Town Life in Australia | Page 8

become with each particular headland or reach, the greater
your enchantment. You fall in love with it, so to speak, and often I look
up at the water-colour sketch of Double Bay which hangs over my
dining-room mantelpiece, and hope the hope which partakes of
expectation, that before long I shall see Sydney Harbour again.

And it is as admirable from a practical as from an artistic point of view.
The Austral and the Orient can be moored alongside natural wharves in
the very heart of the city. There are coves sufficient to hold the
combined fleets of the world, mercantile and naval. The outer harbour
is the paradise of yachtsmen; the inner, of oarsmen. The gardens of
suburban villas run down to the water's edge along the headlands and
points, and there are thousands of unoccupied building sites from
which you can enjoy a view fit for the gods.
One feels quite angry with the town for being so unworthy of its site.
Certainly, one of the greatest charms of the harbour must have been
wanting when it was uninhabited, and the view of the city and suburbs
as you come up into port is as charming and picturesque, as that of
Melbourne from Port Philip is commonplace and repellent. But when
you get near the wharf the charm vanishes. Never was there a more
complete case of distance lending enchantment to the view. Not but
that there are plenty of fine buildings, public and private; but the town
is still much farther back in its chrysalis stage than Melbourne. Time
alone can, and is rapidly making away with the old tumble-down
buildings which spoil the appearance of their neighbours. But time
cannot easily widen the streets of Sydney, nor rectify their crookedness.
They were originally dug out by cart-ruts, whereas those of nearly
every other town in Australia were mapped out long before they were
inhabited. But if they were not so ill-kept, and the footpaths so
wretchedly paved, I could forgive the narrowness and crookedness of
the Sydney streets, on account of their homely appearance. They are
undeniably old friends, such as you can meet in hundreds of towns in
Europe. Their very unsuitableness for the practical wants of a large city
becomes a pleasant contrast to the practical handsomeness of
Melbourne and Adelaide. The size and handsomeness of individual
buildings is lost in the Sydney streets. You look at the street from one
end, and put it down in your mind as no better than a lane; you walk
down it without noticing the merits of the buildings it contains;
whereas in Melbourne both the general effect and each individual
building are shown off to the greatest advantage; but there is a certain
picturesqueness and old-fashionedness about Sydney, which brings
back pleasant memories of Old England, after the monotonous

perfection of Melbourne and Adelaide.
The most unpleasant feature about Sydney is, that there is a thoroughly
untidy look about the place. It is in a perennial state of _déshabille_;
whereas Melbourne nearly always has its dress-clothes on. In keeping
with the wretched pavements, the muddy crossings, and the dust, are
the clothes of the people you meet in the streets. Nobody seems to care
much how they dress, and without being exactly countrified in their
apparel, the Sydneyites succeed in looking pre-eminently dowdy.
The water-supply is not always quite as plentiful as could be wished;
but on the other hand, there is an excellent system of deep drainage,
and the eye is not offended by open sewers, as in Melbourne. You will
notice that there are not so many private carriages here, and fewer
horsemen. The traffic appears greater, but this is entirely owing to the
narrowness of the streets. It is not so rapid, as you will easily perceive.
You land, as I think I mentioned, in the heart of the city, and, unless
you prefer Shanks's pony, must perforce take a hansom to your hotel, or,
if you have much luggage, two hansoms, for four-wheelers are almost
unknown. In compensation, the Sydney hansoms are the cleanest and
fastest you will ever have the good fortune to come across. Steam trams
run out to the railway station, which is at the farther end of the town,
and to all the suburbs. There is practically but one hotel to go
to--Petty's--and that very inferior. In most matters of this kind Sydney
is only a second-rate edition of Melbourne.
The beauties of Sydney are certainly rather natural than artificial, and
since one can always see a big town more or less like Melbourne,
whilst the scenery of Sydney Harbour is almost unique of its kind, if I
were obliged to see only one of the two places, I would rather see
Sydney. But although, Sydney is poorly laid out,