It is a proverb, “See Venice and die,” I would say, See St. Mary’s
Pass, and _live_ to describe it if you can (for it will sorely tax your
descriptive powers, be they ever so good) to your friends. It alone
is worth travelling a thousand miles to behold where expense is not a
consideration.
From the time the last inn was left, the road gradually ascends a
gentle acclivity, and when the top is gained the visitor is at the
entrance of the Pass. An abrupt turn of the road, and lo! opening
far beneath him on his left hand, is a yawning gulf, with almost
perpendicular mountains ascending on both sides. From this point it is
_facilis descensus_. As he looks down the awful chasm from the narrow
rock-hewn road, he involuntary recoils with a shudder. Genial George
observes this, for he was prepared for it, and a suppressed smile,
with a humorous twinkle in his eye records it. Whatever exclamation of
surprise, fear, or appreciation of the sublime grandeur of the scene,
may escape the lips of the traveller, it is drowned with a crack of the
whip and “Come, get along there, lazy bones” as the vehicle rattles
over the adamantine, tortuous road, leaving barely room for a foot
passenger to pass between it and the verge of the gorge; for there is
no fence, except at very sharp turns of the road. Down――down――down,
sweeps the terrible gulf. Higher――higher――higher, ascend the
tree-crowned heights, and looking from the road, the traveller feels
it would be possible to shoot a bird on the opposite side. There is
not a foot of ground but what is densely covered with timber and
undergrowth. Far below, in the cool mossy depths can be seen the ever
beautiful plume-fronded fern trees, waving in graceful undulations with
the breeze, born of the great chasm; their tender green, contrasting
favorably with the darker, harder hue of the surrounding gum trees.
High over the tops of patriarchal forest giants, the eye sweeps
the great abyss and through the ambient air, can distinctly see the
mosses of green and gold draping the rocks and trees in the depths of
those sunless shades. It may be Spring time, and if so the blossom of
a wattle tree here and there, stands out in strong relief among the
myrtles and sassafras, scenting the air with its rich perfume. Another
turn of the Pass, and there is a stone trough at which man and horse
may drink of water as pellucid and cool as the pendant dew-drops. A
mountain rill, which is almost vertical, comes leaping down in tiny
falls, and is then conducted by a little flume into the stone trough.
At one time the pass appears to have turned back on itself――at another
it is taking a course at right angles――so numerous and acute are its
windings as it rounds the heads of the many gullies. Considering that
the pace at which the coach is being driven, which is very little,
if indeed, anything less than that before the Pass was reached,
apprehension of danger in the coolest and most courageous spirits is
excusable, but the horses as well as driver know their work so well
that a mishap is of very rare occurrence while a fatal accident as far
as I know, has never yet been chronicled. St. Patrick’s Head which
the visitor saw from St. Mary’s rising into the upper air, like a
mighty pyramid he is now careering along. A little over two miles of
the descent is accomplished, when another sharp turn unfolds to view
the boundless ocean rolling in long lines of foaming, curling, surges
on the shore――the hollow booming roar of which, is, and has been for
some time past distinctly audible. That little hamlet consisting of
one weather-boarded inn, and barely half a dozen primitive cottages
is Falmouth. The inn which stands on a small headland overlooking the
surf-beaten shore, is as solitary-looking as a light-house. Down,
and still down, with its apparently endless windings, goes the Pass.
Deeper and still deeper seems to grow the mighty gorge. On one hand
is a high wall of rock, produced by forming the road. It is compact
greenstone, _i.e._ trap rock, and testifies to the vast amount of
labor and engineering skill in constructing the Pass in days long
past. High overhead the mountain soars, and huge masses of rock are
impending like Damocles sword, and seem ready to come thundering down
on the slightest provocation, carrying destruction and death in their
course. This threatening aspect have they presented for untold ages,
and for untold ages it they may maintain. Much room for marvel there
is as to how the trees continue to grow and hold their own on such
steep mountain slopes, looking much like Natural Selection at fault.
But then gumtrees in Tasmania will grow anywhere. Here, and there,
the gracefully formed, and tender green foliaged _Exocarpus_ (native
cherry tree), and the lightwood tree fringe the edges of the Pass. For
eight miles the traveller winds along this remarkable chasm and then
finds himself on the sandy plateau of Falmouth at the bottom, with
the heaving ocean in front, and a large sheet of imprisoned seawater
on his left hand, into which the collected waters of the gorge empty
themselves. That large and commanding brick house standing by itself is
the residence of Mr. Steele, who owns all the available land for dairy
farming in the locality. Horses are changed at the inn where dinner
can be had and then a start is made to cross the Styx, but genial
George, in this case, is old _Charon_. From Saintdom we have entered
the regions of classical history, and instead of being rowed over the
Styx we go through it on wheels. Somewhat exciting is the transit, the
horses belly deep, and the traveller has to lift his feet till his
knees are level with his nose, while the wheels of the coach stir up
the black mud which emits the antithesis of an agreeable odor. This
continues for about a mile. The road now runs along the sea shore, and
is separated from the surf-beaten beach by sand dunes, covered with
stunted vegetation, chiefly boobyalla. There are 16 miles of sand road
between Falmouth and George’s Bay to which latter place I will assume
the visitor is going. It is one of the most trying roads to horses in
the island. Flat, swampy land, stretches for nearly two thirds of the
distance. Where swamps do not obtain, a profusion of gay blossoming
heath, chiefly _epacridae_, and the elegant and sand loving grass tree
clothe the ground. After crossing the Styx, and having proceeded a
mile, the picturesque Scamander river is reached. It is spanned by a
very neat and substantial bridge lately built. The old bridge in ruins
is seen a short distance on the right. If the traveller be a classical
man, he will find the topographical nomenclature of this region awaken
associations of his _Alma Mater_. I do not know whether the old-world
Scamander was distinguished for good fishing, but I do know that this
one offers splendid attractions to the lovers of the rod and line. The
water is half salt and half fresh, being separated from the sea by a
sand bar. During rough weather, the waves break over this bar and when
there is a fresh in the river the reverse action takes place. The water
is always beautifully clear, and large bream, and perch can be seen,
in untold numbers, swimming about among the seaweed. But they are often
very shy of the bait, owing, it is supposed to there being an abundance
of their natural food.
To the naturalist the long beach offers great attractions. Close to
the sandbar of the Styx there are numerous rock pools where anemonies,
chitons, a large variety of _Radiata_, and choice algae abound. Add
to these, a profusion of sponge and litoral shellfishes. Dead shells
strew the beach in myriads, and it is owing to this feature that many
families make Falmouth a place of resort during the summer season. Five
or six miles from Falmouth