Australian Tales - Setis

Mr. Moans' Visit to Melbourne.
IN the preceding chapter I have explained how Mr. Moans was induced
to go to Melbourne for “change of scene and fresh air.” I am not about to
chronicle all he did, said, and saw there, or I should far exceed ordinary
limits, and it would probably be uninteresting to the general reader; but I
purpose taking a cursory glance at a few of his movements, and noting
some of his observations in that metropolis, and its populous suburbs.
“Pray what is your opinion of Melbourne compared with Sydney, Mr.
Moans?” asked an intelligent friend, who very kindly acted as cicerone
through that surprisingly busy city.
Mr. Moans was an old Sydney man. All his dearest social interests
were centred therein. He venerated even its crooked streets and narrow
pathways — for they were crowded with happy recollections of youthful
days; in short, his home was there, and he loved it; and he was prepared
at all times to maintain the credit of the good old city. Moreover he had,
on several occasions, observed a disposition in some “fast” Victorians
when in Sydney, to underrate that mother-city, in their enthusiastic desire
to extol the magnificence of their own colossal capital; so, (though he
well knew he need not expect such an exhibition of bad taste in his friend
beside him) he cautiously replied to the question — “Melbourne is
undoubtedly a very fine city, sir.”
“You will of course admit that it is much larger than Sydney?”
“It would be absurd to deny that, sir,” said Mr. Moans. “Your harbour
too, is very much larger than ours, and has larger waves in it when the
wind blows fresh; as I observed during the two days that I was stormstaid
on board the ‘Wild Duck,’ at the anchorage off Sandridge. Those
are facts which I must admit; still, for beauty of scenery, apart from other
considerations, your harbour would suffer as much in comparison with
Port Jackson, as a large potato-field would beside a choicely-stocked
parterre; and the Yarra Yarra is a mere dyke compared with our romantic
Paramatta River.”
“Stay, sir,” said Mr. Titler (the name of his cicerone). “Have you seen
the Yarra above Princes Bridge?”
“Not yet, sir; that is to say, I have not been far up it; but I allude to the
lower part of the river, where your bone-boilers, tar-refiners, and other
fume-raisers combine to suffocate every little indigenous flower that
struggles to open its petals to the sunshine; and where the water is