Following the Equator

by Mark Twain

  The other monument cannot be rectified. Except with dynamite. It is a mistake all through, and a strangely thoughtless one. It is a monument erected by white men to Maoris who fell fighting with the whites and against their own people, in the Maori war. "Sacred to the memory of the brave men who fell on the 14th of May, 1864," etc. On one side are the names of about twenty Maoris. It is not a fancy of mine; the monument exists. I saw it. It is an object-lesson to the rising generation. It invites to treachery, disloyalty, unpatriotism. Its lesson, in frank terms is, "Desert your flag, slay your people, burn their homes, shame your nationality—we honor such."

  December 9. Wellington. Ten hours from Wanganui by the Fly. December 12. It is a fine city and nobly situated. A busy place, and full of life and movement. Have spent the three days partly in walking about, partly in enjoying social privileges, and largely in idling around the magnificent garden at Hutt, a little distance away, around the shore. I suppose we shall not see such another one soon.

  We are packing to-night for the return-voyage to Australia. Our stay in New Zealand has been too brief; still, we are not unthankful for the glimpse which we have had of it.

  The sturdy Maoris made the settlement of the country by the whites rather difficult. Not at first—but later. At first they welcomed the whites, and were eager to trade with them—particularly for muskets; for their pastime was internecine war, and they greatly preferred the white man's weapons to their own. War was their pastime—I use the word advisedly. They often met and slaughtered each other just for a lark, and when there was no quarrel. The author of "Old New Zealand" mentions a case where a victorious army could have followed up its advantage and exterminated the opposing army, but declined to do it; explaining naively that "if we did that, there couldn't be any more fighting." In another battle one army sent word that it was out of ammunition, and would be obliged to stop unless the opposing army would send some. It was sent, and the fight went on.

  In the early days things went well enough. The natives sold land without clearly understanding the terms of exchange, and the whites bought it without being much disturbed about the native's confusion of mind. But by and by the Maori began to comprehend that he was being wronged; then there was trouble, for he was not the man to swallow a wrong and go aside and cry about it. He had the Tasmanian's spirit and endurance, and a notable share of military science besides; and so he rose against the oppressor, did this gallant "fanatic," and started a war that was not brought to a definite end until more than a generation had sped.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  There are several good protections against temptations, but the surest is cowardice.

  —Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

  Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwep is pronounced Jackson.

  —Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

  The Poems of Mrs. Moore—The Sad Fate of William Upson—A Fellow Traveler Imitating the Prince of Wales—A Would-be Dude—Arrival at Sydney—Curious Town Names with Poem

  Friday, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p.m., in the 'Mararoa'. Summer seas and a good ship—life has nothing better.

  Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and sunny and smooth; the sea a luminous Mediterranean blue . . . . One lolls in a long chair all day under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless content. One does not read prose at such a time, but poetry. I have been reading the poems of Mrs. Julia A. Moore, again, and I find in them the same grace and melody that attracted me when they were first published, twenty years ago, and have held me in happy bonds ever since.

  "The Sentimental Song Book" has long been out of print, and has been forgotten by the world in general, but not by me. I carry it with me always—it and Goldsmith's deathless story.

  Indeed, it has the same deep charm for me that the Vicar of Wakefield has, and I find in it the same subtle touch—the touch that makes an intentionally humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic one funny. In her time Mrs. Moore was called "the Sweet Singer of Michigan," and was best known by that name. I have read her book through twice today, with the purpose of determining which of her pieces has most merit, and I am persuaded that for wide grasp and sustained power, "William Upson" may claim first place—

  WILLIAM UPSON.

  Air—"The Major's Only Son."

  Come all good people far and near,

  Oh, come and see what you can hear,

  It's of a young man true and brave,

  That is now sleeping in his grave.

  Now, William Upson was his name

  If it's not that, it's all the same

  He did enlist in a cruel strife,

  And it caused him to lose his life.

  He was Perry Upson's eldest son,

  His father loved his noble son,

  This son was nineteen years of age

  When first in the rebellion he engaged.

  His father said that he might go,

  But his dear mother she said no,

  "Oh! stay at home, dear Billy," she said,

  But she could not turn his head.

  He went to Nashville, in Tennessee,

  There his kind friends he could not see;

  He died among strangers, so far away,

  They did not know where his body lay.

  He was taken sick and lived four weeks,

  And Oh! how his parents weep,

  But now they must in sorrow mourn,

  For Billy has gone to his heavenly home.

  Oh! if his mother could have seen her son,

  For she loved him, her darling son;

  If she could heard his dying prayer,

  It would ease her heart till she met him there.

  How it would relieve his mother's heart

  To see her son from this world depart,

  And hear his noble words of love,

  As he left this world for that above.

  Now it will relieve his mother's heart,

  For her son is laid in our graveyard;

  For now she knows that his grave is near,

  She will not shed so many tears.

  Although she knows not that it was her son,

  For his coffin could not be opened

  It might be someone in his place,

  For she could not see his noble face.

  December, 17. Reached Sydney.

  December, 19. In the train. Fellow of 30 with four valises; a slim creature, with teeth which made his mouth look like a neglected churchyard. He had solidified hair—solidified with pomatum; it was all one shell. He smoked the most extraordinary cigarettes—made of some kind of manure, apparently. These and his hair made him smell like the very nation. He had a low-cut vest on, which exposed a deal of frayed and broken and unclean shirtfront. Showy studs, of imitation gold—they had made black disks on the linen. Oversized sleeve buttons of imitation gold, the copper base showing through. Ponderous watch-chain of imitation gold. I judge that he couldn't tell the time by it, for he asked Smythe what time it was, once. He wore a coat which had been gay when it was young; 5-o'clock-tea-trousers of a light tint, and marvelously soiled; yellow mustache with a dashing upward whirl at the ends; foxy shoes, imitation patent leather. He was a novelty—an imitation dude. He would have been a real one if he could have afforded it. But he was satisfied with himself. You could see it in his expression, and in all his attitudes and movements. He was living in a dude dreamland where all his squalid shams were genuine, and himself a sincerity. It disarmed criticism, it mollified spite, to see him so enjoy his imitation languors, and arts, and airs, and his studied daintinesses of gesture and misbegotten refinements. It was plain to me that he was imagining himself the Prince of Wales, and was doing everything the way he thought the Prince would do it. For bringing his four valises aboard and stowing them in the nettings, he gave his porter four cents, and lightly apologized for the smallness of the gratuity—just with the condescendingest little royal air in the world. He stretched himself out on the front sea
t and rested his pomatum-cake on the middle arm, and stuck his feet out of the window, and began to pose as the Prince and work his dreams and languors for exhibition; and he would indolently watch the blue films curling up from his cigarette, and inhale the stench, and look so grateful; and would flip the ash away with the daintiest gesture, unintentionally displaying his brass ring in the most intentional way; why, it was as good as being in Marlborough House itself to see him do it so like.

  There was other scenery in the trip. That of the Hawksbury river, in the National Park region, fine—extraordinarily fine, with spacious views of stream and lake imposingly framed in woody hills; and every now and then the noblest groupings of mountains, and the most enchanting rearrangements of the water effects. Further along, green flats, thinly covered with gum forests, with here and there the huts and cabins of small farmers engaged in raising children. Still further along, arid stretches, lifeless and melancholy. Then Newcastle, a rushing town, capital of the rich coal regions. Approaching Scone, wide farming and grazing levels, with pretty frequent glimpses of a troublesome plant—a particularly devilish little prickly pear, daily damned in the orisons of the agriculturist; imported by a lady of sentiment, and contributed gratis to the colony. Blazing hot, all day.

  December 20. Back to Sydney. Blazing hot again. From the newspaper, and from the map, I have made a collection of curious names of Australasian towns, with the idea of making a poem out of them:

  Tumut

  Takee

  Murriwillumba

  Bowral

  Ballarat

  Mullengudgery

  Murrurundi

  Wagga-Wagga

  Wyalong

  Murrumbidgee

  Goomeroo

  Wolloway

  Wangary

  Wanilla

  Worrow

  Koppio

  Yankalilla

  Yaranyacka

  Yackamoorundie

  Kaiwaka

  Coomooroo

  Tauranga

  Geelong

  Tongariro

  Kaikoura

  Wakatipu

  Oohipara

  Waitpinga

  Goelwa

  Munno Para

  Nangkita

  Myponga

  Kapunda

  Kooringa

  Penola

  Nangwarry

  Kongorong

  Comaum

  Koolywurtie

  Killanoola

  Naracoorte

  Muloowurtie

  Binnum

  Wallaroo

  Wirrega

  Mundoora

  Hauraki

  Rangiriri

  Teawamute

  Taranaki

  Toowoomba

  Goondiwindi

  Jerrilderie

  Whangaroa

  Wollongong

  Woolloomooloo

  Bombola

  Coolgardie

  Bendigo

  Coonamble

  Cootamundra

  Woolgoolga

  Mittagong

  Jamberoo

  Kondoparinga

  Kuitpo

  Tungkillo

  Oukaparinga

  Talunga

  Yatala

  Parawirra

  Moorooroo

  Whangarei

  Woolundunga

  Booleroo

  Pernatty

  Parramatta

  Taroom

  Narrandera

  Deniliquin

  Kawakawa.

  It may be best to build the poem now, and make the weather help

  A SWELTERING DAY IN AUSTRALIA.

  (To be read soft and low, with the lights turned down.)

  The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree,

  Where fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires

  Far from the breezes of Coolgardie

  Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;

  And Murriwillumba complaineth in song

  For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo,

  And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong

  They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo;

  The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee,

  For the velvety sod of the Munno Parah,

  Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie

  Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah;

  The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway,

  And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi,

  The Whangeroo wombat lamenteth the day

  That made him an exile from Jerrilderie;

  The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega's glade,

  The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan,

  They long for the peace of the Timaru shade

  And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong!

  The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun,

  The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath,

  The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won,

  But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death;

  In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain

  The Yatala Wangary withers and dies,

  And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain,

  To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies;

  Sweet Nangwarry's desolate, Coonamble wails,

  And Tungkillo Kuito in sables is drest,

  For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails

  And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west.

  Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more

  Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned

  There's death in the air!

  Killanoola, wherefore

  Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned?

  Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu,

  Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost

  From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru

  All burn in this hell's holocaust!

  Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest

  In the vale of Tapanni Taroom,

  Kawakawa, Deniliquin—all that was best

  In the earth are but graves and a tomb!

  Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not

  When the roll of the scathless we cry

  Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot

  Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.

  Those are good words for poetry. Among the best I have ever seen. There are 81 in the list. I did not need them all, but I have knocked down 66 of them; which is a good bag, it seems to me, for a person not in the business. Perhaps a poet laureate could do better, but a poet laureate gets wages, and that is different. When I write poetry I do not get any wages; often I lose money by it. The best word in that list, and the most musical and gurgly, is Woolloomoolloo. It is a place near Sydney, and is a favorite pleasure-resort. It has eight O's in it.

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  To succeed in the other trades, capacity must be shown; in the law, concealment of it will do.

  —Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

  From Sydney for Ceylon—A Lascar Crew—A Fine Ship—Three Cats and a Basket of Kittens—Dinner Conversations—Veuve Cliquot Wine—At Anchor in King George's Sound Albany Harbor—More Cats—A Vulture on Board—Nearing the Equator again—Dressing for Dinner—Ceylon, Hotel Bristol—Servant Brampy—A Feminine Man—Japanese Jinriksha or Cart—Scenes in Ceylon—A Missionary School—Insincerity of Clothes

  MONDAY,—December 23, 1895. Sailed from Sydney for Ceylon in the P. & O. steamer 'Oceana'. A Lascar crew mans this ship—the first I have seen. White cotton petticoat and pants; barefoot; red shawl for belt; straw cap, brimless, on head, with red scarf wound around it; complexion a rich dark brown; short straight black hair; whiskers fine and silky; lustrous and intensely black. Mild, good faces; willing and obedient people; capable, too; but are said to go into hopeless panics when there is danger. They are from Bombay and the coast thereabouts. Left some of the trunks in Sydney, to be shipped to South Africa by a vessel advertised to sail three months hence. The proverb says: "Separate not yourself from your bagga
ge."

  This 'Oceana' is a stately big ship, luxuriously appointed. She has spacious promenade decks. Large rooms; a surpassingly comfortable ship. The officers' library is well selected; a ship's library is not usually that . . . . For meals, the bugle call, man-of-war fashion; a pleasant change from the terrible gong . . . . Three big cats—very friendly loafers; they wander all over the ship; the white one follows the chief steward around like a dog. There is also a basket of kittens. One of these cats goes ashore, in port, in England, Australia, and India, to see how his various families are getting along, and is seen no more till the ship is ready to sail. No one knows how he finds out the sailing date, but no doubt he comes down to the dock every day and takes a look, and when he sees baggage and passengers flocking in, recognizes that it is time to get aboard. This is what the sailors believe. . . .