Before I say good-bye to Melbourne, I must tell a story which I heard about the Yarra, or rather about a man who lived on the banks of that charming little river. It is called:
EARLY DAYS IN MELBOURNE; OR, CAPTAIN STRINGER AND THE WATERS OF JOGGA WOGGA.
Old Captain Stringer came here in ’54, and, like a lot of skippers who came to Melbourne about that time, was ruined. No sooner had he dropped anchor than all the crew, even to the little cabin-boy, made for shore, bought a swag, and started off for Bendigo. The gold fever was on everybody, and even £20 a month was not sufficient to keep a sailor on board his ship. At first Stringer took the matter philosophically, and was always saying that by-and-by they would be able to get hands on board for asking. Jack would find that gold-washing and hard tucker wasn’t exactly Paradise, and very shortly we should see him coming back to Melbourne like a Prodigal Son. Every day saw new ships in port, and rushes of new chums off on the road towards Bendigo. Stringer, like many of the skippers, was part owner of the vessel he commanded, and this, no doubt, was an inducement for him to stay on board. Those who had no share in their vessels used to wait a month or two trying to get a crew. After this they would pack up a swag, leave the ship to take care of itself, and start off, as they said, in search of men.
In six months Port Phillip, which used at that time to reach nearly up to Flinders Street, was one dense mass of helpless shipping. It was ships, ships, ships, as far as the eye could see, and, what was worse, the number was daily increasing. Many skippers tried to sell their ships, but buyers were not to be found. Many people thought themselves lucky if they could find anyone willing to receive a ship as a present. To be relieved of the responsibility of having a ship to look after seemed to ease their minds. A good number, rather than give their ships away, relieved themselves of the responsibility of ownership by scuttling their property. They were not going to let people have their belongings for nothing.
It wasn’t long before the blocking up of the river and harbour with floating and sunken vessels began to have an effect by causing silt to deposit; and, to make a long story short, after the floods of 1855, if there were one ship ashore there must have been at least 5,000 of them, and Captain Stringer’s was amongst the lot. In the following year the Government had a new channel cleared out for the river and the land where the ships were became a marsh. One or two who had their ships in a dry place where grass had begun to grow, clubbed together and started a farm, using their ships as dwelling-houses and stables. Things were pretty expensive in those days. Land down where Flinders Street now is was worth £150 to £200 a foot; and as for dwelling-houses, you could not get a weather-boarded cottage under £500 a year. The climate, too, was more trying than it is at present. Every other day we used to get those hot north winds called brickfielders. When these were blowing it was like standing in a baker’s oven, and the dust was so thick that you could not put your nose outside the door. What with losing his ship, and the effects of rum so long as it lasted, old Stringer seemed to be dreadfully upset. Still, he kept up a certain kind of style, and wanted us to believe that he was well off. When we called on board his boat he would always produce something or other which he said he had specially ordered from London. Once it was some cigars. He said they had cost him two-and-sixpence apiece. The duty he paid on them was very heavy. But anyhow, they were the best Havanas ever made—in fact, part of a parcel expressly manufactured for the King of Hanover, and he hoped we should like them. Of course, we all knew that Stringer couldn’t afford two-and-sixpenny cigars, and what he had so much to say about were only penny cheroots. All that we could conclude was that Stringer was proud, and just to humour the old man we told him that the cigars were the best ever seen in the colony. Another trick he had was to go about with a few coppers and some keys in his pocket, jingling as if he were carrying the mint. One thing which he never forgot was every now and again to jerk out his pocket-handkerchief, and with it a roll of paper that looked like bank-notes. ‘Dear me, I shall lose that money yet,’ he would remark, as he stooped to pick up the roll. At first we thought that they were real notes, but after picking them up once or twice when Stringer had jerked them a little too far, we saw then that it was only a roll of tissue-paper. Sometimes, if he knew that anyone was walking close behind him, he would drop the roll on purpose for them to pick it up. All that he wanted was for us to tell him that he ought not to be so careless with such large sums of money. This would start him off about his ancestors, who had so much wealth that an instinctive indifference and carelessness for money had gradually been bred in the family. He could no more help dropping rolls of bank-notes in the street than he could help breathing. At last it was generally recognised that Stringer was mad, the particular form of his madness being an inordinate desire to be thought a millionaire. This was coupled with such an absurd amount of pride that, although he was really as poor as a church mouse, and at times on the verge of starvation, he would never receive a present. The only way we could keep him alive was to leave things at his ship whenever we knew he was absent: one man would leave him a sack of flour, another a barrel of pork, a third some tea, and in this way we managed to keep the old man going.
Many of us had an idea that Stringer’s madness would gradually wear away, but instead of that it seemed to get worse. He took to dressing in a queer way, putting on a red waistcoat with brass buttons, and a white hat. It wasn’t long before everyone in Melbourne knew old Stringer as well as they knew Collins Street. Another way in which he made himself conspicuous was by writing letters to the papers about his ancestors, and putting in advertisements about rolls of bank-notes which had accidentally slipped out of his pocket. Some of his compositions were so peculiar that they were reproduced in the country papers, and in a short time mad Stringer threatened to become as well known an Australian institution as Melbourne itself.
Suddenly it was observed that Stringer had a slight limp, and this was followed by a hacking little cough. He told us it was living on the marsh—he had rheumatics, and was suffering from malaria. As weeks went on, the limp got worse and worse, and the case of poor old Stringer excited considerable sympathy. Even the newspapers took notice of the old man’s sufferings. One or two doctors who went down to see him said that his rheumatism was very acute; he was as mad as a hatter, and he ought to be compelled to leave the marsh.
While we were discussing how old Stringer was to be got out of his ship on the marsh, it was reported that he had disappeared. This was of course another fact for the newspapers. Two weeks later a letter came from Stringer, saying that he was trying some springs which had been recommended to him as good for rheumatics. His health had not been good, and he thought a course of waters would perhaps be beneficial.
A month later a note appeared in the Argus, giving an account of a marvellous cure which had been effected upon a well-known resident in Melbourne, by the natural waters of Jogga Wogga. The details which were given clearly pointed to Stringer as the patient on whom the wonderful cure had been effected. The news quickly spread throughout the colony. Thinking it would please the Captain’s pride to see himself in print, we sent him up copies of the paper. In a few days we received a long letter in reply, saying how pleased he was that we had not forgotten him. The account in the Argus was quite correct, and not only had he been cured (and he here gave evidence that he was aware that he had been suffering, not only from rheumatics and malaria, but also from a brain disease), but that a large number of other people had derived considerable benefit from the springs. There were several distinct sources. Some of it, he said, was pure and pleasant to the palate, whilst the waters of other springs were somewhat nauseous. One man had been cured of sore eyes; another had had an impediment in his speech removed; a third had got rid of chronic headaches with which he had been affected; while he himself had been cured of rheumatism, low fever, and madness. Shortly after this a letter appeared in the papers confirming what Stringer had written, and the fame of the Jogga Wogga springs got noised throughout Australia.
Later on Stringer came back looking quite respectable and well. The change which the waters had made in the old man was truly marvellous. He told several of us that he was so certain about the efficacy of the Jogga Wogga waters, that he had taken out a claim for Jogga Wogga district. If we would assist him, he intended to set up a factory for the bottling of the Jogga Wogga waters, in which he clearly believed that there was a lot of honest money to be made. It was certain that the waters had already been well advertised, and that they worked marvellous cures. All that remained to be done was to bottle the waters ready for customers.