ADVANCE AUSTRALIA!
[Illustration: THE QUEEN OF THE SOUTH.]
ADVANCE AUSTRALIA!
_AN ACCOUNT OF
EIGHT YEARS’ WORK,
WANDERING, AND AMUSEMENT,
IN QUEENSLAND, NEW SOUTH WALES,
AND VICTORIA_
BY
THE HON. HAROLD FINCH-HATTON
SECOND EDITION
LONDON
W. H. ALLEN & CO.
13 WATERLOO PLACE, PALL MALL, S.W.
1886
(_All rights reserved_)
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE VOYAGE 1
II. THE VOYAGE (_continued_) 12
III. SOMERSET 21
IV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE BUSH 35
V. LIFE IN THE BUSH 54
VI. LIFE ON THE STATION 69
VII. PLAGUES AND PLEASURES OF THE BUSH 80
VIII. WILD CATTLE 95
IX. COMPARISON OF CATTLE AND SHEEP STATIONS 107
X. THE BLACKS 123
XI. SUGAR 138
XII. GOLD-MINING 154
XIII. GOLD-DIGGING 174
XIV. DRINK 197
XV. GOLD-DIGGING 208
XVI. GOLD-DIGGING 224
XVII. QUEENSLAND AND HER RESOURCES AND PROSPECTS 242
XVIII. BRISBANE 276
XIX. SYDNEY 291
XX. MELBOURNE 300
XXI. MELBOURNE 315
XXII. IMPERIAL FEDERATION 328
INDEX 341
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE QUEEN OF THE SOUTH _Frontispiece_
A QUEENSLAND BLACK _To face page_ 22
THE HERMITAGE PADDOCK ” 27
MOUNT SPENCER HEAD STATION ” 46
THE FARM, MOUNT SPENCER ” 54
GROUND-PLAN OF A STOCK-YARD ” 69
THE BRANDING BAIL ” 71
A BUSHMAN’S CAMP ” 77
BLACK FELLOW PREPARING TO GO UP A TREE ” 124
A BLACK “GIN” AT HOME ” 136
GOLD-DIGGING: CRADLING ” 166
BULLOCK TEAM CROSSING A LOG BRIDGE ” 177
DOWN-HILL WITHOUT A BRAKE ” 215
THE END OF A GOLD RUSH ” 238
GOVERNMENT HOUSE, SYDNEY ” 292
ADVANCE AUSTRALIA!
CHAPTER I.
THE VOYAGE
In January, about nine years ago, I climbed on board the Messageries
Maritimes steamer _Irouaddy_, for the purpose of getting to a
cattle-station in Queensland. Like many others of the same line, the
_Irouaddy_ is a grand boat, clean, well ventilated, very fast, and
steady in bad weather.
Three days after leaving Marseilles we got to Naples. I had been there
before, but as I never can be twenty minutes in a steamer without
wanting to get out, of course I went ashore. There was nothing fresh
to be seen, and certainly nothing fresh to be smelt. In appearance
the whole place resembles a very inferior chromo-lithograph; and I
cannot help thinking that the saying, “_Vede Napoli e poi Mori_,” has
more reference to the asphyxiating nature of its smells than to any
overpowering beauty about the place.
Leaving Naples, we passed through the Straits of Messina, and soon lost
sight of land. The weather was glorious, and one morning observing the
chief officer laboriously employed in doing nothing, I sauntered up to
him with a view to engaging him in conversation. With the originality
that distinguishes the British traveller, I observed that it was a fine
day. If I had had the foggiest idea of the effect that this remark
would have on him, I certainly should not have ventured to make it. He
looked at the sky: it was blue. He looked at the sea: it was blue too;
and I then noticed for the first time that the expression of his face
was infinitely more blue than either of them. Shrugging his shoulders
with an emphasis that would have fractured the collar-bone of anyone
but a Frenchman, he called the Deity to witness that although the
weather was indeed fine enough just now, neither he nor anyone else
could possibly foretell what it would be like in twenty-four hours’
time. If it did come on to blow, he said, we were in a very exposed
part of the Mediterranean, and, as our present course lay, over 400
miles from land. I left him, to meditate upon the extraordinary effect
that being out of sight of land has on a French sailor. It is true they
do not seem to come to grief very often, but still I rather mistrust
these French sailors in a bad time. The least thing puts them into
such a ludicrous state of fluster, one cannot help thinking that a
good gale of wind would dishearten them altogether. They never seem
to be quite at ease until they get back to Marseilles, and even then
religious enthusiasm, or the prospect of another voyage, often wrings
a votive offering to the Virgin out of the dregs of their past terror.
The Church of the Virgin and Child at Marseilles absolutely bristles
with these offerings, many of which indicate a singularly bad taste on
the part of the donor. Among a host of paltry toys calculated to amuse
none but the youngest children, I noticed one or two perambulators in
a prominent position. Now, under certain circumstances, a perambulator
might be a very neat and appropriate gift to the mother of a young
child; but when we consider to Whom they are in reality offered, such
presents become shocking in the extreme. It is impossible that people
can have any real veneration for a Deity Whom they like to imagine
wheeled about in a perambulator, or amusing Himself with the mechanical
movements of a woollen rabbit. Indeed, except on the supposition that
they are entirely destitute of any sense of humour, it is difficult to
acquit such people of wilful profanity.
Upon this occasion, however, nothing occurred that the most pious or
pusillanimous Frenchman could distort into a pretext for presenting his
Maker with a toy, and three days after leaving Naples we reached Port
Said. This town forms a receptacle for all the scum and dregs of every
nation under the sun, and is undoubtedly one of the most villainous
dens in existence. Composed almost entirely of casinos, gambling
saloons, and houses sacred to the worship of blind Cupid, it is a sink
of iniquity whose waters, like those of the Dead Sea, are so dense as
to support numbers who would go to the bottom elsewhere. The lighthouse
and the coalsheds are probably the only buildings in the place that
have not a professional tendency towards the subversion of morals and
the encouragement of vice.
Leaving Port Said, we crawled through the Canal, and after calling
at Suez, steamed away down the oily expanse of the Red Sea. Between
October and May the Red Sea is not often oppressively hot; but for the
rest of the year the heat is excessive, and deaths from heat apoplexy
not unfrequently occur.
How is it that one so very seldom meets any nice people travelling at
sea, and then never discovers them until just before leaving the ship?
It cannot be that no nice people travel by sea. It must be that the sea
has a demoralising effect upon those who do. But it would seem that a
prolonged sojourn upon the ocean has exactly the opposite effect of
a temporary cruise, for sailors are, as a rule, as conspicuous for
those qualities that make a man a pleasant companion as passengers
are the reverse. Assuredly a passenger-ship presents humanity under
a most unfavourable aspect. Sea-sickness alone renders most people
positively misanthropic while it lasts, and excessively irritable for
some time after it has passed away. But besides this, and such minor
annoyances as having your cabin deluged with salt water if you leave
the port open, and being suffocated with foul air if you keep it shut,
the bare fact of being boxed up in the same ship with a number of
fellow-sufferers is often very exasperating. Just as in hot weather a
man is never so thirsty as when he knows that he can get nothing to
drink, so on board ship a wild yearning for solitude is apt to overtake
him, all the more violent that it cannot possibly be gratified. As to
the ordeal of being obliged to live in the same cabin with one or more
individuals for any length of time, it is not only sufficient to cause
unreasoning hatred between strangers, but often to destroy a friendship
of long standing. I am convinced that if David and Jonathan had been
subjected to the disenchanting test of sharing a small cabin in a
gale of wind, they would have been famous to posterity, less for the
great love that they bare one another than for a propensity to quarrel
savagely over trifles.
Certainly the sea develops the worst qualities of human nature
more rapidly and more surely than any other phase of existence.
In particular, I remember one man in whose company it was once my
misfortune to make a voyage. My previous experience of him as a
fellow-traveller, on dry land, had led me to suppose he was rather a
pleasant companion than otherwise. Beyond an insane habit of appearing
on every possible occasion in a variety of hideous and fantastic
caps, he appeared to be unusually free from the vices of travellers.
That is to say, he was neither inordinately greedy nor passionately
selfish. He had no particular taste either for sight-seeing or for
grumbling, and when in the presence of strangers, he did not consider
it necessary either to insult them with impertinent familiarity or to
repel them with churlish incivility. When I say that he was capable of
visiting the Alhambra, St. Marc’s Cathedral, and the Pyramids, without
displaying the slightest desire to engrave his name on the walls of
any of them with a penknife, it will at once be seen that he had no
ordinary claims to respect. Furthermore, his manners were those of a
gentleman, and his language remarkable for the absence of anything like
expletives. After he had been at sea a week, his own mother would not
have recognised him.
For the first few days it was calm, and everything went well enough.
My friend justified the sanguine expectations I had formed of him,
by reclining all day in a long chair, puffing at a pipe with a head
as big as his own, and with twice as much in it. This sort of thing
was too good to last. We dropped in for a spell of bad weather.
It did not last long, but from the moment that it began he was an
altered man. An expression dismal as the latter end of tea-time took
permanent possession of his usually cheerful countenance, and even the
reappearance of fine weather entirely failed to restore him. He became
exceedingly restless, and would indulge for hours at a time in the
reprehensible practice of pacing up and down the deck, which is of all
performances the most trying to the nerves of the spectators. Suddenly
he would flump down into a chair with a violence extremely distracting
to anyone who happened to be seeking repose within a radius of five
yards. Just as one began to hope that he was settled at last, he would
bound up again out of his chair, upsetting it against someone’s shins,
and, without thinking it necessary to apologise, resume his detestable
pastime of patrolling the deck.
But what astonished me more than anything was the bad language that
he took to using upon the most trivial provocation. I lived in the
next cabin to him, separated only by a partition open at the top. One
day, as I was lying on my bunk reading, I heard him fossicking about
among the things in his cabin in that spasmodic way which, even when
a man is out of sight, never fails to convey an idea of awful passion
to the listener. For a while his movements were only illuminated by
smothered execrations, which the partition rendered nearly inaudible.
Suddenly, however, he broke out into a torrent of oaths so fluent,
so comprehensive, and so ornamental, that, shocked as I was at his
profanity, I could not help admiring his genius. I have since reason to
believe that he borrowed a great deal of it from the form of cursing
employed by the Church of Rome against persons who happen to disagree
with her doctrines. At the time, however, I thought it was quite
original, and, of course, shouted to him to know what was the matter,
“Oh! are you there?” he replied. “Nothing; only I cannot hang up my
towel.”
He grew rapidly worse, but it was not until about a week later that
his downward career reached its Nadir of demoralisation. I hardly
expect to be believed when I say, that one day, without the slightest
provocation, at a distance of over 1500 miles from land, he appeared
in broad daylight, on the ship’s quarter-deck, in knickerbockers. The
spectacle of such a self-constituted pariah of society was extremely
depressing. I cannot help thinking that a man who wears knickerbockers
on board ship in the tropics must be capable of committing almost any
crime. It was a painful occurrence altogether, and I should not have
mentioned it, except with a view to showing how apparently harmless
people frequently become exceedingly disagreeable at sea.
Six days out from Suez we got to Aden, a most magnificent cinder-heap,
quite unlike anything else I have ever seen. The town of Aden lies
at the foot of a range of most discouraging-looking mountains, so
forlornly barren, so pitilessly rugged, they do not appear to be made
of anything half so cheerful as rocks and stones. They have more the
appearance of the material by means of which an inferior birdstuffer
endeavours to reproduce the handiwork of Nature in a rockwork at the
back of his specimens. There is something genuine and hearty about
a good mass of rock very different to the attenuated peaks of Aden,
compared to which a granite boulder is affability itself.
When lit up by the splendour of a tropical sunset, however, the
mountains of Aden assume a different aspect. They are usually of a pale
mauve colour, which deepens, as the sun sets, to a glorious purple,
forming a startling contrast to the green and golden expanse of the
surrounding sea. Gradually the purple fades, the opal light dies
out of the sea, and a spectral gloom creeps over everything but the
highest peaks. Round these the rays of the departed sun linger with an
unearthly glare, till in the increasing darkness they seem to glow like
the ragged teeth of a red-hot saw.
On the whole, the scenery of the tropics can never compare with that
of higher latitudes. The strength of the sunlight is so great that
objects are either defined with unpleasant sharpness or blurred in
a quivering haze of heat. There is none of that glorious depth of
colouring and softness of outline, one distance fading into another,
softer and softer, yet still distinct, that the moist atmosphere of
the west coast of Scotland or of the fen countries produces in such
perfection. For my own part, I do not believe the scenery of the west
coast of Scotland has a rival in the world. Of course it is easy to
find places constructed on a far larger scale, but it is not altogether
upon this that the beauty of scenery depends. It is very doubtful
whether a mountain derives much additional beauty from its summit being
invisible; and certainly a river so broad that no one can see across
it, is less picturesque than one which affords a view of both its banks
at the same time. For a few minutes at sunrise, and at sunset, it is
difficult to imagine anything more gorgeous than the colouring of the
tropics. But it quickly fades, and even while it lasts it is more
calculated to dazzle than to please. There is too much of the patchwork
counterpane and the circus-poster about it. Of course a tropical sunset
is a sight that it does not happen to everyone to witness, but anyone
can get a very fair idea of what it is like by eating a quantity of
cold pork-pie and unripe apples just before going to bed.
Leaving Aden, we passed one night to the northward of the island of
Socotra, and were fortunate enough to come across the phenomenon known
as a “milky sea.” It was a wonderfully beautiful sight. The sea was
deadly calm, and all round as far as the eye could reach it was as
white and as transparent as London milk. Out of this the mountains
of Socotra, distant eight miles, rose up clear and distinct in the
brilliant starlight, and black as ink by contrast with the whiteness
of the sea. Several ambitious passengers ladled up some of the water,
to try and discover its component parts, but I don’t think they found
out much, except that if it was allowed to stand some time, a thick
sediment was precipitated, leaving the water quite clear again.
Crossing the Indian Ocean, the weather was so monotonously calm, that
one day the captain was encouraged to give the order for fire and boat
station practice. If intended to display the smart discipline and
efficiency of the ship’s company, this exhibition had better have been
suppressed; but if merely to warn passengers against the incautious
use of matches, and the danger of falling overboard, it was invaluable.
Whether the crew had been expecting the order or not, I cannot say; but
I will do them the justice to affirm that the ringing of the fire-bell
was followed by no sort of confusion or hurry. It was only after an
interval had elapsed, sufficient to allow the strongest swimmer to
drown, and the smallest spark to become a conflagration, that they
began to saunter leisurely aft, dragging after them coils of hose, with
the dejected air of men who have seen the same thing done a dozen times
before and never known any good to come of it. Far more activity was
displayed by a vast army of stewards who swarmed up the companion at
the first sound of the bell, headed by the chief steward, or _maître
d’hôtel_, with a drawn sword in his hand. As these worthies took no
part in the subsequent proceedings, they probably only came up to be
saved.
After some consultation it was agreed that an attempt should be made
to lower one of the quarter-boats, and to this the crew turned their
attention. But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. Who was to
undertake the arduous task of climbing into the boat, and removing
the canvas cover? An animated discussion took place, the result of
which was that one man was singled out, apparently much against
his inclination, for the enterprise in hand. With a vast effort he
collected his energies, and, scattering a glance of melancholy defiance
at his recreant companions, he ascended the bulwarks and climbed
cautiously on to the boat. It soon became evident that there was far
more cause for his alarm than at first appeared. As long as he was
engaged in unlashing the boat’s cover, the crew amused themselves by
rolling up cigarettes and smoking them. But he had no sooner finished
than the men stationed at the after “fall” of the boat suddenly awoke
to an enthusiastic sense of duty, and lowered away. Those at the other
“fall” were not so alert, and the consequence was the stem of the boat
went down with a run, sending oars, stretchers, planks, and everything
movable in her except the man, flying into the sea. Fortunately for
himself, this hero got mixed up round one of the thwarts and remained
there until the boat was once more raised to a horizontal position,
when he was extricated, positively gibbering with terror and rage.
It having been conclusively proved that in case of emergency one
end of the boat at any rate could be lowered, this was considered
sufficient, and the fire-hose became the next object of interest to
the company. After some minutes of patient toil, one end of this
ingenious contrivance was connected with the machinery, and the order
to start pumping was given. An ominous pause followed, during which not
a drop of water appeared. The men began to look grave and to whisper
hurriedly and excitedly together. But a breathless silence fell upon
all present when the second lieutenant advanced to the business end
of the hose, with the air of a man who knows his duty and is prepared
to perform it at all risks. The excitement now became so intense as
to be quite painful, but still silence prevailed. Suddenly a terrible
gurgle was heard in the pipe, absolutely paralysing the lieutenant, who
remained rooted to the spot with countenance transfigured by terror.
In a moment a young Niagara burst from the pipe, discharging itself
full upon the unfortunate officer, and hurling the hose in convulsions
about the deck. The shock at once restored the use of his limbs to the
lieutenant. With a loud yell of anguish he turned and fled from a foe,
with whom, to judge by appearances, it was some time since he had had
an encounter.
This concluded the diversion of fire and boat station practice,
and the ship’s company returned once more to their ordinary duties.
The captain resumed his occupation of walking up and down, spitting
frequently and emphatically upon his own quarterdeck. The chief
engineer took up his position by the rails of the engine-room, and,
with his watch in his hand, counted the revolutions of the propeller.
The doctor and the first lieutenant threw quoits into a bucket, and the
remainder of the crew, with the exception of a few who still retained
sufficient energy to smoke, went fast asleep.