On the raised “first-class” end of the vessel the usual specimens of humanity one always sees on board a passenger-steamer, in whatever part of the world you travel, are present. The over-dressed, noisy bagmen of wine and spirit houses are there; the quiet, canny representative of a pushing “Glascy” soft-goods manufacturer; two or three Jewish mine-owners; a sprinkling of Scotch storekeepers; an Irish doctor; a German innkeeper; and a select circle of long-limbed members of those upper circles who belong to the genus termed in Australian parlance “silver-tailed,” in distinction to the “copper-tailed” democratic classes.
Here a thin-faced clergyman, on the way to his missionary labours amongst the Papuans, stands by his fresh, young Victorian wife, pointing out to her the various “outward and visible signs” that they have at last entered the tropics, as the trembling screw hurries them past lazy-looking turtles, long rows of algæ seed, and occasional broken branches of mangrove and pandanus.
Over there the courteous captain of the ship, dressed in spotless linen suit, is pointing out to a lady passenger “the identical spot on that particular island, my dear madam, on the dark red rocks that lift themselves out of the deep water, where Captain Cook landed in 1770.” The gallant skipper, who is a well-known antiquary and geologist, proceeds to promise he will some day show his fair friend—who, by-the-bye, does not appear very interested—the cairn erected by the same wonderful navigator near Cooktown, and lately discovered by himself.
Down near the forecabin a few greasy-looking stewards are dawdling over the job of emptying overboard sundry trayfuls of débris from the saloon tea table, enjoying meanwhile the fresh air, ere the “boss” shall call them back into the stuffy atmosphere of their principal sphere of labours.
“Golly!” says a small boy to one of these marine waiters, as the former stands on tiptoe to look over the bulwarks, “Golly! but them kiddies round the news office, guess they’d give ’alf of their papers fur that lot o’ grub you chucks away, mister.”
Without waiting to see if his remark is understood or even noticed, Don—for it is Claude’s little friend—dives down, and, seizing a fat brown puppy that is lolling against his legs, lifts it up to see “them gooses” that are skimming past the ship. Above the group, on the saloon deck, is Claude, leaning against one of the boats, and trying to listen to a dark, elderly man, dressed in a “slop”-made grey suit and soft felt hat, as he spins him a yarn of the Palmer diggings, commencing,—
“’Spose you’ve heard of poor Jack Straw, who was killed by the natives under his waggon?” etc.
Claude, to tell the truth, is neither interested in the tale nor the scenery; and when the former is finished, and the historian has been dragged off to take a hand at “cut-throat” euchre, our young friend relapses into a reverie.
Eager as he was to follow out the instructions of his dead uncle until the steamer reached Brisbane, he cannot disguise from himself the fact that since that day his enthusiasm has greatly cooled. Something happened during the few hours he spent on shore in the capital of Queensland which has disturbed his set purposes considerably. Struggle as he may, he feels a longing he can hardly understand to return to Morecombe Bay,—a mysterious tugging at his heart strings that grows stronger as the steamer rattles its way northwards. Any lady readers who may honour these pages with their perusal will already have guessed correctly that young Angland has been attacked with the same sort of complaint that caused sorrowful young Werther to make such an egregious stupid of himself in Göethe’s marvellous histoirette.
A pretty girl has flattered his vanity by apparently particularly admiring him, and, man-like, he cannot help feeling that she shows a sense above all other girls in so doing. The birth of love in man is generally after this fashion. True admiration, whether signalled by word or smile, is the expression of adoration by an inferior to a superior being. And as man’s hereditary instincts teach him unconsciously to wish to succour and protect the weaker of his immediate species,—for it is probably owing greatly to this desire that the human race has worried its way along to the front seat in creation,—the usual predilection strong men (physically or otherwise) have for mating with weak women, and vice versâ, is easily explained.