Читать книгу The City of Sydney (John Arthur Barry) - fully illustrated - (Literary Thoughts Edition) - John Arthur Barry - Страница 5

FOR many years Sydney does not appear to have made much headway. Even in 1816-17 Woolloomooloo was a dense scrub, in which it was very easy to get bushed, whilst tea (sometimes wrongly called ti) tree grew freely throughout the city in streets and open places. Thatched houses and mud huts formed the majority of the buildings. Where the Town Hall now stands was a public cemetery, although not the earliest, for a burying-ground had been earlier made further north; the Cathedral grounds of to-day were a favourite camp for drovers and cattle dealers; and everywhere roamed the aborigine.

George-street (named after the reigning monarch) started from Dawes Point, and ran along the western side of the Cove. The only public wharf was that already referred to, and known as King’s. There, all the merchandise of the colony was landed. Near the wharf, the now almost neglected Tank Stream flowed into the Cove. Houses were scarce and scattered. Where the Mariners’ Church stands there was one of the few weatherboard cottages. On the other side of the Cove were situated the Government boatsheds.

The roads were still mere bush tracks of dust or mud, according to the weather. For some inscrutable reason other, an orphanage had been built at the corner of Bridge-street. Apparently the authorities expected a prolific crop of orphans. These, however, proved so scarce that in a few years the building was abandoned, and the land subdivided, and sold. Out of this re-arrangement Queen’s Place was formed. There was a bank—the Australia—at the corner of George and Essex streets. And here took place the first Australian bank robbery. The thieves tunnelled from a drain in an adjacent paddock until they reached the strong room, and, forcing that, got away in safety with much plunder.

Where the Bank of Australia now stands were the Government stores, whence rations were served out to the convicts. Across Bridge-street the Tank Stream flowed sluggishly, spanned by its thick-set bridge of a pattern seen over country brooks in England. The origin of the word “Tank” may not be generally known. It seems that a butcher at that time had his shop in Hunter-street, and his land extended back to the stream. On one side of his property were a number of excavations, or tanks, cut out of the solid rock, and in these the soldier’s wives washed clothes. Other accounts, however, say that out of these “tanks” the town derived its water supply. The two stories, even in those days, could hardly be compatible. Probably the latter is correct.

On the site of our present General Post Office stood a small house in a fruit garden, whilst near by was a clump of detached cottages and some fenced-in paddocks. At the corner of George and Barrack streets was in 1817, a cow-yard, which fronted George-street for a considerable distance. In the cottage next to the milkman’s lived a turner, and next him stood a three-roomed public-house.

The above is a facsimile of the copper plate which was discovered in March, 1899, when excavating a telephone tunnel near the corner of Philip and Bridge streets. Collins, the contemporary historian of the First Fleet, describes the laying of the foundation of the first Government House, and relates how this plate was then deposited. Collins prints the inscription, which last year saw the light for the first time for 111 years.

The site of the old markets was enclosed by a strong four-railed fence, and here were a number of sheds for the display of produce brought in by the settlers. North of the market stood a wooden pillory, large enough to hold a couple of offenders. Prisoners sentenced to floggings were brought to this place, tied to a cart-tail, and publicly whipped in view of the crowd of marketing women.

On the site of the present Cathedral, in a “wattle and daub” cottage, lived a drover. In this cottage he was one day found dead, and, dying intestate, the property—thought little of at the time—reverted to the Crown, and eventually was secured by the Church of England authorities, to whom Governor Macquarie made a grant of it. Later, he laid the foundation stone of the present Cathedral. As one stocks would not suffice, there were, in conspicuous places about the city, four more.

As long before as 1796, Sydney’s first theatre had been opened. Certainly it could not have been much of a building, costing, as it did, only £100. The first play performed in it was Dr. Young’s tragedy, “The Revenge,” a piece long since dead and forgotten, but which, in the latter part of the 17th century, had no small reputation as a public favourite. But it is the prologue of the old play that, first mouthed in the first Australian theatre, made the occasion so memorable, and for ever rescued from oblivion the title, at least, of Young’s play. And although the passage alluded to above is one of the stock quotations of the language, it may not be out of place to here give the four famous opening lines—

“From distant climes, o’er widespread seas we come,

Though not with much eclat or beat of drum

True patriots we, for, be it understood,

We left our country for our country’s good”

The tariff of admission was not extravagant, or does not seem so to us, seeing that a seat in the gallery, the fashionable part of the house in those days cost only one shilling cash, or its equivalent in spirits, flour, meat, or other necessaries. This, however, so it is said, was not actually the first entertainment of its kind in the colony, inasmuch as a performance of Farquhar’s “The Recruiting Office,” has been traced back to June 4, 1789—the birthday of George III.—“on which date some prisoners were graciously permitted to show their loyalty to their Sovereign by acting this play”—The 1796 theatre came to a bad ending. Whether truly or not, it was said that owing to its establishment crime increased to such an extent that the Governor ordered it to be pulled down; and for some years Thespian entertainments were not heard of except as private indulgences. Authorities are divided as to the authorship of the prologue, although it has been generally attributed to the notorious convict, George Barrington. This claim is, however, strongly contested by the late Mr. Samuel Bennett, in his valuable work, “The History of New South Wales,” in which the author considers it highly probable that the lines were written by Lieutenant-Colonel Collins, and that the fathering them upon Barrington was merely by way of joke. Be this as it may, the prologue, apart from the single verse given, is an extremely clever bit of work, teeming with sly allusions to the former proclivities of the actors.

The open Haymarket space of to-day was in these years, 1817-20, occupied by the Government brickyards. Hence the Brickfield Hill of our own time. In the meantime, the site of the present Town Hall had been occupied by a public pound, which, when the ground was presently required for other purposes, was removed to that upon which the brick fields stood. Also, upon the Haymarket, was situated the first toll-bar. A paddock extended from here right through to Hay-street, whilst a creek ran out into a large pond, that took up most of Ultimo. It was known as Dickson’s Pond, and was a common resort of the citizens when they felt like going for an afternoon’s duck shooting.

There were few other streets, and these mostly nameless, besides the ones already mentioned. Bush tracks, to be made into thoroughfares later on, abounded. Before Governor Macquarie appeared on the scene, there were indeed no “streets.” The sparsely built upon and straggling ways were known as “rows.” But in Macquarie’s time these were altered. Thus “Pitt’s Row” became Pitt-street. “Soldiers’ Row” Park-street, “Back Soldiers’ Row” Kent-street, etc. Market-street was merely a boggy lane; Woolloomooloo a farm, and Hyde Park a racecourse. Tribes of blacks roamed about Botany, North Shore, and Manly, and camped around and in the infant city itself.

The Botanic Gardens, Farm Cove, and most of the bay shores and headlands were all primitive bush. On the banks of the little creek in the Gardens, then a sparkling stream, now a sluggish pond, bridged, and with its course obstructed, was a favourite corroboree-ground of the natives. The present University grounds were known as Grose’s Farm; but the other suburbs, Newtown, Marrickville, Leichhardt, Glebe and Forest Lodge, were all thick bush, with, perhaps, here and there, the small cleared patch of some enterprising settler.

The barracks lay between George, Clarence, Margaret, and Barrack streets, and are remarkable only as the scene of the first step towards Bligh’s deposition by Major Johnson, and the New South Wales Corps of notorious memory:

“The drums beat to arms; the New South Wales Corps—most of them men primed with rum—formed in the barrack square, and with fixed bayonets, colours flying, and band playing, marched to Government House, led by Johnson. The Government House guard waited to prime and load, then joined their drunken comrades, and the house was surrounded.” The rest is matter of common history.

Prominence has purposely been given to the foregoing picture of Sydney, in order, if possible, to place before the reader some idea of what changes had taken place since Phillip left it—practically a city of great distances, and but little else. In 1809 Macquarie had arrived, and, as we have seen, took to the work of improving and extending Sydney with a ready and willing mind. Grose and Hunter had done little in this way, lacking opportunity and time. The former was only in office two years; and Hunter had his hands too full with the squabblings of the New South Wales Corps to admit of leisure for much else.

His term of office though, was notable for one happening, i.e., the first civil action of any magnitude was tried in Sydney The facts are worth stating:—“A soldier of the New South Wales Corps shot a hog, belonging to a Mr. Boston, for trespass. The owner of the hog used abusive language to the soldier. At the instance, so Boston alleged, of two of his officers, the soldier beat him with a musket. For this Boston claimed £500 damages. The trial lasted two days, and the court (a military one) gave a verdict against two of the defendants, with damages 20s each. The Governor, on appeal, confirmed the verdict. Thus, as a contemporary writer gleefully observes, “Though it was sought to make the Government a sort of military despotism, yet the seeds of civil freedom were sown, and would, in due season, bud and blossom,” a prediction, as we who now read, can amply testify, thoroughly borne out.

Let us see, now what Macquarie thought of his charge. He writes in his first dispatch:

“I found the colony barely emerging from infantile imbecility, suffering from various privations and disabilities; the country impenetrable beyond forty miles from Sydney; agriculture in a yet languishing state; commerce in its early dawn; revenue unknown; threatened with famine, distracted by faction; the public buildings in a state of dilapidation; the few roads and bridges almost impassable; the population in general depressed by poverty; no credit, public, or private; the morals of the great mass of the population in the lowest state of debasement, and religious worship almost entirely neglected.”

Truly a terrible indictment this to draw up against any people! And though it was, probably, in great measure true, there is all the more credit due to our ancestors for having survived such a state of things, and made us what we are.

Nor must it be imagined that, for all the pessimistic declaration just quoted, the lieges were entirely without their pleasures and recreations. There was, for instance, racing in Hyde Park, lasting three days, and conducted after the Newmarket fashion, followed by an ordinary and two balls. The principal prize was a “Lady’s Cup,” presented to the winner by Mrs. Macquarie. “The subscribers’ ball,” says “The New South Wales Gazette,” “took place on Tuesday and Thursday night, and was honored by the presence of his Excellency the Governor and his lady, his honor the Lieutenant-Governor and his lady, the Judge Advocate and lady, the magistrates and other officers, civil and military, and all the beauty and fashion of the colony… A supper followed the ball… After the cloth was removed the rosy deity asserted his pre-eminence, and with the zealous aid of Momus and Apollo, chased pale Cynthia down into the Western World; the blazing orb of day announced his near approach, and the God of the chariot reluctantly forsook his company. Bacchus dropped his head; Momus could no longer animate.” All of which, put in modern phrase, means simply a very wet night indeed, and no one with much less than three bottles under his belt at daylight.

In the earlier days of the colony Divine service was performed in the open air, soon after sunrise, and under the most shady trees procurable. In 1793, a temporary church had been built at the back of the huts on the eastern side of the Cove, near the corner of what are now Hunter and Castlereagh streets. It was erected at the sole expense of the Rev. Mr. Johnson, already mentioned, of strong posts, wattles, and plaster, and thus enjoyed the distinction of being the first Christian Church in Australasia. In 1798 it was burnt down. Then the brick store built in the premier year of the colony was utilised as a church. The same store, which appears to have been the very first house in the colony worthy of the name, stood a little behind the site of the present Bank of Australasia.

The first part of old St. Phillips’ (since replaced by the present fine Gothic structure) to be built was the clock-tower. This was finished in 1797; but in 1806 it fell down. Formerly of brick, it was rebuilt of stone the same year. The church itself was begun in 1800; but not until nine years later did the Rev. W. Cooper officiate therein for the first time. It was finished about a year afterwards, and a handsome altar service of solid silver was presented to it by his Majesty King George III. St. Phillip’s was consecrated by the Rev. Samuel Marsden, a gentleman of varied attainments and pursuits. On the last Sunday in December, 1809, Lachlan Macquarie, not long landed, attended service at the new church.

Marsden, of whom the early chronicles have much to say, was, in addition to a clergyman, a magistrate, landowner, and stockbreeder. Thus in the very next number of the “Gazette” to the one announcing the consecration of St. Phillip’s, appears his name in conjunction with two other settlers, offering a reward of £1 sterling, or a gallon of spirits, for all skins of native dogs.

And now, 90 years later, we are still offering from £1 to £5 for dingo scalps!

With the advent of Macquarie, Sydney began to shufle off something of the squalor and dinginess of those earlier days at which we have glanced. We have seen Phillip living in his four-roomed tent; then, later, in the hut dignified by the name of “Government House,” and surrounded by tenements, to which even it was a palace; we have seen the little settlement born in much travail to the accompaniments of hunger and hardships of every description, and the clanking of chains; the miseries alike of bond and free throughout the desperate struggle for existence during years that might well have depressed the stoutest hearts, dismayed the most sanguine souls. Then came the twelve years of Macquarie’s blended rule of despotism and benevolence; clear views and narrow, stubborn ones. You have read his first dispatch sent home when the first appalling impression of Sydney and its surroundings were hot upon him. Now read what posterity has to say of him:—

“He found New South Wales a gaol, and he left it a colony; he found Sydney a village, and he left it a city; he found a population of idle prisoners, paupers, and paid officials, and he left a large, free community, thriving in the produce of flocks and the labour of convicts.”

To Macquarie’s work as a builder there will be much occasion to refer.