Part 1

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_Shavings & Scrapes_

_FROM MANY PARTS_

BY

Jules Joubert

There was a time when meadows, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, to me did seem Apparelled in celestial light— The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it has been of yore, Turn wheresoe’r I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen are now no more.

WORDSWORTH’S “_Recollections of Early Childhood_.”

DUNEDIN

J. WILKIE AND CO.

PRINCES STREET

1890

_Dedicated to_

_The Members of the Savage Club_,

_Dunedin, N. Z._,

_1889_,

_BY_

_The Author_.

CONTENTS.

EARLY SCRAPES.

A Stray Shot 1

Peep of Day 4

Chips from an Old Log 9

First Lesson in Finance 15

Robinson Crusoe Realised 20

Maoriland 25

EARLY AUSTRALIAN SHAVINGS.

Sydney in 1839 32

The Gold Fever 37

Some Bushrangers I Have Known 41

How Money Used to be Made 49

NEW CALEDONIA.

Taking Possession: “Tit for Tat” 53

“He who Fights and Runs Away” 56

Another Narrow Squeak 60

A South Sea Trip 63

NEW SOUTH WALES.

A Few Old Identities 69

A Land Speculation 75

A Hard Knock 79

Home, Sweet Home 83

Antipodean Gratitude 88

CEYLON.

Grains of Singalese Sand 92

The Paraherra 96

“Hamlet” Under Difficulties 103

An Elephant Hunt 106

A Matrimonial “Scrape” 113

The Tree of Life 131

A Water Party in the Garden of Eden 145

INDIA.

Madras 155

The Ganges 158

Calcutta 162

The Denizens of the Jungle 169

Sanctimonious 173

The Calcutta Exhibition 180

A Tramp Through India 184

Benares—the Sacred City 196

Through the Central Provinces 200

Princely Hospitality 206

Indian Sports 211

HOME, “DEAR” HOME 224

The Christening.

In one of the first chapters of Charles Dickens’ “Nicholas Nickleby” he gives a very amusing description of the family conclave held to decide upon the name of the newborn infant.

I am now in the same dilemma.

It is very well to say that “A rose will smell quite as sweet,” &c., &c., and that there is nothing in a name. On this point I must agree to differ.

When I wrote this book I had fixed upon “Ups and Downs”—my publisher tells me that there is already in existence a book under that name. “A Random Shot” met with a similar objection. A score more attempts proved equally fruitless—“Too long,” “Too short,” “Won’t do”—until I made up my mind to translate it into French and call it “Sans nom,” which after all would be most appropriate.

Owing no doubt to perplexity, a homicidal fit came upon me. My fire was being lit: my M.S. laid before me. It struck me that after all it would serve admirably to kindle a flame.

My servant entered with the coal scuttle and some shavings. This saved my paper. “SAVED”!! I cried. I had a name at last: “Shavings and Scrapes”—original, though slightly _Barber_ous. “Shavings” it is, and “Shavings” it shall be.

As you see, the christening was a private affair, settled _au coin du feu_.

But for this timely assistance the book would have made a blaze, it is true, and my literary effort would have ended in SMOKE.

J. J.

EARLY SCRAPES.

I.

_A STRAY SHOT._

What is life? A perpetual see-saw with fortune—man at one end, the fickle jade at the other.

A feather at times turns the balance. In my case, an ounce of lead has disturbed the equilibrium of the fortunes of many lives.

Descended from men of war, I have become most essentially a man of peace.

Still, when that most popular of all toasts, “The Army and Navy,” is proposed, it stirs up the old leaven which still permeates the blood that came to me with the name I inherited from my sires.

My paternal grandfather had two sons, one a soldier, the younger a sailor. The latter is answerable for my sins—if I have ever committed any.

The vicissitudes of life are strange, bordering at times on fiction. During the war France had to wage against almost every other nation in Europe to defend her soil from the invasion instigated by a fallen monarchy against the Republican element which originated in 1789, an army, spontaneously raised from her “people,” crossed the Alps, carrying the tricolor flag into Italy, where many hard battles were fought.

These strangely composed, ill clad, badly fed, ragged hordes of French soldiers were led to victory by two young, inexperienced generals—both ambitious, energetic men—the younger, General Bonaparte, in whom the “Directoire” possessed a dangerous enemy of the Republic; the senior, my uncle, whose special mission was to watch the impetuous Corsican and counter-balance the evident sway and influence he was daily gaining over the young army by the daring of his actions and electrifying effect of those short, pithy allocutions he invariably made to the soldiers whom he sometimes so rashly led to death—but always to victory. During the Italian campaign the two young leaders vied with each other in their efforts to drill and train the undisciplined battalions, recruited and enlisted on the Champ de Mars, in Paris, during the terrible period so graphically termed the “Reign of Terror.”

From the victories gained in Italy originated that wonderful army whose glorious deeds have placed France foremost as a military Power.

During one of the most decisive battles on the fields of Novi, after a days’ hard fighting, and when the victory once more had smiled on his flag, my uncle fell, shot through the heart. When his body, carried reverently by his staff, was brought to his tent, a sealed packet was found on the General’s camp-table—a packet containing an official order from the “Directoire” to assume the supreme command of the French army!

What changes in the destinies of Europe have resulted from this stray shot! Two men then ruling the armies of France—one a staunch Republican, seeking only the welfare of his country; the other an ambitious _parvenu_, ever ready to sacrifice the lives of hundreds of thousands to his own aggrandisement. Who can say what might have been the result had Bonaparte fallen instead of his brother officer?

I only refer to this episode in the early history of the family whence I spring because I consider that it very likely had to a great extent a direct influence on my after life, even though it occurred a quarter of a century before I made my first appearance in this wicked world. It gave rise to a jealous feeling in my father’s heart and led him to leave the navy.

Soon after Napoleon became the ruler of the French Empire, my father, like the Roman of old, exchanged the sword for the plough. Instead of making a name in the naval engagements of Aboukir or Trafalgar he devoted his life to a quieter and perhaps better purpose—the drainage of the then pestilential morasses of Medoc, which have since acquired a world-wide fame for the production of some of the best wines in the south of France.

In some of the libraries of my native country some useful works are to be found on the culture of the vine, the drainage of land in the south of France, as well as a treatise on artesian wells, which was one of my father’s hobbies—the first of these useful perforations having been made in Medoc, and ultimately the great artesian well of Grenelle, in Paris.

II.

_PEEP OF DAY._

Having so far established the genealogy of the author, it might be as well to bring him to the fore, and to state that on the 31st day of July, 1824, I made my _entrée_ at Angoulême, one of the prettiest towns in France—a town now seldom visited by tourists, owing to its peculiar position on the summit of a sugar-loaf-shaped hill, almost surrounded by the river Charente—too steep for a railway. The engineers who planned the iron road in that locality avoided Angoulême, so that even in this age of progress my native town is, I may say, what it was when I left it many, many years ago—a quiet, unpretentious city, merely known by the paper mills, which afford the principal item of trade of its inhabitants. These mills, in the early part of the present century, belonged to my grandfather; and to this day the water lines on the paper manufactured at Angoulême bear the names “Laroche-Joubert,” the former family having intermarried with ours.

Earlier than it is usual now to put a youth to school, I was sent to Bordeaux, and made to plough up Latin and Greek under a most strict and overbearing taskmaster. In those days the easy hours and lazy system of education now in vogue were unknown. Strict discipline—such, indeed, as would now cause a mutiny in a penitentiary—was considered the right and proper treatment in the best regulated schools. Even Dickens has been mild in his description of scholastic comforts.

I confess that I little relished the scanty food, the corporeal punishment, and long dreary hours spent at my first school at Bordeaux.

The system of schooling now in vogue may—and I feel sure, does—bring about quite as good a result as far as education is concerned; but I still think that the discipline and hardship of the old system had its beneficial effects. I have still a strong impression of those old days, when the first bell used to wake us at 6 A.M., winter and summer; ten minutes allowed to dress; marched to a trough of iced water, in winter, for ablutions; then into a cold, dreary schoolroom—each boy provided with a tallow dip to lighten the darkness of his desk—where, with fingers benumbed with cold, he had to dive into “Æsop” or “Cornelius Nepos,” translate Homer and Virgil on an empty stomach, and with heavy eye-lids, until 8 o’clock, when a slice of dry bread and very much christened milk of doubtful origin would be handed over on our way to the playground. Thus fortified we had to wait till 11 for a _déjeuner à la fourchette_, worse than that I have often seen placed before vagrants in the soup kitchens of Sydney or Melbourne. Such treatment, however, was “quite the thing” fifty years ago. It not only sharpened the appetite—it sharpened the “wits” of young “gentlemen.”

Being one of the youngest and smallest of boys in Mons. Worms’ school, I had to submit to the will of my seniors. The private store of our schoolmaster was in a large room on the upper floor. The skylight of our dormitories enabled us to have access to the roof, and by dint of a clothes line a small boy could readily be lowered through the chimney into this receptacle of jam pots, tinned sardines, and other delicacies.

What my elders (whose _education_ was more advanced) conceived, I had to execute. Being lowered into the store-room to secure “goodies” for my mates seemed quite a heroic achievement. This systematic burglary we carried on for some time, until one fine evening the line snapped. I dropped into the fireplace with a crash which brought in one of the ushers. A trial—when, all attempts to make me disclose the names of my companions having proved fruitless, I was sentenced to expulsion from the school.

This scandalous beginning in the world, and ignominious exit from my first school, though very disgraceful, have not been altogether devoid of good results. I have ever since been fully impressed with several important facts—First, that burglaries in the long run don’t pay; second, that it is safer to get into a room by the door than through the chimney; third, it is always better to lower someone else after “goodies” than to be lowered one’s self; and last, though not least, that it is not safe to trust one’s body to a hemp rope. It may have been the means of keeping me from more mischief—who knows?

I, however, hailed with delight my removal to the College Bourbon in Paris, where, as a day pupil, I could enjoy the comforts of “home” when my day’s college work came to an end.

It was there that I became personally acquainted with many whose names have since become famous in French history, having for several years sat on the same form with A. Dumas (_fils_), Clavel, Leon Say, Phillipeaux Brénier; and, at the annual examinations, the sons of our monarch, Louis Philippe—the Ducs d’Aumale and Montpensier—schoolmates whom I had the good fortune to meet again in Paris in 1878, after many years of a rambling life in the Southern Hemisphere.

My eldest brother took it into his head to start for Australia in 1837. I was much engrossed by the fuss all our friends made with him when he left for what was then considered the confines of the world; his letters describing the voyage, his landing, and the prospects of this new world so preyed on my mind that I at once decided to follow in his tracks.

Communications, however, were not quite as frequent in those days as they are now. Instead of a thirty-five days’ passage on board a floating palace, a trip to Australia meant close imprisonment for eleven or twelve months in a wooden tub of three or four hundred tons, with hard biscuit and salt junk, and perhaps an occasional meal of tinned beef and preserved potatoes, washed down with a draught of putrid water, often doled out in very minute portions. All these were thoroughly put before me to cool down my travelling proclivities. But, on the other hand, most of the visitors at home were old shipmates of my father’s—Dumont-Durville, Laplace, Berard—all eminent French navigators, who had followed Cook and Lapeyrouse’s ships in the Pacific—so that, whilst one ear listened to the words of caution and “Home, Sweet Home,” sung to me by the female portion of the household, the other, like gentle Desdemona’s, heard our visitors tell

Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent, deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery. . . . And of the cannibals that each other eat— The Anthropophagi— . . . In faith ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange.

The more welcome tales of adventures across the sea became prominent in my mind and eventually carried the day. Once my mind was set on going, I left no stone unturned to make a start. At the instigation of our sailor friends, and with their assistance, I obtained from the then _Ministre de la Marine_, also a friend of my father—Admiral Duperré—a passage on board the corvette Heroine, which was going to make a voyage round the world, and, _en passant_, to carry to the Bay of Islands some Church ornaments and ecclesiastical garments sent by the Queen of the French—the sainted wife of Louis Phillipe—to Monseigneur Pompallier, Catholic Bishop of New Zealand.

III.

_CHIPS FROM AN OLD LOG._

On the 1st of May, 1839, before daybreak—having only been a few hours on board the Heroine—an unusual noise and turmoil gave me the first idea of the life of a “_passager civil_” on board a man-of-war.

My hammock was hung close to the gun-room in the gun-deck, where 32 caronades and 250 Jack-tars shared with me that rather close and murky dormitory, which at a given signal from the boatswain’s whistle had to be cleared of hammocks, washed, holystoned, and mopped—all before 5 A.M.

This, I may say, was an operation commenced on that first morning an hour earlier than usual, owing to the fact that “Saint Philippe” being the patron saint of the King of the French, and the first of May being the birthday of the said saint (a fact I am not prepared to vouch for), the whole of the fleet at anchor in the port of Brest would thunder a royal salute at sunrise, in which our ship could not take part, as in those benighted days it was thought that the firing of 21 guns might cause a deviation of the chronometers.

It appears that an order received during the night—to clear out before daylight—had to be obeyed, so we weighed anchor and put out to sea. It was a rough, miserable day. I had hardly managed to hurry on my clothes before the Heroine commenced to toss and pitch as only a heavily-gunned frigate can do in a short, heavy sea with half a gale blowing in her teeth.

I shall never forget an eventful night in the Bay of Biscay, when the frigate was rolling heavily from side to side. One of the racks between the caronades gave way under the weight of the eight or ten thirty-two pound shots it held. These cannon balls were of course sent rolling from starboard to port with increased velocity, threatening in their progress to knock the sides of the ship into splinters. The watch was piped down to stop this mischief, but the task was not an easy one. The men had only the dim light of lanterns to see the very lively balls, and stopping them in their mad career was fraught with much danger; indeed, before they were all secured, several poor fellows had to be carried into the hospital with bruised and broken limbs.

I must confess that had it been possible on that and the following few days to have changed places with the only brother I had left comfortably quartered under the paternal roof, these pages would never have been penned in New Zealand, and he, poor fellow, would have escaped the tragical death he met with in the trenches at Sebastopol during the Crimean war, where he fell mortally wounded at the head of his company, the 11th Artillery.

Youth and a healthy constitution soon overcame the effects of the _mal de mer_. The Heroine was the smartest sailer in the French navy. Our orders were to keep in the wake of an admiral’s ship—“La Gloire”—sent to Rio de Janeiro to arrange matters in connection with the intended marriage of the Prince de Joinville with the sister of Don Pedro, Emperor of Brazil. Whilst tossing in the Bay of Biscay, and in order to keep at a respectful distance astern of the admiral’s ship, our commander—a knowing old salt, well versed in seamanship—well aware that the best qualities of his frigate were under easy sail, crammed on as much canvas as she could stagger under. This manœuvre brought out a signal from La Gloire to reduce sail and “rendezvous” at the entrance of Rio harbour. This, happening at sunset, was at once acted upon. During the night, under reduced sail, we forged ahead, so that when daylight came the admiral’s ship was almost hull-down astern of the Heroine. A quarter-master came to the skipper saying that the Gloire had hoisted our number, and was signalling fresh orders. “Who told you to look astern, sir?” said the captain. “You deserve to lose a week’s grog for being so officious. Go on the fore-castle and see if there are any breakers ahead; leave it to me to watch the admiral’s signals!” The fact is the old boy wanted to call at the Azores to take in a supply of wine for his and the gun-room table; he knew well that as soon as the heavy pressure of canvas was taken off, the gallant ship would displace less water under her bows, and could give the flag-ship one mile in three.

Thanks to this dodge, we spent a few days at Madeira and Teneriffe, where I received my first idea of semi-tropical climate, vegetation, and manners.

By this time, though not much of a sailor, I had got over the nauseous feeling, and got somewhat used to the “hard tack” called food, served twice a day to the midshipmens’ mess, where I was quartered.

Two meals of half a kilogramme of biscuit, as hard as cast-iron and quite as dark in colour; half a pint of haricots or broad beans alternately, which, I should think, were bought at the sale of surplus stores of Noah’s ark after she stranded on Mount Ararat; salt beef or pork, quite as ancient; and oh! such water!—the stench of it made the washing of one’s hands in it a punishment. Yet we had to drink it, together with the _Vin de campagne_—a bluish mixture which would have been most acceptable to Messrs Day and Martin for the dilution of their celebrated blacking, but certainly rejected with contempt by Cross and Blackwell for pickling purposes.

What a treat it was to land at Funchal and Teneriffe! Shall I ever forget the delicious treat to rush into a cook-shop and “tuck in” a regular “burster” of white bread, fresh meat, and fruit. Of the latter I made, of course, an ample provision—returning on board with baskets of oranges, bananas, &c. Alas! I had to learn that in a man-of-war, in the year _A.D._ 1839, a passenger was a kind of incubus—looked upon as a nuisance—an object everlastingly in everybody’s way—without a cabin, a locker, a place to resort to, barring the hammock devoted to his use from 8 p.m. till 6 a.m. next day. The consequence was that all my stores of “goodies” were summarily seized by, and devoured in, the midshipmens’ mess, who, less favoured, had not been allowed even a scamper on shore.

Prior to embarkation my father’s last words were—“A few months on board one of His Majesty’s ships will give you an idea of the world.” Most truly had he spoken. Barely one month from the parental roof, I had already acquired some experience. I already found out that a sea life was not _couleur de rose_, as I had painted it in imagination. The petty tyranny of my messmates soon knocked out of me all boyish, nursery, and even college notions of self-importance.

The Peak of Teneriffe was soon lost in the far horizon; the gallant ship, once more under canvas, sped her course through lovely weather, shaping a direct course for the South American coast. Gradually getting accustomed to what at first seemed a hard life, making good friends in the gun-room—more especially with our portly head surgeon and the purser, to whose kindness I was indebted for leave to use the surgery and the clerk’s room, as well as the free run of the ship’s library—time hung less wearily. Besides, we were nearing the Brazilian shores. The land breeze every evening wafted to sea the balmy-scented air of orange groves; all eyes strained throughout the day to follow the varied indentations of distant ranges. We passed daily a number of quaintly rigged vessels and coast boats.

At last we reached our rendezvous with the Gloire, and paid the penalty of our treachery. She was not there, and for five dreary long days we had to tack off and on in view of one of the most lovely harbours in the world, scanning the blue line of the sky for the pennant of the old admiral. He came at last—his pride in finding the Heroine newly painted, scrubbed, and in every plank, spar, or rigging—a perfect picture of neat, trim beauty—made him overlook the otherwise unpardonable sin of having out-sailed his old boat.

IV.

_FIRST LESSON IN FINANCE._