Part 5

The pure pale blossoms of God’s gift, the flowers, Breathe immortality. They tell us of sweet, heavenly, dreamless hours All through eternity. They tell us of dear Mother Earth who press’d So soft and deep Their tiny seeds within her tender breast As children sleep. They tell us, these white souls of flowers, sent To beautify Our minds, of human souls, an emblem meant, Which never die. And when our bodies, like dear flowers, must At length decay, The seeds we sow will bloom, when we from dust Have passed away. Then let our lives be pure as these pale blooms With fragrance blent, That deeds, like flowers, shall be upon our tombs A monument.

BECAUSE OF THEE.

Because of thee, the earth is fair to see, The dawn more radiant for it breathes of thee, It gloweth deeper in the eastern skies As dawneth love within thy beauteous eyes.

Because of thee, my heart a song doth sing, Its cadence in mine ear doth ever ring So dulcet sweet, and though thou art not near I feel, and know in spirit, thou can’st hear.

Because of thee, weak words may not convey The holy calm which comes at close of day; When sunsets flame like seas of beaten gold Ere night her spangled draperies hath unrolled.

Because of thee, upon the balmy air, Pæans from every plumaged worshipper Thrill all my soul, dear love, and seem to me Each liquid note a message sent from thee.

Because of thee, the flowers more odorous still, With subtle fragrance, waken at my will Sweet memories of the perfume-laden dew Of the old garden, redolent of you.

Because of thee, this longing heart of mine Hath none but thee to dwell within its shrine, Its sacred taper thou, a glorious light, My lode-star like a splendid vision bright.

Because of thee, the stars seem all enwrought With beauty which enriches every thought; The moon, a golden chariot in which we May circle space for all eternity.

Because of thee, as o’er life’s mighty deep, We glide together, soft shall be thy sleep; His hand will guide our barque to yonder shore To live, Oh, love--true life for evermore.

THE LEGEND OF OSYTH’S WOOD.

[TO W. RICHER.]

How well I remember the tranquil hours We spent in the haunted wood; How fair was the glade and the primrose flowers Where the ruined abbey stood, For there, near the lake where water springs-- It gushed in a crystal stream-- From the mouth of a dragon with carven wings And eyes of a fearful gleam. And there was the grotto, with walls inlet With shells from the shining sands, And the floor with mosaic scenes was set, All relics from Eastern lands. We played, and we idly wondered who In the centuries past and gone Had chiselled the antique shape so true Of this monster in sculptured stone. And the legend weird of this ancient pile We many a time had heard, And oft in the dusk we would list, the while The leaves by the wind were stirred. For ages and ages ago ’twas said A prince of the Saxon blood With the Lady Osyth one day was wed By a priest of the holy rood. He bade adieu at the altar there, But alas, for the vows they made, A rival prince took his bride so fair By force to the forest shade. She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil, And a nun she had scarce been made, When up to the abbey, in coat of mail, Rode the prince with a gleaming blade. And with sword held high he espied the face Of his wife in a window near, A moment more, in his fast embrace Swooned the lady in deadly fear. And fast on his palfrey they rode away These twain through the woodland deep, And saw not the rival till brought to bay Near the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.” And the enemy’s knights came and bore them on And round to the moonlit lake And jeered: “So perish each wicked one Who is false to the vows they make.” The prince they bound to his steed and led The lady whose every limb Trembled, while faltering prayers she said And her glorious eyes grew dim. Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s side When with swift and sudden blow The rapier fell, and her life’s red tide Welled o’er to the stream below. And the legend runs that the headless form Of the maiden quickly bent And lifted her head beneath her arm While a shriek the wild echoes rent. And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate, Unbuckled his heavy mail, And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate, He died with a mournful wail. And the story goes that the lady’s shade Still walks, and her voice is heard, When the moon is old in the haunted glade-- Like the cry of a wounded bird-- And the headless image in marble chased Of this saint in the chancel old Still stands, though time hath its lines effaced And despoiled it of beauty’s mould. And oft as I think of the woodland fair And the legend, I fain would be Once more near the dragon which standeth where St. Osyth lived, just by the sea.

MOUNT GAMBIER, SOUTH AUSTRALIA.

In lone magnificence and stately pride, Majestic in thy ruin and decay, Thou, whose unfathomed crater yawned wide When Pluto’s furies in thy depths held sway; And forked lightning on black clouds astride, And igneous rocks, their glowing masses hurled While streams of lava in a ceaseless tide Flowed o’er thy base upon a darkened world. What hast thou felt in cycles long untold? What hast thou heard within thine eyrie there, That scalding tears of rage hath down thee rolled Scarring thine image and thy bosom bare? What hath the glorious sun-god looked upon, Searching thy heart with brilliant-zoned light? What hath the silver-veiled Fingari, lone Viewed from her vantage in the solemn night? Thou must have breathed when regal Pompeii, placed On proud Italia’s olive-mantled shore Was by Vesuvius’ wrath engulfed and rased, And eighteen centuries was covered o’er. If thou but had a tongue, mayhap thou would Tell us when fair Lemuria disappeared, Or how the dusky tribes, with rites of blood, In bora rings their writhing victims speared. Thou antique dial: scarce thou feeleth, though Thy faint spasmodic tremblings still are felt, And o’er thy sunken cranium waters flow, The rocky amphitheatre thy belt. Now, foliage green adorns thy noble form-- Lo! Mansions fair are nestling there serene Around thy neck, and in the gathering gloom At eve we picture what thou once hath been. And Oh! Thou mighty Gambier, not in vain Thou teacheth like a sad and silent sage The wisdom and the pleasure we may gain While pondering on thy splendour and thine age.

Prose Fragments

SCENTS AND THE PAST.

A STRONG CONNECTING LINK.

It sometimes happens that some uncommon perfume will carry us back to the days of our girlhood, when our mothers would devoutly disclose to the light of day all sorts of odd things, such as old letters smelling of musk, or ribbons and pieces of old lace yellow with age, cast off baby clothes, which once on a time, covered our tiny persons, little pinafores or caps and booties, perhaps toys which once belonged to a sister or brother, long since gone on the other side.

Again, such a perfume may remind us of a time when the whole family were gathered around the festive board, laughing, bright with repartee, the room redolent of fragrance from the tastefully arranged flowers, long since forgotten. Somehow a scent brings back a flood of memories; the scene; the very arch glance of a pair of eyes, or the grave sweet look of a face, as though it were yesterday.

Some perfumes become a precious memory lying dormant, which one can conjure up at will. Others are suddenly resurrected.

Lavender! What luxury to lie between sheets odorous of lavender. And the old-fashioned potpourri of late years, having a revival of favour, chiefly consisting of orris roots, violets and rose leaves--with sweet thoughts centred and clinging around them. The roses!

Goddess of beauty, at thy magic breath My spirit turneth from the gate of death, And in thy deep red heart would find repose. And dreams of Arcady--thou queenly rose!

And, talking of roses, what a lot of them are now being worn on the hats. Never in the history or vagaries of fashion have flowers held such pride of place as at present. And, although they are artificial, they revive thoughts of perfume. Some of the models make us think of Watteau shepherdesses as the right sort of beauties to wear them; but some of our Queensland girls have faces pretty and artistic enough to grace anything with advantage.

I heard a very pretty compliment paid to Queensland women as a whole the other day by an English gentleman. He remarked (I hope my readers will not become too vain after hearing this) that they are the neatest and nicest dressed girls he had seen anywhere, and were an example--with the exception of some over-dressed ones--to many English women. But to return to our own “moutons.”

How the smell of very old furniture will make one’s memory retrace its steps. The past stands out sadly or joyously, and sometimes it is so subtle and suggestive as to convey one back to a confused memory, like a thread of a pre-existence, which most of us have experienced. It is very vague and uncertain. Yet there it is.

Yes! scents are strong connecting links between the past and present, and we have a sense of gratitude, for it gives us something very pleasant to think about--and sometimes has the charm of making our existence free from feelings of ennui.

MALTA.

JUST A GLIMPSE.

It had been a very rough passage through the Bay of Biscay, and it was an immense relief to run into calm water, so, hugging the coast of southern Spain, we could distinctly see the shore, with trees standing out in bold relief against the sky. So (I shall never as long as I live forget the beauty of the scene) we approached the great, brown rock of Gibraltar, with its hundred eyes of hate, bristling with guns, and with the now fashionable watering place of Algiers on our left, we passed through the great “Pillars of Hercules,” the extremities of Europe and Africa almost meeting into the Mediterranean. The passage appears much narrower than it really is, sea distance being deceptive. We steamed along in the pinken glow of dawn, the change being very pleasant, and the air gradually becoming warmer, until within a few miles of Malta (which island, as you know, is off the southern coast of Sicily), when it suddenly became quite hot. And, how shall I describe the impression, under perfect weather conditions? The white rock, so imposing and important politically, as well as commercially. A jewelled island, set in a sapphire sea. A green vista of terraces of white houses, with green shutters and awnings of scarlet and white, flapping in the breeze. Pedestrians we could see in the distance with the ubiquitous umbrellas and hats, green lined to keep off the glare of the sun. Presently we anchored, and, hey presto! we were almost immediately surrounded by vendors of all sorts of things in the shape of coral earrings, bracelets, and brooches, good and bad Florida water, perfumes, real Maltese lace and bad imitation. We inspected their wares, and amid a babel of French and Italian (we being in a hurry), we purchased some good lace and eau de Cologne.

Then, we decided we would go ashore, which three of us did, and we passed the casinos and shipping offices, and wended our way up those famous streets of stairs described by Lord Byron, and we no longer wondered, when we thought of his poor deformed foot, how difficult he must have found the ascent. Each house rose imperially above its neighbour up those flights, and, peeping from some of the doors, were dark-eyed Madonna-looking Spanish beauties, their classic heads draped gracefully with mantillas. But the dominating smell, which spoilt it all, was that of garlic. It assailed our nostrils; it seemed to be everywhere, and we were told that, in some form or another, it was found at every meal. At last we gained the top, after much stifled laughter, and made for the barracks and the fort, after which we visited the armoury, and imagined we had known the brave knights themselves, after the kind information tendered by our guide in mixed Anglo-Saxon, French and Italian.

We then went to the Cathedral of St. John, saw the Alexandrian Gate, and the places set apart for worshippers of different sects, after which we joined in a service in the central portion. Later on towards sunset, we hired a fiacre with a Pegasus-like winged steed attached, and the way that sorry horse flew along was marvellous. No whip was needed, and to say he was as thin as a herring would be a libel on the herring. Anyhow, we arrived safely at Valetta, the Government residence, and visited the famous orange gardens. We returned to the ship, dined on board, and then in the evening went toiling up again to the Royal Opera House. The scene was very brilliant. An Italian Company was performing, and the artistes were loaded with floral tributes. The next day we were off again, and steamed to Cape Malea--but “that’s another story.”

SMYRNA.

It was a glorious morning when we arrived off Malea, and we steamed near enough to distinguish the plateau on the rock where the celebrated old hermit--who isolated himself in that lonely spot for so many years--had always, on the approach of a vessel, advanced waving a flag.

The promontory passed, we were out of the Mediterranean, and we slowly passed the maze of islands--the Cyclades--past Milo and Delos, famed in song and story, Andros and Nicaria, and soon were making our way into the Ægean Sea towards the volcanic island of Chios or Cos. This island is off the Gulf of Smyrna, and has frequently been devastated by seismic agencies.

It was a thrilling experience passing through the Gulf, and there, in the light of evening, lay that ancient city--one of the seven Churches of Asia--with its background of everlasting hills, beneath a turquoise sky, carrying one’s mind back down the centuries, when St. Paul himself preached there, and delivered the message to the churches.

Smyrna is the key of Asia Minor, and Anatolia is as large as France.

After our luggage had been inspected, we, after some altercation with the drivers of various vehicles, were driven to our hotel, and, after divesting ourselves of our travelling attire, we descended to the table-d’-hôte, where dinner was served à la Russe. We noted the many little dishes filled, one for each guest, with black and green olives, and fresh beady-looking black caviare, the roe of the sturgeon, indigenous to the Black Sea.

It was a truly cosmopolitan company which sat down to dine--so many nationalities being represented--for Smyrna to-day is a very large and important city of the near east.

The caravans leave here for the desert with all sorts of merchandise, and they bring ivory, spices, and precious stones in return. The culture of silk is carried on to an enormous extent, and the figs are of an immense size. We watched, the day after our arrival, the loading of the camels for the desert. Some looked well, others as though they would not reach the end of the journey. Smyrna is the rendezvous of every eastern merchant. The Armenians being good linguists, they conduct the bulk of the business for the Turks, and are tutors in wealthy households.

The Angora goats and the Asiatic sheep--with tremendous tails, weighing ten and fifteen pounds--flourish here in great numbers. We drove to the Church of St. John some miles away. The scenery was truly magnificent, and we felt that Turkey possessed the garden of the gods. We passed pretty villas, buried in a wealth of magnolia trees, but the cypress trees predominate, and the mulberry is very plentiful. We visited the church, but were very much disappointed, the pictures being very tawdry and common.

We also visited the ruins at Ephesus, to which we went by a slow train. Frequent earthquakes have laid everything in magnificent ruin--remains of ampitheatres, temples, aqueducts, are all levelled to the ground. Most of the houses are built of wood which give in seismic shocks, but the facades are of marble.

The Hamals are wonderfully strong, short but active men, and carry immense loads upon their backs, the veins in their legs looking like ropes. These are all Armenians and are trained from infancy.

We visited the Bazaar and the Turkish quarter, but were glad to escape the dust and the quaint species of humanity.

* * * * *

It may not be uninteresting reading now that the papers are filled with news of the war between the allies and Turkey, if I recall one of the pleasantest and most exciting days I ever spent during my sojourn in the Ottoman Empire. I would first of all remark, that Turkey occupies the most beautiful portion of Europe. The soil, being so volcanic, produces a wealth of luxurious fruits, especially grapes and figs; but the Turkish Government, as well as the Turks themselves, being naturally indolent, never think of cultivating the soil as they might. Therefore, there is more poverty among them, through their laxity, than wealth.

The part of Turkey in which I happened to have recently arrived was the lovely island of Lesbos, the birthplace of Sappho, and with very mixed feelings have I stood on the very spot on the road to Polyknito, where that impulsive maid so long ago threw herself from that Leucadian steep into the blue waters beneath. Of recent years, a young lady I knew, threw herself from the same spot and perished--a victim of unrequited love.

Well, two or three Greek girl friends and myself made up our minds to have a real good day’s outing, so, packing our luncheon baskets, we were off before sunrise, as, living some distance from the town of Mitylene, we had a long walk in front of us. We started in high spirits, and were nearing the town when I heard what, to my unsophisticated ears, was a most peculiar awe-inspiring sound. I found it was produced by the Hozahs at sunrise, calling from the minarets of the mosques, the faithful to prayer. And Turks they may be, but, they shame us by their devotions, which all the jeers in the world would never prevent.

We toiled along up the hill towards the Konah, the kiosk, being near by the Governor’s residence, and at the top we stood admiring the sunrise over the hills of Anatolia, in Asia Minor; and the view right along to the heights of Smyrna in the distance was superb. Every inch of this part of eastern Europe is teeming with historical interest. We walked along past the Turkish graveyard, the tombs of which are all surmounted with turbans beautifully sculptured, giving in the dusk a most weird appearance, as though human beings stood there on guard.

At length we arrived at the Loutra, as it is called. The thermal water is conducted underground from the hot springs. We entered a small garden enclosed by a wall; then we were ushered into a room containing dozens of small cupboard-like compartments, scrupulously clean. Our entrance fee was five piasters, or tenpence in English money. We were each supplied with clean towels. Then I, at least, went timorously towards the apartment where the first portion of our ablutions were to be carried out. An attendant came forward to receive us. The first apartment was very warm, and we remained there until the perspiration began to trickle down on to our towels which we secured round our waists. Then came the ordeal.

On entering the “chamber of horrors” (I thought at first) I could scarcely breathe, the air was so hot, and then I noticed that the floor in this dome-shaped chamber sloped towards the middle. Suddenly several taps were turned on, gently at first, and the attendant smeared us all over the top part of our bodies with Fuller’s earth, after which, the taps were turned on full speed, and we raced round that room while the attendants pursued us, and smacked us soundly in turn. We slid around on the marble floor, but kept losing our footing. Our faces were scarlet, and oh! the dirt that came from the pores of our skin. And we had thought we were clean! Well, the smacking process went on; the water seemed hotter than ever, and at last we were allowed into the cooler chamber, as we were feeling exhausted. The attendant was a Turkish woman, but spoke Greek sufficiently to make herself understood. I have often thought since she was an unusually active person for a Turkish woman.

Then we went back to the dressing rooms again, and after we had rested on one of the numerous divans for half-an-hour, we went into the garden and eat our dejeuner with gusto, we were so hungry and so delightfully tired; and we chatted and watched the groups of well-to-do people enjoying themselves--the Turkish children, in particular, with dozens upon dozens of small plaits adorning their heads, which are often not undone for months.

At 4 o’clock small cups of muddy, but delicious mocha were brought us, and then we regretfully departed for our tramp home after a very pleasant day, almost too fatigued to talk. So ended my first day in a Turkish bath, for it needs the whole day to recuperate after the trying but pleasing experience.

THE PORTS OF PALESTINE.

One morning we were waiting, luggage packed ready, to embark on the Russian liner for all Palestine Ports. We were in a state of suppressed excitement at the alluring prospects in store for us, the historical places, and scenic loveliness of which we had heard, making us long to start. After some hours the belated vessel hove in sight, an immense grey object, capable of carrying in comfort eight or nine hundred passengers. Having previously secured our ticket, we immediately hired a caique, after much altercation about the fare, and were speedily conveyed to the vessel, which was making only a short stay. Arrived on board, we were conducted by a gorgeously dressed official to our cabin, and delivered to the tender mercies of the stewardess, a French woman. We went on deck to explore, and until we started people were rushing about talking in a dozen different languages. At last we were off, and we took our final farewell of Smyrna, that peerless city of the East, set in the beautiful background of opaline-tinted clouds, merging into crimson departing glory of day; and at last, as the pall of night fell, we went into the saloon--which was filled with the usual brilliant company of tourists--to dine. After dinner, tea, instead of coffee, was served in long fragile glasses, a thin slice of lemon floating on top, and a serviette to prevent the fingers being burned. Of pale amber colour this tea was delicious, the flavour exquisitely preserved. The tea is imported overland, the sea voyage destroying the flavour more or less.