‘Why, one end was that we had to write five or six thousand letters of apology, to raise a fund to return the pamphlets and stuff that would not go into Jenkins’s twenty-six cases, and pay £25,000 damages for what had gone into them.’
‘And how about Mr. Joshua Jenkins?’
‘Oh, Literary Jos. Well, I don’t know, but I believe he is gone below, acting librarian at one of the State libraries. If you want to get up a cheap library in your part of the world, that is his address. He is charming company, you know.’
The streets of Sydney are above the average of streets we see in Europe. I expected to have found them narrow and crooked. Sydney is usually described as being old-fashioned, and having a cramped, crooked, and antiquated appearance. It is not American-like and modern, like Melbourne; Sydney is English. The streets might certainly be broader, but in all conscience, although not absolutely straight, they are straight enough. George Street, Pitt Street, and all the connecting streets between the two parallel main arteries, are usually overcrowded. The shops are good, and there are plenty of them. One shop, where you find everything, from millinery to leather bags, is extensive, and quite comparable with similar establishments in London. Here we have a number of excellent banks, and a post-office, which probably cannot find its equal in any other portion of the British Empire. Its tower will be a beacon for wanderers in all parts of the Colony. At the top of Pitt Street, there is a market filled with fruit, canaries, cockatoos, wallaby, and other Australian productions. Beyond this is the cathedral. Near here we have a waxwork show, where living likenesses of distinguished bushrangers may be seen. Amongst the other sights are the Museum, the Picture Gallery, where there is a large series of very good pictures, the Botanical Gardens, the Domain, Hyde Park, and the University.
In going to these places you are continually met by pretty glimpses of the harbour. Some of the smaller streets, however, are remarkable for the antiquated appearance of the houses and cottages you see in them.
Of course I fell in love when I was in Australia. It would not be complimentary to the ladies if I had not. It happened at the theatre. At the time a somewhat uninteresting farce was being played. This gave me time to look round. She sat in a box with a typical duenna. Perhaps she was sweet eighteen, perhaps she was lovely twenty. Her figure was willowy and elegant. Somehow or other your inner conscience tells you when you are in love, at least, mine does. My inner conscience, after looking at this earthly angel for about half an hour, remarked—‘Young man, you’re in love; your bachelorhood is being compromised.’ Then I had a short conversation with my conscience. It ended by my being convinced that my conscience was right, and that I was not simply in love, but was standing in the slops of an overflowing infatuation. When I looked at her, I thought she smiled. The duenna certainly frowned. At last the curtain dropped, and the Major, Peter and Dodd and I were hustled out upon the pavement. ‘Come on, old chappie. You’ll never recognise her with a cloak on. To-morrow you may find out where the charmer lives, and get an introduction to her parents.’ ‘I’ll help you,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll help you,’ said P. ‘I’ll help you,’ said D. Then they said, ‘We’ll all help you.’ Before I could thank them P. had taken hold of one of my arms, D. had taken hold of the other, and the Major was pushing behind. With their united assistance I quickly reached the hotel. That night sleep deserted me. Was it not possible that we might meet in the streets, in the park, in a ferry-boat, or on the Rialto? Many have met on the Rialto. At daybreak I would inquire for the Rialto. But again, many have met in crowds. Yes, in crowds, that meant the crowded theatre perhaps. At night I would again visit the theatre. During the day I would pace the Domain, the Park, and all the intricacies of great Sydney’s thoroughfares. Who was she? The box, the jewellery, the duenna indicated wealth. Perhaps a princess in disguise? She would be reclining in a chariot drawn by snow-white steeds. At last I dozed.
Next morning I rose with Aurora, and tramped the streets. During the day I flattened my nose against the windows of all the confectioners’ and millinery establishments that adorn the leading thoroughfares. I gazed into all the hansoms. I even raised my eyes at the damsels who reclined in open carriages. Many fair ones smiled—but mine, where was she?
That night I was the first to enter the theatre. What anxious moments passed as the dress-circle and the boxes filled! Suddenly P. nudged me, and whispered, ‘See over there.’ Oh, heavens! there she was. It was clear her bosom heaved with reciprocity, and had come to seek me out. During the day she had probably been chasing round the streets of Sydney behind my coat-tails. Why hadn’t I stood at a corner? I quickly hired a pair of opera-glasses, and, gazing through them, brought her nearer to me. She smiled. The duenna put on an expression of thunder, and drew behind the curtain. Then she looked through her opera-glasses. I looked through mine again. We were both near each other. I trembled with nervous excitement; my glasses trembled. I think they visibly waggled from side to side. She waggled hers. ‘Will you be best man, Major?’ I whispered. Then I rushed off to the box-keeper. I told him it was close and hot. ‘Yes, sir, it’s more than that; it’s dry, fearfully dry.’ I was quickly his bosom friend. ‘Who’s she—the gazelle in the second box?’ I asked. ‘’Um, what, her over there?’ said he, putting down his glass. ‘She’s the manager’s wife; sits up there every night.’
The Major, Peter and Dodd left for Melbourne next morning. I left with them.