The rains appear during the wet season to fall very heavily and constantly in North-Western Australia, and though a good supply of these is an advantage to an occupied country, well provided with roads, it is a great cause of trouble to first explorers who have to find a ford over every stream, and a passage across every swamp, and who often run the risk of getting into a perfectly impassable region. Of this sort, alike differing from the barren sandstone and the volcanic fertile country, was a third track through which Captain Grey endeavoured to pass. A vast extent of land lying low and level near the banks of the river Glenelg,[5] and well fitted, if properly drained, for the abundant growth of useful and valuable produce, was found, during the rainy season, to be in the state of a foul marsh, overgrown with vegetation, choking up the fresh water so as to cause a flood ankle-deep; and this marshy ground, being divided by deep muddy ditches, and occasionally overflown by the river, offered, as may be supposed, no small hindrances to the progress of the travellers. In some places it was quite impossible, from the thickly-timbered character of its banks, to approach the main stream; in others they appeared to be almost entirely surrounded by sluggish waters, of which they knew neither the depth nor the nature of their banks. Elsewhere, unable to cross some deep stream, the explorers were driven miles out of their way, and sometimes even in their tents, the water stood to the depth of two or three inches. On one occasion, when the party was almost surrounded by swamps, their loaded ponies sank nearly up to the shoulders in a bog, whichever way they attempted to move, and from this spot they had two miles to travel before they could reach the nearest rising ground. The river Glenelg was at this time overflowing its banks, and, to the natural alarm of men wandering in its rich valley, drift-wood, reeds, grass, &c. were seen lodged in the trees above their heads, fifteen feet beyond the present level of the water, affording a proof of what floods in that country had been, and, of course, might be again. However, this very soil in so warm a climate, only about sixteen degrees south of the equator, would be admirably fitted for the cultivation of rice, which needs abundance of moisture. But little do the peaceful inhabitants of a cultivated country, well drained, and provided with bridges and good roads, think of the risk and hardships undergone by the first explorers of a new land, however great its capabilities, and whatever may be its natural advantages.
But it was not in the plain country alone, that Captain Grey found spots of great richness and fertility, as the following description of the happy vallies frequently found among the mountain-ranges may testify: One may be chosen as a specimen of many. At its northern end it was about four miles wide, being bounded on all sides by rocky, wooded ranges, with dark gullies from which numerous petty streams run down into the main one in the centre. The valley gradually grows narrow towards the south, and is bounded by steep cliffs betwixt which the waters find an outlet. Sometimes a valley of this kind, most beautiful, most productive, will contain from four to five thousand acres of nearly level land, shut out from the rest of the world by the boundary of hills that enclose it. How great a contrast to these lovely vallies does the description, given by another traveller in a different district, present! Nothing, according to Mr. Oxley’s account, can be more monotonous and wearying, than the dull, unvarying aspect of the level and desolate region through which the Lachlan winds its sluggish course. One tree, one soil, one water, and one description of bird, fish, or animal, prevails alike for ten miles, and for a hundred. And, if we turn from this to a third picture of desolation mingled with sublimity, the contrast appears yet more heightened. Among the hills behind Port Macquarrie on the eastern coast, Mr. Oxley came suddenly upon the spot where a river, (the Apsley,) leaves the gently-rising and fine country through which it had been passing, and falls into a deep glen. At this spot the country seems cleft in twain, and divided to its very foundation, a ledge of rocks separates the waters, which, falling over a perpendicular rock, 235 feet in height, form a grand cascade. At a distance of 300 yards, and an elevation of as many feet, the travellers were wetted with the spray. After winding through the cleft rocks about 400 yards, the river again falls, in one single sheet, upwards of 100 feet, and continues, in a succession of smaller falls, about a quarter of a mile lower, where the cliffs are of a perpendicular height, on each side exceeding 1,200 feet; the width of the edges being about 200 yards. From thence it descends, as before described, until all sight of it is lost from the vast elevation of the rocky hills, which it divides and runs through. The different points of this deep glen, seem as if they would fit into the opposite openings forming the smaller glens on either side.[6]
Amid scenery like that which has now been described, varying from grandeur to tameness, from fertility to barrenness, from extreme beauty to extreme ugliness, but always possessing, at least, the recommendation of being new, the wanderers in the Bush are delighted to range. There is a charm to enterprising spirits in the freedom, the stillness, and even in the dangers and privations, of these vast wilds, which, to such spirits, scenes of a more civilised character can never possess. If it be true,—and who has never felt it to be so?—that
“God made the country and man made the town,”
much more distinctly is God’s power visible in the lonely wastes of Australia, much more deeply do men feel, while passing through those regions, that it is His hand that has planted the wilderness with trees, and peopled the desert with living things. Under these impressions men learn to delight in exploring the bush, and when they meet, as they often do, with sweet spots, on which Nature has secretly lavished her choicest gifts, most thoroughly do they enjoy, most devotedly do they admire, their beauty. In travelling some miles to the northward of Perth, a town on the Swan River, Captain Grey fell in with a charming scene, which he thus describes: “Our” station, “this night, had a beauty about it, which would have made any one, possessed with the least enthusiasm, fall in love with a bush life. We were sitting on a gently-rising ground, which sloped away gradually to a picturesque lake, surrounded by wooded hills,—while the moon shone so brightly on the lake, that the distance was perfectly clear, and we could distinctly see the large flocks of wild fowl, as they passed over our heads, and then splashed into the water, darkening and agitating its silvery surface; in front of us blazed a cheerful fire, round which were the dark forms of the natives, busily engaged in roasting ducks for us; the foreground was covered with graceful grass-trees, and, at the moment we commenced supper, I made the natives set fire to the dried tops of two of these, and by the light of these splendid chandeliers, which threw a red glare over the whole forest in our vicinity, we ate our evening meal; then, closing round the fire, rolled ourselves up in our blankets, and laid down to sleep.”
The very same feeling of religion, which heightens the pleasures and gives a keener relish to the enjoyments of life in these lonely places, can also afford comfort, and hope, and encouragement under those perils and privations which first explorers must undergo. Religion is the sun that brightens our summer hours, and gives us, even through the darkest and most stormy day, light, and confidence, and certainty. And when a small body of men are left alone, as it were, in the wilderness with their God, whatever occurs to them, whether of a pleasing or of a trying character, is likely to lift up their souls to their Maker, in whom “they live and move, and have their being.” When the patient traveller, of whose adventures in Western Australia so much mention has been made, had waited weather-bound on a lonely coast, never before trodden by the foot of civilised man, until eight days had been consumed in watching to no purpose the winds and the waves,—when, at a distance of thousands of miles from their native country, and many hundreds of miles from the nearest English colony, he and his little party were wasting strength and provisions in a desert spot; from which their only means of escaping was in one frail boat, which the fury of the sea forbade them to think of launching upon the deep,—when the men, under these circumstances, were becoming more and more gloomy and petulant, where was it that the commander sought and found consolation? It was in religion. And the witness of one who has successfully gone through trials of this kind, is well deserving of the utmost attention. “I feel assured,” says Captain Grey, in his account of this trial of patience, “that, but for the support I derived from prayer, and frequent perusal and meditation of the Scriptures, I should never have been able to have borne myself in such a manner as to have maintained discipline and confidence amongst the rest of the party; nor in all my sufferings did I ever lose the consolation derived from a firm reliance upon the goodness of Providence. It is only those who go forth into perils and dangers, amidst which human foresight and strength can but little avail, and who find themselves, day after day, protected by an unseen influence, and ever and again snatched from the very jaws of destruction, by a power which is not of this world, who can at all estimate the knowledge of one’s own weakness and littleness, and the firm reliance and trust upon the goodness of the Creator, which the human breast is capable of feeling. Like all other lessons which are of great and lasting benefit to man, this one must be learned amid much sorrowing and woe; but, having learned it, it is but the sweeter from the pain and toil which are undergone in the acquisition.”
The mention of these trials to which travellers in the bush are peculiarly liable, brings naturally to mind that worst of all privations, a want of water, to which they are so frequently exposed. The effects of extreme thirst are stated to have been shown, not merely in weakness and want, in a parched and burning mouth, but likewise in a partial loss of the senses of seeing and hearing. Indeed, the powers of the whole frame are affected, and, upon moving, after a short interval of rest, the blood rushes up into the head with a fearful and painful violence. A party of men reduced to this condition have very little strength, either of mind or body, left them, and it is stated, that, in cases of extreme privation, the worst characters have always least control over their appetites.[7] Imagine men marching through a barren and sandy country, a thirsty land where no water is, at the rate of about two miles in an hour and a quarter, when, suddenly, they come upon the edge of a dried-up swamp, and behold the footmark of a native, imprinted on the sand,—the first beginning of hope, a sign of animal life, which of course implies the means of supporting it. Many more footsteps are soon seen, and some wells of the natives are next discovered, but alas! all appear dry. Kaiber, a native companion of the party, suddenly starts up from a bed of reeds, where he has been burying his head in a hole of soft mud, with which he had completely swelled himself out, and of which he had helped himself to pretty well half the supply. It is so thick that it needs straining through a handkerchief, yet so welcome, after three days and two nights of burning thirst, under a fierce sun, that each man throws himself down beside the hole, exclaiming “Thank God!” and then greedily swallows a few mouthfulls of the liquid mud, declaring it to be the most delicious water, with a peculiar flavour, better than any that had ever before been tasted by him. Upon scraping the mud quite out of the hole, water begins slowly to trickle in again.[8] As might be expected, game abounds here, driven by the general dryness of the country to these springs. But the trembling hand of a man worn down by fatigue and thirst is not equal to wield a gun, or direct its fire to any purpose; so it seems as if thirst were escaped for a time, in order that hunger might occupy its place. At length, however, the native kills a cockatoo, which had been wounded by a shot; and this bird, with a spoonful of flour to each man, and a tolerable abundance of liquid mud, becomes the means of saving the lives of the party.
Such is the picture, taken from life, of some of the privations undergone, during dry seasons, in certain portions of the bush, and we must, at the risk of being tedious, repeat again the witness of a military man, of one who has seen much of the world, respecting the best source of comfort and support under these distressing trials. At such times, upon halting, when the others of the party would lie wearily down, and brood over their melancholy state, Captain Grey would keep his journal, (a most useful repository of facts,) and this duty being done, he would open a small New Testament, his companion through all his wanderings, from which book he drank in such deep draughts of comfort, that his spirits were always good. And on another occasion, he shared the last remaining portion of provision with his native servant; after which he actually felt glad that it was gone, and that he no longer had to struggle with the pangs of hunger, and put off eating it to a future hour. Having completed this last morsel, he occupied himself a little with his journal, then read a few chapters in the New Testament, and, after fulfilling these duties, he felt himself as contented and cheerful as ever he had been in the most fortunate moments of his life.
As in life, those objects which we have not, but of which we think we stand in need, are ever present to our fancy, so in these thirsty soils the mere appearance of that water, of which the reality would be so grateful, is frequently known to mock the sight of man. A remarkable specimen of this was seen at the plains of Kolaina (Deceit), in North-Western Australia. From a sand hill, not very far from the coast, was seen a splendid view of a noble lake, dotted about with many beautiful islands. The water had a glassy and fairy-like appearance, and it was an imposing feeling to sit down alone on the lofty eminence, and survey the great lake on which no European eye had ever before rested, and which was cut off from the sea by a narrow and lofty ridge of sandy hills. It was proposed at once to launch the boats upon this water, but a little closer survey was thought prudent, and then it proved that the lake was not so near as it had seemed to be, and that there were extensive plains of mud and sand lying between it and the rising ground. It appeared to be about a mile distant, and all were still certain that it was water they saw, for the shadows of the low hills near it, as well as those of the trees upon them, could be distinctly traced on the unruffled surface.[9] As they advanced, the water retreated, and at last surrounded them. The party now saw that they were deceived by mirage,[10] or vapour, which changed the sandy mud of the plains they were crossing into the resemblance, at a distance, of a noble piece of water. In reading the history of mankind, how often may we apply this disappointment to moral objects! how very frequently do the mistaken eyes of mortals eagerly gaze upon the mirage raised by falsehood, as though they were beholding the living waters of truth itself! What appearance, indeed, does the whole world present to one who rests upon the everlasting hill of the gospel,—the rock upon which Christ’s church has been built,—except it be that of one vast plain of Kolaina, or deceit? It was no long time after the explorers of the north-western coast of New Holland had been mocked by the mirage or vapour which has just been spoken of, that they had a fearful lesson of the vain and shadowy nature of human hopes and expectations. When they had first arrived off the coast, on that expedition, they had chosen an island, named Bernier Island, upon which to bury, for the sake of safety, their stores and provisions, so that they might return to them whenever it should be necessary. Bernier Island is a barren spot, formed of limestone, shells, and sand, and without a single tree or blade of grass upon it, but only wretched, scrubby bushes, amidst which the light sand and shells are drifted by the winds. Such was the remote spot, surrounded by the ocean’s waves, yet not very far from the main shore, upon which it was resolved to conceal their store of necessaries, secure, as it was supposed, from every enemy. In little more than three weeks, during which the adventurers had gone through many perils, and much stormy weather, they returned again, not without some difficulty, to their stores. But on approaching Bernier Island with their boat they scarcely knew it again, so vast a difference had the recent storms made in its outward appearance, so fearful were the pranks which the hurricane had played upon a land which was, in fact, nothing but loose sand, heaped upon a bed of limestone. The place where their stores had been securely left was gone, the remains of the flour-casks, salt provisions, &c. were scattered about in various directions; and the whole spot so entirely altered that it could hardly be ascertained, except by the fragments that were seen near it. How to get back again to Swan River, the nearest British settlement, without provisions, without water, without strength, was indeed a perplexing inquiry, and to answer this the leader of the party, having left his companions for a while, set himself seriously to work. Sitting down upon a rock on the shore, he felt the gale blowing fiercely in his face, and the spray of the breakers dashing over him; nothing could be more gloomy and dreary. Inland, no objects were to be seen but a mere bed of rock covered with drifting sand, on which were growing stunted, scrubby bushes; and former experience taught him, that no fresh water was to be found in the island. Several plans of escape, all apparently alike hopeless, offered themselves to his mind, and, more fully to compose himself, he took forth his constant companion in the wilderness, and read a few chapters of Holy Writ. Contentment and resignation were thus in some degree gained, and he soon joined the rest of the party, having resolved upon that plan, which God’s providence and mercy finally enabled him to carry out, without losing, from a party of twelve, constantly exposed during a very long journey to most dreadful toils, hunger, and thirst, more than one man only, who died at no great distance from the English colony. That one person was a youth of eighteen years of age, who had come out from England, led solely by an enterprising spirit, and not with any view of settling. On the return of the party under Captain Grey towards Swan River, they were so sadly pinched by want of provisions, and by thirst, that five of them were obliged to start with their leader, in order to reach the British colony by forced marches, and Frederick Smith, the youthful adventurer, was one of those that remained behind. After undergoing extreme trials, which from his age he was less able to bear than the others, he, at last, became quite worn out, and sat down, one evening, on a bank, declaring that he could go no further. He was behind the rest of the party, and the man who was with him went and told his companions that he thought Smith was dying. The next morning that man went back for him; but, being himself very weak, he did not go far enough, at all events he did not find him. Probably, the poor sufferer had crawled a little out of the track, for, afterwards, when a party was sent from Swan River in search of him, they traced, with the help of a native, his footsteps up a bare sand hill to the height of twelve or fourteen feet, and there, turning about to the left, they found the object of their search stretched lifeless upon his back, in the midst of a thick bush, where he seemed to have laid down to sleep, being half wrapped up in his blanket.[11] All his little articles of baggage were very near him, and, from the posture in which he was found, it appeared that the immediate cause of his death was a rush of blood to the head, which would occasion no great suffering in his last moments. A grave was scraped in the sand by the searching party, and Frederic Smith was buried in the wilderness wherein he had died, and which he had been among the first to explore, about seventy-six miles northward of the Swan River. The grave was made smooth, and a piece of wood found upon the neighbouring beach was placed at its head, and then the solitary spot was forsaken for ever by the mourning companions of the departed youth, who left
“Heaven’s fresh gales, and the ocean’s wave,
Alternate to sigh o’er the wanderer’s grave.”[12]