Out of Foreign Parts
Smithfield — London — Channel — Paris

Out of Foreign Parts.

By H. and F. RIECK, Coff’s Harbour, N.S. Wales.

Paris, 20th July, 1905.

Comparing the contented social spirit of the different nationalities of Europe, amongst whom we in all our travels not hurriedly sped—as the world at present goes, per steam, benzine, and electric motors—but quietly passed, and at intervals stayed and lived as if we were at home, comparing in this regard the nationalities, English, North and South Germans, Austrians, French, Italians, Swiss, Dutch, etc., we came to the conclusion to give for a contented social spirit the first prize to the South Germans; not that they are on top of the others in sport, trade, manufacture, richness of their nobility, in church matters, military, naval or political organisation, although they are quite alive in all these matters. But they are on top of social happiness and contentment, as all classes live there in fair touch one with another, and therefore are in harmony, and scarcely know that class hatred which in other European countries—as history proves—has often got so pointed and burning hot that it has caused civil wars and, in ancient times, destroyed Empires. In South German States exists so little difference in the style of life of all classes that enviousness and jealousy finds scarcely any soil; for all classes bear the same duties of the State and enjoy the same cheap necessities of life, the same pleasures and sports, and the lands are cut in small holdings, almost all in the hands of small free owners, working on the lands inherited from their ancestors.

As in previous letters in this paper related, we saw in England a comparatively small number of families in possession of all the lands, not only in the country, but also in the towns. This fact finds a striking expression and, figurative, is nailed as a flag on to the mast in an inscription on the Corinthian front gable of the Royal Exchange in London, close to the Bank of England, in Threadneedle-street, viz.: “The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness there of.”

In North Germany (Prussia, etc.) existed a similar state, when the “Junker Party,” the aristocratic families, were in possession of enormous stretches of land, which was partly neglected and used as hunting grounds, etc., while the agriculturalists had to starve under high rent or leave the land of their birth and wander into foreign countries, America, Australia, etc. This sad state is slowly bettered through a land tax, which is by slow degrees splitting up these enormous estates, and brings them in small blocks into the hands of free workers of the soil. The consequence of this change, besides other mighty beneficial results, causes a sure, however slow, betterment of social contentment also in this part of the continent.

Here in France, where we—yours truly, H. and F. E. R.—at present live and travel about on cycles, it was, where, in the year 1793, the wild enraged social spirit of the Gaul cut the heads of their land-holding oppressors off. Here, on the now inglorious beauty spreading “Place de Concorde,” amidst the sunny, beautiful Paris, flowed under the hard working guillotine the blood of the oppressing landholding aristocracy in streams. But as the foundation of land ownership seems not to be altered sufficiently at present, a new aristocracy, consisting of Roman clergy, Israelite and other bankers, military chiefs, statesmen, etc., has sprung up again, and sits on the necks of the hard working and in mud buildings scantily living French agriculturist, similar—as sketched true to nature by us in previous letters from Naples, Rome, etc.—in Italy.

In our happy Australia we are in all national political matters still on a starting point; but all true Australian hearts surely wish that legislation will work wisely, untampered by knighthood bribery, in a pure democratic style, to lay such legal and firm, unshakable foundations and create such legal measures to prevent the creation and split up large estates of lands in one hand for the benefit of small free landowners, and in the interest of social peace for the present and for future times.

We, the writers of these lines, are at last, after a journey of four days from London—partly on cycles, partly over sea—here in Paris, and in a small room at rest; so the wide views have to pinch down into a narrower scale and relate details.

During our four weeks’ stay in that enormous town London, where to go straight through one has to travel not less than 30 miles, we found a great interest to visit the Smithfield central meat, butter, etc., markets, and to see how our Australian, and especially our N.S. Wales, products are brought thither, arrive, and are treated by the wholesale merchants and the public.

June 23rd, 1905. Visited the office of the Commercial Agent for the State of N.S. Wales at 33 and 35 East Cheap, London. We were kindly received by Mr. Lance, who sent his secretary with us to see the Australian consignments of meat, butter, etc. We walked to the Central Markets, Smithfield, an enormous pile of buildings, where the greatest wholesale market was held. We went first to the American and Canadian side, where the carcases are shipped to in a chilled (not frozen) condition, and which find a ready sale and are pronounced good. After searching the whole market over, and after repeated inquiries about Australian meat, we were shown a quantity of New Zealand, and at last came to a small consignment of Australian mutton, but from which colony we could not ascertain. These carcases arrive in a perfect condition, wrapped in white cloth; but were then unthawed. The thawed meat feels soft and spongy to the touch, while chilled meat remains firm. This small consignment of meat was sent to Messrs. Borthwick and Sons., who, we were told, are the largest importers of Australian meats. Little or no Australian beef was to be seen. The price for mutton was this day 3½d to 3¾d according to quality. A barrow load of meat, condemned by the police, passed us, showing that these markets are thoroughly inspected and regulated. The barrow contained old meat, kept too long, plucks, feet, and even fowls. As there have been little or no consignments of butter from Australia since May this year, we were only able to find one solitary box, containing about 6lbs., with the brand “Unara” on it (no name). We sampled it, and should think it had once been good, but remaining perhaps three months closed in this wooden case and in a meat and cheese market had not helped to keep it in best condition; therefore it tasted a little strong or old, as butter must do when once frozen and then remaining in a warm atmosphere for some length of time. The often expressed idea that the best Australian butter is in London mixed with Danish butter and sold as Danish or English butter, and that a bad article produced in Europe sold as Australian, is on this Smithfield market earnestly denied. When a good Australian article comes to this market, it is sold as Australian, they say.

The ruling price for Australian butter is 10¼d. Mr. Henry John Webb, Provision Importer, 376 and 377 Central Markets, Smithfield, London (where we found this solitary box of Australian butter), appears a respectable firm; but the most important importer of Australian butter is the large firm of Messrs. Lovell and Christmas, Limited, West Smithfield, London, E.C. Mr. C. Weatherly, Central Market, Smithfield, London, showed us boxes of American plucked poultry, excellently packed in long flat boxes, two layers of six each side, with breasts one side and backs on the other side of the boxes as he opened them, and the heads wrapped in white paper, all closely squeezed together, and hard frozen. The box was stamped, “1 dozen fowls, weighing 31lb.,” each worth and readily sold at 2s 8d to 2s 10d each fowl. This firm would be glad to get such consignments from Australia.

Mr. Lance, Commercial Agent for N.S. Wales, has in his office specimens of timber, cereals, potted meats, etc.; but we are told by the secretary of this office, “if enquiries for potted meats, etc., etc., are made, this office cannot recommend any firm, for the simple fact that the former owners of such meat works, jam manufactories, etc., are long ‘gone bung’ in N.S. Wales.” Beyond answering enquiries, etc., it would appear that Mr. Lance or his secretary cannot push the Australian meat and butter trade. It might be to the interest of the exporters to deal directly with respectable firms in Smithfield, London.

Having occasion to pay a visit to the small town of Royston, about 40 miles north of London, we thought we would also once try an English railway and leave our wheels at home. We went half an hour on “shank’s pony” to King’s Cross Railway Station of the Great Northern line. This line appears to belong to a company. The cars are all luxiously fitted up, but the charge for this short distance, 14s for the two of us, third class, appears to be for England rather stiff. We saw on this route a new humanitarian project in course of execution: the building up of a new township, the “Garden City,” which is, we understand, being built by a company for the benefit of people of moderate means, where they can have houses and gardens for vegetables, etc., at a reasonable rate in fresh country air. This idea is reasonable; but this spot—hard, white, bare chalkstone underground, on a dry-looking high flat, and a very thin layer of soil—does not appear very tempting for gardening, for men to settle, while on rich alluvial flats fat cattle abound in full and plenty. There is no river or other watercourse near. We saw about forty new fine cottages, partly ready and partly in course of erection, in this “Garden City,” which we hope will turn out a success, and get a few poor families out of the crowded city.

Royston, our destination, is an old-fashioned little town on the London and York road, and the main street is said to be the very narrowest part of this road, an illustration of the greed and narrowmindedness of human kind in their endeavour to encroach on the public highway, to the detriment of that traffic and trade through which all live. The old town of Royston is surrounded by wooded hills. The soil in this part north of London is very poor and dry. Most of it is owned by Lord Hampden, who rents it to farmers, but keeps the right of hunting and shooting on it.

We have made many excursions on cycles through very many parts of London; but the traffic in some places is so great that it is, though very exciting, like hunting and horseracing, as dangerous as the latter. Besides being safer, it is more advisable to walk in this city to see and observe the peculiar street life, and visit occasionally museums, picture galleries, parks, gardens, etc. But for very long stretches we use our cycles. We went to the Crystal Palace by wheel, which took us almost two hours to reach. This place is an immense building of glass and iron, but appears to be one of the white elephants of London, as it is too large and too far out of London to be very popular. On Sundays all the very numerous and beautiful parks in town and close surroundings in all directions are full of people from early morning till late at night.

As our home near Paddington Railway Station is not far from Hyde Park and Kensington Park, also from Rotten Row, Constitution Hill and St. James’ Park, our favourite walks were about these lovely spots in this splendid season, when the giant lime trees were in full bloom; the Serpentine was swarming with naked bathing boys and dogs, amidst the black and white swans; the immense green meadows were covered with all sorts of resting humanity, amongst peacocks, pigeons and other tame birds; while whole herds of sheep were pasturing, in spite of some sheeky dogs, who tried—in spite of the scolding of the police and dog-owners—to frighten these London wool-bearers, which by habit seem to get accustomed to the London doggies.

On June 26th the dustcloud upstirring motor carriages were forbidden, until the season is over, to drive amongst the horse carriages along Rotten Row and the Long Drive.

One Saturday afternoon we saw two battalions of volunteers manoœuvring and parading on the immense green in Kensington Gardens, one battalion in khaki uniform with broad-brimmed felt hats, and the other in red coats and black trousers. We never noticed such small, slight men in any country like here. We have nothing against small men; they surely might have brave hearts as well as big strong men; but the modern quick-firing guns require a great amount of ammunition and the carrying of a great deal of very heavy cartridges, besides all other accoutrements required for war, on their backs, and endless marching, running, and other endless hardships of war have to be endured.

In one of the battalions, while being reviewed by some high officer, after some few movements, standing in line, one soldier fell fainting to the ground, and was carried away by the ambulance men to the side, tended, and left to recover.

At Sydenham, in the far south of London, we went with a letter of introduction to visit Rev. Mr. and Mrs. A. E. Green, late of Glenelg and Laura, S. Australia, the native home of Mrs. F. R. They received us most heartily, and we had leisure to exchange our views, and gossiped about Australia, England and the world in general, and parted with regret and hearty good fellowship. Mr. and Mrs. Green, also Miss Green, a daughter, of about 15 years (born in South Australia), are very happy and content, and do not sigh for sunny South Australia; but they have many very happy remembrances of their 15 years life and friends in S. Australia, from where they returned about two years ago, and, as they were five years in Laura, have been very great friends with the relations and friends of Mrs. Fanny E. Rieck, nee Cox, who left her home about 14 years ago.

By F.E.R.: I have often heard the saying: “Happy as a Queen,” and was desirous to get a near view of our popular Queen Alexandra, to see if she really looked happy; but when I saw her at last only a few steps from me, I thought also she—as many others—might wear a certain expression of quiet contentment before the public. It was impossible for me to ascertain by appearance if this Queen is as happy as a Queen ought to be. As we returned via Rotten Row (Hyde Park) from a long day in the “Tate Picture Gallery,” we noticed great crowds of people at Hyde Park corner, waiting to see the Queen pass by, and as we just crossed the street some uniformed mounted police rode by, and then an excited crowd rushed to the centre of the broad drive, and voices were heard shouting: “The Queen is coming! You (h)old Johnny up and I’ll (h)old Tommy. Now, take off yer (h)ats, bies!” And then, amidst a loud hurrah, Queen Alexandra of England and her daughter Princess Victoria came driving slowly along in a simple open carriage, with horses and coachmen in scarlet trappings and livery. The Queen did not look nearly so young as her portraits represent; but, though handsome and dignified, she appeared to me (Mrs. F.F.R.) looking every inch a Queen, yet the colour of her complexion, in comparison to her handsome daughter, Princess Victoria, showed that Queen Alexandra looks—what she is—a venerable, good grandmother.

They drove slowly by, and constantly bowed and greeted the enthusiastic, jubilant crowds. I do think that the King, Queen and Royal personages are the most hard-worked of any people in England. Every day by the papers we notice they have so many onerous duties to perform, such as opening and attending Parliament, exhibitions, art and industrial shows, colleges, schools, levees, receptions, dinners, balls, too numerous to mention; and when one considers the great distances in London, and Royalty having to attend several places by day and then to appear at several balls, etc., etc., at night, one would think that they, indeed, would heartily long to have a “good rest” sometimes, and no wonder that old, good Queen Victoria, in her later days, shut herself up in Windsor Castle and only came once or twice a year to London, when urgently necessary.

King Edward and Queen Alexandra have won the affections of their subjects by being always in and amongst them, which causes money to circulate, especially in the city. An old Cockney told me that they were quite satisfied with their Royalty; they paid them a certain amount for keeping all British possessions together, and they had not the enormous expense, quarrel and excitement of electing a new President every few years, like their cousins, the Yanks.

A few days before leaving London for France we, on the 5th of July, visited the Smithfield Central Market once more, and noticed at Mr. Borthwick’s department frozen stored rabbits, with hair still on, in long flat boxes (similar to orange boxes), packed tight together in layers of 16 on top and 16 underneath, a consignment from Victoria (Australia). The same firm had just received a consignment of “lambs” from N.S. Wales. On conversing with Mr. Borthwick he complained that the N.S. Wales sheep were all too fat. The lambs in spring had been excellent, but those later sent were “not lambs any more, but young sheep, too fat and too sheepy,” as he verbally remarked. This firm has no butter.

For this article we went to the Main London Wholesale Butter House—Messrs. Lovell and Christmas. We saw Mr. Lovell himself in his enormous establishment at West Smithfield, who speaks highly of N.S. Wales butter, and has had large consignments also of Byron Bay butter, which, he says, is equal in quality to any in the market. All butter is graded as it comes into the hands of this firm, and they have cold storage for 1000 tons. The last consignment of butter reached them six weeks previously, which is mostly still in storage, but is selling now at 94s to 96s per cwt., or about 10d per lb. wholesale price. They are expecting large consignments in October. This enormous and highly-respected firm has branches in Manchester, Liverpool, Hawera (N. Zealand), Montreal (Canada), Buenos Ayres and Tandil (South America), and Bybinsk (Russia). We sampled some Victorian (Australia) butter, presented to us by Mr. Lovell, which was most excellent, but sent from this colony (Victoria) not in very great quantities.

Returning by Covent Garden market we noticed amongst a grand display of fruit and flowers many cases of apples from Tasmania, and heard that only apples, pears, and a small quantity of grapes from Australia come there. We should think that consignments of the superior grapes, grown in enormous abundance in South Australia, where they are sold by farmers in cartloads at from £3 to £6 per ton to the wine manufactories, would be well received at Covent Garden Wholesale Fruit and Flower Market, London (Strand).

The Kew Gardens in the far south-west of London we visited on cycles, and they are the finest we have seen in Europe. Art—also the art of composing beautiful landscapes, forests, parks, and gardens, trees, in a harmonious style, to imitate sweet mother Nature in her highest aesthetic decorative moods of embarass de la richesse. But however high and hard human art endeavours in landscape gardening art to overdo Nature she never reaches her if the latter is in possession of all factors and fulness of power of beauty and strength—the eternal ocean; the changing landscape of beach, in immediate vicinity to it fertile fruitful terrace flats, rugged rocks and grassy bluffs to protect the latter against arid west winds; sparkling mountain waterfalls and shady creeks; far away in evening sunshine stretching dark mountainous forest of fig, cedar, pine, hybiscus, tamarind, etc., etc., overgrown high above by another forest of the fine, feather-like tops of the giant eucalypti, wherein you see the many coloured parrots and cockatoos seeking their evening rest—even the artistic creations of the fine Kew Gardens in London cannot by far reach the charms which bountiful Nature has kindly spread on and near our beautiful home “Rieck’s Banana Grove,” near Coff’s Harbour, on the north coast of N.S. Wales (Australia).

We have seen and admired in a great number of green houses in Kew Gardens (which are reckoned the finest in the world) the tenderest dark moss and lichens in rare specimens, also many kinds of cactaceae and opuntias, ferns, grass, trees, etc. There are tower-high glass-houses for palms, where we can mount by winding stairs to elevated balconies, and with swarms of screeching Cockney girls look down in wonder upon a small tropical forest.

Kew Botanical Gardens and Parks, so large that it would take several days to see and understand everything, are excellent places for students of botany, as there are on carefully kept and scientifically marked beds, all families and species of plants kept, and bushes, plants, and trees of the smallest kind exhibited and explained. In leaving this wonderful spot of earth we perceived on a low, shady, grassy plot, near a pond, a very tame stork wandering about with his wife, apparently in deep thought, and near by, in a gigantic Lebanon cedar tree (Cedrus, not Cedrela Austrl.), their nest. This wandering pair reminded us of our near departure southwards through France via Paris.

July 7th.—We left our home in London, W., Stanley-street, early at 5 o’clock in the morning, after having sent our heavy luggage to Paris. Our wheels were packed as usual, and slowly we glided through the still, empty streets, and for the last time along the lovely green meadows, forest and flower-beds, and along the banks of the Serpentine of beautiful Hyde Park; we passed Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Westminster Hall and Bridge, and then a run of several hours brought us at last out of London and on to the Brighton road, for we were bound for Newhaven (near Brighton) to ship to Dieppe (France). The distance from London to Newhaven is about 55 miles. At the 20-mile post, reckoned from Royal Exchange, London, we were at last able to get a cup of coffee from a stand (no restaurant being open at that hour—7 o’clock—in the morning). And now the fresh green country came into view, but although good soil in these parts, no cultivation was to be seen.

The large estate of the late Sir Montefiore, stretching far on both sides, looked forlorn and unhomely, and then came next a large stretch of country looking a perfect wilderness, with nothing at all done towards improving it, and a few old fern houses in a wretched state, gates, etc., fallen totally into ruins. We inquired from a road maintenance worker what was the reason of such neglect in such a wide and beautiful country, and were told that, as long as he could remember this land had been in this state, most likely it was in Chancery. Later on the country got more flat, and we came to more cultivated gardens and fields, but the ignorance of the people was really remarkable. Newhaven is a lively shipping place, but no country people living within about 20 miles appeared to know where it was. We followed the Brighton mile posts till we came to a road branching off to the town of Lewes, and then caught the road to Newhaven, which we reached about 6 o’clock. This harbour place is small and ugly, with no promenade or bathing place; it is only a place for navigation, while at Brighton all the bathing accommodations are arranged.

As we could not go on board of our Dieppe steamer before 8 o’clock we took a good supper in a restaurant, and walked about the streets till we could procure tickets. About 10 o’clock we started. After a hot day the air in the cabin was unbearable, so we wrapped our cloaks around us like bats, sat down on comfortable deck stools, and slept till the rattling of chains awoke us. It was about half-past three in the night, and at this very early hour in this latitude the sky reddened by the early morning dawn, and when we had got our wheels through the Customs (which caused us no trouble, as we belong to the English Cyclists’ Touring Club) the sun was just getting half up the horizon. In a coffee shop we procured a cup of coffee and some bread and butter, and started at 4 o’clock a.m. away. Eight o’clock found us far from Dieppe, and, after partaking of a good quantity of fresh milk and a junk of bread and butter in a farmer’s house for a few sous, a field of sweet smelling heaps of hay tempted us to have a good rest and sleep. Some hours had passed in deep slumber, when a young, fat, French farmer’s woman stood there smiling, and shook our hay heap vigorously, and asked us if that hay was not too moist to sleep thereon. Mrs. F.R., who not yet speaks French, but a little Italian, gathered in our travels in Italy, answered this woman: “Sono molto stanko,” which means, in Italian: We are very tired. When J. (H.R.) told this French woman in her own tongue: “Laissey nous tranquille, nous somes fatigue,” the good woman left us smiling, and we settled once more to rest, while a number of farm laborers were busily engaged spreading the many other hay heaps in the sunshine on the fields. Then hunger drove us further on towards the next village, where we found out, under an hotel verandah, that the French understand well, very palatably and not dear to cook, and that the French wine is really excellent.

On our swift journey, on splendid roads, we soon reached the Spa town of Fonges, where we saw elegant visitors constantly arriving by coach, carriages, and motors, from the great cities. As we started so very early in the morning the day appeared enormously long. The sun stood still high and shone mercilessly hot, so we looked for a shady bush on the roadside, and stretched ourselves out on the high green grass for another sleep. Towards the cool evening time we reached the small friendly town of Gourlay, having reduced the distance from Dieppe to Paris, of 164km., to 90km. We found in an hotel excellent refreshments and accommodation for six frances for both for bed, first-class supper and breakfast—about 4s 6d English. It generally cost us double that in English country places.

The next day, being Sunday, we took it easy. Left Gourlay at 11 a.m., the weather being close and sultry till about 3 o’clock p.m., when a sudden thunderstorm and stiff rain broke over our heads. We were very glad to stand under our umbrellas, in the shelter of the big stem of a chestnut tree, till the sun broke through again, and we reached the small town of Marines with a bad puncture in one of our machines, but having reduced the distance to Paris to 40 km. Next morning it took at least three hours to repair the wheel, so we could not start till 10 a.m., but reached St. Denis, a suburb of Paris, about noon. We stayed at this town till we found a suitable room in the city of Paris, Rue Dunkerque.

We found the part of France through where we travelled highly cultivated. Every bit and corner is diligently used. We found mostly splendid, far-reaching wheat fields, oats, buckwheat, rye, and all other grain, vegetables of all kinds, orchards in wonderful trim, but vineyards only till we came in close vicinity of Paris, where vine culture is intensely carried out, not on trellis, like in the south of Italy, but on small sticks, like on the Rhine and other parts of Germany. We had to mount with our wheels many hills, as in France the custom appears to be to lay the roads quite straight, over dales and hills, and not along the latter in cuttings. We did not meet, as in England, the many clear running streams; but in villages, as well as in towns, are in France along the roads and main streets frequently taps with splendid water, also troughs for cattle and ho[?].

[The?] farmers seem mostly in this part to r[?] in the midst of their lands, like in the lands along the Weser River, in Germany. We saw some very stately looking farm courts, with high stone walls around, and many cattle stables and other buildings within; but many of these buildings, especially of small in the villages living land-workers, are miserably built, in that style in Australia called “wattle and dab,” and slovenly thatched. In spite of this, these illiterate French land-workers and country people appear to live well, as they are very fat and jolly. That one sees in French villages so many very crooked, bent together old persons, especially women, appears to me to have the origin in the low chimney fireplaces in their huts, and also in the very short handled hoes with which one sees the people working in the vine and vegetable gardens.

The weather is so extremely hot in this month in all Europe that our indiarubber pneumatic wheel tyres get too soft and burst. Therefore we resolved to hire a small, shady room for one month here in Paris, and continue our cycle tour in the month of August. In the meantime, on shady days, we will venture on cycles or walking, to visit all parts of this charming and interesting city of Paris.