ch I had a solemn voucher, though
it carries its evidences of veracity and needs no bolstering from
without. An Australian-born--he came of course from that Gascony of the
Antipodes which has Melbourne for its capital--visited the home country.
An old friend of his father was his cicerone in London and took him,
amongst other places, to Westminster Abbey, and "There, my young
friend," said the Englishman, when they had explored the noble old
building, "you have nothing like that in Australia." "My word," said
the colonial export, "no fear! You should just see the Scotch church at
Ballarat!"

The tale is typical. I would tell it, in the hope that he would find it
an _open-sesame_ to many things, to any fair-minded and observant
man who was going out to Victoria. It is a little outrageous to the
stranger, but in it the general public sentiment is drawn in grand
oudines, magnified many times, but not in the least caricatured. The
patriotic prejudice goes everywhere. It lives at the very roots of life.
Truthful men will tell you that London is vilely supplied with cabs in
comparison with Melbourne. They believe it. They will tell you that
the flavours of English meats, game, fruits and vegetables are vastly
inferior to those they know at home. And they believe it. To the
unprejudiced observer Melbourne is the worst cabbed city in the world,
or amongst the worst. A gourmet would find a residence in Australia a
purgatory. For my own part, I have learned in a variety of rough
schools at whatsoever meat I sit therewith to be content. In matters of
gourmandise I am content wi' little and cantie wi' mair.

But, Shade of Savarin! How I relish my morning sole, after two years
banishment from that delicious creature! How I savour my saddle of
mutton! What a delightful thing I now know my English strawberry to be!
But to the New South Welshman my doctrine is a stumbling-block and to
the Victorian it is foolishness. Mr Sala preached it years ago and the
connoisseurs of the Greater Britain of the south have never forgiven
him.

Another patriotic delusion is the glorious climate. The plain fact is
that there is no such thing as a climate. They take their weather in
laminae, set on end. You walk from the tropics to the pole in five
minutes. A meteorological astonishment lies in wait at every corner of
the street. It blows hot, it blows cold, it scorches, it freezes, it
rains, it shines, and all within the compass of an hour. Yet these