Five Years Under the Southern Cross: Experiences and Impressions. Frederic C. Spurr
cast over us by the eternal silence of the unending forest. It is all so primitive, so simple, is life in the bush. We pass the pillar post-box—a kerosene tin affixed to a tree. Now and again we cross a solitary railway line, over which trains run twice a week. The notice, “Look out for the trains,” seems to be the quintessence of humour; one might wait during half a week before a train appeared on this bush railway. One strange notice smites us with a smart stroke. It runs thus: “Twenty Miles to York.” So there is a York here; the newest York of all! These notices, natural enough to the inhabitants, seem bizarre to us. “Twenty miles to York.” Ah, then! in an hour’s time this flight through the bush will turn out to have been a curious dream, and we shall be gazing upon the towers of the Minster! … Some of the houses we pass are incarnate poems. Built of wood and surrounded with ample balconies, they are festooned with masses of roses, buried, in fact, beneath the bloom of a thousand flowers. In the gardens surrounding these houses grow oranges, lemons, and palms in profusion, together with fruit and vegetables of every description. Already in this early springtime—corresponding in time to an English April—peas and beans are nearly ready for gathering.
But the wild flowers! We stop the car and penetrate into the bush to gather handfuls of the most wonderful wild flowers I have ever seen. The flora is unique both in colouring and in fantastic shapes. Some of these wild flowers are not found in any other part of the world. We are here at the precise season for beholding this display at its very best. The air is heavy with a strange and subtle perfume. The exquisite and unique scent of the boronia dominates all, while the fainter perfume of the golden wattle insinuates itself, despite its proximity to the heavily scented boronia. In an hour we have gathered an armful of flowers representing every tint known to nature. Above them all stands out, first, “the kangaroo’s paw,” surely one of the oddest productions of the magician Nature. A long, slender stalk, measuring one or two feet in length, and terminating in a flower resembling the outspread paw of the kangaroo—that is the “kangaroo’s paw.” Sometimes the colour is green and scarlet, sometimes black, sometimes purple, orange or red. It is the assertive flower of the forest: the flower one cannot fail to notice. And then, think of it, O Englishmen who gaze in rapture at delicate and expensive orchids; amongst the wild flowers of Western Australia grows the orchid—the orchid grows wild here! A member of our party once gathered in one afternoon no less than fourteen varieties of the wild orchid. One sees here, growing in a perfectly wild state, flowers and plants which are highly treasured in hot-houses “at home,” and for which high prices are gladly paid. But it must be remembered that Western Australia is one gigantic, natural hot-house.
And now we have reached the weir at Mundaring. Here, situated in the midst of magnificent scenery, is the immense artificial reservoir, with its capacity for 4,600 million gallons of water. This enormous tank collects all the water of the district. From here it is pumped through a steel conduit by a series of eight pumping installations to the main distributing reservoir, 308 miles away; then by gravitation it descends to the two great goldfields at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie. The engine plant is said to be the finest in the world. Of course, it was constructed in Great Britain. The entire cost of the scheme was £3,300,000, an enormous sum of money for fewer than 300,000 people to find for supplying water to two cities and the towns en route. The whole work was planned and consummated in five years. It ended in conferring a boon upon the people—or some of them—and in bringing tragedy to the chief engineer, who, worried beyond endurance with the criticisms passed upon his work, committed suicide.
We were happy in being able to see the reservoir when it overflowed with water, the surplus passing over the weir in a long, graceful sheet, thus joining the water of the river below. This living blind, incessantly being drawn down, dancing as it fell, offered a spectacle of rare beauty. Western Australia has good reason to be proud of its achievement in constructing this admirable piece of hydraulic engineering. It stands quite unique in the history of the world. Nothing else of a similar nature is on such a great scale.
The experiment has been successful, and it has pointed out the way in which one of the greatest difficulties in a desert country may be overcome. Sufficient water falls in the course of the year for all purposes. Hitherto it has run to waste, lacking a proper system of conservation and distribution. A great and generous increase of population would result in the extension of this system, so that what was formerly regarded as unredeemable land might become rich and productive country. For the natural wealth of the country is almost illimitable.
Thus the miracle. Now for the prediction.
What will be the future of the great Golden West—that immense area of nearly one million square miles which comprises Western Australia? The question is inevitable, and it is of surpassing interest, not only to Australia, but to the entire Empire. A study of the map should convince any reasonable person that this “front door to Australia” is of no ordinary importance in the plan of Empire development. Vast coloured populations lie almost at this door. Facing the north and north-west are the millions of Java and Borneo and the islands, while India is but ten days’ steaming from the port of Fremantle. Beyond, in the north, lie four hundred millions of Chinese. With a discontented India, an awakening China, an overcrowded and ambitious Japan—all near at hand—the question, What will be the future of the Golden West? assumes a new and serious importance.
Let us consider the land to begin with. It is the “giant of the Australian States,” containing the vastest area and the smallest population (I am not including Tasmania). Until recently it has been largely neglected by the other States and by the rest of the world. For many years it lay stagnant, until the gold boom brought it into prominence. That immense “desert” which lies between Perth and Port Augusta has acted as a barrier between the inhabitants of Western Australia and those of other States. The coming of the railway, however, will change all that.
The future of the country, commercially, may be deduced from the story of the past. During the last few years what was practically a desert has become a garden. A mere handful of people have wrought the change. Silently, and without advertisement, plough and drill have been at work with amazing results. During the last twenty-two years—from 1890 to 1912—the population has grown from 46,290 to 304,627. When every allowance has been made for immigration and emigration—for the ebb and flow have been continuous—the natural growth in the way of births has been excellent and above the average. Yet the total population at present is ridiculous for so vast a territory. In the United Kingdom there are 370 persons to the square mile; in Western Australia there is one person to three square miles. It is evident that a great increase of population must take place before it is necessary to speak of overcrowding! This small population has really accomplished wonderful things. It has created a number of industries, all of which are capable of almost indefinite extension. It has cleared thousands of acres of “scrub,” and converted them into orchards and wheatfields. It has carried through, at a cost of over three millions sterling, one of the most successful schemes for pumping water. It has built a harbour at Fremantle at a cost of a million pounds. It has erected some noble buildings. It has established a splendid system of education. It is obvious that for such enterprises to have been conceived and consummated the natural wealth of the country is enormous. The people bear a heavy taxation with great cheerfulness. They can well afford it, and withal, as is shown by the figures I have previously cited, they are very thrifty, in the aggregate having saved some millions of money.
The total revenue of the State for the year 1890—the year before the gold boom—was £414,314. In 1912 it was £3,966,674.
The past achievements are a prophecy of future success. Professor Lowrie prepared two years ago certain estimates of the agricultural possibilities of the south-western part of the State. He predicted that in two decades the yield of wheat could be easily three times what it is at present; the yield of barley four times as much; the yield of oats seventy times as much; the yield of fruit fifteen times as much; the yield of potatoes twenty times as much; and the yield of dairy produce fourteen times as much; while sheep could be increased by 100 per cent. And this, remember, is an estimate for one part only of the State.
In the north-eastern part of the State the climate is tropical. It is capable of bearing an enormous amount of stock and timber, while almost any kind of luxurious vegetation can flourish under the generous heat of the sun.