I made two trips to Tasmania, one of them being from Melbourne to Hobart. On one of these trips the sea was as smooth as glass, and looking in the water you could see the reflection of trees and islets as if looking in a mirror. On another trip, however, it was so rough that all passengers had to be kept below, and a fourteen-knot boat, when it did not go backwards, seldom made more than four knots. So much for the moods in which you may find Bass Straits. When Bass Straits are amiable, the time taken from Melbourne to Launceston is usually about twenty-four hours. You commence the journey by going down the tortuous muddy Yarra. As I have before remarked, there are some people who say that this river smells. The only things of particular interest which I remember passing were two steamers which had just arrived with tea from China. Both of them had seen bad weather, especially one called the Airlie, which had lost her boats and all her live-stock. When we saw her she looked pretty much like a ship that had been through a naval engagement. A fellow-passenger told a friend of mine that these ships carried Chinamen as sailors. The captain and the officers dressed in white—white coat, white pants, white hats and white shoes. They talked Chinese. He had heard them saying ‘Chop chop.’ That’s Chinese for ‘Hurry up,’ you know.
At the entrance to Port Phillip, into which the Yarra empties itself, there are fortifications and a lighthouse. Until quite recently, on account of the fear of Russians, these lights were extinguished. When we returned from Launceston in a little boat called the Pateena, we had to heave to at this point, until we had satisfied the officers of a steam-launch that we were not Russians in disguise.
Amongst our passengers there were, as usual, one or two celebrities. There were illiterate millionaires travelling for business, and young Oxonian millionaires travelling for pleasure. One man was pointed out to me as being worth from £150 to £200 per day; another man was a bagman carrying samples of the Airlie’s tea. The most remarkable man with whom I conversed was the heaviest man in the colonies. His name is Jennings, he is a native of Tasmania, weighs thirty-three stone, and belongs to a group of stout Tasmanians known as ‘Our Boys.’ He had been on a trip to Victoria and New South Wales, and being a distinguished personage, had been presented with ‘free passes’ for the colonial railways. In other countries he would have paid double. Not being able to go in an ordinary cabin, he had engaged the ladies’ saloon, where he had a bed made up on the floor; when once in bed he told me that he could not turn over, and ‘these ship stewards don’t understand me, you know,’ he remarked.
After dinner I spent some time in the smoking-room, where a young gentleman, who was completing his education by voyaging round the world, entertained an audience by accounts of his own adventures and the idiosyncrasies of his friends.
In the Red Sea he and his companions had nearly succumbed to the intense heat. The perspiration ran from them until they both got wet, and pools of water formed by the drippings from their chins. The playing cards were actually sticky. ‘I brought five guns with me,’ said the young gentleman, ‘and in India I shot seven elephants in one day.’ ‘Seventeen,’ he means, whispered my neighbour, who gave me a nudge. After this we were entertained by a long story about one of the young gentleman’s friends, whom he described as being ‘awfully hard.’ ‘You couldn’t knock “the hard” out of him. He was the hardest fellow he ever knew. Somehow or other he was always down on his luck. Once he was lost in the bush for five days. When he got back to his station, all his cattle had died. Then he went to sea for five years, going round the world ten times. This set him up with money to start another station. The cattle again died.’ ‘Did he go to sea for five years more?’ I asked. ‘Oh no, he didn’t go to sea again; he used to make wagers with fellows that he would drink a cask of beer and nibble up the staves of wood as he went on. They weren’t large casks, you know. His great aunt died the other day and left him £60,000 a year. He was awfully hard, don’tchyerknow.’
Another gentleman, who had a long tawny moustache, told us that he knew Tasmania better than any other man. He said that he had been collecting notes for the last twenty-five years for a book he was writing on Tasmania, and the style in which he wrote was like that of Artemus Ward.
About this time, there being a change in the amplitude and period of the ship’s movements, I decided on bed. I was glad that I had done this, as I afterwards found my health was not altogether reliable.
Early next morning we were steaming up the waters of the lovely Tamar. The river is fully a mile in width, and is bounded with big bays, clumps of trees, and hills on either side. The reflections in the water were so clear, that a photograph of what we saw must have been a double picture. Here and there along the hills there were lines of clouds, while at the extremities of the bays there were banks of mist. It is partly owing to these misty Scotch mornings, which kill off the weakly ones, that the British race exists. I was told by one passenger that the trees were red gums, blue gums, and wattles. A second passenger said they were blue gums, red gums, and wattles. A third said they were wattles, red gums, and blue gums. I gradually learnt how many names I required on which to ring the changes when describing the Tasmanian flora.
Launceston, which is forty miles up this river, is a clean, quiet, nice little town. From a distance you see several spires of churches, some tall chimneys belonging to the tin-smelting works, some saw mills, and a lot of houses, the whole being surrounded by high hills. On one side of the town is the river Esk, flowing down a rocky gorge from the Cora Linn. I went to see this, and was very much struck with the picturesqueness of the wild and rocky canon-like gorge through which the river flows.
The streets of the town are wide, and contain many good shops. Victorians call Tasmania ‘sleepy hollow.’ I cannot say that Launceston was particularly sleepy in its appearance. It was certainly quiet, but in the leading streets there was always a comfortable amount of traffic visible.