Wayside Sketches in Tasmania

by S. H. Wintle

Blue Hills

which the traveller saw after leaving the dismal Corners, stretching like a barrier in the dim distance, he is now fairly amongst. Grim, granite mountain heights, flanked and ribbed with the old world palæozoic slates and sandstones, that have been upheaved by the said granite from their originally horizontal position, into a nearly vertical one, rise on either hand before him. At the feet of those gracefully rounded heights, on the left hand, flows the South Esk, and now, and anon, the visitor will get glimpses of it through the trees that he is not likely to readily forget. He will observe that the material of the road is of a very different character to that he has been travelling over for some time past, since he took his seat in the coach. He will observe that it consists of waterworn pebbles of quartz and gravel. In a word, he is in an auriferous region, and that charming river that flows so peacefully at the feet of the high hills far below, is responsible for these pebbles. In the slates and sandstones on these hillsides, there are quartz veins and lodes containing gold more, or less, and these have been worn down ages ago, the result being that deep down in the old river bed the precious metal lies, but it is locked up, and the woolgrowers have the key. On the summits of those granite hills which are table-topped there is tin ore in small quantity. But we must not stay here too long to geologise, for we’ve many a league to traverse yet. Now are we fairly in Saintdom, for we have crossed St. Paul’s river, and two or three miles off the road to our right, rises St. Paul’s Dome—a conspicuously rounded lofty hill, while St. Mary’s, Mt. St. Nicholas and St. Patrick’s Head await us in the distance. Some of the earlier colonists who conferred these names, in most instances quite inappropriate, must have been deeply imbued with Saint Worship. The road now for many miles will skirt the ancient bed of the South Esk, which is perhaps the finest valley in the island; much of it is devoted to agriculture, but more of it to grazing.

Towering far above all other hills proudly rises

Ben Lomond,

the highest mountain but one in Tasmania, and the fountain head of several rivers. Here is another instance of topographical mis-nomenclature in Tasmania. If the truth were known, it probably, in no particular, resembles the Ben Lomond of Scotland. Its bold broken and rugged outline at once arrests the visitor’s attention. It, in this particular, presenting such striking contrast to the smoothly rounded hills in the neighborhood. This feature is due to the fact, that its summit consists of diorite, i. e. trap rock used as metal for the roads. The granite, as already stated, has burst through the stratified formations, and it in turn has been disrupted by the diorite which covers it with a capping, and this occurred during a far subsequent period known to geologists as the great Volcanic Epoch. Many, and diverse are the forms the outline of this mountain present as the traveller speeds along. At one time its southernmost part presents the appearance of a lion couchant. A mile or two further on, and this resemblance no longer exists, and is like anything the imagination of the spectator can supply. On the eastern escarpment, near the foot of the mountain there is coal, and also auriferous quartz lodes. The latter only is worked.

When about half the distance to Fingal is accomplished, there is another short stoppage to change horses at a roadside stable, and a little further on the visitor sees an antiquated vestige of former days in the shape of a ruined dwelling. It is known as Grenbers Haunted House. Tradition has it, that a horrible murder was committed there in the early days of the colony, and no one will live in it on account of the nightly visitations of the ghost of the murdered man. Yonder lofty hill, with the peculiar cone-shaped rock-mass rising high from the centre of the summit, is Tower Hill, where gold mining in the quartz lodes is carried on with apparently not very satisfactory results. As the traveller proceeds along the smooth and winding road, he will observe that some of the cuttings have been made to a considerable depth through very rounded pebbles and boulders of quartz, and granite, interspersed occasionally with slate, sandstone, and greenstone, while bands of gravel are frequently interstratified. These are the ancient bed of the South Esk river, rolling now more than one hundred feet below, through the valley, and they tell him that many ages ago at this height that river flowed. These exposed terraces alternate with cuttings through the Silurian beds, exposing in vertical sections quartz veins, traversing the almost vertical, and very much contorted slates and sandstones. He has now reached “Tullochgorum,” the fine property of James Grant, Esq., where the neat villa is just discernible through the foliage of willows which surround it. In half an hour more he will enter the township of

Fingal.

A quarter of a century ago this place was the scene of much stir and excitement, owing to it being the locale where payable gold was first found in Tasmania. But the excitement was of comparatively brief duration. Much money was lost, and the place sank into unimportance. There are two large, substantial hotels, a bank, two or three stores, a jail, surrounded by a high brick wall, and a church which has remained unfinished for years. Immediately behind the township is an immense precipice several hundred feet high, as smooth on the face as a wall, and as vertical. This marks the line of a very extensive fault, which runs for many miles through the district to the East Coast. There is a stoppage here, long enough to enable travellers to partake of refreshment, post letters, or send telegrams. “All aboard” again, and in a very few minutes the coach is crossing the Break o’ Day rivulet on a very neat and substantial bridge, lately thrown across. Before him stretches the magnificent Break o’ Day valley, about 12 miles long and from 2 to 3 miles in breadth. It may be considered as an easterly extension of the South Esk valley. It is the cream of this part of the country, and is in the tight embrace of the octopus arms of two or three woolgrowers. According to tradition it was the haunt of one of the bands of bushrangers in the olden days, and many thrilling tales are told of the daring exploits of some of these desperadoes, as from the lofty heights on either side of the valley they could look down unperceived, and observe what was going on below. To the naturalist the stream that flows through the vale is of interest for the number and size of its freshwater mussels, (unio) their shining, nacreous shells strewing the banks—the work of the voracious cormorant. Here, and indeed for some miles back, at intervals along the valley of the South Esk he will hear a peculiar half cackling cry, and then perchance see an apparently wingless bird about the size and shape of a barn-door fowl, dart through the tall grass with the speed of the emu and make for the rushes and sedges which line the banks of the stream. This is the native hen. I have never heard of them being shot for the table, as an impression prevails that they are tough. The most striking feature about them is the remarkable speed they attain when running, for there are very few dogs that can catch them. The traveller is now passing through a district in which there is much that is geologically interesting and most paradoxical. High ranges shut in the valley on either hand. That, on the left hand with a huge precipice ascending from one side of a “saddle” is