Wayside Sketches in Tasmania

by S. H. Wintle

Mount St. Nicholas,

celebrated for a very thick seam of coal and three or four smaller ones which make their appearance on the side of the range 500 feet above the valley. The large seam is 16 feet in thickness, but the coal, although bituminous, is of a quality that renders it unfit for steam, or gas making purposes. For one or two inches of good bright coal, there are on the average from 12 to 15 inches of inferior earthy matter—in fine bituminized clay. On the opposite side of the valley this seam again appears at the same altitude at Mt. Legion 4 or 5 miles away, and again at the back of Fingal. There is a bullock dray road to the big seam, which is surrounded by some very romantic bits of scenery. For 500 feet above the upper seam of coal, volcanic rock obtains, which on the summit of the hill rises in very fine columns, a characteristic of the greenstone of the same age in Tasmania. The beds of clay above and below the coal furnish very fine specimens of fossil ferns conspicuous among which, are the tongue-fern Glossopteris, the wedge-fern Sphenopteris, the nerve-fern Neuropteris and the tooth-fern Odontopteris. All of which are long since extinct it is believed.

That mansion just discernible through the poplar and other acclimatised trees on the right hand of the visitor, is Killymoon, the largest and most imposing structure in the district, and is the residence of S. Ransome, Esq. Its founder, the late Mr. Steiglitz, was evidently a man of good architectural taste, and in it one is strongly reminded of much that characterises the structures of medieval times. The freestone of which it is built was quarried close by, and is associated with the coal seams. It possesses the remarkable property of resisting, to a great degree, the action of fire, and in this respect much resembles itacolumite sandstone, which is employed for the floor of furnaces occasionally in Europe. When it is closely examined it is found to consist of small, well rounded grains of quartz, bound together by an argillo-siliceous cement.

The visitor is now passing through Cullenswood, by which name this part of the Break o’ Day valley is known. A few cottages, and cultivated fields, with a church and its resting place for the dead, are its chief features. Two miles further on it merges into St. Mary’s. This village boasts one inn, one general store, and a smithy. The inn is situated on the brink of a clear, cool mountain stream which is never failing. St. Patrick’s Head, with its perfect pyramid form, rises grandly in front, while another conspicuous, though less aspiring hill, the Black Elephant, forms the eastern boundary of the vale. Horses are changed at the inn and soon the traveller is being hurled merrily along through an avenue of fine old wattle trees, whose branches meet over-head, and if it be Spring time the perfume from their golden blossoms is intoxicating. He must now be prepared to witness in a very few minutes, one of the grandest sights in natural scenery of the Southern hemisphere. There are few persons who have resided long enough in these colonies to become acclimatised that have not heard of

St. Mary’s Pass.

It is a proverb, “See Venice and die,” I would say, See St. Mary’s Pass, and live to describe it if you can (for it will sorely tax your descriptive powers, be they ever so good) to your friends. It alone is worth travelling a thousand miles to behold where expense is not a consideration.

From the time the last inn was left, the road gradually ascends a gentle acclivity, and when the top is gained the visitor is at the entrance of the Pass. An abrupt turn of the road, and lo! opening far beneath him on his left hand, is a yawning gulf, with almost perpendicular mountains ascending on both sides. From this point it is facilis descensus. As he looks down the awful chasm from the narrow rock-hewn road, he involuntary recoils with a shudder. Genial George observes this, for he was prepared for it, and a suppressed smile, with a humorous twinkle in his eye records it. Whatever exclamation of surprise, fear, or appreciation of the sublime grandeur of the scene, may escape the lips of the traveller, it is drowned with a crack of the whip and “Come, get along there, lazy bones” as the vehicle rattles over the adamantine, tortuous road, leaving barely room for a foot passenger to pass between it and the verge of the gorge; for there is no fence, except at very sharp turns of the road. Down—down—down, sweeps the terrible gulf. Higher—higher—higher, ascend the tree-crowned heights, and looking from the road, the traveller feels it would be possible to shoot a bird on the opposite side. There is not a foot of ground but what is densely covered with timber and undergrowth. Far below, in the cool mossy depths can be seen the ever beautiful plume-fronded fern trees, waving in graceful undulations with the breeze, born of the great chasm; their tender green, contrasting favorably with the darker, harder hue of the surrounding gum trees. High over the tops of patriarchal forest giants, the eye sweeps the great abyss and through the ambient air, can distinctly see the mosses of green and gold draping the rocks and trees in the depths of those sunless shades. It may be Spring time, and if so the blossom of a wattle tree here and there, stands out in strong relief among the myrtles and sassafras, scenting the air with its rich perfume. Another turn of the Pass, and there is a stone trough at which man and horse may drink of water as pellucid and cool as the pendant dew-drops. A mountain rill, which is almost vertical, comes leaping down in tiny falls, and is then conducted by a little flume into the stone trough. At one time the pass appears to have turned back on itself—at another it is taking a course at right angles—so numerous and acute are its windings as it rounds the heads of the many gullies. Considering that the pace at which the coach is being driven, which is very little, if indeed, anything less than that before the Pass was reached, apprehension of danger in the coolest and most courageous spirits is excusable, but the horses as well as driver know their work so well that a mishap is of very rare occurrence while a fatal accident as far as I know, has never yet been chronicled. St. Patrick’s Head which the visitor saw from St. Mary’s rising into the upper air, like a mighty pyramid he is now careering along. A little over two miles of the descent is accomplished, when another sharp turn unfolds to view the boundless ocean rolling in long lines of foaming, curling, surges on the shore—the hollow booming roar of which, is, and has been for some time past distinctly audible. That little hamlet consisting of one weather-boarded inn, and barely half a dozen primitive cottages is Falmouth. The inn which stands on a small headland overlooking the surf-beaten shore, is as solitary-looking as a light-house. Down, and still down, with its apparently endless windings, goes the Pass. Deeper and still deeper seems to grow the mighty gorge. On one hand is a high wall of rock, produced by forming the road. It is compact greenstone, i.e. trap rock, and testifies to the vast amount of labor and engineering skill in constructing the Pass in days long past. High overhead the mountain soars, and huge masses of rock are impending like Damocles sword, and seem ready to come thundering down on the slightest provocation, carrying destruction and death in their course. This threatening aspect have they presented for untold ages, and for untold ages it they may maintain. Much room for marvel there is as to how the trees continue to grow and hold their own on such steep mountain slopes, looking much like Natural Selection at fault. But then gumtrees in Tasmania will grow anywhere. Here, and there, the gracefully formed, and tender green foliaged Exocarpus (native cherry tree), and the lightwood tree fringe the edges of the Pass. For eight miles the traveller winds along this remarkable chasm and then finds himself on the sandy plateau of Falmouth at the bottom, with the heaving ocean in front, and a large sheet of imprisoned seawater on his left hand, into which the collected waters of the gorge empty themselves. That large and commanding brick house standing by itself is the residence of Mr. Steele, who owns all the available land for dairy farming in the locality. Horses are changed at the inn where dinner can be had and then a start is made to cross the Styx, but genial George, in this case, is old Charon. From Saintdom we have entered the regions of classical history, and instead of being rowed over the Styx we go through it on wheels. Somewhat exciting is the transit, the horses belly deep, and the traveller has to lift his feet till his knees are level with his nose, while the wheels of the coach stir up the black mud which emits the antithesis of an agreeable odor. This continues for about a mile. The road now runs along the sea shore, and is separated from the surf-beaten beach by sand dunes, covered with stunted vegetation, chiefly boobyalla. There are 16 miles of sand road between Falmouth and George’s Bay to which latter place I will assume the visitor is going. It is one of the most trying roads to horses in the island. Flat, swampy land, stretches for nearly two thirds of the distance. Where swamps do not obtain, a profusion of gay blossoming heath, chiefly epacridae, and the elegant and sand loving grass tree clothe the ground. After crossing the Styx, and having proceeded a mile, the picturesque Scamander river is reached. It is spanned by a very neat and substantial bridge lately built. The old bridge in ruins is seen a short distance on the right. If the traveller be a classical man, he will find the topographical nomenclature of this region awaken associations of his Alma Mater. I do not know whether the old-world Scamander was distinguished for good fishing, but I do know that this one offers splendid attractions to the lovers of the rod and line. The water is half salt and half fresh, being separated from the sea by a sand bar. During rough weather, the waves break over this bar and when there is a fresh in the river the reverse action takes place. The water is always beautifully clear, and large bream, and perch can be seen, in untold numbers, swimming about among the seaweed. But they are often very shy of the bait, owing, it is supposed to there being an abundance of their natural food.

To the naturalist the long beach offers great attractions. Close to the sandbar of the Styx there are numerous rock pools where anemonies, chitons, a large variety of Radiata, and choice algae abound. Add to these, a profusion of sponge and litoral shellfishes. Dead shells strew the beach in myriads, and it is owing to this feature that many families make Falmouth a place of resort during the summer season. Five or six miles from Falmouth

The Lagoon

is reached. This is a picturesque sheet of imprisoned sea water into which two or three streams disembogue. This lagoon is a favorite haunt of that strange bird the Musk Duck which on the near approach of man darts along the surface of the water with great speed, by using their rudimentary wings as paddles, with which they beat the water into foam, uttering at the same time a peculiarly discordant cry. The great dunes of blown sea sand shut out the ocean from view for a great part of the distance to George’s Bay, but the deafening roar of the surf is an accompaniment all the way. At Freshwater Creek, where a stream flows through a compact reticulation of rushes, sedges, and ferns, horses are changed. We are now half way to the township of St. Helens. Densely timbered heights on the one hand, the ocean on the other, and a gay blossoming heath-covered parterre intervening. A mile or two further on, and the sand dunes lose much of their height and consequently glimpses of the ocean are obtained. Yonder island, rising some five miles off, is Marouard Island, by some called Rabbit Island, owing to the large number of rabbits it contains. It is granite, and what in geology is known as an “outlier.” How the rabbits manage to find a living upon it is matter for marvel, for it has all the appearance of a barren rock. Coasting crafts avail themselves of it for shelter in rough weather. It affords but a poor haven at best, but there is no other between Falmouth and George’s Bay. The small islet nearer the shore is Paddy’s Island. Both, in days gone by were the resort of seals. The road now passes through some fenced-in land, and after crossing a streamlet and a gentle eminence where until very lately before the new road was made it was the custom of the driver of the coach to call out, “Now gentlemen” which being interpreted signified the passengers getting out and walking up the hill to relieve the jaded horses. This custom has departed now. Upon descending the opposite side the visitor finds himself face to face with one of the most charming saltwater lakes in the world. It is