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.