1864
The shearers being quartered in a hut by the site of the creek, about a stone throw from the main buildings, I took up my abode there with them. The hut was roomy; the walls were formed part-wood slabs, split like huge laths from logs, and having been framed together when it yet green, they had shrunk so much that the hand might have been passed edgeways between any two of them. The roof was composed of great sheets of bark, and happily was rain-proof; there was no need of a window, and no shutting of the door could keep the draught out. Along the walls was a sparred bench of rude construction, on which the first comers had made their beds, the later arrivals having to be content with sheep skins on the floor. The fire-place was big enough to accommodate a sitter on each side within when the fire was low. There was a man to cook, and to attend to the house wants of the company.
Being among strange people, whose manner of living I had yet to get acquainted with, I sat up later than was agreeable to me waiting and wearying for my fellow-lodgers to come home, that I might see how they did about the sleeping. About midnight they came – a noisy multitude, full of brandy and “Old Tom”. . .
On the morning of the third day the sheep shearing commenced, and the packing of the wool in bales became my work. The press consisted of a large box set on end, and without either top or bottom; the sides were detachable, and were merely clamped together when the pressing was being done. A strong coarse canvas bag, exactly fitting the inside of the box, was placed in it; the flaps that were to enclose the top end of the bale were turned over the sides and secured there, so that the bale barely rested on the ground within. Throwing a few fleeces in and armed with a spade, I kept stuffing the wall that lay along the sides down between the bagging and the mass I stood on, until I made it somewhat solid, then more fleeces, and more stuffing, till I reached the top, which, on the flaps being sewn together, was packed by means of a short staff. I did feel proud when I managed to turn out a bale that had no soft spots in it, but my specimens on this first day were few, the shearers were out of condition, their wrists grew feeble, and their backs grew sore, and they adjourned to the tap-room for “a stiffener”, and I saw them no more till late at night, when they came down in a body to the hut bringing disorder and two strangers with them, also some liquor, which however, lasting but a short time, and their fierce humour inclining them to make “a night of it”, a select few were despatched to procure, if at all possible, no matter by what means, a five gallon keg of rum, as they could no longer satisfy themselves with drops in bottles; but the proprietor having an eye to his flocks, which before the public-house was started, had been his main stay, gave them instead a certain warning of police proceedings were the shearing any longer delayed on their account. Shearers were scarce, and consequently were disposed to stand upon their dignity, but these having been made debtors for “slop” goods, and for liquor supplied to them at the rate of twenty shillings a bottle, felt themselves on the wrong side of the law for showing airs, having no money to pay off the score, besides present thirst making them like very Esaus, they gladly for the sake of two bottles more agreed to the terms he now imposed on them. These bottles were soon drained dry as the others, on which the yet unsatisfied began to quarrel among themselves. One sang while the dispute was going on, and another, too drunk to stand, sat on the floor reciting doggerel verse, which he appeared to make as he went on, every now and again stopping to say that he was Fraser of Kilbarchan, and that everybody knew him . . .
After the shearing had been fairly commenced, I was much attracted by the appearance of two new-comers, who, during the rudely animated discussion in the hut, sat quietly smoking their pipes, seldom joining in with more than a chance comment, or a brief reply when asked to verify any assertion, more than usually extraordinary. The undisguised and avowed rascality of many of the others required but little study to understand, but those silent ones – hard-featured, sullen, with eyes ever stealing searching glances at the speakers – seemed undefinable. In the others, a kindly trait would now and again flash out in their outspoken lawlessness, but in these there seemed ever a dark spirit of evil brooding, all the more terrible because unknown . . .
I left the slaughter yard on the second morning after receiving the information, and, carrying only a pair of blankets, and a cook pot, with a little bread and tea, started for Ballarat, there to take the coach for Geelong, thence to Melbourne by the steamer, being much too impatient to think of walking all the way, though my pay of thirty shillings a week with rations, could ill afford the expense. My mind running so much on home during my journey down, I looked with somewhat modified impressions on the scenes traversed; they had no longer novelty to recommend them, and I found myself contrasting them with those of the old country. I thought of the old hawthorn hedges there, of the quiet little villages, where, to the passer by peace and contentment seem to find a home, and where perhaps, when the children were at school, few were to be seen – an ivy-covered spire, rearing its modest head above the thatched roofs near, with a little graveyard, hallowed to the villagers as the resting place of their dead – every nook and corner associated with some story of the past, almost every house intimately connected with the memories of preceding generations – green lanes and shady walks, where the 80’s in their feeble rambles find the young following in their early footprints with just such blushing tales of confidence and love, and just such simple-hearted hopefulness, as they can remember of themselves: whereas here, everything in which man has a hand seems new, and hardly finished, the spell of paint and fresh split timber predominant through all, with occasionally a scent upon the air of green-wood fires. Little for the old world superstition yet to fix upon outside of the mind; the few hillocks that have begun to dot a corner of the township must be multiplied – familiar voices must first be missed, and memory dwell upon the bygone years in which they were accustomed to be heard – the living must feel themselves walking near the dead – before those old home impressions about things unseen, that make men grave and uneasy, they know not exactly how, can renew their troubling influence in dreams and times of loneliness. Without local tradition to establish mental sympathy with the place, and with people of strange dialects and tongues gathering around, the heart may miss much of its accustomed comfort, but there is work to be done, and good reward for it, and while that is being realised, old habits modify, friendships and local interests arise, so that gradually the place becomes to all intents a lasting home.
The Diggings, the Bush, and Melbourne, or, Reminiscences of Three Years’
Wanderings in Victoria, G.D. Mackellar, Glasgow, 1864