Artabanzanus: the Demon of the Great Lake. An allegorical romance of Tasmania. Arranged from the diary of the late Oliver Ubertus [or rather, written] by W. M. Ferrar

Front matter

ARTABANZANUS: XTbe Demon of tbe (Sreat QLafee. AN ALLEGORICAL ROMANCE OF TASMANIA. arranges from tbe Bfarg of tbe late ©liver TUbertua BY WILLIAM M. FERRAR. Glendower. — I can call spirits rom the vasty deep. Hotspur. — Why so can I, or so can any man. But will they come when you do call for them ? Shakespeare. LONDON : ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1896. lo THE EIGHT HONOURABLE ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR, M.P., THIS work IS respectfully inscribed by his obedient servant, THE EDITOR. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE

Prologue

- - - - - - - I I. LAKE SORELL AND THE GIANT. CASTLE - - 7 II. THE VAST CITY OF ETERNITY - - - - l8 III. THE DEMON INTRODUCES HIMSELF - - - 35 IV. THE CITY OF PANDAPOLIS - - - "41 V. THE DEMON'S DAUGHTERS - - - 56 VI. A GRAND REVIEW - - - - 71 VII. THE MILITARY HOSPITAL - - - 85 VIII. DOCTOR JULIUS - - - - - - IOI IX. THE STAR OF VICTORY - - - - - Il6 X. TALKS WITH THE DOCTOR .... 141 XI. THE ENCHANTED HALL - - - - - 1 56 XII. THE COURT OF A GRAND POTENTATE - - - 1 67 XIII. THE STRANGER'S STORY - - - - - 1 85 XIV. THE PARLIAMENT OF PANDAPOLIS - - - 206 XV. THE DUEL- ...... 228 XVI. OUR DEPARTURE ------ 243 XVII. THE DOCTOR'S APPARENT FATE - 26l XVIII. THE STORY OF HELEN AND JULIUS - - - 276 XIX. I LOSE THE GOOD DOCTOR .... 308

Epilogue

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PROLOGUE.

. When I was a boy of fourteen, there came one day to my father's house an old man of a very remarkable appearance. He was tall and rather thin and shadowy, but his face wore a benevolent expression. He was dressed in a good suit of dark-brown cloth ; and when I first saw him, as I opened the door at which he had knocked more than once, I started back astonished at his venerable figure. He asked me, with a mild, soft voice, what my name was, and where my father and mother might be. I showed him into our principal sitting-room, and sent my mother to him. Their interview was a long one, but what passed at it I never knew. When my mother came from the room, she closed the door carefully, leaving the old man shut up alone. She had been crying, but her face did not express sorrow or pain ; nevertheless, as I belong to a rather romantic family, I began to imagine all sorts of things.

There was a mystery connected with that old man which I determined to unravel. It was my duty, if he was a wicked old man, to detect and expose his wickedness. I loved my mother better than my life, and began to hate that venerable personage, who I thought might be the Prince of Darkness himself in disguise, because he had made her cry. I could not, however, quite make up my mind whether I had better burst open the door, and instantly throw him out of the window, or magnanimously point with my finger to the door, and shout in a voice of thunder, 'Leave the room and the house this moment, sir !' When my father came home, my mother took him aside, and told him in whispers what she evidently did not wish me to know. He appeared to be very much astonished. It was drawing towards evening, and tea would soon be ready.

Instead of going in to see our mysterious visitor at once, my father went to his room and changed his dress. He was a retired merchant, and amused himself by cultivat ing a large orchard, and five acres of meadowiand which lay around our pretty cottage, in one of the most beautiful recesses of the coast of Devonshire. When he thought himself quite ready for presentation, he was conducted, by my now smiling mother, into the presence of the old man, and then the door was again carefully closed. In a short time my dear mother came out, not weeping this time, and proceeded to get the tea ready. Her face, always beautiful to me, was radiant with mysterious happiness, which I thought, if it depended on the possible residence of that aged party with us, might be short-lived. I asked her who he was, and coaxed her to tell me ; but she only replied : ' Oh, you little know, and you could not dream ; but you will know in good time.

He will tell you himself probably. He is a very wonderful old gentleman, more than ninety years of age. He told me not to tell you who he was.' When our evening meal was ready, he emerged from the sitting-room, leaning on my father's arm. My sister Bertha had just come in from her rambles, and, having been introduced to him, sat down to the table gazing at the unexpected visitor with the utmost astonishment. He was a total stranger to us both. His face was dark and weather-beaten ■ his hair and beard were white as snow ; his eyes were small

PROLOGUE.

3 gray, and piercing. While he drank his tea he scarcely noticed my sister or myself, but conversed a little with our parents. I shall not recall their conversation, as it was only desultory and immaterial ; but when we drew our chairs closer to the fire, and my father had placed some old journals on the table to be looked over, the old gentle man commenced his explanation in this way : ' Young lady and gentleman, you do not know who I am. You think, perhaps, that I am a visitor from another world, and I certainly bear that about me which might justify you in so thinking. But I am not so, and although I believe I have been in other worlds on short visits, I do not belong to them, having been born into this one, and not far from this very place, exactly ninety-five years ago. Did you ever hear of the great Bumblefuscus, who fought with, and destroyed, the enormous serpent which used to kill and eat five hundred men and women every day for five thousand years ?' My sister and I looked at each other in wonder and dismay, while our father and mother nearly laughed outright.

At length I replied : ' No, sir ; but I have books that tell lies about St. George and the Dragon, and about Baron Munchausen, and I have " Gulliver's Travels." ' ' Good books, nice books, for innocent boys and girls,' said the old gentleman. 'Well, I am not the great Bumble fuscus, but I am the little Oliver Ubertus, who once fought a battle with the great enemy of mankind — I am your father's grandfather, your great-grandfather. You know me now; come and kiss me, Bertha.' Bertha ran and gave our venerable relative several hearty kisses, and embraced him with unfeigned affection. I also felt his trembling lips pressed to my forehead and cheek. The tears fell from his eyes. Our parents also had recourse to their handkerchiefs. Solemn silence reigned in our house for a considerable time. At length he suffered us to resume our seats, although it was not possible for us to withdraw our eyes from his face.

Suddenly thrusting his hand into a capacious pocket, he drew from its recesses a parcel of moderate size, which he proceeded slowly to untie. We were filled with curiosity, not unmingled with an undefined expectation of seeing something wonderful ; but when we saw him draw forth first a beautiful gold watch and chain, and hold it up, saying, 'This is for a good girl, named Bertha,' and then another, with the words, 'And this is for a good boy, named Willie,' our delight and gratitude knew no bounds. Our great-grandfather told us, in the course of remarks made almost at random, that he had been a great traveller, but he would not trouble us with his travels at present. He had come, he said, unexpectedly, and without announcing his approach — because his whole life had been a series of extraordinary surprises — to lay his bones beside those of his ancestors.

His grandson, our father, had kindly given him permission to spend his last years, or days, as the case might be, by his fireside ; and our good mother did not object. In all probability he would not trouble us long; but be the time long or short, he would throw himself on the generosity of his young descendants, and ask for their guidance and protection. He lived with us for about two years in comparatively good health, showing only now and then the bodily weak ness incidental to his great age. His mental faculties did not seem to fail him in the least, and his mind was at perfect peace. Occasionally he was overheard talking aloud when he thought himself to be alone, as if holding an animated conversation with an invisible individual, whom he called Dr. Junius or Julius. Either my sister or myself always accompanied him in his frequent strolls along the lovely

PROLOGUE.

5 shore, or into the interior of the county, by some of its charming lanes. On one of these occasions, when, on a calm April evening, we rambled through a delightful valley, on the banks of a gushing stream, out upon the seashore, and had turned to go back home, he sank down upon a grassy bank, sighed deeply, and spoke thus : ' I shall soon be leaving you, Willie ; my silver thread of life is nearly run out. God has been good to me, and merciful, although I have been self-exalted and forgetful of my duty to Him. I have often listened to the voice of the tempter, and given way to sinful passion, and I am glad to be on the verge of release from all possibility of falling into those sins again. You will ask what there can be to tempt a man who is nearly a hundred years old. Nothing, certainly, if we are to judge by what is tangible and visible ; but there may be a great deal within the soul ; and within mine there has been a constant warfare with a mysterious and powerful being, who was pertinacious in his attacks, and unwearied in his efforts to undermine my allegiance to the great Author of my existence.

At first he would insist that there was no God at all ; we did not see or hear Him, and therefore He did not exist. Next, this evil being would try to persuade me that the Divinity of Jesus Christ, as the actual Son of God, in whom so many millions of people believe, is a mere delusion — an invention without a shadow of truth or probability in it. But I am weak ; I cannot talk much now. . . . ' Every word,' he continued after a long pause, upon which I did not dare to intrude, ' must be to the purpose and w7ell weighed. There are words which, if they could be weighed as we can weigh the bread we eat, would be worth their weight in refined gold. I have found those golden words in my Bible. Yes, blessed be God 1 I shall go soon, but not to the abyss of darkness where eternal wickedness reigns.

Oh, Willie, Willie, what a life mine has been ! You will find among my effects, when I shall be removed from this world of trouble, a history of the trials and temptations to which I have been exposed. My great enemy is living still, and as active and determined as ever. Whether he is the king of evil himself, or merely a satrap of his empire, I cannot tell. The work I leave behind me fully describes him, and the conflicts I had with him. It is not a religious work. Many will despise it, doubtless, on account of the strain of merriment which runs through it ; others will condemn it, because they will find it difficult to understand its hidden meanings, or to believe in the worth of its moral teaching. I leave it with you, Willie, to publish it, if you can find a publisher. Now let us go home ; my mind is at rest; but all my life I have been in terror lest I should fall into the hell of unbelief, and so lose all hope of that glorious heaven on which I had set my heart.' Some two or three months after this conversation we buried our aged progenitor, not without tears.

He left his small estate in Tasmania to my parents, and through them it is destined to become mine. And to my sister he left all his personal property, which proved to be not inconsiderable. The following is the work of which he had told me, and it is now published with very few alterations. Before its readers venture to condemn it for its ' absurdities,' will they receive the assurance that it was written by the author with a serious purpose, if also in the hope of amusing his fellow men, whose happiness my great-grandfather always took pleasure in promoting ? The Editor.

Chapter I. Lake Sorell And The Giant's Castle

The lakes of Tasmania are, with one or two exceptions, situated on the higher levels of the mountains. The mountains occupy a large space — some thousands of square miles — in the centre of the island. They rise abruptly from a surrounding belt of level plains, which are bounded by other mountains nearer to the sea. On these plains, which are relieved by occasional hills and valleys, the settlers of the colony have created many handsome, and even elegant, mansions ; and they have brought into cultivation, and stocked with sheep and cattle, valuable lands which one hundred years ago were the domains of black and naked savages, who lived on kangaroos, opossums, and snakes. From a moderate distance the mountains present a magnificent appearance, being broken at irregular intervals by precipices and bold headlands, which the inhabitants call bluffs.

No lover of the picturesque and wild beauties of the world can look upon these gigantic walls without feeling an anxious desire to scale them, and see for himself what is on the other side. That was the wish I formed the first time that I saw them, but it was only after the lapse of several years that I was able to gratify the wish. Having become acquainted with a family of sheep-owners who occupy a station on the northern shore of Lake Sorell, I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation to spend some time with them. I had a month or two of leisure in the oppressive summer time, so, being in the enjoyment of good health, I shouldered my knapsack one fine morning in April, and clambered up the eastern face of the Western Tier, by a steep and rocky zigzag road which men and horses can travel, but no wheeled vehicle.

The side of the mountain was covered with a dense forest, having an undergrowth of scrub and coarse grass, studded with huge rocks. The track was blocked up in several places by trees that were lying prostrate, and I found it difficult to make my way among their tangled roots or branches. The steepness of the ascent made the walk a somewhat laborious one. Surmounting all difficulties, however, I found myself, at the sultry hour of noon, sitting on my knapsack, on the very summit of the mountain, some three thousand feet above the sea, with an extensive shining lake spread out at my feet. Seated there, I was soon lost in dreamland, building sparkling 'castles in the air' — a habit to which I am, fortunately or unfortunately, rather strongly disposed. I stay the progress of my narrative here, in order to say a few words about myself, which my generous readers will kindly excuse.

I belong to that class of men who are styled ' visionary ' by their wiser and more practical acquaintances, who never, in their imagination, see anything that may be on the top of a mountain, or at the other side of a haystack. Some use the adjective in contempt, others in derision, others, again, in profound pity. They say that a ' visionary ' man cannot look after his proper business, but is certain to drop into the pitfall of irretrievable ruin. But I attended to my business for a great many years with fair measure of success, though now, as I am in the ' sear and yellow leaf,' I have handed it over to younger men. A ' visionary ' man LAKE SOREI.L AND THE GIANT'S CASTLE 9 may be unfit for some occupations, but he can, if he pleases, make himself useful and agreeable to others, and he can improve his little farm, if he has one, as Cincinnatus did, and as I, in all humility, do, by cutting down trees where they are too thick, and planting them where they are too thin.

And now, as the reader knows all about me that he will care to know, I will further explain that, as I sat on the shore of Lake Sorell on that high mountain, in the far distant island of Tasmania, building sparkling ' castles in the air,' I fell into the following train of thought : ' I am rather tired of this same castle-building. Of what use is it ? If I walk in a frenzy into this lake, will it save me from being drowned ? If I fall over these rocks and break my leg, will it mend it again, and give me renewed strength to prosecute my journey ? Will it put money in my purse when it is empty, or bread on my table, or clothes on my back ? If it is a gift from on high, a branch, possibly, of the great candelabrum of human genius, of what use is it ? Surely the ability to dig potatoes, to break in horses, to cook a dinner, or to sweep a crossing, would be much more beneficial to its possessor, and useful to the world at large.

It is like Falstaff's honour : it pricks us on, and often pricks us off again ; not even a word or a mere breath of air, only a thought built up in any fantastic shape we please, and then blown into fragments. And yet it is not like Falstaff's honour ; it is not always of lower rank than a breath of air. It is an amusement to the great heart and mind of man, when he who builds such a castle has not a balance at his bankers' to amuse him, or a regiment of soldiers, or a ship to command, or anything to do to keep himself alive. It is an unquestionable fact that our airy castles, which your hard-headed, practical people sneer at so much, very often turn into real towers of grandeur and magnificence. Did Nelson, or Wellington, or Stanley, never build castles in the air about winning glorious victories and achieving immortal renown ? ' So I, Oliver Ubertus, of Tasmania, wool-grower (my friends smile at me, and tell me that I am a boy still, though over sixty years of age), while laughing to scorn the idea of glorious victories and immortal renown, have often built castles, which gradually dwindled into a snug little estate in the country ; and a pleasant house, with trees and a garden around it ; and a diminutive park, with a horse or two and a few simple-minded cows in it ; and a cosy library indoors, and an outside run for a few hundred sheep, all my own.

And now, when I have all these in reality, it must be acknow ledged that my airy castle has become a substantial one of timber and stone, albeit one of very humble dimensions.' My soliloquy ended, I rose up and continued my journey, stepping boldly into the wild Bush. Some idea of writing and publishing a book about these wonderful Tasmanian lakes, that would astonish the world and shake it up to the very centre of its cold, selfish heart, entered into my mind, and became a dreamy fascination which I could not shake off. It recurred again and again as I pursued my way. But it must be no ordinary book. If it should be nothing but a dry description of land and water, or even a kind of half-and-half history of another Paris and Helen, or of some forlorn Angelina or Virginia pining on an island, or a story of the romantic love of a local Tom Smith and his Betsy Jane Stubbs, the mighty world would scarcely condescend to touch it at all.

I am travelling now through a very thick, dark forest, along a snake-like track which winds round the northern shore, and I find myself booked for a weary, solitary tramp of at least twenty miles. I thought I should never get out of that forest, and began to imagine myself a veritable Babe in the Wood. There was no fear of my being lost, for the lake could not fly away, and my friend's house was within half a mile of it At last, in about four hours' time, I emerged into the open country, and entered upon a vast marsh, which was bounded at a great distance by a range of high wooded hills. There were mountains to be seen all round in this land of enchantment — mountains piled on mountains. For a time immersed to the waist in an ocean, so to speak, of rushes, which greatly added to the fatigue of walking, I plodded on ; but it was fortunate for me that I was not compelled to wade up to my knees in water, or flounder pitiably over my boot-tops in hideous black mud.

The time was passing quickly, the sun was sinking, and the end of my journey seemed as far off as ever. Extricating myself at last from the thick rushes, I strode into the wood again, which was now much more open, and then toiled wearily on until, as night was coming on, I arrived at a paddock, in which a new weather-boarded cottage could be descried at a little distance. This proved to be the very dwelling of which I was in search. I received a warm welcome, as is usually the case under such circumstances, and soon sat down to enjoy a refreshing cup of tea. The honours of the table were done by a young lady, a sister of my host, who, with her little niece, resides here during the summer, and takes great pleasure in the pure mountain air and in the delightful scenery around the lake. I was told a great deal that evening about the curiosities of the locality.

There is a so-called phantom island in Lake Sorell, and I was a week in my friend's house before I succeeded in getting a glimpse of it. There is also a beautiful wooded island in it which is by no means a phantom. The lake is about ten miles in diameter, and is surrounded, except in a few marshy places, with rocky and densely-wooded shores. It might be appropriately called the Tasmanian Lake of the Woods. On its southern shore the celebrated Thomas Francis Meagher, he of the drawn sword and of ' Irish Invincible ' fame, resided for a time. One morning I went down to the lake before sunrise, and found the opposite shores enveloped in a thick atmosphere of blue smoke, which had risen from many surrounding Bush fires. Above the edge of this smoke a splendid orange glow preceded the rising sun.

A soft hazy cloud stretched itself over such of the adjacent hills as were at all visible. The lake had the appearance of an extensive sea — a vast sheet of the brightest silver, studded with millions of glancing particles of gold. Then, and not till then, I found the object of my search — the phantom island. Alas for the genius of romance ! It was not a creation of indescribable grandeur like a mediæval castellated rock or a fairy-like garden in a pearly ocean, such as we read of in Byron and Moore. On the contrary, it presented the very practical appearance of the black hull of a huge ship, rising only a few feet above the surface of the water, and yet seeming to be suspended over it like the flying island of ' Gulliver's Travels.' It is evidently nothing more nor less than a low mass of rock nearly in the centre of the lake, not always visible ; and when I first saw it I fancied myself standing on the brink of the Nile, surveying the hulk of one of the great French ships which had been battered to pieces in Nelson's famous battle.

The Cradle Mountain, and the hills around, were totally invisible, owing to the dense columns of smoke which rose from the sides of the Western Tier, where fierce fires were raging. On such occasions a weird and deceptive glare is cast upon the water ; and that morning the rosy glow of the sunrise through the nearly opaque gloom rendered the scene a truly magnificent one. A Bush fire also had broken out on the estate occupied by my friend Mr. Solomon Pepper, and I volunteered my services to help to save his fences from being burnt. But it unfortunately happened that, in spite of all our efforts, fully two miles of fencing were destroyed. One of these fires was the grandest I ever saw ; the flames roared like thunder, and leaped up in the forest to the height of forty or fifty feet. After the pearly lake and the phantom island, what will you say, gentle reader, to a Giant's Castle ?

It is an eccentric idea of mine to give it that name. Before I attempted to explore the edifice itself, I discovered the graves of the giant and his wife, or what might be regarded as such, close to the public road and the margin of the lake. They — I mean the graves, not the bodies — lie side by side, but, as there are no monuments of any kind, I cannot be certain that the giant and his wife actually lie buried there. The Giant's Castle is, in fact, a stupendous pile of rocks, towering one above another, and reaching to a height of about five hundred feet above the tops of the forest trees by which it is surrounded. It is a mile from the shore, and consists of a hard gray granite, or something of that kind, which seems to be impervious to the assaults of all the raging elements. At present it bears the unclassical name of Todd's Hill; but it ought to be called Castle Rock or Mount Terror.

I was of course seized with an irresistible desire to ■ ascend its perpendicular heights, and, to my great delight, my young hostess and her little niece promptly volunteered to be my guides. We selected a fine afternoon for our excursion, and started at three o'clock. The air was calm and warm, but, unfortunately, not so free from smoke as we could have wished The ascent was not particularly difficult, if I except the rough rocks which we had to scramble over, until we reached the foot of the enormous crags which form the ruined walls and turrets of the magnificent structure. We followed for some time a well-defined track round the base of the rocky tower, seeking for the least impregnable part by which we might scale the escarpment, which was now hanging in confused masses over our heads.

At last we discovered a narrow natural staircase among the rocks, which led us up to a grassy platform covered with innumerable trees. At the further side of this we found another pile of rocks, and these also we ascended, traversing at last a narrow ledge, which led us up to the highest pinnacle. Now came the tug of war. I had been advised to keep my head cool — it is by nature exceedingly hot — and to brace up my nerves — which, to say the least, were never very strong — and to effect both objects I screwed my hat firmly down over my eyebrows. My fair guides tripped along like antelopes ; but I, being well up in years, and inclined to be heavy, passed the causeway very cautiously indeed. Two unexpected sights burst suddenly upon my view. On our left lay the remains of a vast chamber, deep in the heart of the mountain, the roof of which must have been blown off in the centuries gone by in some terrible convulsion of the earth, and the ruins scattered about in every direction.

On our right lay a frightful precipice, and, like imperial eagles, we were pluming our feathers on the very edge. The distance to the tops of the trees below seemed amazing. A sheer wall of rock was beneath our feet, the highest I had ever been on in my life. At first my head began to feel a little giddy, and at such times a kind of paroxysm comes over me, which in my assumed allegorical character I find it impossible to control. My imagination does not require a very strong charge of dynamite in order to set it going. Where are now my dreams of being able one day to see my native land again, and of embracing the friends, the brothers and sisters of my youth ? Where are now the vile and crooked rascalities of the human hive — its pride, its venom, its avarice, and its arrogance ? I even lose thought of my companions.