bombay—my brother’s grave—london streets—outward bound—i play at government house—ballarat—mosquitoes—sightseeing in new zealand—a maori dance

my next trip took me to bombay, where i stayed for a few days at the english hotel by fort hill. the tropical scenery struck me as very similar to that which i had seen at colombo, and the heat as terrific, though feathery tamarisks and palms shaded the tracks. the white population were waited on by the natives. my father was correspondent for the indian times and my parents had lived in bombay before i was born. they knew a great many people there. in my pocket i had a letter from home. “if you go to bombay do go and see mr and mrs c——, and whatever you do, dear, be well dressed.” i had heard a lot about those great people when i was a schoolboy, so i did as i was bid and dressed up like a prince. when i arrived at the aristocratic, verandahed building i carefully dusted my boots with my handkerchief and knocked. when the door opened, and i gave my name to the native servants, an old man, the great c—— himself, came forward. he was polite to me, and i was the best-dressed man in the house, so i did not begrudge the money i had paid for the loan of the suit at the bombay tailor’s!

before i left bombay i went to see my little brother’s grave, gerald massey s. middleton. he was buried at colabba point, and i discovered his grave at last. a tamarisk tree was growing on it and a few strange flowers. i felt the kinship of that little grave in a strange land; the earth did not hide from imagination’s eyes the little dust beneath, which would have been my big brother if he had lived. i remembered my mother and father saying how they had felt when their ship went by colabba point, homeward bound for england, and they stood on deck and gazed inland and thought of their child being left behind. i knew how they must have felt as i stood there alone and gazed upon the little stone set between two large vaults. i felt intensely lonely. the indian bees moaned in the flowers and palms. i saw my mother, a girl in years that day, standing weeping by her lost child; she still stood there in the sunset and shadow as i dreamed. i kissed her, picked a flower and then walked away, the one solitary mourner that had come after many years, and probably the last.

next day i joined my ship and arrived in london six weeks later, only again to get a berth and go seaward, for the grim respectability of the city soon haunted me with its stony, nightmare eyes. the very atmosphere seemed to whisper: “englishman, englishman, are you respectable? where’s your bible, your rent-book and your marriage certificate?” i seemed to hear that humming in my ears as i walked through london’s streets, miserably cold. i shivered, and jumped into a cab at waterloo and rushed off to poplar. there was a man who lived there, in abbot’s road, who was a crack hand at getting berths on the ships for us.

in a week i was off down channel, on a shaw-saville boat, bound for new zealand and australia, as happy as a swallow flying south. the music of the sails, bellowing out and flopping to rest, the rattling rigging, the sailors talking and singing on deck, made me feel intensely happy, and yet half miserable as i thought of the ship sailing across the world to a civilised port. i stood on deck wishing there were undiscovered shores where waves sang, never seen by human eyes, and dreaming of old pioneers and heroes of far-off ages. i seemed to realise at a very early age that the light of the universe, the sun and stars were my religion, and their mystery my unfathomable mistress with divine eyes.

when the tramp steamer, after toiling along for weeks at sea, sighted land i stood on her deck the longest, as the far-off shores shaped themselves, and fancied i could see the old wooden pioneer ships and galleons that discovered them still hugging the misty shore as sunset died. often when far out at sea i would stand on the poop by night for hours, gazing astern, watching the star-like eyes of the albatrosses, flitting on the restless winds, till they seemed old heroes, my comrades out of their graves, on beautiful wings following the new ships. then the mate would touch me on the shoulder and say: “now then, young man, you didn’t come to sea to dream.” the crew holystoned the decks, the cook swore in the galley as only a sea-cook can swear, and the cabin-boy, who had never been to sea before, said, “is that new zealand?” and pointed shoreward. as we rolled along, with all sails set, he stood on his head as soon as my back was turned, for i saw him in the glass of the saloon port-holes. i knew how he felt.

i returned to england on the same ship and then got a berth on the seneska and went to america. a few years later, and i was again in australia, on the p. & o. liner britannia.

a strike was on, and we lay out in sydney harbour for two weeks and used to go ashore in a tender every evening. one night i went ashore and played at a private concert out at pott’s point, and stayed the night as well. it was a wedding festival, and my host and hostess were kind, bohemian folk, relations of sir henry parkes. i cannot remember their name. they used their influence and secured me a position to play at the government house balls in sydney. i did so well that i got my box off my ship and left.

at government house i played as a solo my own composition, the monk’s dream, which i had arranged for violin and pianoforte, and a soldier’s dream waltz, with variations. among the audience was the present lieutenant james ord hume, who was on a tour through australia, as adjudicator for the great military and brass band contests of australia and new zealand. hearing me play, and finding that the solo was my own composition, he complimented me, and asked me to go to see him at the occidental hotel. i had a very good time there, for he was most hospitable. he was then about to leave sydney for ballarat. “would you like to come on a trip with us?” he said. “certainly,” i answered, for i had a considerable amount of money just then and felt that a holiday would do me good. mr hume had not been to ballarat before and was delighted with the scenery passing over the blue mountains.

in ballarat we had various experiences, and i worked, digging for gold, down the chief gold mine, the war-hoop mine. we went outside the town and got into the bush too; for though ballarat is a beautiful town, with splendid buildings, one can walk in a very short time right into the bush and see scenery equal to the queensland landscape. the botanical gardens are also very beautiful and reveal patches of primeval australia. we took snapshots of the wendowee lakelet, because of the pretty little plump colonial girls standing by the banks; they were nut-brown with the sun.

mr ord hume went out to see a friend who lived in the bush, but we only stayed two nights. there was a stable and swamp near our bedroom window, and when, after enjoying the squatter’s hospitality and a musical evening, we went to bed, though we rubbed ourselves with kerosene oil and smoked, the mosquitoes charged down on our feet and faces in hunnish regiments. at midnight we called our host, and he came to our door in his nightshirt and told us to rub some whisky on our faces and on our feet, and gave us a full bottle of the best brand. directly he had gone we closed the door, wiped the sweat from our perspiring brows and drew the cork to rub our ravaged bodies.

“don’t you think if we took the stuff internally and then smoked that our breath full of the fumes would keep the cursed mosquitoes off?” i suggested. mr hume quite agreed with my suggestion, which eventually turned out to be a most disastrous one for the mosquitoes, for we drank the whole bottle and then went to sleep, and never felt one mosquito bite the night through, nor did we wake till long after sunrise.

i think it was four days before the great band contest, which mr ord hume was in ballarat to adjudicate on, came off. the whole of ballarat came to it. it was at that contest that i first became enthusiastic over bands. i felt the fire and go in the australians’ performances; their bands cannot be beaten the world over.

we saw a good deal of life in australia together before i left lieutenant j. ord hume, a few weeks after the ballarat concert, arranging to see him later in new zealand, where he was going to adjudicate at other band contests.

i went as a passenger on a boat to new zealand, and when i had been a few days in auckland i saw by the newspapers that mr hume had arrived to judge the great new zealand band competitions at masterton and elsewhere. i managed to be there. the weather was glorious, also the applause of the new zealanders as the bands marched by.

i travelled with mr hume by train over the rimnatuka mountain from wellington to masterton. it took three engines to take the train over the rocky ledges and slopes. the grade is one in fifteen in many places. the bush-land and mountain scenery is equal to anything in australia, for the scenery of new zealand is wildly magnificent.

after mr ord hume had judged and conducted the massed band performances at auckland he kindly invited me to join him, and we went off sight-seeing, visiting bush-lands, rivers and hot springs, old tribal battle spots and maoris in their pahs. maori guides led us up mountains and across volcanic chasms, and took a great deal of trouble on our behalf. they knew that mr ord hume had specially come across the world to judge the bands, and so they took us everywhere as their guests.

things had altered a good deal since my new zealand visit of a year or so before. we went across the bush, on the way to wanganuis river, and passed through thick, jungle-like forest and scenery that made us forget the world behind. i remember we came across one maori pah where we got the maoris to stand and have their photographs taken. i played the violin again, as the thick-haired maori girls chanted and danced. they have many kinds of dances, and the rhythmical movement of their bodies is equal to the weird beauty of the south sea island siva dances.

some of the maori girls are exceedingly handsome, but they fade at an early age. i remember one girl who was both handsome and intellectual-looking; her features were delicate and soft, refined through not being too perfect. she had a clear voice, and i extemporised an obbligato on my violin as she sang in the pah. the chiefs and women were enthusiastic in their applause. one ancient chief was thickly tattooed in engraved, ornamental lines and looked exceedingly majestic. he spoke english perfectly, and i was deeply interested in the many things he told us of his younger days. he was a prince by blood and, like the old chief whom i told you of in a preceding chapter, remembered the days when the rival tribes met in battle, or his tribe resented the white man’s encroachment on the tribal lands.

i visited north and south island and saw many of the geysers. waimana geyser is often in eruption and throws up volcanic steam and matter nine hundred feet, and then quiets down. i tramped along in tourist fashion with my gay companion; helped take snapshots, and spoilt a good many! we saw, too, the waimango basin, the hot springs and the “devil’s frying pan,” where one could stand up to one’s ankles in fire. we stopped with a guide called warbuck and had a fine time. from there we travelled everywhere, and camped out for several nights, just for the romance and fun of it. we cooked our potatoes and boiled eggs in the hot springs of the kerern geyser, rotorua.

after that i secured a position as violinist in an orchestra at auckland and bade mr ord hume good-bye, for soon after he left new zealand.

i will now return once more to my old bohemian days. away from respectability that whitewashes men, back away from the mighty orchestra of moving cogs and wheels, and from the crowds of cold eyes, thirsting for the gold which is necessary to keep them warm in white-collared respectability, back over the seas to the forests of maori land, to the cry of the curlew and huja in the trees, by the old pahs of orakan, where herowera, the old-time warrior, sat by the rushing river waters. his tattooed, engraved face is alive with memories. once again he tells me of the mighty rewi maniapoto and the esprit de corps that bound the tribes together in their fierce battles, when maoris fought as bravely for their rights as the old britons still do. still i fancy i hear pretty rewaro, the maori maid, singing her chant as she listens to the old chief’s reminiscences of mighty deeds and battles of yore. in the birch and eucalyptus trees sigh old winds, and from the mysterious gloom of moonlit arcadia come soft, weird sounds of maori musical instruments. i could write chapters about the maoris and their habits, and their wonderful poetic legends of dead chiefs singing in the forest, and maidens made of sea-foam brightly dancing in the glimpsing moonlight of forest rivers. i have seen maoris stare down the main streets of masterton and swear that they could see the rivers rushing along in the moonlight, and the canoes bearing the tribes over the swirling falls, while maori maids, with their beautiful hair lifting in the winds, danced on ghostly, primeval waters.

river scene in new zealand

i have felt as they feel when they see the city spires rising over their enchanted lands, for i can dream as they dream and awake to the same reality. were i to rise, as a man in a dream, and go back across the years and pitch my tent on the old spot in queensland where i camped, i should be moved on for obstructing the tramcars, and yet i am still a young man, so you will see how great is the change in a few years. i remember my self-made hut home, fashioned by my own hands, my comrade pulling the thick bush grass and boughs for the walls. how happy we were in that little room as the river sang, travelling onward. just below we picked the ripe yellow oranges from the deep grass under the scented trees, where often my parrot raced me across the slope and flew by me sideways with its cut wing and won the race as i let it pass. i remember how, before the parrot died, it walked up our cabin walls screaming, with its tongue hanging from its beak; how great was my grief as its tiny jewel eyes opened and closed for the last time. that death was the great sorrow of our hut life, and we buried the poor bird, as parents do a beloved child, by the riverside. we went that same night over the slopes to the camp of aborigines, who cheered us up as they danced the corrobboree, while i played the fiddle under the moonlit gums. the old women were as black as ebony, and they also jumped and beat their hands on their skinny thighs, while old and young men, almost naked, whirled round the smouldering camp fire, with their ribs painted white, looking like hideous, screaming skeletons. we gave them cakes of plug tobacco, and in return they would dance. sometimes they would just begin and then stop and say: “me no dance, want more baccy first.” i used to answer: “you no dance? then me no play music.” then their thick lips would flop together, as they all grinned, and off they would start, whirling round in the old brown government blankets which they wore over their shoulders something after the cavalier fashion of romantic ages. one old fellow had a tremendous head and was the tribal musician; he played a bone flute, the thigh-bone of some ancestor. he blew four notes on it and played them repeatedly; and the dusky forms chanted and jumped round him, beating their black breasts with their hands. this is how the thigh-bone wailed to the lips of its posterity:

those wild black men had creeds and poetic legends of their bush world, much the same as the wild white men. for some historic ancestor’s deed with the boomerang filthy old men and women were waited on by the low-caste tribe, who gazed upon their aboriginal gentry with awestruck eyes, and pushed hot, cooked white grubs and eel-like snakes into the big black lips of the aristocrats, who sat by the camp fire and opened their huge mouths in a listless way, their black, protruding bellies heaving in the bloated affluence of their high lineage.