CHAPTER XVIIIAMONGST THE ABORIGINES
Whenthe first settlers came to Australia they found in possession of the country a black population, representing a humanity low down in the scale. The native population was never in reality so large as many persons have imagined. It is difficult to arrive at exact figures, because in the north there are still large numbers of natives living in a state of practical savagery. These roam about at their will. Where the white man has penetrated, however, the black has gradually receded. When the black adopts “civilised” ways, his already precarious existence becomes yet more precarious. Affecting the white man’s vices—the first thing he naturally copies—he speedily runs down the hill and passes off the scene. The native population is being gradually but surely wiped out.
In less than five decades the number of aborigines has been reduced from 1,694 to 652, and this in the State of Victoria alone. At the census of 1901 there were found only 271 natives of pure blood in the State, and 381 of half-castes. At the census of 1911 it was found that the figures had fallen to 196. If in fifty years the decrease in population has been somarked and so startling, it requires no prophetic gift to foretell the speedy extinction of the Australian native. A few more years and not a black will be left. That terrible law of the survival of the fittest will again have asserted itself. When, therefore, the opportunity presented itself to me to see one of the three native settlements still left in Victoria, of course I immediately availed myself of it.
Two hours’ steady climbing on the railway brings one to Healesville. And four miles from Healesville lies Coranderrk, a Government settlement for the aborigines. Quite off the road lies the colony of seventy men and women. There is no indication of its existence other than what is supplied by a fingerpost, which signifies nothing to anyone who does not know what lies behind the name Coranderrk. But the site is ideal for a retired residence. It lies in the centre of a vast amphitheatre of hills, and day and night a profound silence envelops the colony. Never a sound from the outside world penetrates the solitude. The quietness is that of a mausoleum. The race that inhabits it is slowly dying; what more fitting as an accompaniment of death than the solemn stillness which already heralds the eternal stillness of the tomb?
There is more than a suggestion of the American South in this colony. The old men and women, dressed in an odd mixture of British costumes, might well be the originals of some of the characters in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Black skins, grisly hair, and light-coloured garments form a curious compound.There is no fashion, no symmetry in any of the garments. Slouch hats of the Wild West, straw hats of Bond Street, and old billycock hats make up the male headgear; while various coloured vests, trousers, coats, and cravats complete the attire.
The log cabins, some twenty in all, which are scattered over the settlement, complete the illusion that, after all, we are in the American South, amongst the negro population. The one dash of modernity is supplied by one or two mulattos—girls—who, clad in becoming white garments, present a really attractive picture. These girls treated us to a little service of song in the humble meeting-house which is the head-quarters of the mission propaganda in the colony. For all these folk understand English—the younger generation nothing but English—and they all attend church. They are docile and happy, save for an occasional row, in which the original vernacular is used with freedom and emphasis. It was touching to hear these girls of the second generation sing simple Sankey hymns, and to reflect that the day must inevitably come when on this Government estate of 2,400 acres there would be no such songs sung by native lips. The younger people marry, and children are born; but the race is surely dying off. Some mixed marriages occur, and the offspring of these are half-castes, who are as little welcomed in the schools as the pure-blooded native children. One of them pathetically remarked to me that they were shunned by the white children. The colour line is as marked here as in America.
From the point of view of attractiveness the colony has much to recommend it. Pasture land surrounds the houses, and most of the natives keep their own cows. Everything, of course, is exceedingly simple, and it is the simplicity that attracts. Laundry work is done out of doors in a primitive manner. We found one buxom young lady seated lazily by the side of a tub in which her clothes lay soaking. She stretched forth her hands and rubbed her clothes in a style that suggested that any day next week would do to finish them. In a little natural basin on the slope of the hill the water of a rivulet had been collected into a large bath or reservoir, and the youngsters congregated about in a way that showed that they had not lost the instincts of their fathers for water gymnastics. One very modern touch appeared in the shape of three irregular pieces of wood arranged as cricket stumps. It was a species of cricket one might without difficulty have imagined prehistoric man to have played at. For bat, the youth of Coranderrk employed part of a boomerang.
That word reminds me of the remarkably clever display given to us by the natives of boomerang throwing. The boomerang is an innocent-looking weapon which the ignorant would never suspect could be applied to dangerous work. In appearance it resembles a rude Tee-square, and each side is about a foot long. Thrown by an ignorant Briton like myself the weapon merely careers along the ground for a space of thirty or forty feet and nothing further happens, save the ironical laughter of the natives,who receive a demonstration that even a Briton does not know everything. But when the native throws it, the weapon accomplishes wonders. It suddenly becomes alive. It defies all general laws. The black sends the wood from him in a straight direction, but lo! it whistles and sings and describes circles in the air like a bird, and then suddenly descends to the earth in a vertical direction, landing at the very place from which it was projected. When we saw how easily the thing was done, we all caught the fever and became boomerang throwers. Lawyer, doctor, parson, and merchant stood in the field and went back in an instant to the primitive hunting ways of the savage. The boomerang is an ugly instrument to play with, however. After a flight of thirty seconds, during which it gains momentum, it descends like lightning, sometimes where it is not wanted. The doctor threw his boomerang with such precision that it returned twice and struck him violently on the hand—the hand that had thrown it. If boomerang throwing were introduced into England it would become a perfect craze. It would completely eclipse the diabolo craze. But then it would be necessary to increase the number of surgeons and ambulance men, for a blow from a boomerang might inflict serious damage.
Another native custom was shown to us, and proved to be most fascinating. It was the art of the fire-stick. Here, under our eyes, was exposed the primitive way of obtaining fire. The apparatus looked most unpromising. It consisted of a piece ofsoft wood about a foot long and six inches wide, a piece of dry fibre, and a short, narrow cane made of hard wood. Placing the cane between the palms of his two hands, the operator swiftly turned it into the soft wood beneath with a friction so powerful that the cane pierced the wood, causing it to smoke. The air, blowing through the hole thus made, fanned the spark which, falling upon the dry fibre beneath, set it on fire. Thus in one minute, by simple friction, a fire equal to any kindled by a match was blazing. The process was picturesque and exciting. In that group of darkies gathered round a piece of wood, a handful of fibre, and a hard cane, we beheld primitive man engaged in the task of kindling his fire. It was, for the moment, ancient history incarnate. And when it was over, a member of our party, drawing forth a box of vestas, remarked, “Good old Bryant and May.” He remembered his mercies, and was thankful.
The one pathetic scene of the afternoon’s visit was our encounter with the “King” of the natives. From the distance we observed a venerable figure approaching. As he came nearer we perceived a brass plate suspended by a chain around his neck. The apparition resembled, for all the world, afacchinoof an Italian railway station—brass plate and all. Inscribed upon the tablet was this legend:
Anthony Anderson,King of Birchup.
And this was the deposed chief of the district, vanquishedby the white man, chased out of his patrimony, and reduced to the proportions of an exile! I could not discover the native name of the ancient chief; it was certainlynotAnthony Anderson. Nor could I discover why he had assumed the name of Anderson. He was a truly pathetic figure. Skin black as coal, his hair and beard were nearly white. The odd costume he affected served only to set off the antiquity of his own person. An ancient pair of light trousers, no longer white; a begreased coat; a flaming red tie with the flame expiring, and a shapeless billycock hat dyed through and through with grease—such was his dress. The old man wept as he told us that all the friends of his youth were dead: he alone was left. Once, in the long ago, he was an agile chief, master of all that great stretch of property around the hills. But the white man came, and his reign was over. All that remains to him is a memory of the past, and a quiet asylum for the few remaining months or years of his life. The king wept as he recited his story, and then—bathos! he asked for apourboire—and got it. But, then,allkings get their “tips,” some in one way, some in another. And Anthony Anderson, King of Birchup, was primitive in his manner of asking—that is all.