“Yes, the British are of a sturdy race. They were developed in a fine climate. But people can’t live on climate, and these people had appetites. No thing can come from nothing. Thoughts and actions are ‘products,’ but the finished goods always reveal the character of the raw material. Strange,” he argued, “but as a man eats, so is he. The Frenchman eats frog, and he dances; the Italian eats macaroni and he runs a hand organ; while the Briton as a regular diet takes beef-steak and lion, so he wanders about, and—paints the world red.
“In less time than it took the old nations to build a city, the inhabitants of the small British Isles had pre-empted more than one-fifth of the surface of the planet, and were masters of the affections of a fourth of the human race. But the noblest works accomplished by this resistless people are now to be revealed, for the admiration of my countrymen.”
Here he turned on the great forty-foot sphere to an axial angle of twenty-three degrees, well exposing the Southern Hemisphere. After noticing the southern orifice—the back door of Symmes’ Hole—and the difference in the distribution of land and water near the respective poles, he turned the globe so as to give a fair exposure of Australasia.
In Oseba’s more cheerful demeanor, his more ready speech, and his radiant countenance, there was a gleam of joy, and when once the full import of this new scene was appreciated, there was a generous burst of applause—Leo notes, “almost enthusiasm.”
“This,” said the sage Oseba, “is the ‘Austral climes,’ the last dry dirt on the surface of Oliffa, wholly rescued from darkness and devoted to civilisation.
“Its color indicates its social condition—it is civilised and free, for on Oliffa, my children, ‘red’ is the emblem of hope. ‘Painting the world red,’ means turning on the light, and John Bull always carries a bucket of carmine—and he often has a ‘brush.’”
Oseba said that in the whole inquiry he had endeavoured to follow an example set, many centuries ago, by a Personage whose advice is constantly quoted on Oliffa—and more constantly ignored—of keeping the best to the last.
Australia was of old called an island, but as in area it about equalled the United States of America, and almost that of Europe—having near 3,000,000 square miles—it was now regarded as a “continent,” though it had less than 4,000,000 people.
“Room for a colony?” said the poetess Vauline, with something bordering emotion.