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.
VII SOME FLEETING COMPARISONS
This is a paradoxical country in many ways. For instance, while wages are high in the cities and the cost of living is amazingly cheap, the prices of certain articles jump up and metaphorically knock you down. For instance, I was the other day admiring some magnificent lobsters (crawfish) in a fishmonger's window, freshly boiled and steaming, ticketed 1s. 6d. each. Such crustacea of equal size in London certainly could not be purchased for 5s. each, while for quality, flavour, and tenderness the English lobster is not within sight of the Australian variety. The prices of fruit and vegetables I have already alluded to in their phenomenal lowness, while the standard price of tea, the national beverage far more than with us, is 1s. 3d. per pound. If you wish for something very special you pay 1s. 6d., but few do. But walking away from those lobsters and the announcement that a table-d'hote dinner of three courses might be purchased for sixpence, the price which has not varied apparently since I was here thirty-five years ago in respectable eating-houses, I bethought me that I needed a button-hook. And since I am exceedingly gifted at losing such small articles, I sought for a cheap one. I soon found one of the shops which are very common out here, a sort of variety store where you can purchase almost anything in the way of small non-perishable articles, and proffered my request. The attendant immediately produced one such as are sold on cards at home for six a penny. I took it and said it would do exactly. How much? "Sixpence," he responded promptly; whereupon I gasped, and then laughed heartily. He inquired rather anxiously what I was laughing at, and when I told him he was angry, and said he hadn't asked for my custom. Whereupon we parted.
On another occasion I went to one of the beautiful bays close to the Heads and hired a boat to go fishing. I was out for four hours by myself, and when I returned and asked what I had to pay I was told two shillings. Which I naturally compared with the two and sixpence an hour charge at our watering-places at home and wondered at consumedly.