Like the Bosjesman, the Australian depends upon his weapons for the greater part of his food, living almost entirely upon the game which he kills, and being skilled in the art of destroying the wariest and most active of animals with the simplest of weapons. He lives in a state of perpetual feud, his quarrels not being worthy of the name of warfare; and his beau idéal of a warrior is a man who steals upon his enemy by craft, and kills his foe without danger to himself.
He cultivates no land, neither has he the least notion of improving his social condition. He cares nothing for clothes, except, perhaps, as a partial shelter from the elements, and utterly ridicules the notion that there is any connexion between clothing and modesty.
Indeed, on one occasion, when a girl had been presented with a petticoat by a white lady, and returned to her people, displaying with pride her newly acquired property, her companions instead of displaying envy at her finery, only jeered at her, inquiring whether she thought herself so much better than her forefathers, that she should want to wear clothes like the white strangers. The consequence was, that in a day or two the solitary garment was thrown aside, and she walked about as before, in the primitive accoutrements of her tribe.
Like the African Bosjesman, the Australian native has no settled home, although he considers himself as having a right to the district in which his tribe have taken up their abode. Contrary to the usage of civilized life, he is sensitive on the general question, and careless in detail. With civilized beings the hearth and home take the first place in the affections, the love of country being merely an extension of the love of home. With the Australian, however, as well as the Bosjesman, the case is just reversed. He has no home, and cares not for any one spot more than another, except that some spots are sheltered and others exposed. He passes a semi-nomad existence, not unlike that of the Arab, save that instead of pitching his tent on a convenient spot, and taking it away when he leaves it, he does not trouble himself even to carry the simple materials of a tent, but builds a rude hut in any spot which he may happen to fancy, and leaves it to decay when he forsakes the spot.
The chief object of the ordinary hut made by an Australian savage is to defend the inmates from the cold south-west breezes. Consequently, the entrances of the huts may be found, as a rule, turned toward the north-east, whence come the warm winds that have passed over the equator.
The summer encampment (see [page 787]) of an Australian family is very simple. A number of leafy boughs are stuck in the ground in a semicircular form, the size of the enclosed space varying with the number of the family. These boughs are seldom more than four feet in height, and often scarcely exceed a yard, their only object being to keep off the wind from the fire, and from the bodies of the natives as they squat round the flame or lie asleep. That any one should expect a shelter while he is standing never seems to enter the imagination of an Australian savage, who, like other savages, never dreams of standing when he can sit, or, indeed, of taking any trouble that is not absolutely necessary.
All the stories that are told of the industry of savage life are pure inventions, and if labor be, as we are often told, the truest nobility, we ought to hear no more of the “noble savage.” Consistently with this idea, the native Australian’s only idea of the hut is a place where he can sit and gorge himself with food, and lie down to sleep after his enormous meal. A fence a yard in height is therefore quite good enough for him, and, as long as no rain falls, he thinks a roof to be a needless expenditure of labor.
In the [illustration] referred to we have an example of an encampment on which the natives have bestowed rather more care than usual, and have actually taken the pains to form the branches into rude huts. The spears, shields, and other weapons of the natives are seen scattered about, while round the fire sit or lie the men who have satisfied their hunger. The reader will perceive that from a little distance such an encampment would be almost invisible; and, indeed, except by the thin smoke of the fire, the most practised eye can scarcely detect the spot where natives are encamping. Even the spears which project above the bush huts look at a little distance merely like dried sticks; and, if the inhabitants be very anxious to escape observation, they establish their encampment in a retired spot, where the surrounding objects harmonize as closely as possible with the rude shelter which answers all their needs.
In many places the natives construct a habitation similar in principle, but differing in structure. Should the locality abound in the eucalypytus, or stringy-bark tree, the natives make a hut altogether different in appearance. With wonderful dexterity, they strip off the bark of the tree in large flakes, six or seven feet in length. A few large branches of trees are then laid on the ground, so that they form a rough sort of framework, and upon these branches the flakes of bark are laid. An hour’s labor will make one of these huts, so that the natives have really no inducement to take any care of them. Even the very best hut which a native Australian ever made would be inferior to the handiwork of an English boy of ten years old. For my own part, I remember building far better huts than those of the Australians, though I was at the time much below ten years of age, and had gained all my knowledge of practical architecture from “Sandford and Merton.”
There is, however, one great advantage in these bark huts—namely, the rapidity with which they can be made, and the shelter which they really do give from the traveller’s great enemy, the night wind. Even European travellers have been glad to avail themselves of these simple structures, and have appreciated the invaluable aid of a few sheets of bark propped against a fallen branch. Those who have been forced to travel without tents through a houseless country have learned by experience that the very best shelter from the night winds is not height, but width. A tree, for example, forms but a very poor shelter, while a low wall barely eighteen inches high and six feet in length keeps off the wind, and enables the wearied traveller to rest in comparative comfort. Such a shelter is easily made from the sheets of stringy bark, one or two of which will form a shelter for several sleepers.