A Source Book of Australian History

by Unknown

The New Province, called South Australia, which, by an Act of the Imperial Parliament, was erected into a free British colony on 15th August, 1834, is situate on the South Coast of the Great Island Continent of New Holland, in the Southern or Indian Ocean, extending from 132° to 141° E. longitude, and from 38° to 26° S. latitude, and contains nearly two hundred millions of acres. It is twelve thousand miles distant from Great Britain.

This distance of twelve thousand miles ought to be performed by a fast sailing ship in twelve weeks, at the rate of a thousand miles per week, which is the fair average running of a good ship on distant voyages; but it is better to allow something for light winds and calms near the Equator, and to say in round numbers one hundred days in all, which is rather more than fourteen weeks.

This is Port Adelaide! Port Misery would be a better name; for nothing in any other part of the world can surpass it in everything that is wretched and inconvenient, packages of goods and heaps of merchandise are lying about in every direction as if they had cost nothing. Stacks of what were once beautiful London bricks crumbling away like gingerbread, and evidently at each returning tide half covered with the flood; trusses of hay, now rotten, and Norway deals, scattered about as if they had no owner—iron ploughs and rusty harrows—cases of door-frames and windows that had once been glazed—heaps of the best slates half tumbling down—winnowing-machines broken to pieces—blocks of Roman cement, now hard as stone, wanting nothing but the staves and hoops—Sydney cedar, and laths and shingles from Van Diemen's Land in every direction; whilst on the high ground are to be seen pigs eating through the flour-sacks, and kegs of raisins with not only the head out, but half the contents; onions and potatoes apparently to be had for picking up. The sight is disheartening. What with the sun and the rain—the sand and the floods—the thieves with four legs and the thieves with two—the passengers hug themselves at the recollection that they have brought no merchandise for sale, glad enough to be able to take care of themselves. The sooner they get out of this horrid hole the better, so they enquire if there is any coach to the town—they are answered by a careless shake of the head, and so, like good settlers, they determine to set off and walk, carrying their light parcels with them, and leaving the heavy things with a friend who refuses to go any further. They ask for a drink of water before starting—there is not such a thing to be had; but the bullock carts are expected down every minute with the usual supply! "What, no water?" exclaims our passenger. "No, sir, but the Commissioners are sinking a well, though they have not yet found any but salt water; but they are going to dig in another place, shortly, we understand."

Away they start for the City of Adelaide, and after ten minutes of rough walking through the loose sand, which is fatiguing enough, they gain the firm and beaten road, with the cheerful hills before them, glad enough to have overcome their morning troubles. Though very warm the walk is agreeable, and out of a cloud of dust before them, they soon descry a dray or two, each drawn by a long line of bullocks. They perceive by the splashing of the water from the open bungs that the casks contain the daily supply for the port, and the drivers very cheerfully give them all a drink; this enables them to walk on with renewed spirits, over the naked plain, and, tired and dusty, in about seven miles more they reach another iron store, the property of the Commissioners, where they now begin to see a few marquees and huts, and people walking about. They step across the "Torrens," without knowing it, and enquire for the inn. They are directed to the Southern Cross Hotel, then kept by a German Jew of the name of Levy, considered the best house in this settlement, and here we will leave them for the present, hungry, thirsty, and fatigued—covered with dust and perspiration—and with feelings of shame and disappointment at being so taken in!

CITY OF ADELAIDE.

"When things are at the worst, they mend," is a common saying, and a true one; and so it was with our passengers. Though rough, dirty and uncomfortable, they enjoyed the Jew's dinner or table d'hôte, though it consisted merely of a baked leg of mutton at the top, with a baked shoulder at bottom and a dish of small potatoes in the middle—nothing else whatever—neither pie, pudding, or cheese; but they had given themselves a good wash, and a change of linen, and a bottle of Barclay and Perkins at dinner had now restored them to good humour.

They found that the company at the table was much better than the dishes, and that they had all gone through the same miserable landing at the Fort, and some of them had even suffered considerably by falling down in the mud; so, as we draw comfort out of other men's misfortunes, and it is better to laugh than weep, our newly-arrived emigrants began to think the place was not so bad after all. They were, at any rate, great travellers, and were determined to make light of troubles and inconveniences, as all travellers do. They saw that the gentlemen at table were a very nice set of fellows, and as they had evidently had to rough it, much more formerly, than was necessary at the present day, they should make up their minds to think well of everything—to look only at the advantages of the Colony—and in their letters to any London friends, they were resolved decidedly to recommend the place—but not a word about the mud.

The Town of Adelaide, as depicted on the maps, is the very beau ideal of all possible cities—there is an elegance and vastness of design about it, that almost makes one blush for the comparative insignificance of London and Stromboul; of Paris and Canton;—but on going to the spot, like many other works of art and imagination, it resembles the picture very slightly—it is altogether on too large a scale; and of all the follies committed by the inexperience of the surveyor-general, who is, nevertheless, in every other respect a most gentlemanlike, entertaining, and intelligent person, next to its inland situation, this monstrous extent of Adelaide will turn out to be the most fruitful of complaints. You may lean against any tree in the City and exclaim, "This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns."

And yet there are sprinkled up and down the place a few substantial buildings; one belonging to the Company, on an enormous scale—another good brick house to Mr. Hack—another to the enterprising Mr. Gilles—one to Mr. Thomas, and a couple of new taverns. The rest of the dwellings are made of very slight materials, and the number of canvas tents and marquees give some parts of the settlement the appearance of a camp. Most of the new-comers settle down on what is called the Park Lands, where they are handy to the little rivulet, and they run up a Robinson Crusoe sort of hut, with twigs and branches from the adjoining forest, and the climate being fine and dry, they answer well enough as temporary residences. The principal streets have been laid out in the survey of the town 132 feet wide, which is nearly twice as wide as Portland Place, and the squares are all on such a scale of magnitude, that if there were any inhabitants in them, a cab would almost be required to get across them.

Before any person has been ashore at Adelaide twenty-four hours, even the greenest and most inexperienced put these two very natural questions; First—Why did you make the plan of the future town so large? Answer—Because the land was of no value, and it was a pity to be crowded when there was so much room! And the Second question is—Why did you select the town eight miles from the landing-place? Answer—Because we preferred being away from the nasty sailors, and thought it better not to be annoyed with the demoralizing influence of a Sea Port!