AMONGST THE ABORIGINES
When the first settlers came to Australia they found in possession of
the country a black population, representing a humanity low down in
the scale. The native population was never in reality so large as many
persons have imagined. It is difficult to arrive at exact figures,
because in the north there are still large numbers of natives living
in a state of practical savagery. These roam about at their will.
Where the white man has penetrated, however, the black has gradually
receded. When the black adopts “civilised” ways, his already precarious
existence becomes yet more precarious. Affecting the white man’s
vices--the first thing he naturally copies--he speedily runs down the
hill and passes off the scene. The native population is being gradually
but surely wiped out.
In less than five decades the number of aborigines has been reduced
from 1,694 to 652, and this in the State of Victoria alone. At the
census of 1901 there were found only 271 natives of pure blood in the
State, and 381 of half-castes. At the census of 1911 it was found
that the figures had fallen to 196. If in fifty years the decrease
in population has been so marked and so startling, it requires no
prophetic gift to foretell the speedy extinction of the Australian
native. A few more years and not a black will be left. That terrible
law of the survival of the fittest will again have asserted itself.
When, therefore, the opportunity presented itself to me to see one
of the three native settlements still left in Victoria, of course I
immediately availed myself of it.
Two hours’ steady climbing on the railway brings one to Healesville.
And four miles from Healesville lies Coranderrk, a Government
settlement for the aborigines. Quite off the road lies the colony of
seventy men and women. There is no indication of its existence other
than what is supplied by a fingerpost, which signifies nothing to
anyone who does not know what lies behind the name Coranderrk. But the
site is ideal for a retired residence. It lies in the centre of a vast
amphitheatre of hills, and day and night a profound silence envelops
the colony. Never a sound from the outside world penetrates the
solitude. The quietness is that of a mausoleum. The race that inhabits
it is slowly dying; what more fitting as an accompaniment of death than
the solemn stillness which already heralds the eternal stillness of the
tomb?
There is more than a suggestion of the American South in this colony.
The old men and women, dressed in an odd mixture of British costumes,
might well be the originals of some of the characters in “Uncle Tom’s
Cabin.” Black skins, grisly hair, and light-coloured garments form
a curious compound. There is no fashion, no symmetry in any of the
garments. Slouch hats of the Wild West, straw hats of Bond Street, and
old billycock hats make up the male headgear; while various coloured
vests, trousers, coats, and cravats complete the attire.
The log cabins, some twenty in all, which are scattered over the
settlement, complete the illusion that, after all, we are in the
American South, amongst the negro population. The one dash of modernity
is supplied by one or two mulattos--girls--who, clad in becoming white
garments, present a really attractive picture. These girls treated
us to a little service of song in the humble meeting-house which is
the head-quarters of the mission propaganda in the colony. For all
these folk understand English--the younger generation nothing but
English--and they all attend church. They are docile and happy, save
for an occasional row, in which the original vernacular is used with
freedom and emphasis. It was touching to hear these girls of the second
generation sing simple Sankey hymns, and to reflect that the day must
inevitably come when on this Government estate of 2,400 acres there
would be no such songs sung by native lips. The younger people marry,
and children are born; but the race is surely dying off. Some mixed
marriages occur, and the offspring of these are half-castes, who are as
little welcomed in the schools as the pure-blooded native children. One
of them pathetically remarked to me that they were shunned by the white
children. The colour line is as marked here as in America.
From the point of view of attractiveness the colony has much to
recommend it. Pasture land surrounds the houses, and most of the
natives keep their own cows. Everything, of course, is exceedingly
simple, and it is the simplicity that attracts. Laundry work is done
out of doors in a primitive manner. We found one buxom young lady
seated lazily by the side of a tub in which her clothes lay soaking.
She stretched forth her hands and rubbed her clothes in a style that
suggested that any day next week would do to finish them. In a little
natural basin on the slope of the hill the water of a rivulet had
been collected into a large bath or reservoir, and the youngsters
congregated about in a way that showed that they had not lost the
instincts of their fathers for water gymnastics. One very modern touch
appeared in the shape of three irregular pieces of wood arranged
as cricket stumps. It was a species of cricket one might without
difficulty have imagined prehistoric man to have played at. For bat,
the youth of Coranderrk employed part of a boomerang.
That word reminds me of the remarkably clever display given to us by
the natives of boomerang throwing. The boomerang is an innocent-looking
weapon which the ignorant would never suspect could be applied to
dangerous work. In appearance it resembles a rude Tee-square, and each
side is about a foot long. Thrown by an ignorant Briton like myself
the weapon merely careers along the ground for a space of thirty or
forty feet and nothing further happens, save the ironical laughter of
the natives, who receive a demonstration that even a Briton does not
know everything. But when the native throws it, the weapon accomplishes
wonders. It suddenly becomes alive. It defies all general laws. The
black sends the wood from him in a straight direction, but lo! it
whistles and sings and describes circles in the air like a bird, and
then suddenly descends to the earth in a vertical direction, landing
at the very place from which it was projected. When we saw how easily
the thing was done, we all caught the fever and became boomerang
throwers. Lawyer, doctor, parson, and merchant stood in the field and
went back in an instant to the primitive hunting ways of the savage.
The boomerang is an ugly instrument to play with, however. After a
flight of thirty seconds, during which it gains momentum, it descends
like lightning, sometimes where it is not wanted. The doctor threw
his boomerang with such precision that it returned twice and struck
him violently on the hand--the hand that had thrown it. If boomerang
throwing were introduced into England it would become a perfect craze.
It would completely eclipse the diabolo craze. But then it would be
necessary to increase the number of surgeons and ambulance men, for a
blow from a boomerang might inflict serious damage.
Another native custom was shown to us, and proved to be most
fascinating. It was the art of the fire-stick. Here, under our eyes,
was exposed the primitive way of obtaining fire. The apparatus looked
most unpromising. It consisted of a piece of soft wood about a foot
long and six inches wide, a piece of dry fibre, and a short, narrow
cane made of hard wood. Placing the cane between the palms of his two
hands, the operator swiftly turned it into the soft wood beneath with
a friction so powerful that the cane pierced the wood, causing it to
smoke. The air, blowing through the hole thus made, fanned the spark
which, falling upon the dry fibre beneath, set it on fire. Thus in one
minute, by simple friction, a fire equal to any kindled by a match was
blazing. The process was picturesque and exciting. In that group of
darkies gathered round a piece of wood, a handful of fibre, and a hard
cane, we beheld primitive man engaged in the task of kindling his fire.
It was, for the moment, ancient history incarnate. And when it was
over, a member of our party, drawing forth a box of vestas, remarked,
“Good old Bryant and May.” He remembered his mercies, and was thankful.
The one pathetic scene of the afternoon’s visit was our encounter with
the “King” of the natives. From the distance we observed a venerable
figure approaching. As he came nearer we perceived a brass plate
suspended by a chain around his neck. The apparition resembled, for all
the world, a _facchino_ of an Italian railway station--brass plate and
all. Inscribed upon the tablet was this legend:
ANTHONY ANDERSON,
King of Birchup.
And this was the deposed chief of the district, vanquished by the
white man, chased out of his patrimony, and reduced to the proportions
of an exile! I could not discover the native name of the ancient chief;
it was certainly _not_ Anthony Anderson. Nor could I discover why he
had assumed the name of Anderson. He was a truly pathetic figure. Skin
black as coal, his hair and beard were nearly white. The odd costume
he affected served only to set off the antiquity of his own person.
An ancient pair of light trousers, no longer white; a begreased coat;
a flaming red tie with the flame expiring, and a shapeless billycock
hat dyed through and through with grease--such was his dress. The old
man wept as he told us that all the friends of his youth were dead: he
alone was left. Once, in the long ago, he was an agile chief, master of
all that great stretch of property around the hills. But the white man
came, and his reign was over. All that remains to him is a memory of
the past, and a quiet asylum for the few remaining months or years of
his life. The king wept as he recited his story, and then--bathos! he
asked for a _pourboire_--and got it. But, then, _all_ kings get their
“tips,” some in one way, some in another. And Anthony Anderson, King of
Birchup, was primitive in his manner of asking--that is all.