Part 6

The success of this first attempt, however, showed the necessity to have permanent buildings, and at the suggestion of the Council of the Agricultural Society, the Corporation of the city of Sydney obtained parliamentary sanction to appropriate the Cleveland Paddock, endow it, and erect the building which stands there still, and has proved of so much use to the city for exhibitions and other great public gatherings.

Following in the footsteps of the Agricultural Society of New South Wales, similar institutions have been started in other parts of the colony, in Victoria, Queensland, and South Australia. The great improvement in the breed of stock, as well as the development of many of the resources of the Australian colonies, are in a great measure due to the efforts of the indefatigable members of the council of that useful institution, which, I am sorry to say has, I am told, come to an untimely end owing to mismanagement and the jealous element of the various branches.

IV.

_HOME, SWEET HOME._

It was during my secretaryship of the Agricultural Society of New South Wales that we originated the notion of holding an International Exhibition in Sydney and Melbourne, as a sequel to the Exposition Universelle of 1878 (Paris). In order to work up this scheme I was deputed to go to France, and whilst there acted as secretary to the New South Wales Commission.

This trip to Europe, after an absence of forty years, I look upon as one of the brightest events in my long career. I had never felt home-sick, but still, as I came nearer and nearer to my native home, all the old love came back for the dear spot. I can hardly convey the feeling of delight I experienced when the train approached the great city, and in the hazy distance I once again recognised the outline of the familiar, and, to all French-born, beloved PARIS!!

My almost childish love for Paris had helped me from afar to follow all its vicissitudes. I had read with heart-breaking feelings the sad events of the several revolutions, the Franco-German war, the siege; and, worse than all, the Commune. I had read in all their heartrending details the destruction and desecration of that marvellous city, and I must confess was amazed to find it more marvellous, handsomer, more enchanting than ever! With the exception of the Tuileries and the Palace of St. Cloud, not a vestige of the vandalism of the Commune, not a trace of the barbaric invasion of the Germans were left. Like the Phœnix of the fable, Paris had risen from its ashes brighter and more attractive than ever.

Forty years is a long time to be away from one’s native land, yet as soon as I landed I found myself quite at home. I delighted in long rambles in the old familiar haunts. The morning after my arrival I threw open the window of my bedroom, at the Hotel du Nouvel Opera, in the Chaussée d’Antin, recognised the Rue Joubert opposite, and at once remembered that this well-known and familiar street (named after my uncle) led straight to the gates of the College Bourbon, where I had spent so many of my school days. The temptation was irresistible. I ran downstairs straight for the old spot, and without any hesitation through the courtyard into the class-room, to the precise form where so many years ago I had sat.

Lost in thought, I did not notice the entrance of the old _portière_, who querulously called upon me to explain such an untimely visit. My attempt at an explanation evidently confirmed her suspicions of the insanity she very naturally attributed to me. It took some persuasion, weighted by the irresistible gift of a five-franc piece, to make her believe that I was in reality one of the old pupils. A further explanation brought out the fact that her husband was the “drummer boy” of my school days. A few moments’ chat with the “boy,” now advanced in years, made matters easy, and from him I ascertained that of all the old masters only one remained—Mons. Chapuizy—living on a small pension, in the Rue St. Fiacre. Having ordered a cab, I drove down to that address, ascertained that the dear old professor had rooms on the fifth flat, where I readily found the venerable gentleman—just out of bed—wrapped up in a tattered old morning gown. His reception, like that of the _portière_, was at first rather stiff; the name on my card did not avail to wake up his memory.

It was only after many reminiscences brought to his mind that he resolved on offering me a chair. His first questions were rather amusing. He had evidently more knowledge of classics than of geography. New South Wales, Sydney, even Australia itself, seemed quite unknown to him. From the abject surroundings of the apartment, I guessed the penury of the occupant; and in order to loosen effectually the tongue of Mons. Chapuizy, I suggested that he should dress and accept a _déjeuner_ at the nearest best restaurant, where, within half-an-hour, we sat in a private room. A couple of bottles of wine, and a breakfast such as I am sure the old gentleman had not seen for many days, quite melted his heart, and brushed off the cobwebs which evidently clouded his memory.

From him I ascertained the whereabouts of some eight or ten of my old schoolmates, whom I at once wrote to, and within a few days got up a meeting, which, during the whole of my stay in France, was adjourned from week to week, and any new schoolmate hunted up in the interim was summoned to attend. Had it been possible to have had a _résumé_ taken of these meetings, it would indeed have made up a most interesting volume.

As each member was brought he had to give a history of the last forty years. Coming from the antipodes I, of course, had the honour of being “the lion.” Still, some of the others had some interesting incidents to relate. Several had been in the army, some in the Civil Service; one—Leon Say—was then Minister of Finance, a post he had held during the Provisional Government after the Commune, when France, emerging from the sad trials of the war, lay bleeding and prostrate.

During that sad period the southern provinces had suffered from a most disastrous flood. Subscriptions had to be made for the victims of this new disaster. The Government cabled to Australia to get the Consul in Sydney to obtain contributions from New Caledonia to the fund. Knowing the poverty of that French colony, an idea came into my head that if the matter was promptly handled I could raise in Sydney some substantial assistance.

I accordingly asked the Premier (Sir John Robertson) for leave to get the use of the cable to Versailles, and from the manager of the Bank of Australasia leave to remit by cable whatever money I could collect up to 10 p.m. that day. Having made these preliminary arrangements, I started a door to door subscription; and such is the kind-hearted liberality of Australians that I was able to remit £800 that same night, and £400 more on the following day. 30,000 francs remitted from the antipodes, actually reaching Versailles within a week after the occurrence of the calamity—before Paris even had had time to organise a general subscription—seemed rather startling to the French Government. When Leon Say met me at our weekly gathering, and found out that I was the originator of this timely offering, he insisted on bringing the matter before the President of the Republic—old Marshal McMahon—who conferred upon me the Legion of Honour, together with his and the Duchess’ portrait, accompanied with an autograph letter, which I prize above all other rewards.

V.

_ANTIPODEAN GRATITUDE._

During the period of the Exhibition, and owing to my having to deal officially on behalf of the colonies for the international shows to be held in Sydney and Melbourne in the following year, I had naturally to come in close contact with many of the leading men of that period. For a time it was very doubtful whether we could get the assistance of the European Powers. They all kept aloof; and, in spite of the willingness of my friend, Leon Say, the Parliament positively vetoed the proposal made to vote money and send a French transport with the exhibits. Our opponent was the all-powerful Gambetta, leader of the Opposition and Chairman of the Budget. He was the sole arbiter of the destiny of our Exhibitions, and, they said, could not be moved.

We were in despair, when a vote of 5,000,000 francs was proposed for a cable from Noumea to Cape Sandy. The discussion on that matter was a long and bitter one; I happened to be in the House at the time. Gambetta fought hard against the vote. The discussion having been adjourned, I sought an interview with the great man, and complimenting him on his brilliant speech and on his evident omniscience, I pointed out to him that owing to the position of the Middleton Shoal lying in the way of the proposed cable, its being placed there was a practical impossibility. Gambetta at once sent for charts of New Caledonia and the eastern coast of Australia, saw the truth of my statement, grasped my hand, and acknowledged that I had furnished him with an irrefutable argument to win his case.

On the spur of the moment he asked me what he could do in return. The Exhibition vote, of course, was my object. Gambetta went carefully and minutely into the matter—inquired into the trade, past, present, and future, between Australia and France—and being fully aware of the importance of a thorough representation, gave me a short note for the Minister of Commerce, asking him to move to have the £10,000 credit put again on the Budget. It was one of M. Gambetta’s best speeches when he recanted all he had said on a previous occasion against the project, carried the vote, the granting of a transport, and the appointment of a Commission; and, since then, the subsidy of the Messageries and the establishment of branches of the Comptoir d’Escompte in Melbourne and Sydney. To this small matter great results are due—another instance of the truth of the old fable of the mouse and the caged lion.

I cannot say that on my return to Australia I found much gratitude for “services rendered.” During my passage back some good friends (?) had managed to throw cold water down my back, and on my arrival in Sydney I found all the offices in connection with the Exhibition filled.

Even the secretaryship of the Agricultural Society was taken from me. After seventeen years of hard work to make it what it was, I was politely requested to resign. I had to accept the commissionership of New Caledonia to secure an official _entrée_ to an Exhibition which I conceived from the first, and, without boast can say, carried out in all its details up to its—_failure!_—for, after all, it was a great financial failure, like all such undertakings when carried out by Government, tied up in red tape, and bungled by committees.

What I say of the Sydney I repeat as regards the Melbourne show. Ten years have made Victoria older, but not wiser. The issue of the Centennial bears out my statement.

To say that I did not feel keenly the ingratitude of New South Wales would be an untruth. I did feel it most bitterly; and although I had looked upon that colony as my home, so bitterly did I feel the treatment that I made up my mind for evermore to leave it. But in so doing I also resolved that, cost what it might, I would prove practically the statement I had made, that Exhibitions well managed could not possibly show a loss. I accordingly waited until the close of the Melbourne Exhibition to start one in Adelaide, Perth, Christchurch, and at last one on a gigantic scale in Calcutta—larger than even that of Sydney or Melbourne.

I will quote Lord Ripon’s words at the closing ceremony of that great Indian Exhibition:—

“We cannot allow this day to pass without recording publicly the great obligations that are due to Mr. Joubert for the success of this Exhibition. I confess that when he first intimated his intention to hold an Exhibition in the capital city of India I looked upon it as an impracticable scheme. Mr. Rivers Thompson, however, held a different opinion, and I am happy to-day to acknowledge that Mr. Joubert has most nobly redeemed all his promises, fulfilled most honourably all his engagements, and deserves the thanks, not only of the Government of India, but of the whole population of this empire.”

Such words are an ample reward for all my trouble and labour. They have acted soothingly on the sore points which New South Wales had raised.

My stay in India was a long holiday, in spite of the hard work the Exhibition entailed; and before I leave the subject I might jot down a few of the reminiscences of my life and adventures in the East.

CEYLON.

I.

_GRAINS OF SINGALESE SAND._

I had to make two voyages to India before I took up my quarters there. In each of these, owing to the exchange of boats at Ceylon, I had to stay in that delightful island a fortnight on each trip. This delay anywhere else would be an abominable nuisance, but there is so much to see in Ceylon, and the people there are so graciously hospitable, that one does not mind the delay—at least, I did not; far from it.

My first visit was on my way to the Paris Exhibition in 1878. At that time Galle was the stopping-place, and the delay did not extend over a couple of days—just time enough to visit Wak-wallah and the surrounding district; long enough, however, to wish for a more extended stay in so delightful an earthly paradise.

Like all fresh arrivals in Ceylon we were rather perplexed as to the _sex_ of its inhabitants. The weather being rather more than tropical, we proposed, prior to dinner, an adjournment to the various bath-rooms of the hotel, and gave orders accordingly. When I entered my bath-room I was rather startled to find there what I considered a rather prepossessing “young person,” who offered to assist in the operation contemplated to cool my body after the exertions of the day. In view of the petticoats, long black hair, high pole-comb, and effeminate appearance of my bath attendant, I felt inclined to resent the intrusion, until perfectly satisfied that this individual belonged to that portion of humanity upon whom the Queen is allowed to confer the companionship of that distinguished order—_the Bath_.

On my return to Ceylon in 1882 the port of call for nearly all mail steamers had been removed to Colombo—a great improvement on Galle, inasmuch as the city is in every sense superior, while the harbour accommodation is excellent in every respect.

Considering that a trip from Australia barely occupies more than a fortnight, I am surprised that during the winter months there are so few who avail themselves of the facilities afforded almost weekly to spend a month or more in so charming an island. The means of communication on board the P. & O. and Orient steamers is in itself attractive, and at the end an earthly paradise—scenery almost beyond description, a most interesting people to study, and a thorough change of everything in every sense of the word.

Of all countries I ever visited, Ceylon is one I shall always return to with pleasure.

On my second stay at Colombo on my way to Calcutta, I was present at the landing of Arabi Pacha, the Egyptian patriot, whom I often met, and from whom I elicited many interesting details of the events which culminated in his exile. Poor Arabi! I often think of him, and of the harsh cruelty with which he has been treated, not by England, but by his own people. Had it not been for the countenance he got from the British Government—and more particularly the talented, warm-hearted men who undertook and managed his defence—his blood, not his liberty, would have been the price of his patriotic devotion to his country. In selecting Ceylon for his exile, England showed her appreciation of the man’s worth. Besides its loveliness, Ceylon is inhabited by people of the same faith. But all the gilding one may lay on to the cage fails to hide the bars. While Arabi moves in apparent freedom in Colombo, his movements are those of the caged lion.

One cannot be in Colombo many days without feeling an inclination to see Kandy—a trip which can be accomplished without much inconvenience or heavy tax on one’s exchequer. In this instance, however, matters were made even easier. The Colonial Secretary, Mr. (now Sir) J. Douglas had been requested by His Excellency Sir James Langden, the Governor, to invite me to pay him a visit in the hills, so that I only required to pack up my portmanteau and drive to the railway station, where I met my chaperon.

From the very start to the landing at the station in Kandy the scenery is without any exception most charming. Every single thing on the line of road has its charm—the vegetation, the quaint villages, the scenery, baffles description. I did not go there a novice—I had already visited nearly every part of the globe—but I humbly confess the trip to Kandy fairly put the extinguisher on all I had seen until I visited the Himalayas; and even then I have not yet made up my mind whether I prefer the latter; they may be grander, but I doubt if they are better.

II.

_THE PARAHERRA._

Whilst at Kandy I had an opportunity to witness the Parraherra, which is the greatest Buddhist religious ceremony.

One of the greatest “lions” of Kandy is the great Buddhist temple, Delada Maligawa, where the great relics of the god are kept, enshrined in a richly-jewelled casket, and are made an object of special veneration by the votaries of Buddha. This festival is the more attractive by reason of its being made the occasion of a large traffic in precious stones, with which the island of Ceylon abounds. In this way the faithful manage to combine “biz” with devotion.

As the day dawned, vehicles of every conceivable form, size, and shape, streamed into the city. The town became a living hive. All vestiges of filth and wretchedness in the narrow lanes and round the bazaars were hidden beneath long strips of white or coloured linen, garlands of cocoa-nut leaves and flowers, hung around by bands of bright red cloth. Piles of tempting wares were there; beads, bangles, and scarfs to decorate; rice, jaggery, and sweetmeats, to eat; and innumerable liquors to drink, were placed in profusion on every side. The streets and lanes poured forth long strings of humanity, heated with the sun, flushed with drink, bedizened with tawdry jewellery and mock finery; poor tillers of the soil, beggarly fishermen, mendicant devotees, half-starved coolies; lean, sickly women, and poor, ill-fed children—passed onward in the motley throng, burying their everyday misery beneath the wild mirth of a night or two at this great feast of the Paraherra.

Following this living stream of dusky humanity as closely as the heat, the dust, and their strange perfume would allow me, I arrived near the great temple—a grand pile, as it shows half-concealed beneath the luxuriant foliage of cocoa-nut topes, arekas, plantains, and banyan trees. An ocean of human heads filled up the space round the building, from which proceeded the well-known sounds of the reeds and the tom-tom. Gay flags fluttered from the four corners and the lofty pinnacle of the temple; wreaths of flowers, plaited leaves, and ribbons of many colours waved jauntily from roof to door; whilst round the pillars of the walls and the door-posts clustered rich bunches of most tempting fruit.

Close to this busy scene, under a vast shed which acts as a sort of caravanserai, near the temple, other groups were clustered, as closely as they could well stand.

Forcing my way through the crowd, I found that the attraction consisted of a company of Indian jugglers, consisting of two men, a girl, and a child of about three years.

The men were clad in strange, uncouth dresses, with large strings of heavy beads round their necks; the girl was simply and neatly dressed in white, with silver bangles and anklets, and a glittering necklace. It would be impossible to detail all their extraordinary performances, which, however, surpassed anything I had ever seen in that art. The quantity of iron and brass-ware which they contrived to swallow was truly marvellous; tenpenny nails, clasp-knives, and other such like articles were to these natives as so many pieces of pastry or confectionery; and I could readily imagine what havoc they could commit in an ironmongery shop.

Tying up the girl hand and foot with a stout piece of cord, putting her in a close-meshed net; then thrusting her into a wicker basket, and poking the basket through and through with a sharp-pointed sword; then, after a few cabalistic words from the magician, an arm protruded from under the lid of the basket, handing first the net and then the cords; a shrill call from the girl, the basket was opened and found empty!

Such tricks, performed in the midst of a crowd without any apparent appliances, are simply astonishing.

Near the temple all was noise and confusion. It was with great difficulty that I forced my way through the dense crowd, and reached the steps of the sacred shrine. The priest stationed at the entrance made room for me as well as he could, but the pressure inside was intense. Hundreds of men and women pressed eagerly forward to reach the flight of rather steep stone steps which led up to the sacred repository. The progress was so slow that I had ample time to examine and admire the fine antique carved work on the pillars and ceiling of the entrance hall, as well as the pilasters which lined the wide staircase. There is a beauty and finish in these carvings which could not be attained in Ceylon in the present day.

Arrived at length at the inner temple or sacred shrine above, I passed with the crowd between a richly-brocaded curtain, which hung in heavy folds across the entrance at the top of the stairs, and stood before the framed relic of Buddha—or, rather, the jewelled casket which contained it.

Being rather sceptical on the subject of relics, I ascertained that this casket contained a _tooth_ of Buddha! A small donation readily obtained for me a closer examination of the article, and I am now quite prepared to take an affidavit that what I saw had every appearance of a full-grown, sound _molar_; but at the same time I must beg leave to add that the great eastern prophet must have had a spare set or two at his disposal, inasmuch as, to my certain knowledge, there are several scores of Buddha’s teeth being shown in various parts of the East or China, and history does not mention, that I am aware of, that men—even of the calibre of Buddha—were blessed with more than thirty-two. Archæologists, even, do not tell us that dentistry was amongst the learned professions of the ante-Christian era, otherwise it might readily be inferred that this sainted individual had at a moderate outlay been able to distribute “relics” amongst the faithful.

Should I ever have the felicity of being canonized, a relic of your humble servant—similar to that of Buddha—may some day be exhibiting in Ceylon. It happened in this wise. On the day of my departure from the island, wishing to get rid of the Indian coins I had left in my purse, I was bargaining with a hawker for some ebony carvings. His demand was some six or seven rupees in excess of my change. We were both anxious to deal, but I was firmly determined _not_ to part with any more gold. My dressing-case lay open on the table, and in it was—a front TOOTH, set in gold, which I had long discarded as a misfit! The metal attracted the native’s keen eye, and he said—“Give me this; you can have another ‘elephant’ with what you have already selected.” The bargain was struck, and, as I said, who knows what that tooth of mine might be turned into? There are many temples of Buddha that may want a relic. Here, as it is elsewhere, _C’est la foi qui sauve_.