towards Boosey, who was nodding his head towards the desk. When I
said “glory covered the weary one,” he looked up, gave a hiccup, and
asked if that was all. A diabolical idea came into my head. As Boosey
was evidently muddled with what I had read, I would follow his advice
and make my story circulate. Oh no, Mr. Boosey; it continues right
straight along: “the weary one being a toil-worn univalvular molluscous
gasteropod that wearily sped towards its home at early dawn, skirting
the western side of a broad and verdant cabbage-patch, picking his way
by the uncertain but continually increasing light, which penetrated the
cloud-beflecked sky, till it at last saw in the orient the uprising
luminary which might disclose its presence to the cautious and thrifty
gardener, who had risen early, with a patch of sunlight on his honest
face, it watched the steadily glowing disc and the wide-extended
sheaves and pencils, resplendent with golden light, silvering, gilding,
and, it might be added, magnificently tinting every snowy pile of
gauze-like vapour, etherealizing all the low-lying mist that hid the
bosom of the mother earth, and at length perceived across the yet
deserted garden the rippling waves of a distant fish-pond, stirred by
the first gentle breeze of the early dawn, the flashing of a broad band
of glory, each ripplet on the distant shore catching up and robbing
its neighbour of the wonderful illumination, each with its handful of
beautiful light passing its transient acquirement to the nearest swell,
and in turn catching new beauty from the passing beams of the god of
day, when the eyes are dazed by the passing sheen, and all the scene is
surcharged with light until glory covered the weary one.”
‘“Shplendid,--_hic_,--shplendid,” yawned Boosey. “Just stop there,
and say, ‘To be continued in our next.’ Can give you ten dollars
for six similar articles. When you talked about slugs eating
cabbage--_hic_--forage at night--_hic_,--afraid of the gardener, and
the rest of it, I was doubtful about your--_hic_--style. Terseness is
the art of journalism. There is a terseness about what you have just
read--_hic_--which will certainly please the readers of our columns.”
‘How it was that old Boosey had not noticed that I had reiterated
several of my statements in connection with the univalvular molluscous
gasteropod can only be attributed to amiability. That night I
sent in some clean copy, and my article appeared; but as I was a
stranger in Sandhurst I was unable to learn anything respecting the
general impression it had produced. Next day I went to the office,
where I found Mr. Boosey in a worse state than he had been in on
the previous day. All he could do was to giggle inanely, and say,
“Shplendid--univalv--_hic_--ular gasteropod indeed! funny dog--take
a drink, old man. Make you sub-editor next week.” Then inquiringly,
“S’pose you’ve got some more about that gash’opod, eh?” It was clear
that my chance was open, and I did not lose it. That night the readers
of the _Bendigo Advertiser_ had the continuation of the story. It
began: “As a toil-worn univalvular molluscous gasteropod wearily sped,”
etc. In the evening I heard one or two of the guests at the hotel
saying that old Boosey was mad. Snails in the colonies were bad enough,
but his articles were worse.
‘Times were too bad for one to think what people thought of Boosey,
and so long as he remained amiable, I determined to go ahead, sending
the same old story about the univalvular molluscous gasteropod. On the
evening of the fifth day Boosey sent me a cheque for ten pounds, with
compliments and thanks for my interesting communications. His note
indicated that he was sober, and I felt alarmed.
‘The morning after this I heard that a little boy had put his head
inside Boosey’s office, and called the old man a univalvular molluscous
gasteropod. This little incident was followed by an article in _The
Morning Chronicle_, headed, “A Circular Story; or, A New Colonial
Pest,” which tried to prove that Boosey was either mad or perpetually
intoxicated. I saw a crash was coming, and that evening took a train to
Melbourne. A few days afterwards I received a note from Boosey. It ran
as follows:
‘“Dear Sir,
‘“I have read my back issues, and I trust you will not feel
annoyed if your children should suddenly become orphans.
‘“Yours truly,
‘“J. G. Boosey.”
‘I never replied.’
Next morning was Sunday. After presenting letters of introduction to
one or two influential residents, I and Dodd strolled about the town.
The streets are wide, with here and there a number of good shops. ‘The
Mechanics,’ which includes a school of mines, is a fine building.
‘The Mechanics,’ the chief feature in which is a reading-room, is an
institution to be found in most colonial towns.
The chief street in Sandhurst is called Pall Mall. Right in the middle
of it there are the poppet-heads of a gold mine. When coal has been
discovered under London, there may possibly be a coal mine in the
original Pall Mall. I saw a lake in the domain and also a fernery.
Ferneries are not uncommon in this part of the world. They consist
of a collection of rockeries covered with tree-ferns, beneath the
fronds of which there is a maze-like arrangement of damp paths. The
only objection to these artificial groupings of natural objects is,
that after having once entered them, you are afraid that it will be
difficult to find your way out. It being Sunday, all was very quiet.
In the afternoon the quietness was disturbed by the howlings of a
Salvationists’ procession.
It started from a large building called the Salvation Army Barracks,
in front of the hotel. At the head of the procession there was a man
bearing a red banner, on which was written ‘Blood and Fire.’ Next came
the band dressed in a militia-like uniform, each man with the name of
his religion labelled on his cap. Behind these came a great number
of women in coal-scuttle-shaped bonnets and blue dresses. They were
labelled like the men. These uniforms can be purchased at the Salvation
Army stores. Behind all there came the riffraff of the town. Mixed up
with the front part of the regiment were a number of young men also in
uniform, who pivoted and pranced about as if imitating David. They led
the procession. To encourage people to join them, the prancers flicked
their pocket-handkerchiefs as if beckoning. It was very interesting,
and more especially so as it was accompanied by lively music. I met
with Salvationists, their barracks, their stores, and their provisions
throughout the colony.
The Salvation Army publishes an organ called the _War Cry_, which
circulates in many parts of the colonies. The only one I saw was
chiefly filled with reports as to the progress of regiments in
different districts. Parts of the reports--but for the spirit in which
we suppose they are put forward--sound like blasphemy, and I refrain
from quoting them. The bulk of them contain numerous ejaculations
about Hallelujah and Salvation, and are filled with contradictory
statements. Much relating to the firing of guns is incomprehensible.
Here are a few specimens of _War Cry_ literature, taken at random from
a copy picked up on an hotel table:--
‘Captain Perry reports from Nelson that one dear man had walked 800
miles to gain salvation. The barracks were packed. Great conviction;
but they went away blinded by the devil’s delusive plaister--“Not to
night.” Lord save them is our prayer. Hallelujah! Cry going up. Look
out, Sydenham! we’re going to flog you! Will do it, too!’
‘Auckland reports that the Marshal held the people spell-bound, and
accompanied the singing with the piano. £13 4s. collected. Hallelujah!’
‘At Lyttelton, one sailor who had been tossing about the ocean of life,
took passage in the Gospel Ship, and shipped right through viâ Calvary,
and all the people said, Amen.’
One article was devoted to a threatened invasion of China.
‘In six weeks the first contingent was to be stationed at one of the
protected ports, Hong-kong, Canton, or Shanghai.’ ‘We shall dress like
Chinese,’ said Marshal Booth; ‘take Chinese food, and try to come down
to the level of the Chinese themselves.’
While I was in New Zealand a Maori army was being organized. In
Canterbury I saw an Army store. Here, works by General and Mrs. Booth
can be purchased. One, by Major Corbridge, is entitled ‘Up-Line to
Heaven, Down-Line to Hell.’ Soldiers’ cards, pray-cards, roll-books,
and cartridges are also sold. I suppose the latter, which cost ten
shillings a thousand, are tracts.
At the outfit department you can buy regulation shields, uniforms, army
pocket-knives containing photos of General and Mrs. Booth, sisters’
jerseys, badges, sergeants’ bannerettes. The Salvation Army are
certainly a powerful body amongst the lower classes in the colonies.
One officer describes his colleagues as ‘Hallelujah gutter-snipes, and
ragpickers on the muck-heap of sin.’ They work amongst those who find
ordinary churches too genteel. It is to be hoped that they are doing
good.
Dodd and I had several good walks and drives about Sandhurst. One
was to Eaglehawk, which is a large mining district. In fact, the
whole district from Sandhurst to Eaglehawk, and, for that matter, for
miles beyond, is covered with poppet-heads. These poppet-heads, which
indicate shafts, extend in lines over an undulating country. From the
length of any of these lines, you can roughly estimate the length
of the lodes or reefs which are being worked. Like Charters Towers,
the reefs are of quartz; but, instead of being in a granitic rock,
they intersect or run through the traditional slate. The distance
to Eaglehawk was four miles, and on the road we counted sixty-four
public-houses, and ten places of worship: that is to say, the
reconverters were to the converters in the ratio of six to one. This
reminds one of the way in which whisky and water is sometimes mixed.
During the evening Dodd and I made several attempts to gain an entrance
to the Salvationist barracks. It was always too crowded. We heard that
the Salvationists had become so popular, that other sects, in order
to draw an audience, had been compelled to adopt similar tactics, and
brass bands had been started at several chapels.
Next day we spent our time in visiting mines and stamping mills. One
mine we visited was lighted by electricity. It was a very nice dry mine
for a visitor, but as it only yielded four or five pennyweights of gold
to the ton of quartz, it paid but small dividends to its shareholders.
Some of the mills we visited were very swagger. They had tree-ferns
growing in the engine-rooms, and everything was clean and neat. Those
who managed the mills and mines were exceedingly courteous, and told us
all that we wished to know.
During the afternoon we saw a crowd in the middle of Pall Mall, and
thinking it was a row going on, we walked towards it. It proved to be
the brokers of the mining exchange doing their business in the street.
This is common at other towns in Victoria.
The next town was Ballarat. The country about was hilly. In the
distance several prominent hills were, I was told, old volcanoes.
Originally this was the great centre for washing gold out of the
alluvium. The deposits of alluvium consist of pebbles and sand, which
at one time formed the bed of a river. These deposits are called leads.
At first it was thought that the leads were only on the surface of the
ground, just as modern river-beds are on the surface. Exploration,
however, proved that there were ancient river-beds which had been
buried by flows of lava, forming what is called bluestone. This led
to deep alluvium mining. In sinking downwards, the miner would pass
through successive layers of gravels, clays, and bluestone, until he
reached the upturned ends of the slate. The slate is the oldest rock,
and over the surface of this rivers ran, depositing their gravels in
the hollows. Then during periods of volcanic activity, the gravel was
buried by bluestone. During a period of repose, rivers flowed over the
bluestone, and there deposited fresh gravels; and so the processes
of nature continued, sometimes laying down a layer of gravel, and
sometimes one of bluestone. The whole arrangement is like a plate of
sandwiches. The plate being the slates, the bread the gravels, and the
ham the bluestone. The gold is in the gravels, and it probably came
there by the wearing away of the upper part of quartz lodes, cropping
out on the surface of the country over which the rivers ran. It is
probable that by the action of solvents percolating through these
gravels, the original character of the gold has been altered. It may
have been made purer, and it may, during processes of preparation, have
been collected together to form large nuggets.
At all events the gold from alluvial washings is usually purer than
the gold from quartz reefs; and further, it is only in the alluvial
deposits that large nuggets have been discovered.
At Ballarat the alluvial deposits have been exhausted, and only reef
mining is to be seen. To see workings in deep leads, we had to take
train to Creswick, and from there a buggy out into the country. On
account of the softness and the water contained in the deep gravels,
peculiar systems have to be adopted for their extraction. The shaft is
sunk through the deposit to be worked down to a hard bed, and a tunnel
is driven in the hard bed beneath the soft deposit as far as the limit
of the property. From this tunnel vertical holes, or ‘jump-ups,’ are
made upwards into the soft gravels, which are then taken out in blocks.
As these are removed the roof is allowed to fall in. On the surface
the gravel is put into a circular iron tank or buddle in which there
are revolving forks. Here it is washed with water, and the big stones
thrown away. The clear gravel is then drawn off into long troughs or
sluices, down which water is flowing. On the bottom of the trough there
are small ledges of wood or iron, behind which the gold collects, while
the lighter gravel is washed away. The country round Creswick is gently
undulating, with here and there a few conical hills--probably old
volcanoes.
On our return to Ballarat we had a good look at the town. The streets
are remarkable for their width. On a windy day you might hesitate
before you crossed them. At the School of Mines we visited a museum.
The school itself was in an old court-house. The condemned cell had
been converted into a room for a professor. The museum was next door,
in a church which has been bought. It is not an uncommon thing to put
churches up for auction in the colonies.
Before I say good-bye to Melbourne, I must tell a story which I heard
about the Yarra, or rather about a man who lived on the banks of that
charming little river. It is called:
Early Days in Melbourne; or, Captain Stringer and the Waters of
Jogga Wogga.
Old Captain Stringer came here in ’54, and, like a lot of skippers who
came to Melbourne about that time, was ruined. No sooner had he dropped
anchor than all the crew, even to the little cabin-boy, made for
shore, bought a swag, and started off for Bendigo. The gold fever was
on everybody, and even £20 a month was not sufficient to keep a sailor
on board his ship. At first Stringer took the matter philosophically,
and was always saying that by-and-by they would be able to get hands
on board for asking. Jack would find that gold-washing and hard tucker
wasn’t exactly Paradise, and very shortly we should see him coming back
to Melbourne like a Prodigal Son. Every day saw new ships in port, and
rushes of new chums off on the road towards Bendigo. Stringer, like
many of the skippers, was part owner of the vessel he commanded, and
this, no doubt, was an inducement for him to stay on board. Those who
had no share in their vessels used to wait a month or two trying to get
a crew. After this they would pack up a swag, leave the ship to take
care of itself, and start off, as they said, in search of men.
In six months Port Phillip, which used at that time to reach nearly up
to Flinders Street, was one dense mass of helpless shipping. It was
ships, ships, ships, as far as the eye could see, and, what was worse,
the number was daily increasing. Many skippers tried to sell their
ships, but buyers were not to be found. Many people thought themselves
lucky if they could find anyone willing to receive a ship as a present.
To be relieved of the responsibility of having a ship to look after
seemed to ease their minds. A good number, rather than give their
ships away, relieved themselves of the responsibility of ownership by
scuttling their property. They were not going to let people have their
belongings for nothing.
It wasn’t long before the blocking up of the river and harbour with
floating and sunken vessels began to have an effect by causing silt to
deposit; and, to make a long story short, after the floods of 1855, if
there were one ship ashore there must have been at least 5,000 of them,
and Captain Stringer’s was amongst the lot. In the following year the
Government had a new channel cleared out for the river and the land
where the ships were became a marsh. One or two who had their ships in
a dry place where grass had begun to grow, clubbed together and started
a farm, using their ships as dwelling-houses and stables. Things were
pretty expensive in those days. Land down where Flinders Street now is
was worth £150 to £200 a foot; and as for dwelling-houses, you could
not get a weather-boarded cottage under £500 a year. The climate, too,
was more trying than it is at present. Every other day we used to get
those hot north winds called brickfielders. When these were blowing it
was like standing in a baker’s oven, and the dust was so thick that you
could not put your nose outside the door. What with losing his ship,
and the effects of rum so long as it lasted, old Stringer seemed to
be dreadfully upset. Still, he kept up a certain kind of style, and
wanted us to believe that he was well off. When we called on board his
boat he would always produce something or other which he said he had
specially ordered from London. Once it was some cigars. He said they
had cost him two-and-sixpence apiece. The duty he paid on them was
very heavy. But anyhow, they were the best Havanas ever made--in fact,
part of a parcel expressly manufactured for the King of Hanover, and
he hoped we should like them. Of course, we all knew that Stringer
couldn’t afford two-and-sixpenny cigars, and what he had so much to say
about were only penny cheroots. All that we could conclude was that
Stringer was proud, and just to humour the old man we told him that the
cigars were the best ever seen in the colony. Another trick he had was
to go about with a few coppers and some keys in his pocket, jingling
as if he were carrying the mint. One thing which he never forgot was
every now and again to jerk out his pocket-handkerchief, and with it
a roll of paper that looked like bank-notes. ‘Dear me, I shall lose
that money yet,’ he would remark, as he stooped to pick up the roll.
At first we thought that they were real notes, but after picking them
up once or twice when Stringer had jerked them a little too far, we
saw then that it was only a roll of tissue-paper. Sometimes, if he
knew that anyone was walking close behind him, he would drop the roll
on purpose for them to pick it up. All that he wanted was for us to
tell him that he ought not to be so careless with such large sums of
money. This would start him off about his ancestors, who had so much
wealth that an instinctive indifference and carelessness for money had
gradually been bred in the family. He could no more help dropping rolls
of bank-notes in the street than he could help breathing. At last it
was generally recognised that Stringer was mad, the particular form of
his madness being an inordinate desire to be thought a millionaire.
This was coupled with such an absurd amount of pride that, although
he was really as poor as a church mouse, and at times on the verge of
starvation, he would never receive a present. The only way we could
keep him alive was to leave things at his ship whenever we knew he was
absent: one man would leave him a sack of flour, another a barrel of
pork, a third some tea, and in this way we managed to keep the old man
going.
Many of us had an idea that Stringer’s madness would gradually wear
away, but instead of that it seemed to get worse. He took to dressing
in a queer way, putting on a red waistcoat with brass buttons, and
a white hat. It wasn’t long before everyone in Melbourne knew old
Stringer as well as they knew Collins Street. Another way in which he
made himself conspicuous was by writing letters to the papers about
his ancestors, and putting in advertisements about rolls of bank-notes
which had accidentally slipped out of his pocket. Some of his
compositions were so peculiar that they were reproduced in the country
papers, and in a short time mad Stringer threatened to become as well
known an Australian institution as Melbourne itself.
Suddenly it was observed that Stringer had a slight limp, and this was
followed by a hacking little cough. He told us it was living on the
marsh--he had rheumatics, and was suffering from malaria. As weeks went
on, the limp got worse and worse, and the case of poor old Stringer
excited considerable sympathy. Even the newspapers took notice of the
old man’s sufferings. One or two doctors who went down to see him said
that his rheumatism was very acute; he was as mad as a hatter, and he
ought to be compelled to leave the marsh.
While we were discussing how old Stringer was to be got out of his ship
on the marsh, it was reported that he had disappeared. This was of
course another fact for the newspapers. Two weeks later a letter came
from Stringer, saying that he was trying some springs which had been
recommended to him as good for rheumatics. His health had not been
good, and he thought a course of waters would perhaps be beneficial.
A month later a note appeared in the _Argus_, giving an account of a
marvellous cure which had been effected upon a well-known resident in
Melbourne, by the natural waters of Jogga Wogga. The details which were
given clearly pointed to Stringer as the patient on whom the wonderful
cure had been effected. The news quickly spread throughout the colony.
Thinking it would please the Captain’s pride to see himself in print,
we sent him up copies of the paper. In a few days we received a long
letter in reply, saying how pleased he was that we had not forgotten
him. The account in the _Argus_ was quite correct, and not only had he
been cured (and he here gave evidence that he was aware that he had
been suffering, not only from rheumatics and malaria, but also from a
brain disease), but that a large number of other people had derived
considerable benefit from the springs. There were several distinct
sources. Some of it, he said, was pure and pleasant to the palate,
whilst the waters of other springs were somewhat nauseous. One man had
been cured of sore eyes; another had had an impediment in his speech
removed; a third had got rid of chronic headaches with which he had
been affected; while he himself had been cured of rheumatism, low
fever, and madness. Shortly after this a letter appeared in the papers
confirming what Stringer had written, and the fame of the Jogga Wogga
springs got noised throughout Australia.
Later on Stringer came back looking quite respectable and well. The
change which the waters had made in the old man was truly marvellous.
He told several of us that he was so certain about the efficacy of
the Jogga Wogga waters, that he had taken out a claim for Jogga Wogga
district. If we would assist him, he intended to set up a factory for
the bottling of the Jogga Wogga waters, in which he clearly believed
that there was a lot of honest money to be made. It was certain that
the waters had already been well advertised, and that they worked
marvellous cures. All that remained to be done was to bottle the waters
ready for customers.