Colonial facts and fictions: Humorous sketches

by John Milne

That evening I spent in Launceston, being entertained by a number of gentlemen, who told me many stories about the great Bischoff. It had been discovered by a man named Smith.

Smith was a man who liked, and I believe still likes, to hide himself in the almost impenetrable Tasmanian bush. The way in which he lived necessitated his spending much of his time in thinking, rather than in talking, and he was therefore called Philosopher Smith. Philosopher Smith is generous and crotchety. He gave many of his shares in his discovery away, and finally, disgusted with the system in which the mine was being managed, eventually threw up his connection with it. Now he is not the millionaire he might have been. Not long ago the Tasmanian Government voted him a small pension for the benefits he had conferred on the colony by his discovery. Mr. Smith, however, I was told, rejected their offer. He deserves a good big pension, and if Tasmanians don’t give it to him, they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Other people behaved very differently. Some of the lucky shareholders drew from £250 to £300 every three weeks. One man who in three weeks drew £3,000, just to show that he had a soul above worldly dross, bought an organ and a monkey, with which he amused people in the streets. How long he continued at this self-imposed employment I was not told. Another man was so inflated with the importance he expected to derive from his riches, that he imagined himself a duke, and gave birth to a drawl.

The usual way of reaching Hobart is by rail from Launceston. The scenery on the line is said to be very fine, and I regret that I did not see it. I reached Hobart direct from Melbourne. On this occasion Bass Straits had put on their best behaviour. The sun was shining and the sea was smooth. Weather of this sort would induce many to become sailors. The profession of navigators would be ruined by numbers, and what would a captain do then, poor thing? It was God’s weather. At the north end of Tasmania we saw many rocky islands. These islands have the same general character as the eastern coast of Tasmania itself, which is high and mountainous.

It was a cold, clear, fine morning when we entered the beautiful harbour of Hobart. I forgot to say that the people in Sydney when they wave their hand across their harbour, tell you that it would afford anchorage for all the navies in the world. I should think that the harbour at Hobart might do the same.

In all directions there are high hills to be seen. Some of these rise from the edge of the waters. The summits are rocky, and many of them were covered with snow. The highest is Mount Wellington. This is at the head of the harbour, and overlooks the town of Hobart. Between these hills there are many small bays and smaller hills covered with gums. On the lowest slopes green fields and farmhouses are visible. Over all these combinations of mountain, crag, snow, forest, grass slopes and water, there was a bluish haze, like a film of gauze.

At last we landed, and at once commenced our explorations. The streets are broad and well laid out. Here and there are some fine buildings. One is a museum, others are Government offices, and many are, naturally, the banks. One of the busiest streets, where there were a few people and some good shops, is called Liverpool Street. In the other streets all is quiet. Now and then a foot-passenger pauses to look at you, and makes you feel that you are a new chum. The cabs, some of which are curious arrangements like milk-carts, stand in rows. Dogs sleep upon the pavement. All is sunshine, cleanliness, and quiet. The houses in the suburbs face the street like so many antiquated walls with rectangular orifices for doors and windows. The brass door-handles shine like mirrors. The polishing has gone on so long until the paint around them in the wood-work has been worn away. Even a little brook that at one time babbled through the town has been constrained. A brook bustling along over an untidy gravel bed would be out of place in tidy little Hobart. It now runs over a concrete bed, something like a pipe. Poor little stream, even you have been compelled to change your clamorous nature.

At the corners of the streets there are neatly painted notices hung upon the lamp-posts—‘Keep to the right,’ ‘Walk round the corners.’ What a satire to treat orderly Hobart like a Fleet Street!

Although Hobart is so quiet, its very quietness gives to it a charm that makes me wish to be one of its inhabitants. About twelve o’clock I saw a little excitement in one of the main streets which I ought not to omit to mention. This was a football-match between a number of shop-boys. I watched it with considerable interest. In the afternoon I paid a shilling to enter a Juvenile Industrial Exhibition. Inside I found that I was in a Poultry Show. There were a great many cocks and hens. Nearly all of them had received a first prize, a second prize, or a certificate of merit. Some of them were interesting on account of their size and the nature of their feathers. One old rooster had feathers down his legs like trousers. This gave him an appearance of great stability. Some of his neighbours seemed to have very thin legs as compared with their bodies, which were unusually large. With the amount of standing they have to do, these latter must often feel very tired. All the cocks were crowing and the hens were clucking. The pigeons were in great force. There were Jacobins, runts, rollers, fantails, Antwerps, baldheads, Hamburgs, carriers, and a variety of others, the names of which can only be found in special treatises on this order of birds.

There were also a great number of parrots, which in true parrot fashion were looking preternaturally wise. The rest of the building was filled up with sausages, masses of brawn, corpses of animals like pigs and sheep, of cadaverous heads of cows, cheese, pots of yellow butter, and canaries.