CHAPTER XVI
A SQUATTER’S HOME AND DAUGHTER
It was the first time I had seen a real live squatter and his daughter, and the spectacle produced quite a shock. It was so unexpected, so utterly contrary to all that I had imagined. Every living word conveys an image to the mind of him who employs it, and I had my own notion of what a squatter was. This was derived, at an early age, from reading books on Colonial life, and later from the unflattering description given by Darwin in his “Voyage Round the World.” Mr. Darwin described a squatter as “a freed, or ticket-of-leave man, who builds a hut with bark on unoccupied ground, buys or steals a few animals, sells spirits without a licence, receives stolen goods, and so at last becomes rich and turns farmer; he is the horror of all his honest neighbours.”
Now, such a person is hardly to be desired as an acquaintance, and when I went out to Australia I firmly determined to give any squatter that I might encounter as wide a berth as possible. But time brought disillusionment. I began to see persons in Melbourne who were pointed out to me as retired squatters. They were gentlemanly in appearance, splendidly dressed, well-mannered; they stayed at the best hotels, and some of them went to church. I began to hear stories of wonderful mansions, splendidly furnished, of sons and daughters going to the university, and the like, and the truth gradually dawned upon me that there must be squatters and squatters; and that in squatting, as in everything else, there had been some remarkable developments.
And then I met this girl, and the truth stood revealed. She was of Scotch descent, and her grandfather, having come from the Highlands of Scotland and settled upon the land, had made a fortune, which had passed into the hands of his son, and this girl’s father. I met her in the drawing-room of a Free Church elder; she was staying in the house as his guest. Beyond the fact of possessing a rosy complexion, which advertised perfect health, gained through an outdoor life, there was absolutely nothing to indicate that this girl had been born and reared in the wilds of Australia, far away from human habitation. She was dressed in the smartest style; she had just finished a boarding-school education in one of our large cities; she could drive a motor-car with any chauffeur, and she was as much at home in a modern city drawing-room as she had been on that vast homestead in the far-away north.
I confess myself to have been astonished with this amazing blend of a perfect child of Nature and a perfect woman of the world. Were Darwin still with us, he would have to rewrite his description of a squatter.
This girl unveiled to us the secrets of her bush home. She told us a story of life that sounded almost incredible. Reclining upon a deck-chair, she laughingly poured out a stream of talk about that northern home of hers. So remote from our life did hers seem to be, that one might have been excused for believing that, by some chance or other, she had really come down from Mars. Far away in the north-west corner of Australia lies the estate upon which this child was born and reared, and to which, her term of schooling being over, she has now returned. Her father’s land consists of a trifling two million acres—that is all. Think of it—two million acres! There is no exaggeration about the figures. And all this land in the hands of one man! Being quick at figures, I began at once to calculate how many homesteads of liberal size might be founded upon a territory so vast as this. How many small towns might be created! How many industries spring into being! How many congested areas in the great cities of England might be relieved by means of a population transferred to these enormous spaces! Two million acres! It takes a little time for the idea to soak into the mind.
The nearest railway station to this homestead is 219 miles away. Formerly the journey between the station and the home occupied three days, by carriage or horse. The camel train occupied a longer time. Now, even in that remote region, the motor-car has arrived, and the time of transit has been reduced to one day. The nearest post-office is more than thirty miles distant, while the next-door neighbour lives twenty miles away. What solitude! What terrible isolation! And yet to that family and its staff of servants and shepherds and shearers there is no solitude, no sense of isolation. They live in a world of their own; they are self-contained. The estate has its own butcher’s shop, its own bakery, its own smithy, its own carpenters—all it needs it possesses. No daily newspaper appears to distract their attention. The strife of the political world, the changes of the social world never disturb them. The mail arrives at certain periods, bringing newspapers a few days old. But what is news to them, who are too far removed from society to be affected by aught that goes on? I was curious to know in what aspect life presented itself to people who were removed from the haunts of men so far as were they. Did life drag? Did monotony oppress them? How did they employ their time? What about culture? And the answer was very clear and emphatic. They knew nothing of monotony; they suffered no fear of loneliness. Every hour brought its task—there was no time for moping. The cattle had to be fed, watched, slaughtered, bred, bought and sold. The sheep were sheared. The fields were made to yield their increase. Sons, daughters, and servants were all engaged in their respective work.
And what of recreation and social interchange? “Ah!” was the laughing answer, “we have the best time in the world—a time we would not exchange for all the cities could offer us.” For one thing, there is the chase. The daughters of that “station” are accomplished horsewomen. They think nothing of undertaking a 500-mile ride over enormous stretches of country. The side-saddle for girls is scorned; they ride like the men. They leave home, bound for a long scamper. They take no provisions with them; they simply ride on until they reach another “station,” where they put up as long as they please. The laws of hospitality in those remote parts are Oriental in character. No invitations are issued, no requests are proffered. The “station” keeps open house; when a visitor arrives, he or she shares the hospitality of the establishment without question and without payment. In that scattered world the advent of any visitor is welcome. Even the “sundowner,” or tramp, easily finds accommodation. He may eat at the common table in the kitchen, and sleep on a “stretcher,” or, if he prefers it (as he generally does), he may take his repose amongst the straw or hay.
After the chase, the race. The sport of horse-racing, beloved of the Australians, is not lacking in that remote corner of the north-west. It is conducted, however, without the glamour of the ring and the grand stand, and without the pestiferous presence of the bookie. The horse-race up there is a real race of horses for the pure pleasure of the race. Neighbours for 100 miles around ride in and bring their best horses to the contest. For a week the homestead is plunged in festivity. The race is an excuse for good fellowship and for paying calls. There is more than one race. Station after station is utilised as a place of meeting, and thus friends and neighbours, despite the distance that divides them, continually come together. Then there are social festivities: the ball, the amateur play, the party, the concert. It is all amateur, all primitive, all natural, and all wholesome.
But the greatest pleasure of all is afforded by Nature itself. To a city man like myself that remote corner of the world, entirely hidden from the ken of the ordinary person, would be oppressive by its silence, its solitude, its aloofness from life. To the squatter’s daughter this solitude is peopled by wonderful races; this silence is broken by numberless voices. With modern literature she has but a bowing acquaintance; of Australian politics she hears but a murmur; of the vast world movements beyond she knows nothing. As we speak of these things she listens with a certain acquiescence. She has heard something of it all—a mere sigh borne upon the breeze—but uninterpreted by her. There is no quick response. That world is not her world. Emerging from the wild into the atmosphere of a boarding-school for a brief year or two, she returns to that same wild with enough of polish and general knowledge to ensure that certain rays of modern light shall penetrate the fastnesses of her distant abode.