(Continued.) CHAPTER VI. A DREAM CITY.

Waikato Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1866, 21 June 1884, Page 2 (Supplement)

(Continued.) CHAPTER VI. A DREAM CITY.

It has ju3tly been said that the death of the greatest man only makes a hole in the water. There is ft splash, ft fipplo, and then the waves flow on a« if nothing were concealed beneath. So with the snicida. Daring the forenoon people talked a good deal aboat the event, and speculated upon the canse. Bat as the day grew in ita brightness and glory, and the glad light danced upon the laughing sea, and the fresh breeze, laden with ozone, vivified the blood, all was forgotten, self predominated. The Athletes danced and sank over the deck, thoroughly recovered, the "talent" wooed tho yonng to the "nap" table, and Boggabri and his fellows resolved to woo the fickle goddess. Coehsn and his companions were seeking the bar to recover from the Beediness of the night, and hovered round the players to see if any champagne would be called for. And when the bell sounded for dinner there was ft rash for seats, for dinner is the great meal at «ea, most people having little appetite for breakfast. So in a short npacB of time the suicide was forgotten. So it is always. If persons fancy that by committing suicide they get the world to think of them, that is all nonsense. Let them live on and vex the world. The events of tho 'voyage were almost entirely forgotten as we drew neat to Sydney Heads. Cards wore thrown down, flirtation 3 abandoned, sea-sickness forgotten, when it was known we were near the famouß harbor. It was certain we could get in by sunset, so that we would see one of the most wonderful panoramas in the world by the mystic light of evening. There was a peculiar haxe in the atmosphere as well that ensured peculiar and Turnereaane effects." Everyone was on deck to watch for the first glimpse of the Heads, and everyone was deceived. Ten times at least did we make certain we saw the Heads, and as often were we disappointed. At last we could not be mistaken, the G&p where the Duncan Dunbar perished was seen, and tho bold escarpments of the Korth and South Heads. Soon the steamer turned round and began to thread her way through the labyrinth of Port Jaokson—what a name for a dream panorama. The feelings of the passengers were of a varied character. To some who think a bay, a bay and nothing more, there was no vision to be seen: they were only impatient to reach land. To others t»ho had never been here, there was an eager desire to see a diorama of which they had read and heard for years. To some like myself there was the sad or pleasant prospect of renewing acquaintance with a ecenc that marked an era in our life. To us it brought bfcek the memories of many weary years. From these Heads so many years ago we had gone forth, full of hope, with a grand landscape, rose in color, stretching inimitably before us; and we now returned to these same Heads, weary, dispirited, and with the solemn words vanity of vanities upon Our lips. We had explored the grand landscape and found it a barren waste. The rose had died but and left behind it the chill, cold, gray hues of reality 1 Poit Jackson has been described by many a writer, but none have done justice to it, nor can I, for I have not the space, and even if I had I doubt the ability. Seen as it was that evening, through a haze that turned the water silver grey, with deep shadows, the red sunbeams that struggled through the leaden clouds in the west, giving the relieving color, the panorama may be described as & drenm, a dream of ever-changing scenery and incident, a puzzle, for we never could tell where we were going, so innumerable are the bays, and inlets, and passages. When we were certain we were going into Middle Harbor we went off the other direction. Sydney has been compared to Venice, but the comparison is wrong. Venice is the production of art, Sydney of nature, who has so far not been interfered with. Instead of marble palaces we have undulating hills, clothed with a dark, sombie vegetation, through which, hero and there, peep white or brown buildings. So we proceed up through the marvellous dream, past bay and suburb, seen through the strange, mysterious ha?.o in so spectral a manner that at last one began to feel himself to see whether he was asleep or awake. Bat it was only necessary to wait to discover that Sydney itself is like one of those Oriental cities of which we read, which seem enchanted at & distance, but become prosaic enough once they are entered. Once Farm Cove, with its lovely woodland scenery, is passed, we find ourselves passed out of the ideal and entering into the hard, the prosaic, and the real. Past us rush and squeak, and shriek, and groan, and scream, innumerable little steamers, " puffers " they are called here, bearing passengers in all directions. Then big steamers are coming in and out, and sounding their hideous fog-horns. When electricity has supplanted steam, and someone invents musical signals, then Sydney will be & lovely city. The illusion completely vanishes when we reach the wharf in Darling Harbor, where the confusion and the nnsi^htliness rival any city in the world. The dream has vanished, and we are once more in the hard, cold, relentless world.