Part 1

LETTERS TO GUY

[Illustration]

[Illustration: _Stanford’s Geog^l. Estab^t._

London: Macmillan & C^o.]

LETTERS TO GUY

By LADY BARKER

(LADY BROOME)

AUTHOR OF “STATION LIFE IN NEW ZEALAND,” “STORIES ABOUT,” ETC.

London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1885

_Printed by_ R. & R. Clark, _Edinburgh_.

LETTER I.

Adelaide, _May 1883_.

This is the first opportunity I have had of writing to my boy since we left Mauritius, a fortnight ago. It has been very cold nearly all the time—cold at least to us, after the bright warm sun and soft wind of our early winter days in Mauritius. At first we were all glad to feel the fresh wintry air, but soon we began to wrap ourselves up and walk quickly about the deck, or keep down below in the fine saloon of the big French steamer after it became dark. It was a beautiful ship; large, and very clean and comfortable; and there were just enough passengers on board to be sociable without being overcrowded.

Both Louis and my little maid Catherine were dismally ill at first, but they quickly got better; and Louis soon found out all manner of ways of what he considered “helping” the sailors, who were wonderfully kind to him, and seemed much amused at the little English boy’s love for the sea and everything about a ship. I don’t think the log was once heaved during the daylight hours without his assistance, and he easily learned the French words to tell me the rate of speed at which we steamed. But the puppy—Monsieur Puppy—and Rosidore, father’s French valet, suffered terribly from the cold. Rosidore wrapped himself up every day in extra comforters and greatcoats till he looked like an immense wool-bale, and at last he found a warm corner near the great funnel, and never stirred from its shelter. The poor puppy—Tip’s small yellow pug-son—did not know what to make of the cold. He could not understand how the sun could have so little warmth in it; but still he frisked about a great deal whenever he was allowed upon deck, and “_dèmandé-d_” biscuits from every one. You must know Monsieur Puppy only understands French as yet, for he has never left Mauritius, where he was born a year ago; the sailors make a great pet of him, and spoil him dreadfully.

The sky and sea looked grayer and more dull to our eyes each succeeding morning, whilst the good ship was ploughing her way steadily towards the south-east through the rough rolling waves. We had no actual bad weather, but at this winter time of year the great stretch of Indian Ocean, which lies between the little island of Mauritius and the huge island-continent of Australia, is always rough and troubled with these big waves rolling uneasily, and there were constant heavy showers of cold rain. Still, in so comfortable a ship, with our large deck-cabins to sleep and sit in, it was not at all disagreeable, and we were always cheered by hearing the officers of the ship declare the passage would be a good and quick one.

The very day fortnight that we had sailed out of Port Louis Harbour was spent standing on deck, all through the short daylight hours, watching the immense coast-line of Australia growing more and more distinct. Its endless stretch of sandy beach, with low hills behind, made a great contrast to the last land we had looked on—the sharp high peaks, brilliant with the sunset glow, of the lovely little island of Mauritius. It was very provoking, too, to know that we were now going quite out of our real way, and leaving behind us the exact spot in Western Australia where we wanted to land, and that we should have to come all the way back and round Cape Leewin again. At one time we were only a very few hours’ steam from the nearest point to our new home; and Monsieur Puppy, at least, would have been pleased to get on shore. But still we were very glad of the opportunity of seeing something of the Eastern Colonies of Australia, and I don’t know which of our party was the most delighted when at last the big engines, which had been gradually slowing down, stopped their ceaseless throb, throbbing; then came a moment’s pause, and finally a great splash,—that was the anchor dropping down,—leaving us a long way from land however, at a place called Glenelg, near Adelaide, the capital of South Australia. By this time the short winter day was over, and it would have been quite dark except that fortunately the moon chanced to be bright and full.

Though we had arranged to take only a few of our tiresome boxes with us, still it seemed a weary while before we were all ready to get into the small steam-tug which came alongside directly. The polite French captain handed me down the side of his vessel with many pretty speeches, and Louis took leave of all his sailor friends in his best French. Then the little tug puffed off towards the land, bustling bravely along over the calm moonlit sea. But oh, how cold it was! bitterly, piercingly cold. It must have been about ten o’clock at night, and we thought regretfully of our nice warm cabin and snug berths. Catherine and I put Louis between us, and sheltered him as well as we could, though he would ever so much rather have been darting about the ship and helping (such help!) everybody. Rosidore seemed quite frozen and paralysed by cold, and poor Monsieur Puppy crouched shivering at his feet. I must tell you here that the cold made the poor little dog very ill, and he nearly died next day. However, a clever dog-doctor at Adelaide managed to cure him. I reproached myself afterwards for not having taken more care of him during that freezing half-hour; but I was occupied in huddling Louis up, and I thought Rosidore would have looked better after Monsieur Puppy.

We landed on a long pier sticking ever so far out into the sea, and our luggage was put on trucks and wheeled swiftly along on a little tram. But we all had to walk a very long way. As it happened, we were glad of the exercise to warm us, and we all chanced to be well and strong, and it was a beautiful night, as bright as day. One could not help thinking, however, how dreadful it might have been on a dark and wet stormy night, and if any of us had been sick or weak. Then came a long wait at the railway station, and you may fancy how sleepy Louis was by the time we lifted him into the nice big railway saloon, which the Governor of Adelaide had kindly sent for us. It was funny to be in a railway carriage which seemed to be passing through the middle of a wide street nearly all the time, and Louis solemnly inquired whether any little boys were ever run over? I would not give much for _his_ legs or arms if he lived in the neighbourhood; but the Adelaide children are probably wise enough to keep off the rails. The shops, with which nearly all the streets appeared to be lined, looked gay and busy though it was nearly midnight, and lots of people were about—returning from the theatre, I heard.

At last we reached the station at Adelaide, and then all our troubles from cold and sleepiness came to an end directly. A nice warm carriage, a few minutes’ swift drive, then a big brightly-lighted house, kind outstretched hands of welcome, blazing fires, supper which we were all much too sleepy to eat, and then delicious beds.

Can’t you imagine how nice it must have been to wake up the next morning and rush to the windows and let in all the sunshine, and look out on trees and distant houses and green hills, after two weeks of seeing nothing but big dark, dark blue waves tumbling over each other? We all thought it delightful, I assure you, and set forth directly after breakfast, to walk about and see everything and go everywhere. We used often to say to one another, “How much Guy would like that!” But your turn will come some day you know, and the best thing for you now is to be working hard at your lessons at school, and playing in the cricket and football fields, and growing to be a man, and what is more, an Englishman who must be a credit to his country, and proud of her wherever he goes. My boy will try to be that, won’t he?

Well, on one of our sight-seeing days we saw lots and lots of boys who would be a credit to any country, and of whom South Australia might indeed be proud; for we went with the Minister of Education all over the splendid Government schools. Louis liked best—for he is quite as enthusiastic a soldier as he is a sailor—the drill-yard at drill hour in one of the schools. The boys had real muskets, with only the barrels shortened, and they went through all manner of military exercises, almost as cleverly as if they had been real, grown-up soldiers. And they looked so bright, and strong, and healthy, and happy! Very tall, as are nearly all Colonial boys, but handsome and jolly.

One could not help thinking several times about what is said in the papers about the difficulty of finding soldiers of the right stamp for our army, and if ever I am consulted on the subject, my advice to the authorities will certainly be to try and get hold of some of these smart, ready-made soldier-lads! And then they were by no means ignorant or idle in other respects. No, their copy-books looked as neat and nice as possible, and they all read and recited capitally. And you never saw such numbers of children as were ranged on the benches of each school! After that day of school-visiting, I felt as if I had got into a fairy city, where each inhabitant was either a bright-faced schoolboy, or a modest pretty schoolgirl, or, better than all, a rosy, warmly-dressed, and delightfully impudent “infant”; for there were rows upon rows of these little people who sang their songs and clapped their hands, and milked imaginary cows all in fine style, and with many friendly grins. At one school the pupils, both girls and boys, sang really beautifully, not ordinary school songs, but lovely part music in unison. As you may suppose, the schoolmasters and mistresses who had this wonderfully forward rising generation under their care needed to be clever and to know a great deal. I felt most of the time that had I been one of the pupils, I should constantly be in disgrace for ignorance. Do you think you would?

The shops seemed capital, and sold all sorts of nice things. Louis bought himself a splendid knife out of his savings, so Catherine bought some sticking-plaster directly! Then there were such nice book-shops. I longed to have lots of money to buy books to read on the rest of the voyage, and I did manage to get one or two. Father was the naughtiest. He went out and bought me a beautiful bracelet, for which piece of extravagance he ought to be well scolded. If we had stopped much longer in Adelaide I don’t think one of the party would have had any—what you used to call—“pennies” left at all.

We did a great deal of sight-seeing besides the schools, and I assure you Adelaide is not only a very fine, large city, with imposing, handsome buildings now, but it promises to be twice as large, and four times as handsome, within the next ten years. It is no age at all for a large town, but to look at it you would suppose it had been standing there for a century at least. It is now midwinter, when it is naturally rainy, but we have lighted on perfect weather so far, crisp and cold and clear, and yet the sunshine is quite warm.

One bright afternoon we drove up—climbed up, I might say—to Marble Hill, the charming country-seat which South Australia provides for her Governor during the hot summer months, and where, I believe, it is always cool and pleasant. You can’t think how pretty the road was—very steep, but at every turn a lovely valley opened out, or else wooded hillsides, still gay with a remnant of autumn leaves on vine and fruit trees. Here and there a Devonshire-like coombe sharply cleft the range, and gabled cottage roofs peeped out from snug sheltering trees and rocks.

The view from the house, when you reach it, is wide and fair, and winding walks and rides have been made in every direction. Inside all is comfortable and commodious, and we had a merry tea-drinking before packing ourselves again into the carriages. But we had lingered to watch the beautiful sunset, so every wrap and rug was welcome, and we came downhill all the way with the break hard down every yard.

You may imagine how sorry we felt when the pleasant four days of our stay were over, and our delightful drives and walks came to an end, and it was necessary once more to pack up and go on board another steamer. It was the Queen’s Birthday, and unfortunately such a wet day! I felt so sorry for all the holiday folk, and a little sorry for ourselves, for although we went on board the P. and O. steamer at a different place, still we were just as much out of doors, standing about in a cold drizzle waiting for the tug, and getting very wet and dirty. They seemed so used to fine weather at Adelaide that they don’t take any care of travellers on a wet day. But I must confess I would rather have had the wet winter weather, without shelter, than have been obliged to stand exposed to the broiling summer sun and dust.

However, we got on board the huge _Carthage_ at last, Monsieur Puppy and all, and off we set once more. If you look at the map you will see exactly where we had to go. Straight back again across what is called the “Great Australian Bight”—a big, big bay, with quite as bad a character for tumbling ships about as the Bay of Biscay; and unfortunately the Bight is much bigger than what Louis’s Zulu nurse used to call the “Bisky Bay,” and so takes longer to cross and has more time in which to knock one about. At first we had horrid weather. I ventured on deck for a little, and got myself tied into a nice lying-down chair; one of a row of some fifty or sixty such chairs all securely—as we fancied—lashed to a hawser. But the ship gave one sudden heavy roll down on our side. The rope strained or gave in some way, and we all immediately presented the absurd sight of rising to our feet, with our chairs firmly lashed to our backs. After balancing ourselves there and then for an instant, every one, sick and well, old and young, fell forward flat on their faces, still with a chair over each one. The last thing I heard, before I was quite covered up with my rugs and pillows and chair, was a perfect roar of laughter from the well people who were standing all about, and who saw us. It was too sudden for them to prevent our toppling over, and, although they all threw away their pipes and cigars and ran to pick us up directly, they could not help laughing first. Can you not fancy how absurd we must have looked? And our faces for that brief instant! Frightened, sleepy, sick, and cross all at once. Father helped me up, and I felt very much affronted at the way he was laughing, and yet it was not really unkind, for no one was in the least hurt; we were all too much huddled up with fur-rugs and shawls and pillows for that. So I said, in a very huffy voice, that I would go down below, and I went, and found Catherine and Louis quite warm and snug in their berths, but much too sea-sick to stir, or even to laugh when I told them of our absurd tumble. Then I got into my berth too, and dozed and read all the rest of the time until the weather cleared.

LETTER II.

Albany, _28th May_.

Yesterday, Sunday, was fine and clear though cold, and we had Divine service in the large saloon below, which was as full of passengers as it could hold, for nearly every one had shaken off their sea-sickness. Even Catherine and Louis were up, and they are always the last to appear on deck. But I don’t suppose any one, in any part of the world, ever saw such a morning as this, when the _Carthage_ dropped anchor in the beautiful big bay which has two names. The old name is “King George’s Sound,” and the new name is “Albany.” You may _think_ you know what a fine morning is—a Devonshire spring morning we’ll say—but I really don’t believe there ever was, in any part of the world, such a morning, or indeed such a day, as this Monday, just over, has been. I may tell you that it was still, and sunny, and fresh; but how can I make you see the wonderful blue and golden light over everything, or breathe the air which was cool without being cold, and warm without being hot. It was just simply delicious, and you could not have found a happier party anywhere than we must have looked as we sat, closely packed, in the little steam launch which was skimming over the bay. We could not really say anything except “Isn’t it lovely?” unless we said “How delicious!” for a change. Bold headlands shut in the immense bay, so that we seemed to be sailing on a huge lake, with many little islands dotted about it, which looked green and charming to our sea-tired eyes as we fizzed and bustled along, with blue above and blue below, past them. The distant bluffs rose grandly against the cloud-swept sky, and a fairer scene than this spacious harbour encloses no one need desire to behold. As the land was neared we could see, on shore, fluttering flags, and red coats, and green arches, and all sorts of gay and pleasant ways of welcome. Everybody had come down to the pier to receive your father, and I felt very choky and foolish, because I was really, in my heart, so pleased and glad to find our new home such a charming place, and so many people thus kind and cordial in welcoming us. And then, besides the personal feeling of gratitude to individuals for their pretty and hospitable greeting, I always have a proud swelling of my heart to see how loyal Englishmen are, all over the world, and specially in Australia; loyal even when such thousands and thousands of miles of sea stretch between them and their Queen and Empress. All these arches and flags and mottoes are very nice as welcoming your father, but how much nicer do they become when they are just the words in which the West Australians say, “We love our dear Queen so much that we are ready to be cordial and pleasant to whoever She chooses to send to represent Her.” So, whenever I tell you of all the honour and hospitality shown to your father and me, you must always _first_ think that it is really our darling Queen to whom all her distant subjects vie with each other in showing their love and loyalty.

Later in the day Louis privately informed me that _he_, at one time, intended to be a governor, but had finally given up the idea, because he liked when he came to a strange place to “look about him _quietly_” (as if he ever did anything quietly!) And there were always so many people and so many “lessons” to say—he regards speeches and addresses in the light of lessons—that he preferred a more private and undistinguished position. He added that all the time he was standing by my side on the pier, he was longing to be under it, climbing about among the rafters or supports, or else fishing off it. However, Louis had his opinions quite to himself, for we all were very pleased with the kind and pretty welcome given to us, and presently we got into a carriage and drove up to the hotel. There were banners and flags and mottoes of welcome everywhere, and people came out on their balconies and cheered, and I could not help laughing at one woman who waved a baby at me! She did indeed. She ran out on her balcony carrying a tiny baby wrapped up in a large shawl, and she waved baby and shawl and all. Louis was greatly delighted at that.

Like all people who have been even four days at sea, the first thing we wanted to do was to take a long walk, and I don’t know that we did anything else which would interest you to hear about that day. It is a pity I can’t make you see the pretty views from every point at Albany, or give you a better idea of what great capabilities it possesses. I think it is really the most magnificent natural harbour I have ever seen.

_31st May._—We are just starting again in a steamer to go up the coast to Fremantle, the nearest harbour to Perth, but I shall have time to tell you how we have spent the last two days before I am sent for. Everything is packed up and has gone on board, and only I and my travelling-bag have been left behind. A message has just come up from the captain of the steamer to say there is “no hurry,” and I am too old a traveller not to know what _that_ means. It means that the weather is so bad, and the gale of wind blowing so strongly outside in our teeth, that we are just as well on the land for any progress we should be making.

Yes, our lovely, lovely Monday remained a beautiful day to the very last, just to show us what the climate could be if it took any trouble to be fine, and then it changed in the night, or rather the wind changed, and it has been raining and blowing ever since, and is bitterly cold. But then you must remember it is winter, and we want every drop of rain we can get between May and November, for we must not expect more than an occasional shower after that. So no one grumbles at the wet weather, though the rain has battered the arches and drenched the mottoes, and the flags have had to be taken down, and we have regularly been paddling about to banquets and lunches, and even to _the_ ball.