In South Wales nothing is more remarkable than the elevation—social, political, and religious—of the people, within little more than a single generation. In 1845 Dr. Darwin published his last edition of ‘The Voyage of the Beagle.’ In the course of his voyage he landed at Sydney, and writes: ‘On the whole, from what I have heard more than from what I saw, I was disappointed with the state of society. The whole community is rancorously divided into parties on almost every subject. Among those who from their station in life ought to be the best, many live in such open profligacy that respectable people cannot live with them. There is much jealousy between the children of the rich emancipist and the free settlers, the former being pleased to consider honest men as interlopers.’ Darwin also refers to the mischief done to the children by the degraded class of servants by whom they are surrounded. In the New South Wales of to-day, not only do you see nothing of this, but quite the reverse. It forms the grandest illustration the world has yet seen of the tendency of human society to elevate and reform itself.
I would also say something of the country. New South Wales is not dependent solely on its harbour nor its Blue Mountains for beauty. I heard everywhere much of the beauty of the Hunter River district, and the richness of its soil, but I regret I was unable to visit it. I did go, however, to the Hawkesbury River, not a long ride by rail from Sydney—the Rhine of New South Wales, as Mr. Trollope terms it. It is not the Rhine, no more than is the Hudson River of New York. Both are charming rivers for a day’s outing, but they are not the Rhine with its old castles, its vine-clad hills, its legendary lore. There is but one Rhine in the world, as there is but one Thames. However, on the Hawkesbury you have lovely scenery, tranquil waters, wooded hills, a beauteous solitude, an air of repose, which make one realize how divine is Nature and all her works. It was good to be there. It was with regret that I tore myself away.
CHAPTER VI.
AMONGST THE BANANA BOYS.
Collision in Sydney Harbour—Brisbane—The Banana Boys—Sir Samuel Griffith.
‘It is too hot for any Englishman to go to Sydney in January and February,’ said a gentleman to me on board the Orizaba—but I went. At Sydney everyone said it was too hot to think of going to Brisbane—but I went; and in either case I should have missed a great deal of pleasure had I stayed away. The misfortune was that I went by the Warrago to Brisbane, a favourite boat, and the crowd was so great I had to sleep in the dining-saloon; but the trip was enjoyable. In the first place, to start with, we had a real collision at sea, and I had time to calculate what my chances were of ever seeing my native land again as I watched with not a little interest the attacking vessel steering steadily for our steamer’s side. Fortunately she got the worst of it, as her foresail and bowsprit came tumbling down, and we made our way out in safety. I don’t think anyone was to blame. The fact was, just as we were starting a Melbourne ship, the Barcoo, was leaving the wharf. Between us was an unhappy schooner laden with coal, and her choice lay simply between Scylla and Charybdis. The former she cleared; the latter she ran into. Methinks I heard her infuriated captain, as he looked athwart his damaged barque, scream out something disrespectful concerning land-lubbers. Our gallant captain, however, in a conversation with me on the subject, explained that the other party was entirely in the wrong. Be that as it may, it seemed to me rather hard that the only occasion on which, as he told me, he ever met with an accident should have been when I was on board.
Our trip was vastly agreeable, as we saw a good deal of the Australian coast under very favourable circumstances, the sea being calm and the skies bright. In about thirty-six hours we had reached the mouth of Moreton Bay, a fine sheet of water, with the conical hills on our right which Cook called ‘the Glass Houses,’ and then by a narrow channel we made our way into the river on which Brisbane stands, and which bears its name. When the tide is up the Brisbane river is almost as romantic as our lovely Dart, and a good deal more so than our far-famed Orwell. Only think of mangroves growing right up from the water for miles, of banks where the bananas ripen, and where you can pluck juicy mangoes from the stalk (on the top of the banks I saw the graceful bamboo), where strange flowers bloomed and strange birds shrieked (the native Australian bird never sings), where the pineapple (they were selling them at Brisbane at a penny each) grows in the open, and where actually I saw for the first time the sugarcane reared in the field, and felt as Alice must have felt in Wonderland.
Queensland, the youngest, promises to be the most flourishing of the colonies. It was not till 1859 that it was known to the world as Queensland; up to that time it had formed a portion of New South Wales. Queensland is still open to emigrants, and its Government lends a helping hand, unlike the other colonies, to emigrants of the right sort. On the Darling plains they can live in comfort, but, alas! they cannot all expect to settle there. It is in the north that the most astonishing progress has been within the last quarter of a century, and alas! the north is hot—hotter than the average Englishman can stand. Mining and sugar-growing are the leading industries of the north. In many instances the former has proved the primary factor in the opening of new territory, and in the extension of trade to ports in the higher latitudes. Notable instances of this may be seen to-day in the townships of Cooktown and Cairns, which owe their origin entirely to the goldfields of the Palmer and Hodgkinson. In the case of the latter, the discovery of the extremely fruitful nature of the soil has induced settlement, and agriculture is looked upon as one of the principal means of ensuring a thriving future. Brisbane is not as remarkable as either Melbourne or Sydney. To begin with, it has only a population of some 74,000, though it is the capital of 668,224 square miles. They can grow everything, apparently, and find everything, for its mineral treasures are beyond conception. It is Queensland that owns the great Morgan Mine which just now has turned everybody’s head; but in no part of Australia have I seen so much that tells of growth and progress. All over the place they are pulling down the old shanties and erecting fine buildings in their stead, of stone white as marble. Outside, the suburbs are pretty, and land is cheap at £1,500 an acre. The Houses of Parliament are stately. The Governor has a handsome residence, and the public gardens are extensive and form an agreeable promenade, before the too hot sun rises, along the river’s bank. Afar, forming a landmark, as it were, is an enormous white building, known as All Hallows Convent. I was more interested in the Reformatory, on our left, where, unlike our own, the lads are reformed, not returned to society harder and wickeder than ever. The streets are fairly wide, and some of the shops are handsome. It is a busy place. The town is full of hotels, and, led by the lust of gold, people ever come and go.
‘We are Banana boys,’ said a young Queenslander to me as we steamed up the river, looking over at the muddy sediment they call whales’ spawn. ‘We have some smart men among us. Look,’ said he, ‘there is one,’ as he pointed to a tall, light-haired gentleman in gray clothes and soft felt hat—something of the figure of Sir Fowell Buxton. Happily I had no need to have pointed out to me Sir Samuel Griffith, late Premier of Queensland and the head of its Bar. I had introduced myself to him soon after we left Sydney, and never did I meet with a more friendly acquaintance. Naturally, at first he seemed, as he viewed me through his eyeglass, a little suspicious, as are most Colonials, and as they are bound to be when you remember the tales they have to hear, and the doubtful characters who force themselves on their notice. But as we chatted away his reserve relaxed, and he became the charming companion, ready to describe all the country round, and to show me all the kindness in his power. As we stood on the deck he pointed to a handsome white brick-built bungalow rising out of a fine extent of lawn and garden, overlooking the river, with which it was connected. ‘That is my house,’ said he, at the same time inviting me to dine there that night—an offer which, it is needless to say, I gladly accepted. In due time I reached Merthyr, as Sir Samuel names his residence, from the place in old Wales where he was born, and where, on his recent visit home, he was received with a cordiality such as gallant little Wales only extends once in a way to her most distinguished sons. He, the poor Dissenting minister’s son, then the Premier of Queensland, and still the greatest man in the colony—for I never knew a fallen statesman so beloved—was the guest at Cyfartha Castle. I know not why he has gone out of office, but I think the cause is not far to seek. Queensland is split up into two separate camps—the North, who want coloured labour to work on the sugar plantations, a work for which no white man is fit; and the South, who say the black labour of the North is really slavery, and who object to it in every form. To the pretensions of the North Sir Samuel has ever been sternly opposed; and then he had held office five years—and democracies are always fickle. So Sir Samuel is now the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, and is as much respected and as strong almost as ever. There is an air of refinement about him which tells even with the Banana boys, who look as brown and burnt up as it is possible for men to be. They seem determined men, with felt hats of every shape and colour, with hands that seem never to have known the mysteries of soap and water—men who have done yeomen’s work at the diggings, or on the sheep farm—and give you a shake which reminds one strongly of the ‘horny-handed.’ Ah, they told me some strange tales of the blacks in the little smoke-room of the steamer by which we returned, and would have told me more had it not come on to blow so hard that we were all compelled to go to bed. They all rejected Sir Samuel’s policy, as an injury to the North, but they all loved the man, of whom we shall, I doubt not, soon hear again. He is young, as men go—almost too young, you would think, for the power he has grasped. I do not blame him that he resolved to fight out his battle in Queensland rather than return to England to take Henry Richard’s place as M.P. for Merthyr, as he was invited to do. In this respect the father resembles the son. Brisbane is his home. He has reached the term of three score years and ten, and he now holds the pulpit of the Congregationalist chapel at Brisbane till the people have appointed his successor. The day before I reached Brisbane there had been a meeting of his friends to do him honour, and the old man was well pleased at it, as I found from a short talk with him in his pleasant home, not far from his son’s ampler residence. The ex-Premier is not a man to be idle. He has faced the problem of the day—the perpetual struggle between want and wealth—and has something to say on the matter. Hardly a care seemed to cloud his brow, hardly a wish to be left unsatisfied. He seemed to me alike sound in head and heart, as we sat smoking under the veranda of his handsome bungalow, under the Southern Cross, with the river running at our feet, with the cry of want and woe silent, with the sound of the distant city hushed, while the moonlight, stealing over the scene, had blended with the lights of eve.
CHAPTER VII.
SOUTH AUSTRALIA.
Holy Adelaide—Its Situation—Its Public Buildings—Its Mining-market—Dr. Arnold—Australian Plagues: Fleas and Mosquitoes and Serpents—Sunday Observance—The Macleay Mission—Number of Churches.