AMONGST THE BANANA BOYS.
Collision in Sydney Harbour—Brisbane—The Banana Boys—Sir Samuel Griffith.
‘IT is too hot for any Englishman to go to Sydney in January and
February,’ said a gentleman to me on board the _Orizaba_—but I went. At
Sydney everyone said it was too hot to think of going to Brisbane—but I
went; and in either case I should have missed a great deal of pleasure
had I stayed away. The misfortune was that I went by the _Warrago_ to
Brisbane, a favourite boat, and the crowd was so great I had to sleep in
the dining-saloon; but the trip was enjoyable. In the first place, to
start with, we had a real collision at sea, and I had time to calculate
what my chances were of ever seeing my native land again as I watched
with not a little interest the attacking vessel steering steadily for our
steamer’s side. Fortunately she got the worst of it, as her foresail and
bowsprit came tumbling down, and we made our way out in safety. I don’t
think anyone was to blame. The fact was, just as we were starting a
Melbourne ship, the _Barcoo_, was leaving the wharf. Between us was an
unhappy schooner laden with coal, and her choice lay simply between
Scylla and Charybdis. The former she cleared; the latter she ran into.
Methinks I heard her infuriated captain, as he looked athwart his damaged
barque, scream out something disrespectful concerning land-lubbers. Our
gallant captain, however, in a conversation with me on the subject,
explained that the other party was entirely in the wrong. Be that as it
may, it seemed to me rather hard that the only occasion on which, as he
told me, he ever met with an accident should have been when I was on
board.
Our trip was vastly agreeable, as we saw a good deal of the Australian
coast under very favourable circumstances, the sea being calm and the
skies bright. In about thirty-six hours we had reached the mouth of
Moreton Bay, a fine sheet of water, with the conical hills on our right
which Cook called ‘the Glass Houses,’ and then by a narrow channel we
made our way into the river on which Brisbane stands, and which bears its
name. When the tide is up the Brisbane river is almost as romantic as
our lovely Dart, and a good deal more so than our far-famed Orwell. Only
think of mangroves growing right up from the water for miles, of banks
where the bananas ripen, and where you can pluck juicy mangoes from the
stalk (on the top of the banks I saw the graceful bamboo), where strange
flowers bloomed and strange birds shrieked (the native Australian bird
never sings), where the pineapple (they were selling them at Brisbane at
a penny each) grows in the open, and where actually I saw for the first
time the sugarcane reared in the field, and felt as Alice must have felt
in Wonderland.
Queensland, the youngest, promises to be the most flourishing of the
colonies. It was not till 1859 that it was known to the world as
Queensland; up to that time it had formed a portion of New South Wales.
Queensland is still open to emigrants, and its Government lends a helping
hand, unlike the other colonies, to emigrants of the right sort. On the
Darling plains they can live in comfort, but, alas! they cannot all
expect to settle there. It is in the north that the most astonishing
progress has been within the last quarter of a century, and alas! the
north is hot—hotter than the average Englishman can stand. Mining and
sugar-growing are the leading industries of the north. In many instances
the former has proved the primary factor in the opening of new territory,
and in the extension of trade to ports in the higher latitudes. Notable
instances of this may be seen to-day in the townships of Cooktown and
Cairns, which owe their origin entirely to the goldfields of the Palmer
and Hodgkinson. In the case of the latter, the discovery of the
extremely fruitful nature of the soil has induced settlement, and
agriculture is looked upon as one of the principal means of ensuring a
thriving future. Brisbane is not as remarkable as either Melbourne or
Sydney. To begin with, it has only a population of some 74,000, though
it is the capital of 668,224 square miles. They can grow everything,
apparently, and find everything, for its mineral treasures are beyond
conception. It is Queensland that owns the great Morgan Mine which just
now has turned everybody’s head; but in no part of Australia have I seen
so much that tells of growth and progress. All over the place they are
pulling down the old shanties and erecting fine buildings in their stead,
of stone white as marble. Outside, the suburbs are pretty, and land is
cheap at £1,500 an acre. The Houses of Parliament are stately. The
Governor has a handsome residence, and the public gardens are extensive
and form an agreeable promenade, before the too hot sun rises, along the
river’s bank. Afar, forming a landmark, as it were, is an enormous white
building, known as All Hallows Convent. I was more interested in the
Reformatory, on our left, where, unlike our own, the lads are reformed,
not returned to society harder and wickeder than ever. The streets are
fairly wide, and some of the shops are handsome. It is a busy place.
The town is full of hotels, and, led by the lust of gold, people ever
come and go.
‘We are Banana boys,’ said a young Queenslander to me as we steamed up
the river, looking over at the muddy sediment they call whales’ spawn.
‘We have some smart men among us. Look,’ said he, ‘there is one,’ as he
pointed to a tall, light-haired gentleman in gray clothes and soft felt
hat—something of the figure of Sir Fowell Buxton. Happily I had no need
to have pointed out to me Sir Samuel Griffith, late Premier of Queensland
and the head of its Bar. I had introduced myself to him soon after we
left Sydney, and never did I meet with a more friendly acquaintance.
Naturally, at first he seemed, as he viewed me through his eyeglass, a
little suspicious, as are most Colonials, and as they are bound to be
when you remember the tales they have to hear, and the doubtful
characters who force themselves on their notice. But as we chatted away
his reserve relaxed, and he became the charming companion, ready to
describe all the country round, and to show me all the kindness in his
power. As we stood on the deck he pointed to a handsome white
brick-built bungalow rising out of a fine extent of lawn and garden,
overlooking the river, with which it was connected. ‘That is my house,’
said he, at the same time inviting me to dine there that night—an offer
which, it is needless to say, I gladly accepted. In due time I reached
Merthyr, as Sir Samuel names his residence, from the place in old Wales
where he was born, and where, on his recent visit home, he was received
with a cordiality such as gallant little Wales only extends once in a way
to her most distinguished sons. He, the poor Dissenting minister’s son,
then the Premier of Queensland, and still the greatest man in the
colony—for I never knew a fallen statesman so beloved—was the guest at
Cyfartha Castle. I know not why he has gone out of office, but I think
the cause is not far to seek. Queensland is split up into two separate
camps—the North, who want coloured labour to work on the sugar
plantations, a work for which no white man is fit; and the South, who say
the black labour of the North is really slavery, and who object to it in
every form. To the pretensions of the North Sir Samuel has ever been
sternly opposed; and then he had held office five years—and democracies
are always fickle. So Sir Samuel is now the leader of Her Majesty’s
Opposition, and is as much respected and as strong almost as ever. There
is an air of refinement about him which tells even with the Banana boys,
who look as brown and burnt up as it is possible for men to be. They
seem determined men, with felt hats of every shape and colour, with hands
that seem never to have known the mysteries of soap and water—men who
have done yeomen’s work at the diggings, or on the sheep farm—and give
you a shake which reminds one strongly of the ‘horny-handed.’ Ah, they
told me some strange tales of the blacks in the little smoke-room of the
steamer by which we returned, and would have told me more had it not come
on to blow so hard that we were all compelled to go to bed. They all
rejected Sir Samuel’s policy, as an injury to the North, but they all
loved the man, of whom we shall, I doubt not, soon hear again. He is
young, as men go—almost too young, you would think, for the power he has
grasped. I do not blame him that he resolved to fight out his battle in
Queensland rather than return to England to take Henry Richard’s place as
M.P. for Merthyr, as he was invited to do. In this respect the father
resembles the son. Brisbane is his home. He has reached the term of
three score years and ten, and he now holds the pulpit of the
Congregationalist chapel at Brisbane till the people have appointed his
successor. The day before I reached Brisbane there had been a meeting of
his friends to do him honour, and the old man was well pleased at it, as
I found from a short talk with him in his pleasant home, not far from his
son’s ampler residence. The ex-Premier is not a man to be idle. He has
faced the problem of the day—the perpetual struggle between want and
wealth—and has something to say on the matter. Hardly a care seemed to
cloud his brow, hardly a wish to be left unsatisfied. He seemed to me
alike sound in head and heart, as we sat smoking under the veranda of his
handsome bungalow, under the Southern Cross, with the river running at
our feet, with the cry of want and woe silent, with the sound of the
distant city hushed, while the moonlight, stealing over the scene, had
blended with the lights of eve.