IN VAN DIEMEN’S LAND--AN IMPRESSION
The sight of a map such as this map of Tasmania which lies before me
causes an Englishman who beholds it for the first time to deal severely
with himself, to interrogate himself concerning his habits, to assure
himself beyond the shadow of a doubt that he is really temperate. For
it is a study in topsy-turvydom, and the contrariness of the thing lies
either in the remarkable map itself or in the man who reads it.
Imagine a nice fat slice of the middle of the map of England, clearly
cut out and converted into a separate chart, with a new disposition of
the counties thus: To the north, Dorset, Devon, and Cornwall together;
below these, Westmorland; by the side of Westmorland, Lincoln; below
Westmorland, Somerset, by the side of which is Glamorgan; and at the
bottom of all, Kent. Now, think of a country with a map like that.
Surely it is not superfluous to reaffirm the correctness of one’s
personal habits, in declaring that this map really exists. And, looking
into it a little farther, one sees marked a river Jordan, and the towns
of Jericho, Tiberias, and Bagdad, while in a footnote the information
is conveyed that “Sheffield enjoys an exhilarating climate, being
situated in a high altitude.” Sheffield, of all places!
When, however, the first feeling of amusement created by the sight
of the map has passed away, one readily understands how this curious
collection of counties came into existence. Little by little the life
of the island country has developed, and love in high places has sought
to perpetuate, by means of the dear old names, some of the sweet
memories of the far-away land which sent its sons and daughters to
people the empty space of the lone southern country. Caprice probably
accounts for Jericho and Tiberias.
Tasmania guards the old English names; but, more than that, it guards,
better than does Australia proper, the characteristics of old English
life. For one thing, the climate permits this. In Australia, during a
great part of the year, the surroundings are utterly un-English. Mild
winters, scorching summers, the absence of snow and ice, the presence
of native flora, create a social life and surroundings which never
recall the Old Country, with its wonderful green grass, its unique
hedges, and carefully sheltered abodes. Little wonder, then, that
the new generation of Australians fails entirely to understand the
conditions of English life, or to sympathise with them. Its youth read
a cable announcing that “snow has fallen continuously in England for
twenty-four hours,” and they murmur, “_What_ a country!”
But in Tasmania so many things recall the Old Land. The climate is
English _at the best_, with the exception of the west coast, where
it always seems to be raining. There is a patch of country on that
coast where the rainfall reaches the amazing total of 140 inches per
annum. But that is pure extravagance. The inhabitants of that quarter
appear to be very contented; they make every provision to meet the odd
requirements of the climate, and as they are happy it is not our affair
to quarrel with them.
Apart from the west coast, Tasmania is an ideal place of residence.
I had the pleasure of traversing the island from end to end, and
it completely captured me. I am no longer astonished that so many
Anglo-Indians, their professional work achieved, find in Tasmania a
final home. Unable, after the heat of India, to live in England, they
find Tasmania an ideal residence. The climate, generally speaking,
resembles that of Cornwall. At midsummer the average temperature is
only 63 degrees, while at midwinter it is 43 degrees. Thus the terrible
heat to which we in Victoria were occasionally subjected at midsummer
is nearly unknown in Tasmania. And one happy consequence is that all
kinds of fruit grown in Britain are grown in Tasmania, which is more
than we can say of Australia. Two crops of strawberries appear each
year--in December and February. During the nearly five years of my
residence in Melbourne strawberries have been taboo. Australia cannot
produce strawberries worthy of the name. The climate forbids. But in
Hobart we come to our own again. The strawberries placed upon our table
at the hotel are equal to any we formerly tasted in Kent or Sussex.
Life in Tasmania possesses many English characteristics. Launceston and
Hobart are to all intents and purposes English towns. The “villa” or
bungalow type of house, so common in Australia, is comparatively rare
in Tasmania. The fronts of the houses are directly exposed to the sun.
The familiar English “terrace” is repeated in Tasmania, while small
flights of stone steps, carefully whitened, lead from the pavement
to the front door. In some places the dismal London “basement” is
found. Again and again, when walking or driving through the several
towns of the island, have I imagined myself to be in the Midlands of
the Old Country, and at times in Penzance. The lazy leisure of those
smaller English towns is duplicated in the Tasmanian centres. Nobody
is in a hurry. The island is limited, and there are no express trains
nor greyhound steamers to catch. The mail from beyond enters and is
dispatched three times per week. There is but one day and one night
train in the twenty-four hours between Launceston and Hobart. Why,
then, should anyone kill himself with over-exertion? Mail days alone
are the bustling days, and the apple season alone the strenuous one.
For the rest, life moves smoothly and easily.
There are two or three ways of approaching Tasmania from the mainland.
The popular route from Victoria is by steamer to Launceston, and thence
to Hobart, or the west and east coasts by rail. A second route is
by the New Zealand steamers, which call first at Hobart. And a third
route is the round tour by sea, touching the two chief cities and
the important coastal towns. The first two routes, once the terrors
of the sea are over, are romantically beautiful. In the one case the
steamer proceeds for the final three hours up the course of the River
Tamar; in the other case, up the course of the River Derwent. Of the
two, the scenery of the Derwent is far more attractive. Mountains rise
from the edge of the water, in which, as in a perfect mirror, they
are marvellously reflected. The bay at Hobart rivals Sydney Harbour.
Indeed, many travellers prefer it to Sydney. It cannot, of course,
compare for a moment with Sydney for extent, but, flanked by the mass
of Mount Wellington, it possesses a majesty which Sydney lacks.
In the summer-time Tasmania is essentially a pleasure resort for the
parched and panting inhabitants of the mainland. It offers every
conceivable attraction to visitors. It is a land of rivers, of
mountains, of valleys, and of exhilarating plateaux. Here, in the
long ago, when Tasmania was joined to the Australian land, Nature
engaged in one of her titanic conflicts. Violent eruptions took place,
terrible separations occurred, and to-day the island bears witness,
in many a gash and elevation and depression, to the character of
the convulsions which rent its life in far-away ages. Nature, as
is her way, has concealed most of the scars with coverings of rare
beauty. The mountains, flung up by appalling forces, are covered
with the everlasting eucalyptus, the stately wattle, and shrubs and
undergrowth of every hue. In the winter and late on into the spring
Mount Wellington is covered with snow. Then Hobart possesses its
fairest setting. At a place called Fern Tree, situated on the slopes
of Mount Wellington at an elevation of 2,000 feet above the sea, we
came across a very beautiful resting place. One solitary hotel and
a few boarding-houses contain the total of population. Well named
is the locality, for giant tree ferns flourish in the neighbouring
gullies. There are masses of huge fronds so dense and interlaced as
to form a veritable Indian jungle, and the presence of an occasional
tiger-snake completes the Indian picture. From the veranda of the
best boarding-house I have stayed at for many a long day the view
of mountain and gully is perfect. Behind, in the distance, lies the
harbour of Hobart, the warships of the Australian Squadron resting upon
its bosom. Here we are out of the world, breathing mountain air that
recalls Switzerland. We are enveloped with the quietness of Eden.
In this land of mountains, hills, and valleys there is abundance of
water. Droughts, such as periodically visit Australia, are unknown
here. The rainfall is even and plentiful. And always there are the
lakes situated in high altitudes. The Great Lake has a circumference of
ninety miles. While these abide, the supply of water is sure. On the
railway journey between Launceston and Hobart an excellent idea of the
undulating character of the country is obtained. The line is sinuous
and at times nerve-straining. To avoid tunnelling, the sides of the
mountain are skirted, and it is no uncommon thing for a traveller to
look out of the window and to behold his train bent like a serpent,
its head and tail gliding in approved reptile fashion. Small as is
Tasmania, it boasts no fewer than fifty mountains, the altitudes of
which range from 2,500 to 5,000 feet. These elevations result in a
wonderfully pure air, and in a bracing climate in which neither malaria
nor chest affections can flourish.
But to every rule there is an exception, and we have been unlucky
enough to taste the exception. We fled from Melbourne to escape the
wicked heat. The city and suburbs were stifling. Day after day the
north wind blew; at noon the temperature rose to 107 degrees in the
shade, and at midnight the glass registered 90 degrees in the bedroom.
The adults in our home barely clothed themselves, while the children,
dressed in bathing costumes, were placed in the bath to “play seaside,”
and thus to keep cool. We came to Tasmania for coolness, and then, what
had not happened in the island for forty years, and what may not again
happen for another forty, _did_ happen. The heat wave followed us, and
for three days Tasmania experienced the horrors of inferno. We tried
the river, hoping to find a breeze, but the breath that greeted us was
as from the mouth of an oven. On the third day bush fires broke out
spontaneously all over the island. Motorists, whose route lay through
the bush, had to cover themselves with rugs and to rush through the
heat at speed far beyond that permitted by law. Some handsome cars
emerged from the ordeal blistered and burned and spoiled. Trains ran
a gauntlet of fire. One curious passenger, protruding his head to
see what was the matter, fell back into the carriage with beard and
eyebrows well singed. The city and the country were enveloped in a
great heat haze impregnated with the smoke from a hundred fires. Upon
the night before the wave broke we ascended an eminence and beheld a
terrifying spectacle. The entire countryside seemed to be on fire.
Great red flames licked up the grass and undergrowth, and embraced,
to their death, the giant eucalyptus trees. Men watched with anxiety
solitary houses which lay in the path of the fire. At last the naval
brigade was called out to try to beat down the flames. At dawn the
hill-side was still smouldering here and there, while great charred
patches showed how completely the flames had done their work. A few
hours later the rain fell, and men bared their faces to its refreshing
coolness. Soon Tasmania recovered its normal climate, and we rejoiced
in a keen and bracing atmosphere amongst the mountains.