THE GOLDEN CITIES
Two cities of Australia lay claim to the designation of the “Golden
City”--Ballarat and Bendigo. Needless to say that the cities are
rivals, and needless further to say that I am not so foolish a man as
to enter into any dispute as to which is the better city.
Both cities have been very kind to me, and each of them has its own
peculiar charm. Ballarat is built upon an eminence many hundreds of
feet above the sea level, while Bendigo is built upon a plain, and
is, therefore, a much warmer place than Ballarat. In both places gold
has been discovered to an enormous extent, and to-day each city calls
itself the golden city. And there, from that point of view, my interest
in the matter ends.
* * * * *
It was in 1851 that the first gold was found in Bendigo; and, like
so many other things, it was discovered by accident. A man named
Johnston simply stooped and picked up a nugget of gold, the glitter
of which attracted him. Then some shepherds saw gold in the roots
of a large tuft of grass which had been washed by the waters of the
creek. And with that accidental find the fortunes of Bendigo were
made. A desolate region, uninhabited, became in an incredibly short
space of time a flourishing city. Like lightning the news travelled
that gold had been found in Bendigo, and at once there was a rush from
all parts of inhabited Australia and from the uttermost ends of the
earth. “Claims” were measured off to the new-comers, and the desolate
plain became a camp of fever-stricken men, all intent upon securing as
much as possible of the yellow metal that was to make their fortunes.
Men endured any hardship in order to compass their end. They scarcely
lived; theirs was a bare existence. All they cared for was the amassing
of gold; and when they were satisfied, or when they had exhausted their
“claim,” they went back to the ordinary ways of life--some of them
set up for life, others to squander their fortune and to arrive at a
last state worse than their first. The Bendigo historian says without
exaggeration that gold was dug up almost in bucketfuls. In one morning
two young men sank a shallow hole, and extracted from it fifty pounds
weight of gold.
The face of the earth was scarred and hacked by pick and shovel until
at last it resembled a battlefield, desolate to the last degree. And
to-day, on the site of the great struggle at White Hills, there is left
a stretch of country filled with sand, and intersected with numerous
gullies through which the cleansing water once flowed. And as on
battlefields men continually wander in search of relics, so at White
Hills the refuse is to-day subjected to a cyaniding process by means
of which the last morsel of gold is compelled to yield itself up.
A year later gold was discovered in Ballarat.
Until that year the country as far as Sydney, was a gigantic
sheep-walk. Houses were few and far between. The inhabitants of the
country around Ballarat could have been counted quite easily by a child
had one chanced to light upon them. But in a moment, when the magic
word “gold” was pronounced, men sprang, as it were, from the abyss.
Hundreds of fragile tents covered the ground; hundreds of tools were
busily employed in digging for the enriching ore. A township arose,
as by miracle, followed by a city, ever extending its borders, until
to-day there is left, as the result of sixty years’ work, one of the
most beautiful cities of Australia. “Ballarat the beautiful” they name
it, and with justice. It is beautiful. Beautiful for situation! Its
altitude is 1,500 feet above sea level. Snow falls in the winter-time
when at Melbourne the feathers of the sky never descend. In the
summer, when Melbourne is grilling in the heat, Ballarat remains with
a temperate atmosphere. In this springtide the great boulevard is
a flower-garden entrancing and perfumed. The streets are clean and
wide--very wide--and everywhere imposing buildings stand. Temples
of prayer, fine piles of commercial houses, schools and colleges,
institutes, libraries, hospitals, and, above all, statuary adorn the
city. In the mayor’s room of the Town Hall is an old print showing
Ballarat in 1852, the year of the gold fever. Not a house was then
erected. The countryside is shown dotted with canvas abodes. A decade
later, a second print shows a large and flourishing town, laid out
after the best models. And the last photograph reveals a modern, busy
city, full of life and prosperity. It seems to be a dream, this sudden
rise to power. Fifty years leave a city fresh, with the marks of its
making still upon it. Ballarat, young in years, has somehow acquired
the dignity and solidity of a city twice its age. In the old land I
used to imagine these cities to be of the mushroom type--hastily grown,
and with the mark of premature decay upon them. They are far from that.
Ballarat, type of the gold-made city, is substantial, and it is built
to abide. Another illusion cherished in the old days was that cities
such as this, having sprung out of filthy lucre, must of necessity
possess the mark of vulgarity. Ballarat shatters that illusion, for
with all its material prosperity it possesses an air of refinement that
cannot be mistaken. A high standard of education is sought. There is
a School of Mines, there are fine colleges, there are scientific and
literary societies, and there is an Eisteddfod. And this last thing is
self-revealing. It means that in some way or other Welsh influence has
been at work. And the number of Welshmen in Ballarat is explanatory
of the Eisteddfod. With pride, Ballarat people call their city the
Athens of Australia. All that is beautiful and artistic is encouraged.
Annual competitions are held for the youth of both sexes, and at these
there is wholesome rivalry in song, music, dramatic representations,
literature, art, on the mental side, while upon the physical side the
games are held after the manner of the ancient city which Ballarat
would fain copy. To the golden city come, annually, musicians, singers,
reciters, and wrestlers from all parts of the Commonwealth. Trophies,
prizes, and money are awarded to the winners. The judges are brought
from England at enormous fees to adjudicate in the competitions. To
quote the words of a municipal enthusiast, who is speaking sober
truth, “a prize won at Ballarat is the antipodean equivalent in actual
distinction to a trophy won at the Olympian games at Athens, with the
difference that in our festival the athlete gives pride of place to the
young artist in music and elocution.” From all of which it may justly
be inferred that a city built upon gold mines is not necessarily a
vulgar and a bloated city, having a population whose one ambition is
the worship of the golden calf. It is a happy task to bear this witness.
But the crowning taste of Ballarat is in its statuary. There is no
other city in the Southern Hemisphere that can boast of so many
beautiful carved figures as Ballarat. The main street of the city is
adorned with statues, amongst which is one of Moore and another of
Burns. The most imposing of all is the statue of Queen Victoria crowned
as Queen and Empress. Burns and Moore, Scotsman and Irishman, are not
to monopolise the honours of the poets. Place is to be made for a
statue of Shakespeare. Then happiness will reign, unless the Welshmen
demand a place. But they have the living Eisteddfod. In the Botanical
Gardens there are a number of figures, the most beautiful of which is
the group by Benzoni, “The Flight from Pompeii.” It is a wonderful
conception. Life-like are the mother, the father and the child, seeking
escape from the terrible rain of dust which falls upon them. The
husband shields the mother with a mantle, while she, in turn, protects
the face of her infant from the pitiless fire flakes which threaten her
little one. It is a group of which any city in the world might be proud.
Ballarat is thus the destruction of an illusion--the contradiction of
the doctrine that a golden city must be vulgar and self-assertive.
The people respect all who in any way contribute to the good of the
community. I went up to lecture there, and lo! before I was aware
of what had happened, I found myself “received” by the mayor, the
town clerk, some of the councillors, and most of the clergy. It was
embarrassing--and they honoured their visitor simply because it is
their way to show respect to any man who, in their judgment, has a
word of helpfulness to speak to the community. And that function over,
behold, at the door of the Town Hall was a motor-car in which I was
whisked round to be shown the sights. And all that for a Free Church
minister who had come to lecture to one congregation!
In the matter of appreciative open-mindedness Australia has much to
teach the mother country. Her sons listen heartily to any man who
brings a living message to them, independently of his creed or his
political opinions. A land without a State Church does lend itself to
liberty.
This, then, is the golden city of to-day. But the making of the city is
a veritable romance. All Ballarat knows its history, yet there is but
one solitary man alive who has _seen_ it all from the beginning. The
sole survivor of the pioneers of 1851 is Mr. James Oddie. Each year, on
September 1, it has been the custom of the survivors to have a banquet
in commemoration of the discovery of gold in Ballarat. As the years
have advanced the number of attendants at the banquet have declined,
until on September 1, 1910, Mr. Oddie alone remained. But he had the
banquet just the same. It was a one-man affair. In a room at the hotel
dinner was served in great state for _one_. The guest and host in one
was very cheerful. Not a soul save himself touched the meal. Waiters
thoughtfully and longingly looked on while the veteran ate. Afterwards
he gave a speech to the Pressmen intended for the world beyond, and
in that he recalled the story of the founding of Ballarat. Melancholy
meal! Mr. Oddie, it goes without saying, is an old man, and it cannot
be long before the annual banquet will end for ever.
The story of the golden city is one of the romances of the world. A
deserted vale, flanked by beautiful hills, was in a day converted into
a camp of fever-stricken people--“yellow fever,” as it is sarcastically
styled. From all parts of Australia, from New Zealand, from Tasmania,
and from Europe thousands of adventurous spirits found their way to
Ballarat. The first comers marked out their “claims,” and forthwith
entered into them to dig up the precious metal. Thirty ounces of gold
per day was the capture of that earliest party. Like the lepers of
Samaria, these fortunate men desired to keep to themselves the news
of the great find. But the inevitable newspaper man came on the spot,
and within a few hours a Geelong newspaper had given the secret to
the whole world, much to the chagrin of certain of the explorers, who
foresaw a distribution amongst many of a treasure they would fain keep
for themselves. In less than a fortnight after the news had been made
public “three men were left in Geelong and half Melbourne was on the
gold-field.” Within three weeks guns were brought up by a small band
of soldiers, and the scramble for gold was converted into commercial
“prospecting” on licence issued by the Commissioners. The Church
followed the Commissioners, and in a month’s time a Methodist church
was erected. For walls there were the trunks of trees, for roof a piece
of tarpaulin.
The springtide was in full beauty; the weather was settled, hence the
primitive church was sufficient for the needs of the people. Great
nuggets of gold were unearthed, some of them weighing 134 and 126
ounces. Fortunes were made in a day. Curious stories are told of the
effect of digging. The Wesleyan church sank bodily into the ground as
the result of undermining. The court house also suffered wreckage.
It was a mad rush by men unpractised in mining, hence accidents and
submergences were frequent. The amount of gold found in Ballarat in
fifty years was 19,375,000 ounces. The surface gold has been worked
out long ago, and now deep shafts are sunk, at the bottom of which men
work while water is sprayed upon them. It is said that fabulous wealth
still remains to be discovered in Ballarat, which for long enough will
retain the title of the Golden City. The one and only battle Australia
has ever known between white men was fought at Ballarat in connection
with the gold-finding. The raising of the price of the gold-tax
incensed some of the diggers, who became riotous, and the Government
sent up from Melbourne detachments of two British regiments. On Sunday
morning, December 3, 1854, soldiers and diggers fought. Life was lost
on both sides, the diggers suffering more heavily than the soldiers.
On the outskirts of Ballarat a monument is erected to the memory of
the fighters. Blood and gold: they have always gone together, and
although little blood was shed at Ballarat, there was enough of it to
keep unbroken the tradition that the lust of gold means the loss of
something human. Many a man made a rapid fortune in the early days of
Ballarat. Those halcyon times have passed away. Never again can the old
conditions and the old fever be repeated.
Governments are wiser to-day than formerly. They do not throw away
their gold or their land to adventurers. The law of honest work is
beginning to apply. Our youth can no longer wander into the world and
pick up nuggets of gold at will. Some of them try and do this in a
modern way by prospecting at gambling. That folly must also pass. The
world will only be happy and fraternal when its gold fever has passed,
and when honest work of brain or hand shall have taken its place.
* * * * *
It was at Bendigo that I had the new experience of descending a gold
mine. In almost any part of the world one may descend a coal mine, but
a gold mine is much rarer, and when the opportunity was offered of
seeing the conditions under which the most precious of all metals is
extracted from the earth, I naturally embraced it immediately.
Once upon a time, within living memory, fifty years ago, there was no
need to penetrate deeply into the bowels of the earth to discover gold.
It lay upon the surface and just beneath it.
Rarely are surface nuggets found to-day; the country has been so
thoroughly scoured. But exceptions occur, and as I write there is a
note in the daily papers to the effect that a man picked up a nugget
of gold last week worth £500. There may be yet another rush to that
neighbourhood.
Deeper and deeper the mines have been sunk. When the surface and the
sub-surface had yielded all their precious secrets, men went ever
farther down in search of the yellow metal. Sometimes the mines were
a failure and the owners of shares were glad enough to give away
their shares, or to sell them at ridiculous prices, rather than pay
the continual “calls” made upon them. One man, whose name to-day is
intimately associated with Bendigo, found a fortune in this way. He
was entreated by a disappointed shareholder to buy shares at sixpence
each. It seemed like throwing money away to buy even at that price,
for the mine was exhausted. Yet he bought them, and then, in a moment,
the tide turned and gold was discovered in the exhausted mine, and
the almost penniless man who had bought shares for which he could
scarcely pay, became a semi-millionaire. Such are the fortunes of the
gold-field. The mine we descended was 2,100 feet deep. The shaft, top
gear and cage resembled those of a coal mine, save that the wheels over
the shaft were less than half the size of those of an English coal-pit.
And, of course, there was an absence of the grime associated with a
coal mine. We had to divest ourselves of all our ordinary garments
and to don a costume which for the time gave us rank amongst tramps.
Armed with a candle, we entered the cage, and descended. The journey
seemed interminable. For more than two minutes we were slowly dropping
through the shaft, enveloped in a profound darkness, and subjected to a
perpetual baptism of water which rained upon us. There are times when
seconds seem like minutes, and minutes like hours. And the two minutes
and a half we were in that cage, suspended by a slender steel rope,
seemed a small eternity.
The temperature at the bottom was nearly 80 deg. Fahrenheit, and we
were compelled to remove all clothing, save our trousers. In a few
minutes we had entered upon the experience of a Turkish bath; streams
of perspiration ran down our bodies. Whenever we lighted upon a group
of miners we saw that they also were living in a perpetual bath. Nearly
stripped, great beads of perspiration stood out on their flesh. “We are
used to it, sir,” said one of them cheerfully, but I learned that for
some of them this “use” meant disease and death--largely through want
of care when they brought their overheated bodies to the surface. Along
well-built corridors we tramped, holding our lighted candles ahead of
us. No danger in the gold mine of that terrible fire-damp which is so
fatal to coal miners. But in the gold mine there is another danger like
that which threatens colliers; that of falling masses of mineral. We
came to one place where on the previous day, without warning, a hundred
tons of rock and quartz had fallen. Happily, no man was injured; but it
is not always so. When our turn came to crawl along on hands and knees,
surrounded by angry-looking rock possessing sinister-looking gaps, the
perspiration did not decrease in volume. It seemed as if a single touch
would suffice to bring down a hundred tons weight upon our fragile
backs. The danger is always present despite every precaution taken to
ensure safety. Blasting continually goes on, and then the danger is at
its height.
Let me confess to a feeling of disappointment. In a coal mine the
black diamonds glisten under one’s eyes. There is no faith required
to believe in the presence of coal. The seams are there, and all that
is necessary is to dislodge the coal, load it in trucks and convey it
to the surface. It is otherwise in the gold mine. In my simplicity I
was looking out for nuggets, as men used to do on the surface. Alas!
we saw not so much as the ghost of a nugget. To our untrained eyes
there was not the suspicion of gold anywhere. Everywhere we caught the
glitter of a yellow substance, which at first we mistook for gold,
but which is in reality worthless. The gold is hidden in these vast
seams of quartz, which have to be dislodged, brought to the surface,
sent to the battery, crushed and washed. And then at last, when the
water has ceased flowing over the pulverised mass of sand, the gold is
discovered. It is all faith at first. These men justify their business
by faith, and then, in the final analysis, justify it by verification.
The layman would pass by all this quartz as so much rock or stone.
The expert knows that hidden within it is the most desired of all
metals. Yet they never know what may be found below. Hence, every man
is searched when he reaches the surface. A year or two ago there was
a scandal at Bendigo over gold-stealing, and there were found many
defenders of the men. Formerly the most ingenious devices were employed
by the miners to conceal any gold they had abstracted in the mine. One
of the favourite methods was to swallow the metal and to take means
later to disgorge it.
It is easy to moralise in a gold mine. Perspiration, discomfort,
danger, deprivation of the light of day, an invitation held out to
pneumonia, and all for a bit of yellow metal which men have accepted
as the basis of exchange! And to-morrow, if a fresh Bendigo were
discovered, there would be the same rush and the same risks taken. It
is civilisation. And is the world _very_ much happier than when men
exchanged one useful article for another and when gold was unknown?
After science, Nature once more. Those desolate surfaces at White
Hills, plundered of their golden treasure and bequeathed as an eyesore,
have been converted. For years they lay despised of all men. The soil
was said to be unfruitful. Men resigned themselves to the spectacle
of a wilderness. And then came one or two Spaniards who saw visions
of gardens in that belated spot. They planted tomatoes, and, lo! the
love apple flourished where the desert had reigned. And more, led by
the foreigner, whose intrusion was at first resented, the inhabitants
of the district are cultivating tomatoes, which grow beautifully on
the alluvial soil. Thus the gash made upon the face of Nature by man’s
spade and pick is slowly healing, and a red growth is obliterating the
ugly work of fifty years ago. And so it is ever: the artificial thing
goes ever deeper into the darkness, while the beauty of Nature remains
a perpetual enchantment. The gashes disappear under our mother’s
healing touch.