Five Years Under the Southern Cross: Experiences and Impressions

by Frederic C. Spurr

And so, murder and beauty flourish side by side in this new country in the spring-time. Here, as everywhere, it is a mystery of Nature, of which the full solution is not yet given.

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The spring entices all the world out of doors. “Houses,” says the local sage, “are not in this country built for residence; they are merely a refuge when our true residence—the open air—is not available, owing to climatic derangement.” Already people are dragging their beds on to their balconies, where they sleep. The open air becomes a hostel in which all the wise lodge.

The long beach, stretching for many miles between Melbourne and Black Rock, becomes, for the greater part of the spring and summer and autumn a huge encampment, where city workers, after the toil of the day, spend their leisure. Besides the beach there are the parks and public gardens, second to none in the world. Hundreds of people sleep out at nights on verandas, in gardens, and upon the seashore. The cool nights entice into the streets a multitude of people, who throng the highways until midnight. English is, of course, the language that is spoken, but the life that is lived is Continental. It is impossible for anyone to be dull here in this summer climate. The sunshine has entered into the people’s blood and inoculated it with merriment. Men live in a garden of God, where every prospect pleases and only a few men are vile.

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As the spring advances and the summer approaches Australians are on the move, bent on holiday making. It is here that the contrast between England and Australia is seen to the advantage of the latter. There are very, very few “workers” in Australia who are unable to afford a summer holiday.

Surely never was there a people so enamoured of holidays as the Australians. Upon the least excuse there is a public holiday. New Year’s Day commences the recital. That is followed by “Foundation Day” on January 31st, St. David’s Day in March, St. George’s Day in April, Prince of Wales’s birthday in June, Separation Day in July, Bank Holiday in August, Eight Hours’ Day in September, Cup Day in November, and the King’s birthday in the same month. It is a formidable list, extending over the various States. “The working man’s paradise” they call Australia, and not without good reason. There is another side to this, upon which I have yet to dwell, but just now the sunny side is being emphasised.

From one point of view there is not the same variety of holiday resorts in Australia as in England. How easy it is to cross from England to France and Switzerland and Italy! And within twenty-four hours of smoky, foggy London to be at peace under the shadow of Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn. Or within sixty hours to enter the gateway of the mysterious East at Tunis or Algiers! There is nothing resembling that on the Australian side of the equator. The nearest great snow mountains lie in New Zealand, five days’ steaming from Melbourne. But within easy distance there are innumerable beauty spots which appeal to every taste and every purse. The garden island of Tasmania is becoming every year a greater favourite for many Victorians. Embarking on the steamer late in the afternoon, the traveller finds himself at Launceston early the next morning, and at Hobart a day later. And in that island he finds a climate much more temperate than that of Victoria, and a life more English than Australian. The salamander may easily run up to Queensland, and within forty-eight hours of Melbourne find himself in the lower tropics, amid sugar plantations, pineapple fields and banana plots. The mountaineer may go to New South Wales to the Blue Mountains, or to his own Buffalo range. While the ordinary person may find what he will on seashore or in fern gully.

The great Port Phillip Bay is dotted with water-places, of which one of the prettiest and most restful is Sorrento. Italian in name, it is almost Italian in aspect. A tree which lines the beach resembles, at a short distance, the olive trees for which Italy is so famous, and the houses, often hidden in plantations, might well be taken for those Italian retreats which lie around the Italian Sorrento. Sorrento has the advantage of the bay and of the “back beach.” The bay is quiet, retired, and excellent for family bathing. The “back beach”—i.e. the ocean proper—is rugged, wild, restless. It has a majesty all its own, and a danger to match its majesty. Its waters are treacherous. The under-currents are strong and easily suck in the most powerful swimmer. Worse than the currents are the sharks which abound in these waters. They have the playful habit of dismembering venturesome people. Yet, despite the danger, there are headstrong fools who swim out, exposing themselves to attack. Recently a youth emerged from the water minus a leg and two fingers; yet, incredible as it seems, on the very next day other youths swam out into the very same sea and at the very same place. Sometimes a shark is detained prisoner in some deep pool, and then his fate is sealed. No pity is shown him; he is immediately shot. It is a study in human nature to watch an old salt engaged in the task of settling accounts with a shark. The process of dispatch is often delayed, cruel revenge being taken upon the brute for the misdeeds of his clan.

For my own part, I give the casting vote in favour of the fern gullies rather than the sea. Can there be found anywhere fern trees superior to those which Victoria offers? Fern trees, observe. Giant ferns grow to an immense height, after the manner of a palm. Their fronds spread out at the top like a giant umbrella. These ferns are found in gullies or little forests, and the spectacle they present is strikingly beautiful. At Gembrook one enters a natural cathedral where the columns are stately trees, whose interlacing branches form at the top a perfect roof, and whose decorations are wonderful giant ferns, fuller of fronds than any I have ever yet beheld. In the depths of this hidden place there reigns a profound and almost painful silence, broken occasionally by the sighing of the wind in the tops of the trees or by the screaming of a pair of quarrelsome parrots. Here, within these walls of living green, Nature seems to have her inner shrine. Men speak in whispers to each other as they do in a cathedral. The awe of God possesses the spirit. In that awful silence the soul of man speaks with the soul of the world.