THE HARDSHIPS OF THE BUSH
He was the first of a large number of young fellows who came to me
asking for an introduction to some employer or other in the city--an
Englishman, of course, newly arrived from the Old Country and in search
of work. Unable to find a suitable billet at home, he had converted all
his available possessions into cash and had set out for Australia, that
El Dorado in which men were reputed to pick up gold and to rise, with
incredible swiftness, to fortune. He was a young fellow of excellent
education and of good address, a typical member of the clerk class. But
he had never received any technical education, and he had no “trade” to
fall back upon. Alas! he found that men of that class have as great a
difficulty in obtaining billets here as they have in the Old Country.
He arrived in the slack season, when employees are not in demand. Not
an office, not a warehouse open to him. He advertised in vain, and day
after day knocked at numerous office doors, always to be met with the
same reply, “Sorry; no vacancy.” There were plenty of openings on the
land, but he exposed his fine hands, saying, as he did so, “These were
not made for that kind of work.” The weeks ran on, and no opening
occurred. The stock of money he had brought out was becoming smaller
every day. It was evident that something must be done. And then came
the opportunity. It was an opportunity he would have scorned had his
capital been larger. But hunger was beginning to threaten him, and he
seized the first chance that came his way. This fine young Englishman,
with the fair hands and the semi-aristocratic drawl, was invited to
go north, a few degrees nearer the equator than Melbourne, and try
his fortune on a newly established “station.” The promises made were
not over-attractive from the point of view of comfort. Of dainties
none might be expected. Even starched linen might be banished from the
young man’s life. The railway was more than two hundred miles away
from the “station,” and the nearest neighbour resided at a distance of
six miles. Each man must be his own servant. And, in fine, the life
promised was altogether of a rough type.
The young fellow showed me the invitation, and I advised him to
accept it. And then, one afternoon, he left Melbourne on the steamer
and went up north-west. I hardly expected to see him again. But it
happened that, a year later, I paid a visit to Adelaide, and lo! there
was my friend, newly returned from the bush. The life in the north
had proved too much for him, and he had come down to Adelaide, where
at last he obtained an excellent situation. The young man I saw in
Adelaide, however, was a very different young man from the one I saw in
Melbourne. Those few months had wrought a marvellous change in him.
The old _hauteur_ had disappeared; the face and neck were bronzed,
and even burned; the fair white hands had grown slightly larger, and
they were rough and scarred with many a cut and bruise. Ten months in
the bush had wrought an extraordinary transformation in his life, and
he was grateful to be back again in civilisation. The bush life, he
declares, was his salvation. It destroyed his old ideas of labour, and
opened up to him a new vista. It made him more human, and distinctly
more grateful. Yet he wishes to leave it in his mind as the memory
of a nightmare through which he had passed. It was a remarkable and
touching story that he told me. When he quitted the train at the point
nearest to his destination, he was compelled to bid farewell to that
atmosphere of comfort and civilisation in which he had been reared.
The road soon ended, and he was trundled off in a primitive conveyance
through the bush. A river had to be crossed, hills had to be mounted.
He found himself in the midst of an immense solitude. For several days
he pushed on with his two companions. At night they lay on the ground,
covered with a kind of sacking. Not a human sound broke the awful
stillness. In the early morning a chorus of laughing jackasses woke the
sleepers, who, after a modest meal, resumed their journey. Everywhere
overhead was the eternal gum-tree, and underneath the “scrub.” Parrots
flew around them screaming and fighting; strange birds looked down upon
them, and strange animals fled at their approach. And then, one day,
the station came in view. It was managed by a company of men. Not a
woman lived there. The quarters were rough and primitive. Not a luxury
anywhere. Food was consumed at a rough table. Ablutions were performed
at a rough lavatory. The beds, or stretchers, were simplicity itself.
Guns were in evidence for the shooting of birds. The larder contained a
stock of tinned stuffs and tea--always tea, that everlasting drink of
the Australians. And outside the house stood the “billy,” nearly always
in use for the brewing of the beverage. There was a cook, who did his
work very well, and of provisions there was a sufficiency. And into
this rough spot came the Englishman with the white hands and the gentle
ways.
The first night he never slept. He sent “his soul into the invisible”
but well-known land he had left. And there came to his mind the fair
picture of an English summer, then on the wane. He trod again the
streets he knew so well, and saluted in vision the friends with whom
he had formerly companied. In the old town he had left there was the
electric car in which he rode to business (while there was a business
to go to) every day. He saw the sea, on whose border he had lived. He
went home again that night. And then, when the day broke, he rose to
face this new and hard life in the midst of which he felt himself to be
an exile, an outcast.
There were trees to be cut down, wood to be sawn, roots to be grubbed
up, loads to be hauled, water to be drawn, earth to be ploughed, and
food to be gathered. The white hands soon became brown; the face and
neck were scorched through exposure to a sun which every day became
hotter; and in a few days great blisters appeared on the soft hands,
now rapidly becoming harder. For a time work had to be suspended
on account of the sores, which caused great pain. Added to this a
multitude of mosquitoes and flies began to be troublesome, stinging
the sensitive flesh and causing great irritation and swelling. And
all the time the heat was growing more intense. One day, in the midst
of summer, the thermometer reached the abnormal height of 120 degrees
Fahrenheit. And in that sweltering atmosphere work went on as usual,
until at last Nature rebelled, and the young fellow fell sick for a few
days. When well the work was resumed from early morning until sunset.
No eight hours’ day there. It was all work, save on the day reserved
for washing and rest, the washing being regarded as somewhat of a
recreation.
There came a day when the cry of “Fire!” was raised. A volume of smoke
in the distance announced the commencement of a dreaded bush fire. The
fierce heat of the sun had kindled the dry brushwood and the scrub, and
the flame burst forth. Never, to his dying day, will that Englishman
forget the terrible scene. The whole country seemed to be a sea of
fire. With incredible swiftness the tongues of fire leaped from bush
to bush, licking up everything they encountered, and scarring the
giant gum-trees in their fiery embrace. The business of the men on
the station was to prevent the fire from attacking their homestead
and consuming in an hour the work of months. Part of the scrub was
deliberately fired, and thus a portion of land was cleared around
the house. When the flames reached the fences they were beaten down
with sticks and bags, and thus the fire swept by, leaving the house
untouched. It was a thrilling moment, and every man sang his _Te Deum_
when the danger was past. For a long time, at least, they were secure
from a bush fire. The scrub would be some time in growing again, and so
long as the fire spared homestead and life of man and beast, it proved
to be, ultimately, a friend rather than an enemy, for it accomplished
in a few hours a work of clearance which it would have taken men many
months to perform.
Some men are not made for bush life, and this Englishman was of their
number. The life proved too hard, too monotonous, too crushing for
his spirits. The promise of ultimate success and even fortune was
not sufficiently alluring to detain him longer in exile, and one day
he retrod the forest pathway, gained the railway, and by it came to
Adelaide, where he cried for very joy to find himself once again in the
midst of the busy world. The bush adventure has had a curative effect
upon this young man’s life. It has broken to pieces his “softness,”
and given him an insight into another kind of life of which formerly
he knew nothing. It will probably prevent him from ever again looking
contemptuously upon any man who is compelled to work with his hands.
And I observed that the semi-aristocratic drawl was considerably
modified.
This story may serve another purpose. It may prevent young men who have
learned no trade from venturing into a new country in the belief that
fortunes are picked up without difficulty. The failures I have met with
in Australia have been generally of the men who “could do anything,”
for that, being interpreted, means that they can do nothing well. A new
country requires men who can do something--perhaps but one thing--well.
And I would earnestly advise any young man who purposes going out to
learn a trade before he goes. The skilled man can generally find an
opening. There are already too many native-born Australians who are
unskilled workmen, and to add to their number from afar would be a
fatal error. It is necessary to say this, for several young Englishmen
who have called upon me at the time of their arrival have had,
obviously, no chance whatever to get on, for the reason that they had
learned no trade. It will be a great day for England when a technical
education is enforced upon young men who are not joining any of the
professions. Upon this point even Germany can teach us much.