I remember reading a magazine article by a leading English writer, in which he censured the average Australian in London for his " affectation of indifference," pointed out that it was only an exhibition of weakness or ignorance, and that it would be more manly to express his honest astonishment at the marvels he saw. That writer will probably never understand that his article was only another example of the stay-at-home Englishman's hopeless inability to realize progress outside his own country.
My first landlady expressed surprise at hearing me speak "such good English"; she said she thought that Australians had a language of their own; and, now I come to think of it, she wasn't so far out.
The Buster's Dad took me round some of the way in the underground railway. I noticed that a young friend of his watched me closely, to see if I'd be nervous, I suppose. The Underground was about as hot as the centre of Bulli Tunnel, near Sydney, and a good deal dirtier; in some places the smoke goes up through gratings along the middle of the street. The stations, big, grimy, gritty cellars, and you go up dusty steps and stumble into mean streets and other unexpected places.
The size of London lies in the spread of it; but you can no more realize it than you can the mighty extent of the Bush—the land of magnificent distances. In the latter case you only remember the day's ride or tramp through scrubs and clearings—and other days like it. The day's work or walk. It is the same with distance at sea; you realize the horizon around you
