The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper
officers land during the heat of autumn, he may have the opportunity of passing a novel Christmas—very completely un-English. The gayest and brightest flowers will be in bloom, and the musquitoes out in full force. “Sitting,” says a writer, “in a thorough draught, clad in a holland blouse, you may see men and boys dragging from the neighbouring bush piles of green stuff (oak-branches in full leaf and acorn, and a handsome shrub with a pink flower and pale green leaf—the ‘Christmas’ of Australia) for the decoration of churches and dwellings, and stopping every fifty yards to wipe their perspiring brows.”
Before leaving Sydney, the grand park, called “The Domain,” which stretches down to the blue water in the picturesque indentations around Port Jackson, must be mentioned. It contains several hundred acres, tastefully laid out in drives, and with public walks cut through the indigenous or planted shrubberies, and amidst the richest woodland scenery, or winding at the edge of the rocky bluffs or by the margin of the glittering waters. Adjoining this lovely spot is one of the finest botanic gardens in the world, considered by all Sydney to be a veritable Eden.
Port Phillip, like Port Jackson, is entered by a narrow passage, and immediately inside is a magnificent basin, thirty miles across in almost any direction. It is so securely sheltered that it affords an admirable anchorage for shipping. Otherwise, Melbourne, now a grand city with a population of about 300,000, would have had little chance of attaining its great commercial superiority over any city of Australia. Melbourne is situated about eight miles up the Yarra-Yarra (“flowing-flowing”) river, which flows into the head of Port Phillip. That poetically-named, but really lazy, muddy stream is only navigable for vessels of very small draught. But Melbourne has a fine country to back it. Many of the old and rich mining-districts were round Port Phillip, or on and about streams flowing into it. Wheat, maize, potatoes, vegetables and fruits in general, are greatly cultivated; and the colony of Victoria is pre-eminent for sheep-farming and cattle-runs, and the industries connected with wool, hides, tallow, and, of late, meat, which they bring forth. Melbourne itself lies rather low, and its original site, now entirely filled in, was swampy. Hence came occasional epidemics—dysentery, influenza, and so forth.
A TIMBER WHARF AT SAN FRANCISCO.
CHAPTER X.
Round the World on a Man-of-War (continued).
THE PACIFIC STATION.
Across the Pacific—Approach to the Golden Gate—The Bay of San Francisco—The City—First Dinner Ashore—Cheap Luxury—San Francisco by Night—The Land of Gold, Grain, and Grapes—Incidents of the Early Days—Expensive Papers—A Lucky Sailor—Chances for English Girls—The Baby at the Play—A capital Port for Seamen—Hospitality of Californians—Victoria, Vancouver Island—The Naval Station at Esquimalt—A Delightful Place—Advice to Intending Emigrants—British Columbian Indians—Their fine Canoes—Experiences of the Writer—The Island on Fire—The Chinook Jargon—Indian “Pigeon-English”—North to Alaska—The Purchase of Russian America by the United States—Results—Life at Sitka—Grand Volcanoes of the Aleutian Islands—The Great Yukon River—American Trading Posts round Bering Sea.
A common course for a vessel crossing the Pacific would be from Australia or New Zealand to San Francisco, California. The mail-steamers follow this route, touching at the Fiji and Hawaiian groups of islands; and the sailor in the Royal Navy is as likely to find this route the orders of his commander as any other. If the writer, in describing the country he knows better than any other, be found somewhat enthusiastic and gushing, he will at least give reasons for his warmth. On this subject, above all others, he writes con amore. He spent over twelve years on the Pacific coasts of America, and out of that time about seven in the Golden State, California.
It has been said, “See Naples, and die!” The reader is recommended to see the glorious Bay of San Francisco before he makes up his mind that there is nought else worthy of note, because he has sailed on the blue waters of the most beautiful of the Mediterranean bays. How well does the writer remember his first sight of the Golden Gate, as the entrance to San Francisco Bay is poetically named! The good steamer on which he had spent some seventy-five days—which had passed over nearly the entire Atlantic, weathered the Horn, and then, with the favouring “trade-winds,” had sailed and steamed up the Pacific with one grand sweep to California, out of sight of land the whole time—was sadly in want of coals when she arrived off that coast, which a dense fog entirely hid from view. The engines were kept going slowly by means of any stray wood on board; valuable spars were sacrificed, and it was even proposed to strip the woodwork out of the steerage, which contained about two hundred men, women, and children. Guns and rockets were fired, but at first with no result, and the prospect was not cheering. But at last the welcome little pilot-boat loomed through the fog, and was soon alongside, and a healthy, jovial-looking pilot came aboard. “You can all have a good dinner to-night ashore,” said that excellent seaman to the passengers, “and the sea shan’t rob you of it.” The fog lifted as the vessel slowly steamed onwards.
On approaching the entrance to the bay, on the right cliffs and rocks are seen, with a splendid beach, where carriages and buggies are constantly passing and repassing. On the top of a rocky bluff, the Seal Rock or “Cliff” House, a popular hotel; below it, in the sea, a couple or so of rocky islets covered with sea-lions, which are protected by a law of the State. To the left, outside some miles, the Farralone Islands, with a capital lighthouse perched on the top of one of them. Entering the Golden Gate, and looking to the right again, the Fort Point Barracks and the outskirts of the city; to the left the many-coloured headlands and cliffs, on whose summits the wild oats are pale and golden in the bright sunlight. Before one, several islands—Alcatraz, bristling with guns, and covered with fortifications; Goat Island, presumably so called because on it there are no goats. Beyond, fifty miles of green water, and a forest of shipping; and a city, the history of which has no parallel on earth. Hills behind, with streets as steep as those of Malta; high land, with spires, and towers, and fine edifices innumerable; and great wharves, and slips, and docks in front of all; with steamships and steam ferry-boats constantly arriving and departing. And now the vessel anchors in the stream, and if not caring to haggle over the half-dollar—a large sum in English ears—which the boatman demands from each passenger who wishes to go ashore, the traveller finds himself in a strange land, and amid a people of whom he will learn to form the very highest estimate.
That first dinner, after the eternal bean-coffee, boiled tea, tinned meats, dried vegetables, and “salt horse” of one’s ship, in a neat restaurant, where it seems everything on earth can be obtained, will surprise most visitors. An irreproachable potage: broiled salmon (the fish is a drug, almost, on the Pacific coasts); turtle steaks, oyster plant, artichokes, and green corn; a California quail “on toast;” grand muscatel grapes, green figs, and a cooling slice of melon; Roquefort cheese, or a very good imitation of it; black coffee, and cigars; native wine on the table; California cognac on demand; service excellent—napkins, hot plates, flowers on the table; price moderate for the luxuries obtained, and no waiter’s fees. The visitor will mentally forgive the boatman of the morning. Has he arrived in the Promised Land, in the Paradise of bon vivants? It seems so. In the evening, he may take a stroll up Montgomery Street, and a good seat at a creditably performed opera may be obtained. Nobody knows better than the sailor and the traveller the splendid luxury of such moments, after a two or three months’ monotonous voyage. And, in good sooth, he generally abandons himself to it. He has earned it, and who shall say him nay? The same evening may be, he will go to a 300-roomed hotel—they have now one of 750 rooms—where, for three dollars (12s. 6d.), he can sup, sleep, breakfast, and dine sumptuously. He will be answered twenty questions for nothing by a civil clerk in the office of the hotel, read the papers for nothing in the reading-room, have a bath—for nothing—and find that it is not the thing to give fees to the waiters. It is a new revelation to many who have stopped before in dozens