VI MIGHTY MELBOURNE
From my bedroom window this morning I look down upon the little river Yarra, with the big ships lying snugly alongside of the substantial wharves, and realise what a vast change, in that aspect of Melbourne at any rate, has been wrought since my last visit, when where what is now a splendid area of water accommodation for ships of great size up to a draught of 24 feet, and a most up-to-date congeries of warehouses, wharves, bridges, embankments, and factories, was an apparently hopeless muddle of quaint huts and swampy land, out of which it seemed impossible that order could ever emerge. In those days almost every one spoke contemptuously of the Yarra as an insignificant creek which it was folly to waste money upon in the attempt to make it navigable for vessels of any size, and the pet project was a huge breakwater extending from Williamstown to Sandridge (now Port Melbourne) enclosing the whole of the bay between, including, of course, the embouchure of the Yarra. Around the whole of the coast of this bay was to run a line of deep-water wharfage, alongside of which ships of any tonnage might lie in perfect quiet as in a vast dock. This scheme was fully matured and presented in practical form to the existing Victorian Government by Sir John Coode, but its magnitude of conception, and, of course, its cost, staggered them. So they compromised on the Yarra improvements, with the result that the old piers are still used for the accommodation of the largest ships at Port Melbourne itself, and so they must lie at the piers in what is, owing to the great size of Hobson's Bay, quite an open and unprotected roadstead during certain winds.
But though Hobson's Bay is so noble in area it is not too well off in the matter of depth, and ships drawing over 25 feet have to be most carefully navigated within its limits. More than that, the great ships of the White Star Line which trade here from England around the Cape are terribly handicapped by the fact that if they were loaded to their full paying capacity they could not get out of Hobson's Bay at all, owing to the want of depth at Port Phillip Heads. Strange, is it not, that at two such important points of ocean traffic as Suez and Port Phillip want of water should so long be allowed to hinder development, especially when it is remembered that there are no real engineering difficulties in the way? But of course it must never be forgotten that all really great public works in this country are heavily handicapped by the artificial restraints placed upon development by the restriction of population and consequently of revenue. All great schemes mean great expenditure, and with a population in the whole of this vast country of less than five millions this is impossible. Moreover, at present we have the grave spectacle of a declining birth-rate and an increasing emigration rate, a state of things which, in a country so full of natural wealth as this, is almost inexplicable. At present almost all politicians are agreed that the future of the country depends entirely upon her getting more population, but I do not see anything being done that will really tempt desirable immigrants who have no capital.
This, however, is a question which confronts the visitor at every turn, and so must be dealt with in small doses lest it become monotonous. At present I am anxious to get out and see Melbourne itself, wondering whether I shall notice as great a change in the city as I do in the development of the Yarra. As I step out into the noble width of Bourke Street, in full enjoyment of the glorious crisp morning (for the weather is still perfect), the hotel porter greets me with, "Very cold this morning, sir," to which I only mumble unintelligibly in reply, for I really cannot say anything uncomplimentary to this lovely climate. A double tramcar without seats on top comes swiftly up the hill from the river-bank, and I jump on, noticing as I do that it is a cable-car. The pace is good, the road splendidly wide and straight, giving a view, when you are at its highest point, clear from one end to the other, a distance of about two miles. But I get a shock when I have to pay threepence for a ride of about half a mile; for there are no sections, as in most other places. Within certain limits of what may be called the metropolitan area the price is threepence any distance; but you may purchase eight tickets for a shilling, each of which will frank you for a threepenny ride.
I do not think, however, that the average man saves much in this way, since it is a very common form of hospitality, when acquaintances meet on a car, to say, as hands go groping in pockets, "Oh, all right, I've got tickets!" and hand the conductor two. Outside the city limits these tickets are not available, but the fare remains the same. These very swift and comfortable cars are in the hands of private companies, who, I should think, must make a fine dividend, although it must be remembered that the wages are high and the service exceedingly good, commencing at 5.30 or 6 in the morning, and running most frequently until midnight. And as the city is built on the American square plan, with all the principal streets crossing one another at right angles, locomotion is very easy within the city limits.
My first trip was down Bourke Street, which I remembered thirty-five years ago as the principal, the finest street in Melbourne; and I confess that I was somewhat disappointed with its unequal appearance and the dearth of fine buildings, for I had expected, from what I had heard, much greater development. The Post Office is a fine building, but not so favourably situated as that at Adelaide, so that, notwithstanding its fine tower and façade, it will not look imposing. Moreover, it is obviously much too small for the requirements of Melbourne, for there is a mean-looking shed devoted to telephone work; and for parcel-post delivery of poste restante letters and money-order business the customer must go a considerable distance round into little Bourke Street of unsavoury fame. Before leaving this part of the question, let me say that nothing, I should think, would strike the British new chum more forcibly than the immense congeries of telegraphic, telephone, and other wires carried on posts at the sides of all the principal streets of the Australian cities, in emulation of the way these things are done in the United States. In Perth and Fremantle there are, in addition to the other cobwebby arrangements overhead, electric-car wires, and I could not help wondering what would be the result if one of these enormously high-tension car wires were to get broken and flung into the midst of a lot of telegraph and telephone wires by its side, especially on a night when the streets were crowded, as they often are, with people.
Adelaide is, as I have said before, still in the thrall of the mediæval horse-car, wherein, if she did but know it, she is behind the smallest provincial town in England and some of the districts of London, so that at present she has nought to fear from so dire a catastrophe. Melbourne is served, as I have also said, with cable-cars, and for the life of me I cannot see why she should want anything better, especially as there is no question of linking up. I have been told that the cost of the upkeep of the cables is much greater than that of electrical power, but when I humbly inquire what the cost of conversion will be I am met with vague generalities. A little bird has whispered to me that when I get to Sydney I shall know the reason, which is that Sydney has converted her cable-cars into trolley electrics, and Melbourne, feeling a back number on this question, is of course furious, and must ante-up. You remember in the "Naulahka" how cheerfully, whole-heartedly, and venomously the two rival cities, Rustler and Topaz, hated one another? Even so do the rival cities in Australia in like manner disobey the greatest commandment of all, and, remembering the misdirected affections of Liverpool and Manchester, I cannot throw any stones.
Let me return to a subject that I can unreservedly praise Melbourne for—the magnificent paving and grading of her main streets. It is, to my mind, a most effectual mark of high civilisation when the roads of a city are well laid and well cleansed, especially when, as in Melbourne, they are such noble thoroughfares. There is an immense traffic both on side-walks and in the roadway in Melbourne, but the condition of both trottoir and road is above reproach, even better than in Paris, which is to those who know, high praise. It would amuse our keen urchins who, in the City of London, dart about in the midst of the complications of the wheels and the clattering of hoofs with their exaggerated dustpans and hard brooms collecting the dung, to see their opposite numbers in Melbourne with a slightly bigger pan mounted on a pair of wheels and having a handle attached, doing the same work in a much more leisurely but effectual fashion. They would, however, say as I said, "That kind of contraption wouldn't work at all opposite the Mansion House." And, of course, they would deride the effort to make things easier, as men and boys always do.
I have, however, arrived at Elizabeth Street, which runs at right angles to Bourke Street and only stops at the Yarra Bank or Flinders Street, and I am at once convinced of the growth and splendour of Melbourne. The shops are superb, the buildings are beautifully and splendidly built, and the crowds of people are immense. But—there is always a but, somehow—I am saddened to see outside the numerous drink-shops or hotels a disfigurement of hurriedly printed telegrams from the racecourses, of the day's racing, the odds, and the results of all that infernal literature that saps the very soul of a nation. Tattersall's is a name apparently to conjure with, every foul-mouthed dirty-handed filcher of other men's earnings calls himself a Tattersall's saloon or a Tattersall's bar, until I wonder what old Tatt, who was, I believe, a gentleman anyhow, would have said had he seen to what base uses his honoured name would be put. Forgive me for referring to this so frequently, but it is so thrust down your throat at every turn that it is impossible to avoid saying something about it, and sorrowing over its effect upon the people all around you.
I turned down Elizabeth Street toward the river, and was staggered at the density of the crowds. It was 11 a.m., and the people were thick as bees swarming; not loafing about, either, but moving as if they had business somewhere. And the shops, those sure indications of prosperity, were quite comparable with any that I have seen anywhere, especially those devoted to jewellery, photography, drapery, and books! This must be a reading community indeed, for I do not remember having seen anything anywhere like Cole's Book Arcade or the Straider Libraries, where people go to buy books, not to borrow them. But I thought pitifully of authors' royalties, which at home are 1s. 3d. or 1s. 6d. on a book which is sold for 4s. 6d., and out here are threepence or fourpence on the same book sold at 2s. 6d. or 3s. 6d. This, however, being a matter only concerning those who write books, will not interest the general public, who appear to imagine that the author is fed and clothed and housed miraculously and ought not to expect payment for writing, but ought rather to carry about a ton or so of his books for glad distribution to every one that asks for them.
Yes, Elizabeth Street was an eye-opener to me, who remember it in the days of long thirty-five years ago. It is of course unequal, quite small and unpretentious buildings cheek by jowl with mighty erections, but no more so than Oxford Street, which indeed it much resembles at the river end, except for the permanent shelters over the wide pavements so that people shopping on foot are protected from the sun or the rain, and for the never-ending flight of the cable-cars. It is true that there are no emporia comparable to Marshall & Snelgrove's, D. H. Evans & Co., Waring's, or John Lewis's, but that is not to be expected, remembering that we are in a city with about the population of Islington. But turning the corner of Elizabeth Street into Collins Street you get a vista of commercial buildings that for solidity, beauty, and also architectural effect may safely challenge comparison with any town or city in the old country, with the added advantage of having a splendidly wide and straight street of a couple of miles in length to show them off in. The only city at home that can compare advantageously with Melbourne as far as Collins, Elizabeth, and Swanston Streets are concerned, is Glasgow, and of course Glasgow has an immense advantage in point of size. On the other hand, Melbourne scores heavily in the matter of atmosphere and cleanliness. Yet, I do not know how it is, the great public buildings of Melbourne, with the exception of the Parliament Buildings, suffer greatly from their sites, which do not allow them to be seen as they should be. But there again we in London can say little, for some of our finest buildings have been hidden away so that they may hardly be seen to any advantage at all. And this, of course, is also the case in most of our great cities except in certain favoured spots, such as the view of the Houses of Parliament from the river, the Government offices of St. James's Park, St. George's Hall and its surroundings in Liverpool, &c., &c.
Yet when we get down to bed-rock facts it is perfectly certain that Collins Street, Melbourne, is a thoroughfare that no city even of ten times Melbourne's age need be ashamed of, and it is marvellous how with so small a population in the rest of the State it has been built and is kept bustling. The site of the city is not beautiful, nor has it any lovely setting such as Adelaide possesses, but from the point of view of traffic it is splendid, as there are no hills anywhere to be negotiated, and consequently the railways and tramways can be most economically laid. In fact, so low is the whole plain upon which Melbourne and its great network of suburbs stand that I found myself asking several people if they ever had any trouble with abnormally high tides, if the Yarra never misbehaved itself. But they all said no, since the embankments have been built there does not appear to have been any trouble with floods. I can remember very well when much of what is now covered with beautiful houses and gardens was a barren waste of sand, to walk upon which in summer was torment. Indeed, I noticed even now that in the principal streets of some of the most prosperous suburbs around the bay there was an abundance of sea-sand, which certainly had not blown there. Of course, there is the comforting reflection that Melbourne is not on the sea, and that any great oceanic disturbance on the coast must spend itself against the protecting barrier of the Heads of Hobson's Bay, so that, failing any abnormal upheaval within the great bay itself, there is not much likelihood of any disastrous flood, in spite of the low level of the ground. Of which I am heartily glad, for it is a noble city—a worthy monument to the energy and enterprise of our fellows across the sea.