anytrouble. Sleep in peace; he will rout you out, and you will make yourtrain. Where is your manager?"

"I left him at Ballarat, studying the language. And besides, he had togo to Melbourne and get us ready for New Zealand. I've not tried topilot myself before, and it doesn't look easy. "

"Easy! You've selected the very most difficult piece of railroad inAustralia for your experiment. There are twelve miles of this road whichno man without good executive ability can ever hope--tell me, have yougood executive ability? first-rate executive ability?"

"I--well, I think so, but----"

"That settles it. The tone of----oh, you wouldn't ever make it in theworld. However, that American will point you right, and you'll go. You've got tickets?"

"Yes--round trip; all the way to Sydney. "

"Ah, there it is, you see! You are going in the 5 o'clock byCastlemaine--twelve miles--instead of the 7. 15 by Ballarat--in order tosave two hours of fooling along the road. Now then, don't interrupt--letme have the floor. You're going to save the government a deal ofhauling, but that's nothing; your ticket is by Ballarat, and it isn'tgood over that twelve miles, and so----"

"But why should the government care which way I go?"

"Goodness knows! Ask of the winds that far away with fragments strewedthe sea, as the boy that stood on the burning deck used to say. Thegovernment chooses to do its railway business in its own way, and itdoesn't know as much about it as the French. In the beginning they triedidiots; then they imported the French--which was going backwards, yousee; now it runs the roads itself--which is going backwards again, yousee. Why, do you know, in order to curry favor with the voters, thegovernment puts down a road wherever anybody wants it--anybody that ownstwo sheep and a dog; and by consequence we've got, in the colony ofVictoria, 800 railway stations, and the business done at eighty of themdoesn't foot up twenty shillings a week. "

"Five dollars? Oh, come!"

"It's true. It's the absolute truth. "

"Why, there are three or four men on wages at every station. "

"I know it. And the station-business doesn't pay for the sheep-dip tosanctify their coffee with. It's just as I say. And accommodating?Why, if you shake a rag the train will stop in the midst of thewilderness to pick you up. All that kind of politics costs, you see. And then, besides, any town that has a good many votes and wants a finestation, gets it. Don't you overlook that Maryborough station, if youtake an interest in governmental curiosities. Why, you can put the wholepopulation of Maryborough into it, and give them a sofa apiece, and haveroom for more. You haven't fifteen stations in America that are as big, and you probably haven't five that are half as fine. Why, it'sperfectly elegant. And the clock! Everybody will show you the clock. There isn't a station in Europe that's got such a clock. It doesn'tstrike--and that's one mercy. It hasn't any bell; and as you'll havecause to remember, if you keep your reason, all Australia is simplybedamned with bells. On every quarter-hour, night and day, they jingle atiresome chime of half a dozen notes--all the clocks in town at once, allthe clocks in Australasia at once, and all the very same notes; first, downward scale: mi, re, do, sol--then upward scale: sol, si, re, do--downagain: mi, re, do, sol--up again: sol, si, re, do--then the clock--say atmidnight clang--clang--clang--clang--clang-clang--clang--clang--clang--clang----and, by that time you're--hello, what's all this excitementabout? a runaway--scared by the train; why, you think this train couldscare anything. Well, when they build eighty stations at a loss and alot of palace-stations and clocks like Maryborough's at another loss, thegovernment has got to economize somewhere hasn't it? Very well look atthe rolling stock. That's where they save the money. Why, that trainfrom Maryborough will consist of eighteen freight-cars and twopassenger-kennels; cheap, poor, shabby, slovenly; no drinking water, nosanitary arrangements, every imaginable inconvenience; and slow?--oh, thegait of cold molasses; no air-brake, no springs, and they'll jolt yourhead off every time they start or stop. That's where they make theirlittle economies, you see. They spend tons of money to house youpalatially while you wait fifteen minutes for a train, then degrade youto six hours' convict-transportation to get the foolish outlay back. What a rational man really needs is discomfort while he's waiting, thenhis journey in a nice train would be a grateful change. But no, thatwould be common sense--and out of place in a government. And then, besides, they save in that other little detail, you know--repudiate theirown tickets, and collect a poor little illegitimate extra shilling out ofyou for that twelve miles, and----"

"Well, in any case----"

"Wait--there's more. Leave that American out of the account and see whatwould happen. There's nobody on hand to examine your ticket when youarrive. But the conductor will come and examine it when the train isready to start. It is too late to buy your extra ticket now; the traincan't wait, and won't. You must climb out. "

"But can't I pay the conductor?"

"No, he is not authorized to receive the money, and he won't. You mustclimb out. There's no other way. I tell you, the railway management isabout the only thoroughly European thing here--continentally European Imean, not English. It's the continental business in perfection; downfine. Oh, yes, even to the peanut-commerce of weighing baggage. "

The train slowed up at his place. As he stepped out he said:

"Yes, you'll like Maryborough. Plenty of intelligence there. It's acharming place--with a hell of a hotel. "

Then he was gone. I turned to the other gentleman:

"Is your friend in the ministry?"

"No--studying for it. "

CHAPTER XXXII. 

The man with a new idea is a Crank until the idea succeeds. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

It was Junior England all the way to Christchurch--in fact, just agarden. And Christchurch is an English town, with an English-park annex, and a winding English brook just like the Avon--and named the Avon; butfrom a man, not from Shakespeare's river. Its grassy banks are borderedby the stateliest and most impressive weeping willows to be found in theworld, I suppose. They continue the line of a great ancestor; they weregrown from sprouts of the willow that sheltered Napoleon's grave in St. Helena. It is a settled old community, with all the serenities, thegraces, the conveniences, and the comforts of the ideal home-life. If ithad an established Church and social inequality it would be England overagain with hardly a lack. 

In the museum we saw many curious and interesting things; among others afine native house of the olden time, with all the details true to thefacts, and the showy colors right and in their proper places. All thedetails: the fine mats and rugs and things; the elaborate and wonderfulwood carvings--wonderful, surely, considering who did them wonderful indesign and particularly in execution, for they were done with admirablesharpness and exactness, and yet with no better tools than flint and jadeand shell could furnish; and the totem-posts were there, ancestor aboveancestor, with tongues protruded and hands clasped comfortably overbellies containing other people's ancestors--grotesque and ugly devils, every one, but lovingly carved, and ably; and the stuffed natives werepresent, in their proper places, and looking as natural as life; and thehousekeeping utensils were there, too, and close at hand the carved andfinely ornamented war canoe. 

And we saw little jade gods, to hang around the neck--not everybody's, but sacred to the necks of natives of rank. Also jade weapons, and manykinds of jade trinkets--all made out of that excessively hard stonewithout the help of any tool of iron. And some of these things had smallround holes bored through them--nobody knows how it was done; a mystery, a lost art. I think it was said that if you want such a hole bored in apiece of jade now, you must send it to London or Amsterdam where thelapidaries are. 

Also we saw a complete skeleton of the giant Moa. It stood ten feethigh, and must have been a sight to look at when it was a living bird. It was a kicker, like the ostrich; in fight it did not use its beak, butits foot. It must have been a convincing kind of kick. If a person hadhis back to the bird and did not see who it was that did it, he wouldthink he had been kicked by a wind-mill. 

There must have been a sufficiency of moas in the old forgotten days whenhis breed walked the earth. His bones are found in vast masses, allcrammed together in huge graves. They are not in caves, but in theground. Nobody knows how they happened to get concentrated there. Mind, they are bones, not fossils. This means that the moa has not beenextinct very long. Still, this is the only New Zealand creature whichhas no mention in that otherwise comprehensive literature, the nativelegends. This is a significant detail, and is good circumstantialevidence that the moa has been extinct 500 years, since the Maori hashimself--by tradition--been in New Zealand since the end of the fifteenthcentury. He came from an unknown land--the first Maori did--then sailedback in his canoe and brought his tribe, and they removed the aboriginalpeoples into the sea and into the ground and took the land. That is thetradition. That that first Maori could come, is understandable, foranybody can come to a place when he isn't trying to; but how thatdiscoverer found his way back home again without a compass is his secret, and he died with it in him. His language indicates that he came fromPolynesia. He told where he came from, but he couldn't spell well, soone can't find the place on the map, because people who could spellbetter than he could, spelt the resemblance all out of it when they madethe map. However, it is better to have a map that is spelt right thanone that has information in it. 

In New Zealand women have the right to vote for members of thelegislature, but they cannot be members themselves. The law extendingthe suffrage to them event into effect in 1893. The population ofChristchurch (census of 1891) was 31, 454. The first election under thelaw was held in November of that year. Number of men who voted, 6, 313;number of women who voted, 5, 989. These figures ought to convince usthat women are not as indifferent about politics as some people wouldhave us believe. In New Zealand as a whole, the estimated adult femalepopulation was 139, 915; of these 109, 461 qualified and registered theirnames on the rolls 78. 23 per cent. Of the whole. Of these, 90, 290 wentto the polls and voted--85. 18 per cent. Do men ever turn out better thanthat--in America or elsewhere? Here is a remark to the other sex'scredit, too--I take it from the official report:

"A feature of the election was the orderliness and sobriety of thepeople. Women were in no way molested. "

At home, a standing argument against woman suffrage has always been thatwomen could not go to the polls without being insulted. The argumentsagainst woman suffrage have always taken the easy form of prophecy. Theprophets have been prophesying ever since the woman's rights movementbegan in 1848--and in forty-seven years they have never scored a hit. 

Men ought to begin to feel a sort of respect for their mothers and wivesand sisters by this time. The women deserve a change of attitude likethat, for they have wrought well. In forty-seven years they have sweptan imposingly large number of unfair laws from the statute books ofAmerica. In that brief time these serfs have set themselves freeessentially. Men could not have done so much for themselves in that timewithout bloodshed--at least they never have; and that is argument thatthey didn't know how. The women have accomplished a peaceful revolution, and a very beneficent one; and yet that has not convinced the average manthat they are intelligent, and have courage and energy and perseveranceand fortitude. It takes much to convince the average man of anything;and perhaps nothing can ever make him realize that he is the averagewoman's inferior--yet in several important details the evidences seems toshow that that is what he is. Man has ruled the human race from thebeginning--but he should remember that up to the middle of the presentcentury it was a dull world, and ignorant and stupid; but it is not sucha dull world now, and is growing less and less dull all the time. Thisis woman's opportunity--she has had none before. I wonder where man willbe in another forty-seven years?

In the New Zealand law occurs this: "The word person wherever it occursthroughout the Act includes woman. "

That is promotion, you see. By that enlargement of the word, the matronwith the garnered wisdom and experience of fifty years becomes at onejump the political equal of her callow kid of twenty-one. The whitepopulation of the colony is 626, 000, the Maori population is 42, 000. Thewhites elect seventy members of the House of Representatives, the Maorisfour. The Maori women vote for their four members. 

November 16. After four pleasant days in Christchurch, we are to leaveat midnight to-night. Mr. Kinsey gave me an ornithorhynchus, and I amtaming it. 

Sunday, 17th. Sailed last night in the Flora, from Lyttelton. 

So we did. I remember it yet. The people who sailed in the Flora thatnight may forget some other things if they live a good while, but theywill not live long, enough to forget that. The Flora is about theequivalent of a cattle-scow; but when the Union Company find itinconvenient to keep a contract and lucrative to break it, they smuggleher into passenger service, and "keep the change. "

They give no notice of their projected depredation; you innocently buytickets for the advertised passenger boat, and when you get down toLyttelton at midnight, you find that they have substituted the scow. They have plenty of good boats, but no competition--and that is thetrouble. It is too late now to make other arrangements if you haveengagements ahead. 

It is a powerful company, it has a monopoly, and everybody is afraid ofit--including the government's representative, who stands at the end ofthe stage-plank to tally the passengers and see that no boat receives agreater number than the law allows her to carry. This conveniently-blindrepresentative saw the scow receive a number which was far in excess ofits privilege, and winked a politic wink and said nothing. Thepassengers bore with meekness the cheat which had been put upon them, andmade no complaint. 

It was like being at home in America, where abused passengers act in justthe same way. A few days before, the Union Company had discharged acaptain for getting a boat into danger, and had advertised this act asevidence of its vigilance in looking after the safety of the passengers--for thugging a captain costs the company nothing, but when opportunityoffered to send this dangerously overcrowded tub to sea and save a littletrouble and a tidy penny by it, it forgot to worry about the passenger'ssafety. 

The first officer told me that the Flora was privileged to carry 125passengers. She must have had all of 200 on board. All the cabins werefull, all the cattle-stalls in the main stable were full, the spaces atthe heads of companionways were full, every inch of floor and table inthe swill-room was packed with sleeping men and remained so until theplace was required for breakfast, all the chairs and benches on thehurricane deck were occupied, and still there were people who had to walkabout all night!

If the Flora had gone down that night, half of the people on board wouldhave been wholly without means of escape. 

The owners of that boat were not technically guilty of conspiracy tocommit murder, but they were morally guilty of it. 

I had a cattle-stall in the main stable--a cavern fitted up with a longdouble file of two-storied bunks, the files separated by a calicopartition--twenty men and boys on one side of it, twenty women and girlson the other. The place was as dark as the soul of the Union Company, and smelt like a kennel. When the vessel got out into the heavy seas andbegan to pitch and wallow, the cavern prisoners became immediatelyseasick, and then the peculiar results that ensued laid all my previousexperiences of the kind well away in the shade. And the wails, thegroans, the cries, the shrieks, the strange ejaculations--it waswonderful. 

The women and children and some of the men and boys spent the night inthat place, for they were too ill to leave it; but the rest of us got up, by and by, and finished the night on the hurricane-deck. 

That boat was the foulest I was ever in; and the smell of the breakfastsaloon when we threaded our way among the layers of steaming passengersstretched upon its floor and its tables was incomparable for efficiency. 

A good many of us got ashore at the first way-port to seek another ship. After a wait of three hours we got good rooms in the Mahinapua, a weelittle bridal-parlor of a boat--only 205 tons burthen; clean andcomfortable; good service; good beds; good table, and no crowding. Theseas danced her about like a duck, but she was safe and capable. 

Next morning early she went through the French Pass--a narrow gateway ofrock, between bold headlands--so narrow, in fact, that it seemed no widerthan a street. The current tore through there like a mill-race, and theboat darted through like a telegram. The passage was made in half aminute; then we were in a wide place where noble vast eddies sweptgrandly round and round in shoal water, and I wondered what they would dowith the little boat. They did as they pleased with her. They pickedher up and flung her around like nothing and landed her gently on thesolid, smooth bottom of sand--so gently, indeed, that we barely felt hertouch it, barely felt her quiver when she came to a standstill. Thewater was as clear as glass, the sand on the bottom was vividly distinct, and the fishes seemed to be swimming about in nothing. Fishing lineswere brought out, but before we could bait the hooks the boat was off andaway again. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Let us be grateful to Adam our benefactor. He cut us out of the"blessing of idleness, " and won for us the "curse of labor. " --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

We soon reached the town of Nelson, and spent the most of the day there, visiting acquaintances and driving with them about the garden--the wholeregion is a garden, excepting the scene of the "Maungatapu Murders, " ofthirty years ago. That is a wild place--wild and lonely; an ideal placefor a murder. It is at the base of a vast, rugged, densely timberedmountain. In the deep twilight of that forest solitude four desperaterascals--Burgess, Sullivan, Levy, and Kelley--ambushed themselves besidethe mountain-trail to murder and rob four travelers--Kempthorne, Mathieu, Dudley, and De Pontius, the latter a New Yorker. A harmless old laboringman came wandering along, and as his presence was an embarrassment, theychoked him, hid him, and then resumed their watch for the four. They hadto wait a while, but eventually everything turned out as they desired. 

That dark episode is the one large event in the history of Nelson. Thefame of it traveled far. Burgess made a confession. It is a remarkablepaper. For brevity, succinctness, and concentration, it is perhapswithout its peer in the literature of murder. There are no waste wordsin it; there is no obtrusion of matter not pertinent to the occasion, norany departure from the dispassionate tone proper to a formal businessstatement--for that is what it is: a business statement of a murder, bythe chief engineer of it, or superintendent, or foreman, or whatever onemay prefer to call him. 

 "We were getting impatient, when we saw four men and a pack-horse coming. I left my cover and had a look at the men, for Levy had told me that Mathieu was a small man and wore a large beard, and that it was a chestnut horse. I said, 'Here they come. ' They were then a good distance away; I took the caps off my gun, and put fresh ones on. I said, 'You keep where you are, I'll put them up, and you give me your gun while you tie them. ' It was arranged as I have described. The men came; they arrived within about fifteen yards when I stepped up and said, 'Stand! bail up!' That means all of them to get together. I made them fall back on the upper side of the road with their faces up the range, and Sullivan brought me his gun, and then tied their hands behind them. The horse was very quiet all the time, he did not move. When they were all tied, Sullivan took the horse up the hill, and put him in the bush; he cut the rope and let the swags--[A "swag" is a kit, a pack, small baggage. ]--fall on the ground, and then came to me. We then marched the men down the incline to the creek; the water at this time barely running. Up this creek we took the men; we went, I daresay, five or six hundred yards up it, which took us nearly half-an-hour to accomplish. Then we turned to the right up the range; we went, I daresay, one hundred and fifty yards from the creek, and there we sat down with the men. I said to Sullivan, 'Put down your gun and search these men, ' which he did. I asked them their several names; they told me. I asked them if they were expected at Nelson. They said, 'No. ' If such their lives would have been spared. In money we took L60 odd. I said, 'Is this all you have? You had better tell me. ' Sullivan said, 'Here is a bag of gold. ' I said, 'What's on that pack-horse? Is there any gold ?' when Kempthorne said, 'Yes, my gold is in the portmanteau, and I trust you will not take it all. ' 'Well, ' I said, 'we must take you away one at a time, because the range is steep just here, and then we will let you go. ' They said, 'All right, ' most cheerfully. We tied their feet, and took Dudley with us; we went about sixty yards with him. This was through a scrub. It was arranged the night previously that it would be best to choke them, in case the report of the arms might be heard from the road, and if they were missed they never would be found. So we tied a handkerchief over his eyes, when Sullivan took the sash off his waist, put it round his neck, and so strangled him. Sullivan, after I had killed the old laboring man, found fault with the way he was choked. He said, 'The next we do I'll show you my way. ' I said, 'I have never done such a thing before. I have shot a man, but never choked one. ' We returned to the others, when Kempthorne said, 'What noise was that?' I said it was caused by breaking through the scrub. This was taking too much time, so it was agreed to shoot them. With that I said, 'We'll take you no further, but separate you, and then loose one of you, and he can relieve the others. ' So with that, Sullivan took De Pontius to the left of where Kempthorne was sitting. I took Mathieu to the right. I tied a strap round his legs, and shot him with a revolver. He yelled, I ran from him with my gun in my hand, I sighted Kempthorne, who had risen to his feet. I presented the gun, and shot him behind the right ear; his life's blood welled from him, and he died instantaneously. Sullivan had shot. De Pontius in the meantime, and then came to me. I said, 'Look to Mathieu, ' indicating the spot where he lay. He shortly returned and said, 'I had to "chiv" that fellow, he was not dead, ' a cant word, meaning that he had to stab him. Returning to the road we passed where De Pontius lay and was dead. Sullivan said, 'This is the digger, the others were all storekeepers; this is the digger, let's cover him up, for should the others be found, they'll think he done it and sloped, ' meaning he had gone. So with that we threw all the stones on him, and then left him. This bloody work took nearly an hour and a half from the time we stopped the men. "

Anyone who reads that confession will think that the man who wrote it wasdestitute of emotions, destitute of feeling. That is partly true. Asregarded others he was plainly without feeling--utterly cold andpitiless; but as regarded himself the case was different. While he carednothing for the future of the murdered men, he cared a great deal for hisown. It makes one's flesh creep to read the introduction to hisconfession. The judge on the bench characterized it as "scandalouslyblasphemous, " and it certainly reads so, but Burgess meant no blasphemy. He was merely a brute, and whatever he said or wrote was sure to exposethe fact. His redemption was a very real thing to him, and he was asjubilantly happy on the gallows as ever was Christian martyr at thestake. We dwellers in this world are strangely made, and mysteriouslycircumstanced. We have to suppose that the murdered men are lost, andthat Burgess is saved; but we cannot suppress our natural regrets. 

 "Written in my dungeon drear this 7th of August, in the year of Grace, 1866. To God be ascribed all power and glory in subduing the rebellious spirit of a most guilty wretch, who has been brought, through the instrumentality of a faithful follower of Christ, to see his wretched and guilty state, inasmuch as hitherto he has led an awful and wretched life, and through the assurance of this faithful soldier of Christ, he has been led and also believes that Christ will yet receive and cleanse him from all his deep-dyed and bloody sins. I lie under the imputation which says, 'Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. ' On this promise I rely. "

We sailed in the afternoon late, spent a few hours at New Plymouth, thensailed again and reached Auckland the next day, November 20th, andremained in that fine city several days. Its situation is commanding, and the sea-view is superb. There are charming drives all about, and bycourtesy of friends we had opportunity to enjoy them. From the grassycrater-summit of Mount Eden one's eye ranges over a grand sweep andvariety of scenery--forests clothed in luxuriant foliage, rolling greenfields, conflagrations of flowers, receding and dimming stretches ofgreen plain, broken by lofty and symmetrical old craters--then the bluebays twinkling and sparkling away into the dreamy distances where themountains loom spiritual in their veils of haze. 

It is from Auckland that one goes to Rotorua, the region of the renownedhot lakes and geysers--one of the chief wonders of New Zealand; but I wasnot well enough to make the trip. The government has a sanitorium there, and everything is comfortable for the tourist and the invalid. Thegovernment's official physician is almost over-cautious in his estimatesof the efficacy of the baths, when he is talking about rheumatism, gout, paralysis, and such things; but when he is talking about theeffectiveness of the waters in eradicating the whisky-habit, he seems tohave no reserves. The baths will cure the drinking-habit no matter howchronic it is--and cure it so effectually that even the desire to drinkintoxicants will come no more. There should be a rush from Europe andAmerica to that place; and when the victims of alcoholism find out whatthey can get by going there, the rush will begin. 

The Thermal-springs District of New Zealand comprises an area of upwardsof 600, 000 acres, or close on 1, 000 square miles. Rotorua is thefavorite place. It is the center of a rich field of lake and mountainscenery; from Rotorua as a base the pleasure-seeker makes excursions. The crowd of sick people is great, and growing. Rotorua is the Carlsbadof Australasia. 

It is from Auckland that the Kauri gum is shipped. For a long time nowabout 8, 000 tons of it have been brought into the town per year. It isworth about $300 per ton, unassorted; assorted, the finest grades areworth about $1, 000. It goes to America, chiefly. It is in lumps, and ishard and smooth, and looks like amber--the light-colored like new amber, and the dark brown like rich old amber. And it has the pleasant feel ofamber, too. Some of the light-colored samples were a tolerably faircounterfeit of uncut South African diamonds, they were so perfectlysmooth and polished and transparent. It is manufactured into varnish; avarnish which answers for copal varnish and is cheaper. 

The gum is dug up out of the ground; it has been there for ages. It isthe sap of the Kauri tree. Dr. Campbell of Auckland told me he sent acargo of it to England fifty years ago, but nothing came of the venture. Nobody knew what to do with it; so it was sold at 15 a ton, to lightfires with. 

November 26--3 P. M. , sailed. Vast and beautiful harbor. Land all aboutfor hours. Tangariwa, the mountain that "has the same shape from everypoint of view. " That is the common belief in Auckland. And so it has--from every point of view except thirteen. Perfect summer weather. Largeschool of whales in the distance. Nothing could be daintier than thepuffs of vapor they spout up, when seen against the pink glory of thesinking sun, or against the dark mass of an island reposing in the deepblue shadow of a storm cloud . . . . Great Barrier rock standing upout of the sea away to the left. Sometime ago a ship hit it full speedin a fog--20 miles out of her course--140 lives lost; the captaincommitted suicide without waiting a moment. He knew that, whether he wasto blame or not, the company owning the vessel would discharge him andmake a devotion--to--passengers' safety advertisement out of it, and hischance to make a livelihood would be permanently gone. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Let us not be too particular. It is better to have old second-handdiamonds than none at all. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

November 27. To-day we reached Gisborne, and anchored in a big bay;there was a heavy sea on, so we remained on board. 

We were a mile from shore; a little steam-tug put out from the land; shewas an object of thrilling interest; she would climb to the summit of abillow, reel drunkenly there a moment, dim and gray in the driving stormof spindrift, then make a plunge like a diver and remain out of sightuntil one had given her up, then up she would dart again, on a steepslant toward the sky, shedding Niagaras of water from her forecastle--andthis she kept up, all the way out to us. She brought twenty-fivepassengers in her stomach--men and women mainly a traveling dramaticcompany. In sight on deck were the crew, in sou'westers, yellowwaterproof canvas suits, and boots to the thigh. The deck was neverquiet for a moment, and seldom nearer level than a ladder, and noble werethe seas which leapt aboard and went flooding aft. We rove a long lineto the yard-arm, hung a most primitive basketchair to it and swung it outinto the spacious air of heaven, and there it swayed, pendulum-fashion, waiting for its chance--then down it shot, skillfully aimed, and wasgrabbed by the two men on the forecastle. A young fellow belonging toour crew was in the chair, to be a protection to the lady-comers. Atonce a couple of ladies appeared from below, took seats in his lap, wehoisted them into the sky, waited a moment till the roll of the shipbrought them in overhead, then we lowered suddenly away, and seized thechair as it struck the deck. We took the twenty-five aboard, anddelivered twenty-five into the tug--among them several aged ladies, andone blind one--and all without accident. It was a fine piece of work. 

Ours is a nice ship, roomy, comfortable, well-ordered, and satisfactory. Now and then we step on a rat in a hotel, but we have had no rats onshipboard lately; unless, perhaps in the Flora; we had more seriousthings to think of there, and did not notice. I have noticed that it isonly in ships and hotels which still employ the odious Chinese gong, thatyou find rats. The reason would seem to be, that as a rat cannot tellthe time of day by a clock, he won't stay where he cannot find out whendinner is ready. 

November 29. The doctor tells me of several old drunkards, onespiritless loafer, and several far-gone moral wrecks who have beenreclaimed by the Salvation Army and have remained staunch people and hardworkers these two years. Wherever one goes, these testimonials to theArmy's efficiency are forthcoming . . . . This morning we had one ofthose whizzing green Ballarat flies in the room, with his stunningbuzz-saw noise--the swiftest creature in the world except thelightning-flash. It is a stupendous force that is stored up in thatlittle body. If we had it in a ship in the same proportion, we could spinfrom Liverpool to New York in the space of an hour--the time it takes toeat luncheon. The New Zealand express train is called the Ballarat Fly. . . . Bad teeth in the colonies. A citizen told me they don't haveteeth filled, but pull them out and put in false ones, and that now andthen one sees a young lady with a full set. She is fortunate. I wish Ihad been born with false teeth and a false liver and false carbuncles. I should get along better. 

December 2. Monday. Left Napier in the Ballarat Fly the one that goestwice a week. From Napier to Hastings, twelve miles; time, fifty-fiveminutes--not so far short of thirteen miles an hour . . . . A perfectsummer day; cool breeze, brilliant sky, rich vegetation. Two or threetimes during the afternoon we saw wonderfully dense and beautifulforests, tumultuously piled skyward on the broken highlands--not thecustomary roof-like slant of a hillside, where the trees are all the sameheight. The noblest of these trees were of the Kauri breed, we were toldthe timber that is now furnishing the wood-paving for Europe, and is thebest of all wood for that purpose. Sometimes these towering upheavals offorestry were festooned and garlanded with vine-cables, and sometimes themasses of undergrowth were cocooned in another sort of vine of a delicatecobwebby texture--they call it the "supplejack, " I think. Tree fernseverywhere--a stem fifteen feet high, with a graceful chalice offern-fronds sprouting from its top--a lovely forest ornament. And therewas a ten-foot reed with a flowing suit of what looked like yellow hairhanging from its upper end. I do not know its name, but if there is sucha thing as a scalp-plant, this is it. A romantic gorge, with a brookflowing in its bottom, approaching Palmerston North. 

Waitukurau. Twenty minutes for luncheon. With me sat my wife anddaughter, and my manager, Mr. Carlyle Smythe. I sat at the head of thetable, and could see the right-hand wall; the others had their backs toit. On that wall, at a good distance away, were a couple of framedpictures. I could not see them clearly, but from the groupings of thefigures I fancied that they represented the killing of Napoleon III's sonby the Zulus in South Africa. I broke into the conversation, which wasabout poetry and cabbage and art, and said to my wife--

"Do you remember when the news came to Paris----"

"Of the killing of the Prince?"

(Those were the very words I had in my mind. ) "Yes, but what Prince?"

"Napoleon. Lulu. "

"What made you think of that?"

"I don't know. "

There was no collusion. She had not seen the pictures, and they had notbeen mentioned. She ought to have thought of some recent news that cameto Paris, for we were but seven months from there and had been livingthere a couple of years when we started on this trip; but instead of thatshe thought of an incident of our brief sojourn in Paris of sixteen yearsbefore. 

Here was a clear case of mental telegraphy; of mind-transference; of mymind telegraphing a thought into hers. How do I know? Because Itelegraphed an error. For it turned out that the pictures did notrepresent the killing of Lulu at all, nor anything connected with Lulu. She had to get the error from my head--it existed nowhere else. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Autocrat of Russia possesses more power than any other man in theearth; but he cannot stop a sneeze. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

WAUGANIUI, December 3. A pleasant trip, yesterday, per Ballarat Fly. Four hours. I do not know the distance, but it must have been well alongtoward fifty miles. The Fly could have spun it out to eight hours andnot discommoded me; for where there is comfort, and no need for hurry, speed is of no value--at least to me; and nothing that goes on wheels canbe more comfortable, more satisfactory, than the New Zealand trains. Outside of America there are no cars that are so rationally devised. When you add the constant presence of charming scenery and the nearlyconstant absence of dust--well, if one is not content then, he ought toget out and walk. That would change his spirit, perhaps? I think so. At the end of an hour you would find him waiting humbly beside the track, and glad to be taken aboard again. 

Much horseback riding, in and around this town; many comely girls in cooland pretty summer gowns; much Salvation Army; lots of Maoris; the facesand bodies of some of the old ones very tastefully frescoed. MaoriCouncil House over the river-large, strong, carpeted from end to end withmatting, and decorated with elaborate wood carvings, artisticallyexecuted. The Maoris were very polite. 

I was assured by a member of the House of Representatives that the nativerace is not decreasing, but actually increasing slightly. It is anotherevidence that they are a superior breed of savages. I do not call tomind any savage race that built such good houses, or such strong andingenious and scientific fortresses, or gave so much attention toagriculture, or had military arts and devices which so nearly approachedthe white man's. These, taken together with their high abilities inboat-building, and their tastes and capacities in the ornamental artsmodify their savagery to a semi-civilization--or at least to, a quarter-civilization. 

It is a compliment to them that the British did not exterminate them, asthey did the Australians and the Tasmanians, but were content withsubduing them, and showed no desire to go further. And it is anothercompliment to them that the British did not take the whole of theirchoicest lands, but left them a considerable part, and then went furtherand protected them from the rapacities of landsharks--a protection whichthe New Zealand Government still extends to them. And it is stillanother compliment to the Maoris that the Government allows nativerepresentation--in both the legislature and the cabinet, and gives bothsexes the vote. And in doing these things the Government alsocompliments itself; it has not been the custom of the world forconquerors to act in this large spirit toward the conquered. 

The highest class white men Who lived among the Maoris in the earliesttime had a high opinion of them and a strong affection for them. Amongthe whites of this sort was the author of "Old New Zealand;" and Dr. Campbell of Auckland was another. Dr. Campbell was a close friend ofseveral chiefs, and has many pleasant things to say of their fidelity, their magnanimity, and their generosity. Also of their quaint notionsabout the white man's queer civilization, and their equally quaintcomments upon it. One of them thought the missionary had got everythingwrong end first and upside down. "Why, he wants us to stop worshipingand supplicating the evil gods, and go to worshiping and supplicating theGood One! There is no sense in that. A good god is not going to do usany harm. "

The Maoris had the tabu; and had it on a Polynesian scale ofcomprehensiveness and elaboration. Some of its features could have beenimportations from India and Judea. Neither the Maori nor the Hindoo ofcommon degree could cook by a fire that a person of higher caste hadused, nor could the high Maori or high Hindoo employ fire that had serveda man of low grade; if a low-grade Maori or Hindoo drank from a vesselbelonging to a high-grade man, the vessel was defiled, and had to bedestroyed. There were other resemblances between Maori tabu and Hindoocaste-custom. 

Yesterday a lunatic burst into my quarters and warned me that the Jesuitswere going to "cook" (poison) me in my food, or kill me on the stage atnight. He said a mysterious sign was visible upon my posters and meantmy death. He said he saved Rev. Mr. Haweis's life by warning him thatthere were three men on his platform who would kill him if he took hiseyes off them for a moment during his lecture. The same men were in myaudience last night, but they saw that he was there. "Will they be thereagain to-night?" He hesitated; then said no, he thought they wouldrather take a rest and chance the poison. This lunatic has no delicacy. But he was not uninteresting. He told me a lot of things. He said hehad "saved so many lecturers in twenty years, that they put him in theasylum. " I think he has less refinement than any lunatic I have met. 

December 8. A couple of curious war-monuments here at Wanganui. One isin honor of white men "who fell in defence of law and order againstfanaticism and barbarism. " Fanaticism. We Americans are English inblood, English in speech, English in religion, English in the essentialsof our governmental system, English in the essentials of ourcivilization; and so, let us hope, for the honor of the blend, for thehonor of the blood, for the honor of the race, that that word got therethrough lack of heedfulness, and will not be suffered to remain. If youcarve it at Thermopylae, or where Winkelried died, or upon Bunker Hillmonument, and read it again "who fell in defence of law and order againstfanaticism" you will perceive what the word means, and how mischosen itis. Patriotism is Patriotism. Calling it Fanaticism cannot degrade it;nothing can degrade it. Even though it be a political mistake, and athousand times a political mistake, that does not affect it; it ishonorable always honorable, always noble--and privileged to hold its headup and look the nations in the face. It is right to praise these bravewhite men who fell in the Maori war--they deserve it; but the presence ofthat word detracts from the dignity of their cause and their deeds, andmakes them appear to have spilt their blood in a conflict with ignoblemen, men not worthy of that costly sacrifice. But the men were worthy. It was no shame to fight them. They fought for their homes, they foughtfor their country; they bravely fought and bravely fell; and it wouldtake nothing from the honor of the brave Englishmen who lie under themonument, but add to it, to say that they died in defense of English lawsand English homes against men worthy of the sacrifice--the Maoripatriots. 

The other monument cannot be rectified. Except with dynamite. It is amistake all through, and a strangely thoughtless one. It is a monumenterected by white men to Maoris who fell fighting with the whites andagainst their own people, in the Maori war. "Sacred to the memory of thebrave men who fell on the 14th of May, 1864, " etc. On one side are thenames of about twenty Maoris. It is not a fancy of mine; the monumentexists. I saw it. It is an object-lesson to the rising generation. Itinvites to treachery, disloyalty, unpatriotism. Its lesson, in frankterms is, "Desert your flag, slay your people, burn their homes, shameyour nationality--we honor such. "

December 9. Wellington. Ten hours from Wanganui by the Fly. December 12. It is a fine city and nobly situated. A busy place, andfull of life and movement. Have spent the three days partly in walkingabout, partly in enjoying social privileges, and largely in idling aroundthe magnificent garden at Hutt, a little distance away, around the shore. I suppose we shall not see such another one soon. 

We are packing to-night for the return-voyage to Australia. Our stay inNew Zealand has been too brief; still, we are not unthankful for theglimpse which we have had of it. 

The sturdy Maoris made the settlement of the country by the whites ratherdifficult. Not at first--but later. At first they welcomed the whites, and were eager to trade with them--particularly for muskets; for theirpastime was internecine war, and they greatly preferred the white man'sweapons to their own. War was their pastime--I use the word advisedly. They often met and slaughtered each other just for a lark, and when therewas no quarrel. The author of "Old New Zealand" mentions a case where avictorious army could have followed up its advantage and exterminated theopposing army, but declined to do it; explaining naively that "if we didthat, there couldn't be any more fighting. " In another battle one armysent word that it was out of ammunition, and would be obliged to stopunless the opposing army would send some. It was sent, and the fightwent on. 

In the early days things went well enough. The natives sold land withoutclearly understanding the terms of exchange, and the whites bought itwithout being much disturbed about the native's confusion of mind. Butby and by the Maori began to comprehend that he was being wronged; thenthere was trouble, for he was not the man to swallow a wrong and go asideand cry about it. He had the Tasmanian's spirit and endurance, and anotable share of military science besides; and so he rose against theoppressor, did this gallant "fanatic, " and started a war that was notbrought to a definite end until more than a generation had sped. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

There are several good protections against temptations, but the surest iscowardice. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwep ispronounced Jackson. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

Friday, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p. M. , in the 'Mararoa'. Summer seasand a good ship-life has nothing better. 

Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and sunny and smooth; the sea aluminous Mediterranean blue . . . . One lolls in a long chair all dayunder deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless content. Onedoes not read prose at such a time, but poetry. I have been reading thepoems of Mrs. Julia A. Moore, again, and I find in them the same graceand melody that attracted me when they were first published, twenty yearsago, and have held me in happy bonds ever since. 

"The Sentimental Song Book" has long been out of print, and has beenforgotten by the world in general, but not by me. I carry it with mealways--it and Goldsmith's deathless story. 

Indeed, it has the same deep charm for me that the Vicar of Wakefieldhas, and I find in it the same subtle touch--the touch that makes anintentionally humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic onefunny. In her time Mrs. Moore was called "the Sweet Singer of Michigan, "and was best known by that name. I have read her book through twicetoday, with the purpose of determining which of her pieces has mostmerit, and I am persuaded that for wide grasp and sustained power, "William Upson" may claim first place:

WILLIAM UPSON. 

Air--"The Major's Only Son. "Come all good people far and near, Oh, come and see what you can hear, It's of a young man true and brave, That is now sleeping in his grave. 

Now, William Upson was his nameIf it's not that, it's all the sameHe did enlist in a cruel strife, And it caused him to lose his life. 

He was Perry Upson's eldest son, His father loved his noble son, This son was nineteen years of ageWhen first in the rebellion he engaged. 

His father said that he might go, But his dear mother she said no, "Oh! stay at home, dear Billy, " she said, But she could not turn his head. 

He went to Nashville, in Tennessee, There his kind friends he could not see;He died among strangers, so far away, They did not know where his body lay. 

He was taken sick and lived four weeks, And Oh! how his parents weep, But now they must in sorrow mourn, For Billy has gone to his heavenly home. 

Oh! if his mother could have seen her son, For she loved him, her darling son;If she could heard his dying prayer, It would ease her heart till she met him there. 

How it would relieve his mother's heartTo see her son from this world depart, And hear his noble words of love, As he left this world for that above. 

Now it will relieve his mother's heart, For her son is laid in our graveyard;For now she knows that his grave is near, She will not shed so many tears. 

Although she knows not that it was her son, For his coffin could not be openedIt might be someone in his place, For she could not see his noble face. 

December, 17. Reached Sydney. 

December, 19. In the train. Fellow of 30 with four valises; a slimcreature, with teeth which made his mouth look like a neglectedchurchyard. He had solidified hair--solidified with pomatum; it was allone shell. He smoked the most extraordinary cigarettes--made of somekind of manure, apparently. These and his hair made him smell like thevery nation. He had a low-cut vest on, which exposed a deal of frayedand broken and unclean shirtfront. Showy studs, of imitation gold--theyhad made black disks on the linen. Oversized sleeve buttons of imitationgold, the copper base showing through. Ponderous watch-chain ofimitation gold. I judge that he couldn't tell the time by it, for heasked Smythe what time it was, once. He wore a coat which had been gaywhen it was young; 5-o'clock-tea-trousers of a light tint, andmarvelously soiled; yellow mustache with a dashing upward whirl at theends; foxy shoes, imitation patent leather. He was a novelty--animitation dude. He would have been a real one if he could have affordedit. But he was satisfied with himself. You could see it in hisexpression, and in all his attitudes and movements. He was living in adude dreamland where all his squalid shams were genuine, and himself asincerity. It disarmed criticism, it mollified spite, to see him soenjoy his imitation languors, and arts, and airs, and his studieddaintinesses of gesture and misbegotten refinements. It was plain to methat he was imagining himself the Prince of Wales, and was doingeverything the way he thought the Prince would do it. For bringing hisfour valises aboard and stowing them in the nettings, he gave his porterfour cents, and lightly apologized for the smallness of the gratuity--just with the condescendingest little royal air in the world. Hestretched himself out on the front seat and rested his pomatum-cake onthe middle arm, and stuck his feet out of the window, and began to poseas the Prince and work his dreams and languors for exhibition; and hewould indolently watch the blue films curling up from his cigarette, andinhale the stench, and look so grateful; and would flip the ash away withthe daintiest gesture, unintentionally displaying his brass ring in themost intentional way; why, it was as good as being in Marlborough Houseitself to see him do it so like. 

There was other scenery in the trip. That of the Hawksbury river, in theNational Park region, fine--extraordinarily fine, with spacious views ofstream and lake imposingly framed in woody hills; and every now and thenthe noblest groupings of mountains, and the most enchantingrearrangements of the water effects. Further along, green flats, thinlycovered with gum forests, with here and there the huts and cabins ofsmall farmers engaged in raising children. Still further along, aridstretches, lifeless and melancholy. Then Newcastle, a rushing town, capital of the rich coal regions. Approaching Scone, wide farming andgrazing levels, with pretty frequent glimpses of a troublesome plant--aparticularly devilish little prickly pear, daily damned in the orisons ofthe agriculturist; imported by a lady of sentiment, and contributedgratis to the colony. Blazing hot, all day. 

December 20. Back to Sydney. Blazing hot again. From the newspaper, and from the map, I have made a collection of curious names ofAustralasian towns, with the idea of making a poem out of them:

TumutTakeeMurriwillumbaBowralBallaratMullengudgeryMurrurundiWagga-WaggaWyalongMurrumbidgeeGoomerooWollowayWangaryWanillaWorrowKoppioYankalillaYaranyackaYackamoorundieKaiwakaCoomoorooTaurangaGeelongTongariroKaikouraWakatipuOohiparaWaitpingaGoelwaMunno ParaNangkitaMypongaKapundaKooringaPenolaNangwarryKongorongComaumKoolywurtieKillanoolaNaracoorteMuloowurtieBinnumWallarooWirregaMundooraHaurakiRangiririTeawamuteTaranakiToowoombaGoondiwindiJerrilderieWhangaroaWollongongWoolloomoolooBombolaCoolgardieBendigoCoonambleCootamundraWoolgoolga

MittagongJamberooKondoparingaKuitpoTungkilloOukaparingaTalungaYatalaParawirraMooroorooWhangareiWoolundungaBoolerooPernattyParramattaTaroomNarranderaDeniliquinKawakawa. 

It may be best to build the poem now, and make the weather help

 A SWELTERING DAY IN AUSTRALIA. 

 (To be read soft and low, with the lights turned down. )

 The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree, Where fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires Far from the breezes of Coolgardie Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;

 And Murriwillumba complaineth in song For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo, And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo;

 The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee, For the velvety sod of the Munno Parah, Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah;

 The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway, And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi, The Whangeroo wombat lamenteth the day That made him an exile from Jerrilderie;

 The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega's glade, The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan, They long for the peace of the Timaru shade And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong!

 The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun, The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath, The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won, But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death;

 In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain The Yatala Wangary withers and dies, And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain, To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies;

 Sweet Nangwarry's desolate, Coonamble wails, And Tungkillo Kuito in sables is drest, For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west. 

 Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned There's death in the air! Killanoola, wherefore Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned?

 Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu, Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru All burn in this hell's holocaust!

 Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest In the vale of Tapanni Taroom, Kawakawa, Deniliquin--all that was best In the earth are but graves and a tomb!

 Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not When the roll of the scathless we cry Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot Is mute and forlorn where ye lie. 

Those are good words for poetry. Among the best I have ever seen. There are 81 in the list. I did not need them all, but I have knockeddown 66 of them; which is a good bag, it seems to me, for a person not inthe business. Perhaps a poet laureate could do better, but a poetlaureate gets wages, and that is different. When I write poetry I do notget any wages; often I lose money by it. The best word in that list, andthe most musical and gurgly, is Woolloomoolloo. It is a place nearSydney, and is a favorite pleasure-resort. It has eight O's in it. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

To succeed in the other trades, capacity must be shown; in the law, concealment of it will do. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

MONDAY, --December 23, 1895. Sailed from Sydney for Ceylon in the P. & O. Steamer 'Oceana'. A Lascar crew mans this ship--the first I have seen. White cotton petticoat and pants; barefoot; red shawl for belt; strawcap, brimless, on head, with red scarf wound around it; complexion a richdark brown; short straight black hair; whiskers fine and silky; lustrousand intensely black. Mild, good faces; willing and obedient people;capable, too; but are said to go into hopeless panics when there isdanger. They are from Bombay and the coast thereabouts. Left some ofthe trunks in Sydney, to be shipped to South Africa by a vesseladvertised to sail three months hence. The proverb says: "Separate notyourself from your baggage. "

This 'Oceana' is a stately big ship, luxuriously appointed. She hasspacious promenade decks. Large rooms; a surpassingly comfortable ship. The officers' library is well selected; a ship's library is not usuallythat . . . . For meals, the bugle call, man-of-war fashion; apleasant change from the terrible gong . . . . Three big cats--veryfriendly loafers; they wander all over the ship; the white one followsthe chief steward around like a dog. There is also a basket of kittens. One of these cats goes ashore, in port, in England, Australia, and India, to see how his various families are getting along, and is seen no moretill the ship is ready to sail. No one knows how he finds out thesailing date, but no doubt he comes down to the dock every day and takesa look, and when he sees baggage and passengers flocking in, recognizesthat it is time to get aboard. This is what the sailors believe. TheChief Engineer has been in the China and India trade thirty three years, and has had but three Christmases at home in that time . . . . Conversational items at dinner, "Mocha! sold all over the world! It isnot true. In fact, very few foreigners except the Emperor of Russia haveever seen a grain of it, or ever will, while they live. " Another mansaid: "There is no sale in Australia for Australian wine. But it goes toFrance and comes back with a French label on it, and then they buy it. "I have heard that the most of the French-labeled claret in New York ismade in California. And I remember what Professor S. Told me once aboutVeuve Cliquot--if that was the wine, and I think it was. He was theguest of a great wine merchant whose town was quite near that vineyard, and this merchant asked him if very much V. C. Was drunk in America. 

"Oh, yes, " said S. , "a great abundance of it. "

"Is it easy to be had?"

"Oh, yes--easy as water. All first and second-class hotels have it. "

"What do you pay for it?"

"It depends on the style of the hotel--from fifteen to twenty-five francsa bottle. "

"Oh, fortunate country! Why, it's worth 100 francs right here on theground. "

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Do you mean that we are drinking a bogus Veuve-Cliquot over there?"

"Yes--and there was never a bottle of the genuine in America sinceColumbus's time. That wine all comes from a little bit of a patch ofground which isn't big enough to raise many bottles; and all of it thatis produced goes every year to one person--the Emperor of Russia. Hetakes the whole crop in advance, be it big or little. "

January 4, 1898. Christmas in Melbourne, New Year's Day in Adelaide, and saw most of the friends again in both places . . . . Lying hereat anchor all day--Albany (King George's Sound), Western Australia. Itis a perfectly landlocked harbor, or roadstead--spacious to look at, butnot deep water. Desolate-looking rocks and scarred hills. Plenty ofships arriving now, rushing to the new gold-fields. The papers are fullof wonderful tales of the sort always to be heard in connection with newgold diggings. A sample: a youth staked out a claim and tried to sellhalf for L5; no takers; he stuck to it fourteen days, starving, thenstruck it rich and sold out for L10, 000. . . About sunset, strongbreeze blowing, got up the anchor. We were in a small deep puddle, witha narrow channel leading out of it, minutely buoyed, to the sea. 

I stayed on deck to see how we were going to manage it with such a bigship and such a strong wind. On the bridge our giant captain, inuniform; at his side a little pilot in elaborately gold-laced uniform; onthe forecastle a white mate and quartermaster or two, and a brilliantcrowd of lascars standing by for business. Our stern was pointingstraight at the head of the channel; so we must turn entirely around inthe puddle--and the wind blowing as described. It was done, andbeautifully. It was done by help of a jib. We stirred up much mud, butdid not touch the bottom. We turned right around in our tracks--aseeming impossibility. We had several casts of quarter-less 5, and onecast of half 4--27 feet; we were drawing 26 astern. By the time we wereentirely around and pointed, the first buoy was not more than a hundredyards in front of us. It was a fine piece of work, and I was the onlypassenger that saw it. However, the others got their dinner; the P. & O. Company got mine . . . . More cats developed. Smythe says it is aBritish law that they must be carried; and he instanced a case of a shipnot allowed to sail till she sent for a couple. The bill came, too:"Debtor, to 2 cats, 20 shillings. " . . . News comes that within thisweek Siam has acknowledged herself to be, in effect, a French province. It seems plain that all savage and semi-civilized countries are going tobe grabbed . . . . A vulture on board; bald, red, queer-shaped head, featherless red places here and there on his body, intense great blackeyes set in featherless rims of inflamed flesh; dissipated look; abusinesslike style, a selfish, conscienceless, murderous aspect--the verylook of a professional assassin, and yet a bird which does no murder. What was the use of getting him up in that tragic style for so innocent atrade as his? For this one isn't the sort that wars upon the living, hisdiet is offal--and the more out of date it is the better he likes it. Nature should give him a suit of rusty black; then he would be all right, for he would look like an undertaker and would harmonize with hisbusiness; whereas the way he is now he is horribly out of true. 

January 5. At 9 this morning we passed Cape Leeuwin (lioness) andceased from our long due-west course along the southern shore ofAustralia. Turning this extreme southwestern corner, we now take a longstraight slant nearly N. W. , without a break, for Ceylon. As we speednorthward it will grow hotter very fast--but it isn't chilly, now. . . . The vulture is from the public menagerie at Adelaide--a great andinteresting collection. It was there that we saw the baby tiger solemnlyspreading its mouth and trying to roar like its majestic mother. Itswaggered, scowling, back and forth on its short legs just as it had seenher do on her long ones, and now and then snarling viciously, exposingits teeth, with a threatening lift of its upper lip and bristlingmoustache; and when it thought it was impressing the visitors, it wouldspread its mouth wide and do that screechy cry which it meant for a roar, but which did not deceive. It took itself quite seriously, and waslovably comical. And there was a hyena--an ugly creature; as ugly as thetiger-kitty was pretty. It repeatedly arched its back and delivereditself of such a human cry; a startling resemblance; a cry which was justthat of a grown person badly hurt. In the dark one would assuredly go toits assistance--and be disappointed . . . . Many friends ofAustralasian Federation on board. They feel sure that the good day isnot far off, now. But there seems to be a party that would go further--have Australasia cut loose from the British Empire and set uphousekeeping on her own hook. It seems an unwise idea. They point tothe United States, but it seems to me that the cases lack a good deal ofbeing alike. Australasia governs herself wholly--there is nointerference; and her commerce and manufactures are not oppressed in anyway. If our case had been the same we should not have gone out when wedid. 

January 13. Unspeakably hot. The equator is arriving again. We arewithin eight degrees of it. Ceylon present. Dear me, it is beautiful!And most sumptuously tropical, as to character of foliage and opulence ofit. "What though the spicy breezes blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle"--aneloquent line, an incomparable line; it says little, but conveys wholelibraries of sentiment, and Oriental charm and mystery, and tropicdeliciousness--a line that quivers and tingles with a thousandunexpressed and inexpressible things, things that haunt one and find noarticulate voice . . . . Colombo, the capital. An Oriental town, most manifestly; and fascinating. 

In this palatial ship the passengers dress for dinner. The ladies'toilettes make a fine display of color, and this is in keeping with theelegance of the vessel's furnishings and the flooding brilliancies of theelectric light. On the stormy Atlantic one never sees a man in eveningdress, except at the rarest intervals; and then there is only one, nottwo; and he shows up but once on the voyage--the night before the shipmakes port--the night when they have the "concert" and do the amateurwailings and recitations. He is the tenor, as a rule . . . . Therehas been a deal of cricket-playing on board; it seems a queer game for aship, but they enclose the promenade deck with nettings and keep the ballfrom flying overboard, and the sport goes very well, and is properlyviolent and exciting . . . . We must part from this vessel here. 

January 14. Hotel Bristol. Servant Brompy. Alert, gentle, smiling, winning young brown creature as ever was. Beautiful shining black haircombed back like a woman's, and knotted at the back of his head--tortoise-shell comb in it, sign that he is a Singhalese; slender, shapelyform; jacket; under it is a beltless and flowing white cotton gown--fromneck straight to heel; he and his outfit quite unmasculine. It was anembarrassment to undress before him. 

We drove to the market, using the Japanese jinriksha--our firstacquaintanceship with it. It is a light cart, with a native to draw it. He makes good speed for half-an-hour, but it is hard work for him; he istoo slight for it. After the half-hour there is no more pleasure foryou; your attention is all on the man, just as it would be on a tiredhorse, and necessarily your sympathy is there too. There's a plenty ofthese 'rickshas, and the tariff is incredibly cheap. 

I was in Cairo years ago. That was Oriental, but there was a lack. Whenyou are in Florida or New Orleans you are in the South--that is granted;but you are not in the South; you are in a modified South, a temperedSouth. Cairo was a tempered Orient--an Orient with an indefinitesomething wanting. That feeling was not present in Ceylon. Ceylon wasOriental in the last measure of completeness--utterly Oriental; alsoutterly tropical; and indeed to one's unreasoning spiritual sense the twothings belong together. All the requisites were present. The costumeswere right; the black and brown exposures, unconscious of immodesty, wereright; the juggler was there, with his basket, his snakes, his mongoose, and his arrangements for growing a tree from seed to foliage and ripefruitage before one's eyes; in sight were plants and flowers familiar toone on books but in no other way celebrated, desirable, strange, but inproduction restricted to the hot belt of the equator; and out a littleway in the country were the proper deadly snakes, and fierce beasts ofprey, and the wild elephant and the monkey. And there was that swoon inthe air which one associates with the tropics, and that smother of heat, heavy with odors of unknown flowers, and that sudden invasion of purplegloom fissured with lightnings, --then the tumult of crashing thunder andthe downpour and presently all sunny and smiling again; all these thingswere there; the conditions were complete, nothing was lacking. And awayoff in the deeps of the jungle and in the remotenesses of the mountainswere the ruined cities and mouldering temples, mysterious relics of thepomps of a forgotten time and a vanished race--and this was as it shouldbe, also, for nothing is quite satisfyingly Oriental that lacks thesomber and impressive qualities of mystery and antiquity. 

The drive through the town and out to the Galle Face by the seashore, what a dream it was of tropical splendors of bloom and blossom, andOriental conflagrations of costume! The walking groups of men, women, boys, girls, babies--each individual was a flame, each group a houseafire for color. And such stunning colors, such intensely vivid colors, such rich and exquisite minglings and fusings of rainbows and lightnings!And all harmonious, all in perfect taste; never a discordant note; nevera color on any person swearing at another color on him or failing toharmonize faultlessly with the colors of any group the wearer might join. The stuffs were silk-thin, soft, delicate, clinging; and, as a rule, eachpiece a solid color: a splendid green, a splendid blue, a splendidyellow, a splendid purple, a splendid ruby, deep, and rich withsmouldering fires they swept continuously by in crowds and legions andmultitudes, glowing, flashing, burning, radiant; and every five secondscame a burst of blinding red that made a body catch his breath, andfilled his heart with joy. And then, the unimaginable grace of thosecostumes! Sometimes a woman's whole dress was but a scarf wound abouther person and her head, sometimes a man's was but a turban and acareless rag or two--in both cases generous areas of polished dark skinshowing--but always the arrangement compelled the homage of the eye andmade the heart sing for gladness. 

I can see it to this day, that radiant panorama, that wilderness of richcolor, that incomparable dissolving-view of harmonious tints, and lithehalf-covered forms, and beautiful brown faces, and gracious and gracefulgestures and attitudes and movements, free, unstudied, barren ofstiffness and restraint, and--

Just then, into this dream of fairyland and paradise a grating dissonancewas injected. 

Out of a missionary school came marching, two and two, sixteen prim andpious little Christian black girls, Europeanly clothed--dressed, to thelast detail, as they would have been dressed on a summer Sunday in anEnglish or American village. Those clothes--oh, they were unspeakablyugly! Ugly, barbarous, destitute of taste, destitute of grace, repulsiveas a shroud. I looked at my womenfolk's clothes--just full-grownduplicates of the outrages disguising those poor little abused creatures--and was ashamed to be seen in the street with them. Then I looked atmy own clothes, and was ashamed to be seen in the street with myself. 

However, we must put up with our clothes as they are--they have theirreason for existing. They are on us to expose us--to advertise what wewear them to conceal. They are a sign; a sign of insincerity; a sign ofsuppressed vanity; a pretense that we despise gorgeous colors and thegraces of harmony and form; and we put them on to propagate that lie andback it up. But we do not deceive our neighbor; and when we step intoCeylon we realize that we have not even deceived ourselves. We do lovebrilliant colors and graceful costumes; and at home we will turn out in astorm to see them when the procession goes by--and envy the wearers. Wego to the theater to look at them and grieve that we can't be clothedlike that. We go to the King's ball, when we get a chance, and are gladof a sight of the splendid uniforms and the glittering orders. When weare granted permission to attend an imperial drawing-room we shutourselves up in private and parade around in the theatrical court-dressby the hour, and admire ourselves in the glass, and are utterly happy;and every member of every governor's staff in democratic America does thesame with his grand new uniform--and if he is not watched he will gethimself photographed in it, too. When I see the Lord Mayor's footman Iam dissatisfied with my lot. Yes, our clothes are a lie, and have beennothing short of that these hundred years. They are insincere, they arethe ugly and appropriate outward exposure of an inward sham and a moraldecay. 

The last little brown boy I chanced to notice in the crowds and swarms ofColombo had nothing on but a twine string around his waist, but in mymemory the frank honesty of his costume still stands out in pleasantcontrast with the odious flummery in which the little Sunday-schooldowdies were masquerading. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Prosperity is the best protector of principle. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar. 

EVENING--11th. Sailed in the Rosetta. This is a poor old ship, andought to be insured and sunk. As in the 'Oceana', just so here:everybody dresses for dinner; they make it a sort of pious duty. Thesefine and formal costumes are a rather conspicuous contrast to the povertyand shabbiness of the surroundings . . . . If you want a slice of alime at four o'clock tea, you must sign an order on the bar. Limes cost14 cents a barrel. 

January 18th. We have been running up the Arabian Sea, latterly. Closing up on Bombay now, and due to arrive this evening. 

January 20th. Bombay! A bewitching place, a bewildering place, anenchanting place--the Arabian Nights come again? It is a vast city;contains about a million inhabitants. Natives, they are, with a slightsprinkling of white people--not enough to have the slightest modifyingeffect upon the massed dark complexion of the public. It is winter here, yet the weather is the divine weather of June, and the foliage is thefresh and heavenly foliage of June. There is a rank of noble great shadetrees across the way from the hotel, and under them sit groups ofpicturesque natives of both sexes; and the juggler in his turban is therewith his snakes and his magic; and all day long the cabs and themultitudinous varieties of costumes flock by. It does not seem as if onecould ever get tired of watching this moving show, this shining andshifting spectacle . . . . In the great bazar the pack and jam ofnatives was marvelous, the sea of rich-colored turbans and draperies aninspiring sight, and the quaint and showy Indian architecture was justthe right setting for it. Toward sunset another show; this is the drivearound the sea-shore to Malabar Point, where Lord Sandhurst, the Governorof the Bombay Presidency, lives. Parsee palaces all along the first partof the drive; and past them all the world is driving; the privatecarriages of wealthy Englishmen and natives of rank are manned by adriver and three footmen in stunning oriental liveries--two of theseturbaned statues standing up behind, as fine as monuments. Sometimeseven the public carriages have this superabundant crew, slightlymodified--one to drive, one to sit by and see it done, and one to standup behind and yell--yell when there is anybody in the way, and forpractice when there isn't. It all helps to keep up the liveliness andaugment the general sense of swiftness and energy and confusion andpow-wow. 

In the region of Scandal Point--felicitous name--where there are handyrocks to sit on and a noble view of the sea on the one hand, and on theother the passing and reprising whirl and tumult of gay carriages, aregreat groups of comfortably-off Parsee women--perfect flower-beds ofbrilliant color, a fascinating spectacle. Tramp, tramp, tramping alongthe road, in singles, couples, groups, and gangs, you have theworking-man and the working-woman--but not clothed like ours. Usuallythe man is a nobly-built great athlete, with not a rag on but hisloin-handkerchief; his color a deep dark brown, his skin satin, hisrounded muscles knobbing it as if it had eggs under it. Usually thewoman is a slender and shapely creature, as erect as a lightning-rod, andshe has but one thing on--a bright-colored piece of stuff which is woundabout her head and her body down nearly half-way to her knees, and whichclings like her own skin. Her legs and feet are bare, and so are herarms, except for her fanciful bunches of loose silver rings on her anklesand on her arms. She has jewelry bunched on the side of her nose also, and showy clusterings on her toes. When she undresses for bed she takesoff her jewelry, I suppose. If she took off anything more she wouldcatch cold. As a rule she has a large shiney brass water jar of gracefulshape on her head, and one of her naked arms curves up and the hand holdsit there. She is so straight, so erect, and she steps with such style, and such easy grace and dignity; and her curved arm and her brazen jarare such a help to the picture indeed, our working-women cannot beginwith her as a road-decoration. 

It is all color, bewitching color, enchanting color--everywhere allaround--all the way around the curving great opaline bay clear toGovernment House, where the turbaned big native 'chuprassies' standgrouped in state at the door in their robes of fiery red, and do mostproperly and stunningly finish up the splendid show and make ittheatrically complete. I wish I were a 'chuprassy'. 

This is indeed India! the land of dreams and romance, of fabulous wealthand fabulous poverty, of splendor and rags, of palaces and hovels, offamine and pestilence, of genii and giants and Aladdin lamps, of tigersand elephants, the cobra and the jungle, the country of a hundred nationsand a hundred tongues, of a thousand religions and two million gods, cradle of the human race, birthplace of human speech, mother of history, grandmother of legend, great-grandmother of tradition, whose yesterdaysbear date with the mouldering antiquities of the rest of the nations--theone sole country under the sun that is endowed with an imperishableinterest for alien prince and alien peasant, for lettered and ignorant, wise and fool, rich and poor, bond and free, the one land that all mendesire to see, and having seen once, by even a glimpse, would not givethat glimpse for the shows of all the rest of the globe combined. Even now, after the lapse of a year, the delirium of those days in Bombayhas not left me, and I hope never will. It was all new, no detail of ithackneyed. And India did not wait for morning, it began at the hotel--straight away. The lobbies and halls were full of turbaned, and fez'dand embroidered, cap'd, and barefooted, and cotton-clad dark natives, some of them rushing about, others at rest squatting, or sitting on theground; some of them chattering with energy, others still and dreamy; inthe dining-room every man's own private native servant standing behindhis chair, and dressed for a part in the Arabian Nights. 

Our rooms were high up, on the front. A white man--he was a burly German--went up with us, and brought three natives along to see to arrangingthings. About fourteen others followed in procession, with thehand-baggage; each carried an article--and only one; a bag, in somecases, in other cases less. One strong native carried my overcoat, another a parasol, another a box of cigars, another a novel, and the lastman in the procession had no load but a fan. It was all done withearnestness and sincerity, there was not a smile in the procession fromthe head of it to the tail of it. Each man waited patiently, tranquilly, in no sort of hurry, till one of us found time to give him a copper, thenhe bent his head reverently, touched his forehead with his fingers, andwent his way. They seemed a soft and gentle race, and there wassomething both winning and touching about their demeanor. 

There was a vast glazed door which opened upon the balcony. It neededclosing, or cleaning, or something, and a native got down on his kneesand went to work at it. He seemed to be doing it well enough, butperhaps he wasn't, for the burly German put on a look that betrayeddissatisfaction, then without explaining what was wrong, gave the nativea brisk cuff on the jaw and then told him where the defect was. Itseemed such a shame to do that before us all. The native took it withmeekness, saying nothing, and not showing in his face or manner anyresentment. I had not seen the like of this for fifty years. It carriedme back to my boyhood, and flashed upon me the forgotten fact that thiswas the usual way of explaining one's desires to a slave. I was able toremember that the method seemed right and natural to me in those days, Ibeing born to it and unaware that elsewhere there were other methods; butI was also able to remember that those unresented cuffings made me sorryfor the victim and ashamed for the punisher. My father was a refined andkindly gentleman, very grave, rather austere, of rigid probity, a sternlyjust and upright man, albeit he attended no church and never spoke ofreligious matters, and had no part nor lot in the pious joys of hisPresbyterian family, nor ever seemed to suffer from this deprivation. Helaid his hand upon me in punishment only twice in his life, and then notheavily; once for telling him a lie--which surprised me, and showed mehow unsuspicious he was, for that was not my maiden effort. He punishedme those two times only, and never any other member of the family at all;yet every now and then he cuffed our harmless slave boy, Lewis, fortrifling little blunders and awkwardnesses. My father had passed his lifeamong the slaves from his cradle up, and his cuffings proceeded from thecustom of the time, not from his nature. When I was ten years old I sawa man fling a lump of iron-ore at a slaveman in anger, for merely doingsomething awkwardly--as if that were a crime. It bounded from the man'sskull, and the man fell and never spoke again. He was dead in an hour. I knew the man had a right to kill his slave if he wanted to, and yet itseemed a pitiful thing and somehow wrong, though why wrong I was not deepenough to explain if I had been asked to do it. Nobody in the villageapproved of that murder, but of course no one said much about it. 

It is curious--the space-annihilating power of thought. For just onesecond, all that goes to make the me in me was in a Missourian village, on the other side of the globe, vividly seeing again these forgottenpictures of fifty years ago, and wholly unconscious of all things butjust those; and in the next second I was back in Bombay, and thatkneeling native's smitten cheek was not done tingling yet! Back toboyhood--fifty years; back to age again, another fifty; and a flightequal to the circumference of the globe-all in two seconds by the watch!

Some natives--I don't remember how many--went into my bedroom, now, andput things to rights and arranged the mosquito-bar, and I went to bed tonurse my cough. It was about nine in the evening. What a state ofthings! For three hours the yelling and shouting of natives in the hallcontinued, along with the velvety patter of their swift bare feet--what aracket it was! They were yelling orders and messages down three flights. Why, in the matter of noise it amounted to a riot, an insurrection, arevolution. And then there were other noises mixed up with these and atintervals tremendously accenting them--roofs falling in, I judged, windows smashing, persons being murdered, crows squawking, and deriding, and cursing, canaries screeching, monkeys jabbering, macaws blaspheming, and every now and then fiendish bursts of laughter and explosions ofdynamite. By midnight I had suffered all the different kinds of shocksthere are, and knew that I could never more be disturbed by them, eitherisolated or in combination. Then came peace--stillness deep and solemnand lasted till five. 

Then it all broke loose again. And who re-started it? The Bird of Birdsthe Indian crow. I came to know him well, by and by, and be infatuatedwith him. I suppose he is the hardest lot that wears feathers. Yes, andthe cheerfulest, and the best satisfied with himself. He never arrivedat what he is by any careless process, or any sudden one; he is a work ofart, and "art is long"; he is the product of immemorial ages, and of deepcalculation; one can't make a bird like that in a day. He has beenreincarnated more times than Shiva; and he has kept a sample of eachincarnation, and fused it into his constitution. In the course of hisevolutionary promotions, his sublime march toward ultimate perfection, hehas been a gambler, a low comedian, a dissolute priest, a fussy woman, ablackguard, a scoffer, a liar, a thief, a spy, an informer, a tradingpolitician, a swindler, a professional hypocrite, a patriot for cash, areformer, a lecturer, a lawyer, a conspirator, a rebel, a royalist, ademocrat, a practicer and propagator of irreverence, a meddler, anintruder, a busybody, an infidel, and a wallower in sin for the mere loveof it. The strange result, the incredible result, of this patientaccumulation of all damnable traits is, that be does not know what careis, he does not know what sorrow is, he does not know what remorse is, his life is one long thundering ecstasy of happiness, and he will go tohis death untroubled, knowing that he will soon turn up again as anauthor or something, and be even more intolerably capable and comfortablethan ever he was before. 

In his straddling wide forward-step, and his springy side-wise series ofhops, and his impudent air, and his cunning way of canting his head toone side upon occasion, he reminds one of the American blackbird. Butthe sharp resemblances stop there. He is much bigger than the blackbird;and he lacks the blackbird's trim and slender and beautiful build andshapely beak; and of course his sober garb of gray and rusty black is apoor and humble thing compared with the splendid lustre of theblackbird's metallic sables and shifting and flashing bronze glories. The blackbird is a perfect gentleman, in deportment and attire, and isnot noisy, I believe, except when holding religious services andpolitical conventions in a tree; but this Indian sham Quaker is just arowdy, and is always noisy when awake--always chaffing, scolding, scoffing, laughing, ripping, and cursing, and carrying on about somethingor other. I never saw such a bird for delivering opinions. Nothingescapes him; he notices everything that happens, and brings out hisopinion about it, particularly if it is a matter that is none of hisbusiness. And it is never a mild opinion, but always violent--violentand profane--the presence of ladies does not affect him. His opinionsare not the outcome of reflection, for he never thinks about anything, but heaves out the opinion that is on top in his mind, and which is oftenan opinion about some quite different thing and does not fit the case. But that is his way; his main idea is to get out an opinion, and if hestopped to think he would lose chances. 

I suppose he has no enemies among men. The whites and Mohammedans neverseemed to molest him; and the Hindoos, because of their religion, nevertake the life of any creature, but spare even the snakes and tigers andfleas and rats. If I sat on one end of the balcony, the crows wouldgather on the railing at the other end and talk about me; and edgecloser, little by little, till I could almost reach them; and they wouldsit there, in the most unabashed way, and talk about my clothes, and myhair, and my complexion, and probable character and vocation andpolitics, and how I came to be in India, and what I had been doing, andhow many days I had got for it, and how I had happened to go unhangedso long, and when would it probably come off, and might there be more ofmy sort where I came from, and when would they be hanged, --and so on, andso on, until I could not longer endure the embarrassment of it; then Iwould shoo them away, and they would circle around in the air a littlewhile, laughing and deriding and mocking, and presently settle on therail and do it all over again. 

They were very sociable when there was anything to eat--oppressively so. With a little encouragement they would come in and light on the table andhelp me eat my breakfast; and once when I was in the other room and theyfound themselves alone, they carried off everything they could lift; andthey were particular to choose things which they could make no use ofafter they got them. In India their number is beyond estimate, and theirnoise is in proportion. I suppose they cost the country more than thegovernment does; yet that is not a light matter. Still, they pay; theircompany pays; it would sadden the land to take their cheerful voice outof it.