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Title: "Stella Australis"
       Poems, verses and prose fragments

Author: E. Coungeau

Release Date: June 19, 2018 [EBook #57356]

Language: English

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“Stella Australis”

POEMS    VERSES
—— and ——
PROSE FRAGMENTS

by

E. COUNGEAU



Gordon and Gotch, Queen St., Brisbane,
Printers and Publishers
——
1914.




To Miss F. Vida Lahey, of Brisbane,
this small volume is dedicated.

Preface.  

THE raison d’être of this small work was suggested to me at the time of the lamented death of King Edward of happy memory. I essayed to mark the date of his decease by writing a few lines in commemoration of the event, and from that time forward I have felt a desire to express my thoughts in verse, with the hope that Queenslanders, no less than others, may see beauty in everything God has made. I am conscious there are many defects, and ask the leniency of my readers.

I would here acknowledge the kindness and courtesy of “The Brisbane Courier” for the production of my efforts in their valuable journal, which encourages me to trust that some little pleasure may be derived from their perusal. Such is the earnest wish of the Authoress.

Contents  

{1}

      Poems and Verses    

LE ROI EST MORT.

TO AUSTRALIA.

{4}

PEACE.

{6}

HOPE.

{8}

TO SELENE.

IF I MIGHT CHOOSE.

QUEENSLAND PIONEERS.

IBRAHIM PASHA AT SCUTARI.

LOSS OF THE “YONGALA.”

“THE KING”

{16}

THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN.

ISODORE.

{19}

CLEVELAND, Q.

THE HAUNTED CHAIR.

{23}

A LONELY GRAVE.

{25}

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

{27}

THE LOSS OF THE TITANIC.

A SONG OF AUSTRALIA.

TO A CHILD.

THE GLASSHOUSE MOUNTAINS, QUEENSLAND.

{32}

AUSTRALIA’S DESTINY.

{34}

EVOLUTION.

LOVE’S REVERIE.

TO THE ROSE.

IN MEMORIAM.

CAPTAIN SCOTT AND COMRADES WHO PERISHED IN ANTARCTICA.

AUSTRAL’S HEROES.

{40}

LIFE’S DUTY.

THE TEMPLE OF THE YEARS.

THE WEAVERS.

THE JACARANDA.

WHERE ALL IS UNDERSTOOD.

REMEMBER.

THE QUEST.

THE MUSE.

{49}

IN MEMORIAM.

BISHOP WEBBER.

AT EVENTIDE.

AUTUMN.

TO SLEEP.

WHAT IS MAN?

{55}

THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, NEW SOUTH WALES.

THE POET LAUREATE.

ALFRED AUSTIN.

{59}

MOUNT TAMBOURINE, QUEENSLAND.

DREAMS.

AUSTRALIA TO THE EMPIRE MOTHER.

{64}

YOUTH AND AGE.

IMAGINATION.

AN AUSTRALIAN REVERIE.

{68}

THE VOICE OF SONG.

ALIENATION.

AT NIGHT.

{72}

THE WATTLE.

AUSTRAL’S SONG.

I KNOW NOT.

MOBILITE.

MUSIC.

THE CITY OF THE “VIOLET CROWN.”

AURELLE.

THE TALE OF THE GREAT WHITE PLAINS.

{83}

AN AUSTRALIAN HYMN.

GOD’S GIFT.

BECAUSE OF THEE.

{87}

THE LEGEND OF OSYTH’S WOOD.

[To W. Richer.]

{90}

MOUNT GAMBIER, SOUTH AUSTRALIA.

{92}

      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!

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.

{94}

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{95} 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{96} 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.”

{97}

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.{98}

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.{99}

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.{100}

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{101} 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{102}—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.

{103}

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.{104}

We again went on deck and, glancing beneath us on the lower deck, we saw long rows of reclining figures in white, like so many mummies, with one or two sitting up talking volubly and gesticulating. They were Turks and Arabs bound for Bagdad and Mecca. There were long-bearded Greek priests, Armenians, Italians, and Russians, all en route to Jerusalem or Damascus, the majority for Jerusalem. They would return as Hadjes, a title which is borne by those who have visited the Holy Sepulchre.

We were up very early to see the first beams of Aurora, and we were well rewarded, earth and sea combining to make one feel how beautiful it is to live. The mysterious beauty of the misty mitre-peaked hills on the land side of us, rosy in the gilded dawn, filled our minds with imagination. On the other side, gleaming like the facets of an emerald, lay Samos, noted for its vintage, its figs and oil, the dark olive mounts, showing against the tender foliage of orange and lemon groves. On we went until we came to Rhodes, with its great harbour, once famed for its colossus erected to Apollo, but long since levelled to the ground by seismic agencies. It must have appeared like a mighty janitor watching down the centuries, worshipped as a deity by the wonderful race who lived there.

We chummed with five young Russian ladies, who, with their chaperon, were journeying to the Holy Sepulchre, and we were shown the presents of silver and crosses which they were to lay on the shrine. We extracted much pleasure from their company, and we would not like to disclose how many cups of tea we consumed from the ever-boiling{105} samovar, which these ladies dispensed every time they could induce us to visit the cabin de luxe reserved for their special use. They will always hold a place in our memory.

On leaving Rhodes, we steamed away from the coast and we turned in towards Cyprus, passing the Gulf of Adalia. The Island of Cyprus is noted for its ancient copper mines, its magnificent temples, statues to the deities, and frescoes covered with the dust of centuries. From there we made for the mainland, remaining at the small town of Alexandretta but a few hours. Everything was extremely Oriental. We saw a number of Mohammaden women, attended by an eunuch, walking along, their yasmaks now and again lowered, and a pair of laughing young eyes disclosed. How the dark eyes, some very dreamy looking, of these wise children of the East (some of them the Bedouin Arabs, the descendants of Ishmael) have been, century after century, centred on these Eastern nights of splendour, watching the heavens—wiser than we in things pertaining to nature.

We next come to Tripoli, with its long-robed bearded priests and sheiks, and veiled women, and the dogs, those scavengers of the east, the bazaars, and beautiful foliage.

When we came to Beyrout there was a great stir, so many persons disembarking, some for Beyrout, but more bent for Damascus, beyond the Mountain of Lebanon, and some crossing the Syrian deserts for Bagdad. We bought some immense bunches of pink, blue and white double violets which came from Sharon.{106}

Damascus, the oldest city in the world, is famed chiefly for its finely wrought steel instruments in the shape of swords, daggers, knives, stilettos, some of them magnificent specimens of artistic skill, and often encrusted with jewels of great value.

After leaving Beyrout the weather began to get very stormy, the waves grew mountainous, and soon we were in the throes of a great gale. Just about here we were told the currents are very dangerous, and very fierce storms rage at times. We were ordered below, and we could hear glass and crockery breaking at intervals—during a lull of the tempest.

When morning broke we were some miles from Joppa or Jaffa, as it is called to-day. As we slowly neared the port, rolling heavily, we saw that ancient city built on a rock rising sheer out of the water, with practically no harbour, and in that great gale, swarms of caiques manned by dexterous men of divers nationalities coming towards us—one moment lost in the waves, the next high up on the crest of another. It was of no use, we could not cast anchor, and were doomed to disappointment, for had we not dreamed of traversing that long, white, chalky road which some forty miles away shows the Zion of the elect. And our Russian ladies were greatly excited at having to wait until the return voyage to descend and attain their heart’s desire—to say that they had seen Gethsemane, Calvary, and all the places which must, in these modern times, have lost (except the Holy Sepulchre) much of the beauty depicted in holy writ.

{107}

THE IVORY TEMPLE.

FOR AUSTRALIAN WOMEN.

No matter to what status of society we belong we nearly all have little idiosyncrasies, little mannerisms, and, in the majority of cases, they are caused by self-consciousness. Many great speakers, at times, show it in a marked degree. Actresses, too, suffer from it, not to mention singers; but in the latter cases it is termed stage fright. And it is not vanity, it is hyper-sensitiveness; it is not unpardonable, but is often adversely criticised.

And how often are we prone to criticise our friends in their absence; when they are not present to refute any unkind thing said of them, merely because they are misunderstood. The things said may be very trivial, and a look or an innuendo will ban more than words. How often are long and valued friendships broken through these things, or rather these habits of running each other down!

We wear the mask of what we call good-breeding, which makes us unnatural to the detriment of our real selves. We murmur conventional phrases with our lips, give a frozen smile: shake hands in the fashion of the moment and pass on, thinking we have done our duty to society. And yet some of us would give worlds for an earnest sympathetic pressure of the hand, creating a bond of good feeling which is of the greatest value and cannot be too much prized. Do let us be natural and unaffected. It sits badly on young or old to pretend to be what we are not. Our real selves do not seem to be{108} reflected in the mirror of life; we are hidden, distorted, just as when one looks into a common mirror. Let us hope that physical culture and plenty of outdoor exercise will make our coming young Australian citizens, with their finely developed bodies, a self-reliant, broad-minded and generous race. There is no need to be mannish: and this rubbing up against each other will make speech less acrimonious. We can be gay at work or pleasure in this exhilarating climate; and we must be a little serious too sometimes.

We should be neither proud, pandish, nor too modish. We can be a modification of prevailing fashions, leaving extreme modes to the very rich. Madame la mode, you know, is an expensive jade; and never mind Mrs. Grundy, or her prototypes. Do what your conscience dictates, and be as refined as you can; and also as kind as you can, and think of beautiful things. The effect is wonderful. It is like studying beautiful pictures; it gives us higher ideals; it is like walking in a lovely garden, inhaling the fragrance of the flowers or admiring a verdant landscape. It affects both mind and body most agreeably.

The classical beauties of ancient times always placed the finest statuary in the apartments in order to inspire a sense of the beautiful in themselves and, in turn, to their children. Likewise beautiful thoughts will reflect themselves in our eyes, which are the mirrors of our mind, even though we may not all be visions of beauty from an artistic standpoint. Cultivate our minds, and care for the beautiful “ivory temple” we call our bodies—and we shall be happy.{109}

THE LITTLE CHILDREN.

MAKING GOOD CITIZENS.

I wonder how many people in this world are proof against the charms of little children. They may be small brothers and sisters of our own, the children of our friends, or other people’s children; but we cannot fail to love them. These darlings of the home, these small despots, claim old and young as their vassals and worshippers. Tiny kings and queens they in verity are, and their rule is truly autocratic. They are at once the despair and the pride of their parents.

To hear that sweet “mummy and daddy,” inevitably the first words framed by these adorable lispers, is to listen to the most melodious music. But when we think of the many darlings—not the happy ones of our beautiful Australia, but the unhappy little beings of the densely populated cities of the older world—beaten, starved, neglected, born of women to whom the real meaning of the sacred name of mother is unknown, it provides us with food for reflection.

When Australia attains a population of many more millions it will—unless, with advancing science, conditions of poverty are ameliorated—be the same thing here. “The poor will be with us always,” but we hope not the unkindness of ignorance.

Think of it! These children teeming with potentialities for good or evil and it behoves us to think of it, though it pain us. We, in Australia (with the exception of those who have travelled in Europe),{110} know nothing of the grinding poverty of parts of this planet designed by the Creator to furnish us with abundance of all that is necessary for our subsistence.

But I am digressing. There is no doubt that formerly children were brought up too strictly. But nowadays it is the reverse. The children of to-day are frequently asked what they would like; not told what they may have. A child should be treated very gently, yet firmly. And above all things never promise a child a certain thing and then break that promise. If we could only realise the after-effects of a broken promise! Children lose their beautiful faith for ever. They have marvellous memories, and often they become our inquisitors.

These little entities have their rights, and we should endeavour to answer, and not evade their questions. We must never crush the sap of knowledge in their little minds. Then, how often has the troubled look on a child’s face stopped a hasty word—and the child proved the unconscious peacemaker?

Have any of you ever gazed with tear-dimmed eyes upon a little waxen figure, robed in its last fairy whiteness, noted its angelic expression, its beautiful immobility, and not felt the sublime majesty of death! How near the infinite it has brought us! How kind we would be if we could feel that pulse beating with life once again!

If Australia is to grow into a great nation we must advance with the times, and train those tenderest of plants, “the souls of little children,” and inculcate in them the heroic spirit of that older Greece in this reincarnated new Greece of southern seas. First, must we teach the marching army of intelligent women how to love so that—“a little child shall lead them.{111}”

MUSIC.
———
ITS MAGNETIC CHARM.
———
AUSTRALIA A MUSICAL COUNTRY.

What magnetic charm, and what wonderful effect has music upon human beings—even upon persons who prefer to be indifferent to harmony. It also has a marked influence upon animals and reptiles—as is well known. Hence, the prancing of a well-bred horse at the sound of martial music, especially if it bear a pronounced strain of Arab blood. The snake charmers of India gain their livelihood by charming the reptiles from their haunts. Dogs also display an intense dislike for some kinds of music by whining dolorously. Cats and big domestic birds manifest the same traits. But it is the ear of the “genus homo” which is the most divinely sensitive to melody. Without possessing much special musical ability, in classical music, we may follow the story without words. If we are but the least little bit imaginative in the valse we may see the grand ball-room, lovely faces of ladies, in powder and patches, courtly men, beautiful and bizarre costumes, regal forms, flashing jewels, coquettish glances, languid grace, the poetry of motion in the magnificent figures—and mentally follow every phase of human emotion: love, hope, sigh, remorse, jealousy, despair. All these are faithfully depicted. Again, in dramatic music, without seeing the performers we feel the revelation of pent-up passion, the force of accusative and declama{112}tory speech. How realistic it all is; and it appeals to our deepest feelings, as we follow the vibrating notes, now raised in shrill tones of invectives, or lowered to tense, nerve-straining anathemas, or terror-stricken moans. And so breathlessly we follow the music, sympathetically, or revolting at the intensity of love or hate in the drama. Then the final death-scene brings us back to our normal selves.

But more tranquilly beautiful is the pastoral theme—each kind of music has its own individuality. We imagine the sylvan scene, the sleek kine, the woodland, the silver stream, the soft zephyrs, the rustic lover and the maid, the cattle knee-deep in herbage. Then a stillness. Again the wind stirs the leaves We can almost hear them falling. Then the patter of rain-drops, and the rising of the tempest; and at last birds trilling their lays—and then the sun shining through the clouds.

Again, the “Dead March in Saul” has a deep effect on us—that beautiful march which now and again we hear in Brisbane streets, at some military funeral. So sad. The riderless horse—the first notes so infinitely pathetic. The place which has known us will soon know us no more for ever, it seems to say, and makes the most callous of us sob. Then the sublime triumphant notes ring out telling us that the soul has discarded the veil of flesh, and has assumed its immortal garb. So does music speak.

Italy was formerly producing nearly all the stars of great magnitude, and now Australia, which is, by reason of climatical conditions, naturally musical, is giving to the world many beautiful singers, some of{113} whom have added lustre to the Southern Cross. And note when a squad of our defenders march at night from the barracks—how the pedestrians quicken their steps in response to the inspiring music.

Vivacious music is necessary in this climate. It takes the gray colour from our lives and elevates us by filling our ears with beautiful sounds.

{114}

MAN AND HIS DRESS.

Man may consider himself unfortunate in having to endure more pain than pleasure during the natural term of his existence on this little planet which mortals call earth.

But he cannot get away from the fact that he reigns supreme as the king of animals, and the highest of all things yet created—a beautiful casket of mind and matter, made in the likeness of his Maker. He is endowed with the electric unquenchable spark of immortality which can never die. He is half animal, half spiritual and emotional, with a love for beauty, ever longing for protection with idealistic visions of to what he may attain—one moment plunged into transport of joy and the love of living; the next into a vortex of despair, impotent to combat some unexpected blow of fate, yet withal, possessing the most marvellous courage and capacity of endurance. And amidst the vast empire of the animal world, he stands clothed with reasoning, power, and crowned with the majesty of knowledge, of good and evil. He alone can, of all animals, survey the infinitude of space.

We know that a great gulf divides man from the lower animals, and that between civilised man and the savage of New Guinea there is a difference of intelligence due to environment. But, nevertheless, the savage is a noble man in the eyes of his Creator.

The intelligence of a man and a lower animal differs to a tremendous extent, although the anatomatical structure may be similar. The brain of a man is heavier than that of an animal. Ma{115}n’s superiority depends upon his being able to express himself by the glorious gift of speech, by which he may exchange his thoughts and wishes, obtain the comforts necessary to his mode of living, and build his dwelling according to the climatic conditions of the country in which he has chosen to dwell. With this comes another train of thought. Why, in our fair Queensland, will the average man continue to suffer discomforts sooner than effect any radical changes in his attire? On these days of torrid heat men are seen in town and country wearing the conventional heavy dark coat and waistcoat with stiff front and stiffer collar, trying to appear at ease—while they are miserable. They will chide women for wearing clothing which is too diaphanous, but themselves go to the other extreme by wearing the same thickness of clothing all the year round.

In the early history of our race, when we ourselves were savages, we wore iron and brass collars in token of serfdom. Then, surely, it seems a relic of barbarism to allow a stiff collar and ugly clothes to induce a man to a state of misery for the sake of a custom which would appear to be inexorable as the laws of the Medes and Persians.

A bishop does not mind being seen in his distinctive dress and gaiters. Why then should the average man be less brave in the matter of a rational suite? It only needs one or two persons of influence to start the mode and other classes would soon follow suit, to the comfort and pleasure of all concerned. At least visitors to our shores would not then have to discuss the martyrdom of man in the antipodes.{116}

SO LONG AGO.

[To C——. Thomson.]

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