LOUIS BE ROUGEMONT.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIX, Issue 225, 23 September 1898, Page 3

LOUIS BE ROUGEMONT.

THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS

INTERVIEWED,

AND TELLS A CURIOUS STORY

(From Our Special Correspondent.)

LONDON, August 13, 1898,

The general opinion with regard to the | Up-to-date Robinson Crusoe (Louis de | Rougemont), whom Mr Fitzgerald of 1 the 'Wide World Magazine' is exploiting, seems lo be that he really has bad some adventures, and that hls # narraUve —with I the aid of Del'oe, Hermann Melville, and it luxuriant imagination—simply improves upon them. No one who has read . 'Typie' and 'Omoo'— difficult to get nowadays—could possibly help living struck with the similarity of certain incidents. jMr de Rougemont was yesterday interviewed by the 'Daily News,' and gives that journal a strictly authorised version of his adventure:;. The operator says:— Charles Reade would have revelled in Louis de Rougemont, \vhoso adventures are now the talk of (.lie town. That novelist did himself drop a hero and heroine upon a lovely Boul.li. Sea. island, overflowing with tropical milk and honey, where they lived in a pearl-lined cave. So, too, did this De Rougemont. But his island was a miserably sandy atoll in the Timon Seas, which wash the north shores of Western Australia. When little more than a boy be found himself with a few hundred dollars, joined forces with the Dutch skipper of a small schooner and went pearling. They were very lucky, and had made their pile when Trmrcrc priceless black pearls were discovered amongst the shells. Where there are three there may bo hundreds. Though the annual cyclones were due and it was time for the ship to be off. the mad Dutchman declined to budge from these happy hunting grounds. Then came the tempest, and drove the ship, crew, captain, and De Rougemont ashore. He and his dog alone were saved. When they came to their senses they found themselves on that miserable atoll, which a high sea could wash over, and did at times, for the land was not more than a few feet above the level of the water. TWO YEARS ON AN ATOLL. Imagine a ring of sand a hundred yards or so across; dump the man and dog upon it and you have the, situation. But at low water the man was able to get to the wreck, and get out of it water,, stores, and so forth, just like poor Robinson Crusoe. With the pearl shells he built himself a house, and fed on the fish and flesh, of which Nature kindly yielded a plentiful supply. The atoll was a nesting ground for sea birds. Of their eggs they ate; and when the birds went a fishing to feed their young and themselves, the man levied tribute on the distended pouches. What impunity man develops in stressful times! Turtles, too, visited the atoll, and provided them with a change of food which was most agreeable. As for water, the schooner's casks supplied them with it: and during the rains they were refilled. Moreover. Rougemont distilled Hie sea in his kettle. Ho just lapped a bit of blanket round the spout, made a fire, and let the vapour hiss Into the wool and squeezo the goodly liquor into his vessels. Crusoe notched a stake for the days. Rougemont made himself an almanac of pearl shells. Thus. then, did he pass two long years upon that tiny speck of land, ever peering out across the shimmering ocpan for sail or signs of man. But for his dog ho would have died. The depression, especially in the flcrca heat of noon, was terrible. Often he waded out towards the deep, yet always waded back—to life—to his dog. Out of the wreck he built himself a cockle-shell of a boat. That was wrecked in the launching. Then one day a, catamaran hove in sight, and in it were blacks who had been driven out to sea from the mainland. At last relief had come. The blacks, the white man, and the dog put the cockle-shell to rights, embarked, and put to sea, and in time made the main at a point which, roughly speaking, is the north-west boundary between West Australia and South Australia. And now began the Remarkable thirty years de Rougemont spent amongst the cannibals who inhabit this remote corner of the globe. THIRTY YEARS AMONG AUSTRALIAN BLACKS. One by one his endeavours to reach civilisation were baffled, and slowly he drifted into the savage state himself. Let us not pity him. Let us not despise the savage, who, though a cannibal, eats not for the gratification of the appetite, but to acquire the prowess of his departed brother. At least the wild man (if be does not knock you on the .head) is a hospitable, sociable fellow. He gives you wives, temporary or otherwise; he teaches you woodcraft, the art of finding your meat, and a hundred other accomplishments. Rougemont sighs when he talks of his ol<3 friends, and sotto voce compares the cold stones of London Town, the jarring roar or ceaseless traffic, the hard faces of the hurrying multitudes—each one thinking of Itself—with the plenty, peace, silence, and manifold beauties of the wilds. Dig, you find the root so sweet and juicy; climb, you catch the 'possum; hunt, you catch the kangaroo; let fly the arrow, you bring down the birds of the air; f fire the bush, you have the snakes tender and foul-like. The bees store their honey in the woods; the juicy maggot is a delicacy which would send a gourmet of the cities into raptures. No postman knocks in the wilds; no telegraph messenger disturbs your peace; no news comes; the only books are in tho heavens above. Fire and heat the sun gives; the stars are compass and sextant. No one wears clothes. There la no rent to pay—heavens! what a life! What a Paradise! Rousseau was right. The wilds and lovely Nature for us— after an hour of Rougemont. EXPERIENCE IN LONDON. After thirty years he has come back to civilisation, and is now a lion. But I venture to believe that he will wish himself back again, and at peace in the I beautiful forests and silvery streams or North-West Australia which he "describes with such evident affection. But he landed in London with a few shillings in his pocket, having stoked his way like a man on a liner. They soon went. Then hither and thither he tramped, trying to find work; trying to find a friend in this cruel London. By a series of chances he at length fell into the hands of Mr Fitzgerald, the editor of the 'Wide World Magazine.' We know the rest. Louis de Rougemont's name is now in every paper throughout the land. He is to read papers before the British Association; geographers are at his feet, anthropologists, lore folk—all eager for a wrinkle. He is 54, of middle height, square built, bronzed, hair grizzled, with deep lines in neck, hands, brow, which are eloquent of a life in the wilds. The dialects of the cannibal tribes with whom he lived trip easiest from his tongue, and though a Gene-

vese he speaks English better than French. Indeed, when .he emerged from the wilderness and sought help from the French Consul in Melbourne, he found he had nearly forgotten his native language, and doubts were cast on his story. I asked him to explain. His reply was that he always conversed with his native wife in English, as that language was universal in Australia, and hence they would both be linguistically equipped iC they ever got to civilised communities again. A GOOD WORD FOR THE BLACKS. But to go back to the beginning—that is, oO years ago. lie-spends' two awful years in his atoll with his dog; he escapes with the blacks to the mainland at Cambridge Gulf and Queen's Channel, and there he takes up his abode for a few months. The country he describes as splendid; food in abundance, water and (lowing streams; forests; plains all Inhabited by many tribes of a fine race of blacks. De Rougemont natives are not the degraded creatures, less than human, with whom books of travel have familiarised us. They are, he says, of fine races, intelligent, lively, great sportsmen^ worshipping physical prowess, believing in a future life, devoted to war, with many strange and curious customs which It will be lils business to describe in the course of the remarkable story of his adventures. There may be a Malayan strain in those hitherto unheard of peoples; at all events, they are certainly as the Australian black we meet with in books. By prowess and many deeds of valour and activity poor de Rougemont managed to gain a conspicuous place in their counsels. Another man of less resources would have been clubbed and eaten in 24 hours. Not so this Genevose Ulysses. Tie had arts by the dozen. Now, he gratified their love of amusement by turning somersaults, at which he was luckily an expert. Then, he stole out in the bush at night, and with reeds made weird and wailing minors which put the fear of God into their superstitious hearts. Tie did not say whether he ever worked the eclipse business as other castaways have done. Probably not, as he had not almanac or print of any sort, and had lost the count of days. 'What year is it,' said this poor Crusoe of the land to the first white man he encountered for 30 years. 'What year is it?' Then the man turned to his friends —they were prospectors—tapped his forehead and murmured—'Mad, mad.' That by the way. So he found favour in the eyes of the tribes, fought with them, led them into battle, became an adept with shield and spear, went naked as they did, having no clothes, got- himself a plume from the lyre bird, gTew darker and darker, married a wife—in short, became a wild man. But-not all at once. Our Orson, still YEARNING FOR CIVILISATION, his lady pointing to the east, said that she had heard that white men were to be found in that direction. So the two set out to find them, and marched and marched by star, by sun, by a thousand signs of nature, which the tribes read as in a book, until they came to the ocean once more. Tt was the great Gulf of Carpentaria. De Rougemont mistook it for the Coral Sea in the South Pacific. He made a day out, and with his wife, coasted and coasted in search of the white man's settlement. After many adventures—would you believe it?—and IS months' absence, the two found themselves back again at home. O3NTO OF THOSE ADVENTURES may be mentioned in passing, as showing the strange blend of romance with stern reality which gives a fascination to the lives of such Crusoes as de Rougemont. Whilst resting in a lonely, lovely inlet of these azure summer seas, they heard from some native Lechamel fishing of two white women whom a tribe had taken captive. With true French chivalry. Ulysses marched to the rescue, but found them in possession of the chief. The chief declined to part with the women who had been shipwrecked, so de Rougemont offered to fight him for them. A - wrestling match was- arranged the end of which was that the chief was slain, and the interesting captives taken away to the sea. Whilst reposing a ship hove in sight, and the whole party, overjoyed, sailed out to meet her, accompanied by canoes full of natives, halloing and shouting in their exhilaration. Alas! those signs were interpreted as a hostile demonstration, the ship sailed on, and the canoe in which was de Rougemont, his. wife, and two white women was upset in the excitement. The unfortunate ladies were drowned. FINAL* WANDERINGS. After these two attempts to escape to civilisation had failed, de Rougemont, as I have already hinted, settled down and became a wild man. Nevertheless, for ten years he wandered with his faithful companion over that vast wilderness, still hoping faintly. His great and final effort was a long journey from 15 deg. N. latitude to 25 deg., marching pretty near due south. At this point he encountered Giles' exploring expedition, which mistaking' him for a savage, not unnaturally greeted him with a volley of lead. After that he gave up the attempt as really hopeless, returned to the North, and for 20 years remained on the lovely heights in the north territory of South Australia, about 22 deg. south Of the line. Then his wife died, and on her death bed advised him to steer south west if he ever wished to see Christians again. He did, and came out at Coolgardie. Ci Civilization has never, to the best of our knowledge, had the chance of studying such a strange history before. We are glad that in the interests of the adventure loving reader, the geographer, the scientist, alike, Orson's life is being written by Mr Fitzgerald, the editor who discovered him, or rather received him on Mr Henniker-Heaton's introduction. He is certainly making the most of him, and the best of him. His long absence notwithstanding, Mr de Rougemont is a most genial man, with wonderful memj ory.