YERING
When Mr. Lemuel Bolden and I rode to Yering from Heidelberg, about the
year 1845, to pay a promised visit to Mr. William Ryrie, the Upper Yarra
road and the place of our destination presented a different appearance.
We forded the Yarra below Mr. D. C. M'Arthur's orchard, and crossing a
heavily-timbered river-flat, with deep reed-fringed lagoons, debouched
on the up-river road. This particular locality was well known to me,
inasmuch as, being formerly in our pastoral possession, it had
constituted a species of "chase" in my early sporting days. The only
denizens of that period were an occasional pair of sawyers, generally
"Derwenters," as the Tasmanian expirees were called, thither attracted
by the unusual size and straightness of the timber which grew in the
flats and "bends" of the winding Yarra.
Owing to the sinuous shape of the lagoons on the south side of the
river, coupled with the dense nature of the thickets, it was not an easy
matter for a stranger to find his way through the maze. It naturally
came to be, therefore, the happy hunting ground of my boyhood; many a
grand day's sport and thrilling adventure did I have therein.
The largest lagoon was fringed with a wide border of reeds, growing in
deep water. It had in the centre a clear lakelet or mere, upon the
lonely waters of which disported the mountain duck, with his black and
other congeners, the greater and lesser grebe; while among the reeds
waded or flew the heron (_Ardea australis_), the sultana water-hen, a
red-billed variety of the coot, the bittern, the land-rail, and in the
season an occasional flock of pied geese or black swans.
To approach the wild-fowl in the open mere was a work of difficulty, if
not of danger, inasmuch as the water was too deep for wading, and the
entanglement with weeds--which then cost more than one strong swimmer
his life--was not out of the reckoning. I did once struggle to the
verge of total exhaustion within the green meshes of one of these weed
nets, in a lonely pool in which I had to swim for a black duck. The
thought uppermost in my mind was that it would be such a time before I
should be found, in case of--an accident which didn't come off. I used
to circumvent my feathered friends in the horse-shoe lagoon by climbing
a tree upon the slope which lay opposite. From this coign of vantage I
could see the birds swimming in fancied security, and lay plans
accordingly. In order to open fire with effect, I had caused to be
conveyed a light canoe, which one of my sawyer friends had neatly
scooped out for me, into the outer mere among the reeds. It was in
waist-deep water--carefully concealed, and I could, of course, gain it
unseen. Paddling or pulling it through the outer reed-brake, I ensconced
myself at the edge of the clear water, waiting patiently until the
unsuspecting birds sailed past. Once I remember getting two couple of
black duck. An occasional goose, or even the lordly swan, found its way
into my bag.
Once, as I had planned a day's shooting, I was startled by seeing a
flock of ducks wheeling around, and finally making straight for the
South Pole, as if decided not to return for a year. Gazing angrily
around to discern the cause of this untoward migration, I descried a man
carefully got up in correct shooting rig emerge from the reeds.
Half-paralysed by the audacity of the unknown--this was years before the
free-selection discovery--I sat still in my saddle for one moment. Then,
as the enormity of the offence--trespass on our run--rose before me, I
dashed spurs into my horse and charged the offender.
"What's your name, and what do you mean by coming here to shoot and
frighten the ducks?" I called out, stopping my frantic steed within a
few feet of him. "Don't you know whose ground you're on?"
The unknown looked calmly at me with a rather amused countenance (I was
about fourteen, and scarcely looked my age), and then said, "Who the
devil are you?"
"My name's Boldrewood," I returned, "and this is our run, and no one has
any right to come here and shoot or do anything else without my father's
leave."
"Gad! I thought it was the Lord of the Manor at least! You're a smart
youngster, but I don't know that there are any game laws in this
country. What are you going to do with me for instance?"
The stranger turned out to be a guest at a neighbouring station. There
were cattle stations in the vicinity in those days. Anyhow, we
compromised matters and finished the day together.
Not far from the spot the late John Hunter Kerr, afterwards of
Fernihurst, had a veritable cattle station. I attended one of the
musters for a purpose. The cattle were in the yard, with various
stock-riders and neighbours sitting around, preparatory to drafting, as
I rode up, attended by a sable retainer driving a horse and cart.
What did I please to want? "I've come for our black J. B. bullock," said
I. "He has been running with your cattle these two years, and I thought
he would most likely come in with your muster."
"He is here sure enough, and in fine order, but how are you going to
take him home? He always clears the yard when we begin to draft, and no
stock-rider about here can drive him single-handed."
"I'll take him home fast enough," returned I, with colonial confidence,
"if he'll stay in the yard long enough for me to shoot him."
"Oh, that's the idea," quoth Mr. Kerr. "Go to work; only don't miss him
or drop any of my cattle."
"No fear."
Old Harvey, an expatriated countryman of Cetewayo's, handed me my
single-barrelled fowling-piece, a generally useful weapon, which had
been loaded with ball for the occasion. I walked cautiously through the
staring, wildish cattle, to the middle of the yard, where stood the big
black bullock. He lowered his head, and began to paw the ground. I made
a low bovine murmur, which I had found effective before; he raises his
head and looks full at me for a second. The bullet crashes into the
forehead "curl," and the huge savage lies prone--a quivering mass.
Harvey promptly performs the necessary phlebotomy, and being dragged out
of the yard, the black ox is skinned, quartered, and on his way to the
beef-cask at Hartlands well within twenty minutes of his downfall.
Years after, when a full-fledged Riverina squatter, Mr. Kerr and I met
_in partibus_. He at length recalled my name and _locale_, remarking,
"Oh yes! remember now; you were the boy that shot the black bullock in
my yard at South Yarra long ago."
Well, Mr. Bolden and I ride along the winding, gravelly bush road, over
ranges that skirt and at times leave the course of the river wholly, not
seeing a house or a soul, except Mr. Gardiner's dairy farm, for more
than twenty miles. The country, in an agricultural and pastoral point of
view, is as bad as can be. Thick--_i.e._ scrubby, poor in soil, scanty
as to pasture, when all suddenly, as is so often the case in Australia,
we come upon a "mountain park."
We cross a running creek by a bridge. We see a flock of sheep and a
shepherd, the genuine "old hand" of the period. The slopes are gently
rising towards the encircling highlands, the timber is pleasingly
distributed, the soil, the pasture, has improved. We are in a new
country. We have entered upon Yering proper, a veritable oasis in this
unredeemed stringy-bark desert.
How Mr. William Ryrie, in the year 1837 or 1838, brought his flocks and
herds and general pioneer equipment straight across country from
Arnprior in far Monaro in New South Wales, hitting precisely upon this
tenantless lodge in the wilderness, will always be a marvel. It was one
of the feats which the earlier explorers occasionally performed, showing
their fitness for the heroic work of colonisation, wherein so many of
them risked life and limb. With the great pastoral wild of Australia
Felix lying virgin and unappropriated before him, Mr. Ryrie might easily
have made a more profitable, a more expansive choice. But he could not
have hit upon a more ideal spot for the founding of an estate and the
formation of a homestead had he searched the continent.
Amid the variously-gathered outfit which accompanied the pastoral chief,
as he led flocks, herds, and retainers through unknown wilds to the far
promised land, happened to be some roots of the tree, the survival of
which caused Noah so much uneasiness, and more or less humbled his
descendants, before John Jameson and Co. took up the running with the
now fashionable product of the harmless _avena_. A few grape vines
reached the spot unharmed. Planted in the first orchard on the rich
alluvial of the broad river-flat which fronted the cottage, they grew
and flourished, so richly that the area devoted to the vine was soon
enlarged. From such small beginning arose the vineyards of Yering and
St. Hubert's. From those, again, Messrs. de Pury and others planted the
wine-producing district which has now a European reputation.
Little of this, however, was apparent to my companion and myself, or we
might have been entertaining royalty by this time--who knows?--carrying
ourselves like other eminent and gilded colonists, envied by everybody
and sneered at by our less fortunate compatriots. We rode steadily on,
through hill and hollow, past plump cattle, not, however, showing quite
so much white and roan as do the present herds; past a "manada" of mares
and foals, from which ran out to challenge our steeds Clifton the
Second, "with flying mane and arching crest." Finally we ride up to a
neat weatherboard cottage, whence issues our kindly, warm-hearted host,
breathing welcome and hospitality in every tone of his jolly voice. We
were soon enjoying the change of sensation, which after a thirty-mile
ride is of itself a luxury. With him as visitors were "Hobbie" Elliot, a
well-known squatter of the period, and a stalwart younger brother just
out from home.
The cottage, as I remember it then, was built upon a slight elevation
overlooking a richly-grassed meadow, below which the Yarra, not much
less wide and rapid than near Melbourne, ran its winding course. On the
farther side of the river, looking eastward, was a purple-shadowed
mountain, apparently, though not in reality, overhanging the stream. In
the dimmer distance rose the vast snow-crowned range of the Australian
Alps. We walked about after our afternoon meal, admiring the great
growth of the trees in the garden, and the picturesque appearance of
things generally.
On the next day we took a long ride, and, I well remember, crossed the
river upon a primitive bridge, which enables me to say to this day that
I have ridden across a river upon a single tree. It was even so. An
enormous eucalyptus (_E. amygdalina_), growing upon the bank of the
Yarra, had been felled or grubbed--I think the latter--so as to fall
across the stream. Afterwards it had been adzed level--a hand-rail had
been supplied. A quiet horse could therefore be easily led or ridden
across to the other side, the width being an average of three feet.
We crossed that way, I know, next day, and had a look at the Heifer
Station, as the trans-Yarra run was then called. It was a sort of Yering
in miniature, not so open, and much smaller. To it, however, our host
was compelled to retire, when (upon how many good fellows has the same
fate fallen?) he made a compulsory sale to Paul de Castella and his
partner, another Swiss gentleman. Fortunately for him, pastoral property
rose in value prodigiously "after the gold," so that he was enabled to
sell the heifer station for five times as much as he got for Yering.
However, "unconscious of our doom," we took a long and pleasant ride
through ferny dales, and darksome woods where the giant eucalypti reared
their heads to heaven. We watched the sparkling streamlets dash down
their course from alpine heights, praised the cattle and horses, and
returned with appetites of the most superior description. Our chief
adventure was in crossing a water-laden flat, when Mr. Elliot, jun.,
raised his long legs high on his horse's sides to escape splashing.
That animal, being young and "touchy," immediately exhibited a fair
imitation of that well-known Australian gambade known as "buck-jumping."
For the honour of Scotia, however, our friend, new chum as he was, stuck
to the pigskin, and was justly applauded at the end of the performance.
Live stock were cruelly low about that time--£1 a head for store
bullocks, and so on. Fat cattle were never worth more than £3 each,
often considerably under that modest price. The expense of
stock-management bore hard upon receipts, particularly when the
proprietor had not inherited the saving grace of "screwiness." Our host,
gallant, generous, warm-hearted William Ryrie, was not in that line; far
otherwise. As a matter of fact, Yering was sold to Messrs. de Castella
and Co., within a year of our visit, for two or three thousand
pounds--some such trifle, at any rate.
So Yering passed into the hands of another good fellow. Though
"foreign," and _not_ "to the manor born," he quickly demonstrated his
ability to acquire the leading principles of stock-management. Of
course, the gold came to his aid, causing the cattle he had purchased at
£2 each to be worth £8 or £10, and in other ways making things easy for
an enterprising pastoralist. Besides managing the herd satisfactorily,
Mr. de Castella saw his way to developing the vineyard, enlarging it
twenty or fifty fold, besides building cellars, wine-presses, and all
the adjuncts of scientific vine-culture. He imported French or Swiss
vignerons, and commenced to acquire that high reputation for "white and
red Yering" Hermitage which remains unblemished to this day.
Years afterwards, when the tide of pastoral prosperity throughout the
colonies was high and unwavering, I made another visit to the spot,
under different circumstances and in far other company. A large party
had been invited by Mr. and Mrs. de Castella to spend a week at Yering,
when a picnic, a dance, and all sorts of _al fresco_ entertainments were
included in the programme.
We were to meet at Fairlie House, South Yarra, and the day being
propitious, the gathering was successful; the _cortège_ decidedly
imposing. Charlie Lyon's four-in-hand drag led the way; Lloyd Jones's
and Rawdon Greene's mail phaetons, with carriages and dog-carts,
following in line--it was a small Derby day. The greater proportion of
the ladies were accommodated in the vehicles. There were horsemen, too,
of the party. The commissariat had been sent on at an early hour,
accompanied by a German band, retained for the occasion, to a convenient
halting place for luncheon. As we rattled along the broad, straight
roads of Kew we saw hedges of roses, orchards in spring blossom, miles
of villas and handsome houses, all the signs of a prosperous suburban
population. How different from the signs of the past!
Early in the afternoon we sighted the dark-browed Titan on the hither
side of which the homestead lay. Mending our pace, we entered a
mile-long avenue, cleared with a bridegroom's munificence, as a fitting
approach for so fair a bride, on the occasion of his marriage.
I don't think we danced that night--the fairer portion of the company
being moderately travel-worn--but we made up for it on the succeeding
ones. Each day's programme had been marked out, and arrangements made in
regal style. Some of us had sent on our favourite hacks; side-saddle and
other horses were provided by the host in any quantity. Riding parties,
picnics to fern gullies, to Mount Juliet, and other places of romantic
interest, were successfully carried out. Races were improvised. Shooting
parties, fishing excursions, kangaroo and opossum battues--everything
which could impress the idea that life was one perpetual round of mirth
and revelry--had been provided for.
As we sat at mid-day on the velvet green sward, by fern-fringed
streamlets, under giant gums or the towering patriarchs of the mountain
ash, while merry jest and sparkling repartee went round, ardent vow and
rippling laughter, we might have been taken--apart from the costume--for
an acted chapter out of "Boccaccio." When we came dashing in before
sunset, the sound of our approach was like that of a cavalry troop, or
the rolling hoof-thunder of marauding Apachés. The Germans were
musicians of taste; to the "Morgen-blatter" and the "Tausend-und-eine
Nachte" valses we danced until the Southern Cross was low in the sky,
while as we watched the moon rise, flooding with silver radiance the
sombre Alp, and shedding a passing gleam on the rippling river, all
might well have passed for an enchanted revel, where mirth, moon, and
music would disappear at the waving of a wand.
Years had rolled on since my first visit to the pioneer homestead. The
cottage had disappeared, or was relegated to other purposes. In its
place stood a mansion, replete with the appliances of modern
country-house life. The vineyard covered acres of the slope, and the
grapes were ripening upon thousands of trellised vines. The stables were
filled with high-conditioned, high-priced animals, with grooms and
helpers in proportion to their needs.
In the meadows below the house grazed hundreds of high-priced
shorthorns, some hundreds of which had been purchased from me, Rolf, a
few months previously, so that I had the exceptional privilege of
drawing attention to the quality of my herd. Steeds of price were there
that day. Diane and Crinoline, two peerless ladies' horses; Mr. de
Castella's half-Arab carriage pair; Sir Andrew Clarke's roan Cornborough
hackney, equally perfect in harness; Mr. Lyon's team of chestnuts, high
bred and well matched, not to mention the swell bright chestnut mare
"Carnation," for which the owner had refused eighty guineas from an
Indian buyer.
The cool, capacious wine-cellars played their part on the occasion,
being requisitioned for their choicest "cru." Soda was abundant, the
weather warm, and the daily consumption of fluid must have been serious.
When the "decamerone" expired, the guests, one and all, were ready to
testify that never did mortals more deeply drink of Pleasure's chalice,
never return to the prose of ordinary life with more sincere regret.