Wayside Sketches in Tasmania

In Short

This travelogue is an evocative, geologically minded tour of Tasmania’s North East Coast during the late 19th century. Guiding the reader from the desolate sheep runs of "the Corners" to the lush tin-mining districts of Weldborough, the narrative blends picturesque observation with scientific inquiry. It functions as both a guidebook for the adventurous tourist and a meditation on the island's paradoxical landscape. The work has endured because it captures a fleeting moment of colonial development, documenting the tension between untamed natural majesty and the encroaching influence of industry, settlement, and classical nomenclature.

The Story

The journey begins at the Corners, a place described as the most monotonous spot on earth, characterized by its dismal sheep runs and a weary hotel. The traveler’s relief is palpable as they exchange the railway for a four-wheeled conveyance, embarking on a route that leads toward the majestic North East Coast. Through the rolling hills and river valleys of the South Esk, the landscape shifts from pastoral grazing lands to mountainous, mineral-rich terrain. Along the way, the narrative pauses to consider the historical and geological layers of the region: the "dogleg" fences reflecting early colonial life, the haunted ruins of Grenbers House, and the faded excitement of the Fingal gold rush.

As the route progresses into "Saintdom"—a region named by colonists with a penchant for religious geography—the scenery grows increasingly dramatic. The traveler passes the impressive Ben Lomond, with its summit of volcanic diorite, and enters the Break o' Day valley. Here, the narrative contrasts the beauty of the landscape with the reality of land monopolization by woolgrowers. The journey reaches its emotional and aesthetic peak at St. Mary’s Pass, an engineering marvel carved into the mountainside. The descent through this "yawning gulf" provides a sensory overload, where the traveler must reconcile the terror of the precipice with the intoxicating scent of wattle blossoms and the distant, hollow roar of the ocean.

Upon reaching the coast at Falmouth, the focus shifts to the saltwater lagoons and the remnants of early seafaring life. Crossing the Styx—a humorous nod to mythology given the muddy transit—the traveler encounters the coastal ecosystem, from the abundant molluscs on the beach to the shy native hens darting through the grass. The journey concludes at George’s Bay and St. Helens, where the climate is described as the finest in the colony. The final leg of the trek pushes inland toward Gould’s Country and Thomas Plain, where the industrial reality of tin mining takes center stage. The narrative moves from the "picturesque" beauty of coastal inlets to the "awfully grand" and challenging terrain of the mining tracks, where the dense, sunless vegetation and the mud-caked pack-tracks illustrate the physical difficulty of taming the interior. The story ends not with a final destination, but with a broader invitation to explore a land that remains, despite all human endeavor, defined by its geological antiquity and wild, verdant resilience.

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins The narrative opens at a desolate railway hub, establishing a sharp contrast between the dreary, interior plains and the promise of the scenic North East. The traveler secures a seat in a coach, marking the transition from industrial transit to the intimate, rhythmic pace of the road.

A transition through Saintdom The route traverses river valleys and hillsides laden with gold-bearing quartz, while mocking the colonists’ habit of imposing religious names upon the landscape. The narrative lingers on the geological story of these mountains, noting how ancient riverbeds now sit high above the current water line.

The ascent of St. Mary’s Pass The journey hits a crescendo as the coach navigates a treacherous, narrow mountain road that serves as a gateway to the coast. This section highlights the engineering labor required to traverse such steep, timbered chasms, offering a vivid portrait of the "sublime" experience.

Reaching the coast The traveler arrives at the ocean’s edge, where the scenery shifts to sandy plateaus, saltwater lagoons, and the sounds of the surf. The narrative focuses on the marine life and the peculiar, paradoxical nature of the coastal environment.

The mining interior The final beats move inland toward the tin-rich regions of Gould’s Country and Thomas Plain. The narrative concludes by detailing the rugged, often muddy conditions of the mining tracks and the wild beauty of the granite-strewn wilderness.

The People

The narrative is driven less by individual character arcs and more by the interaction between the traveler and the "genial" driver, George Avery. George serves as the human constant; he is the "Jehu" of the coach, a man who knows every turn of the road, the habits of the local birds, and the precise moment when a passenger will recoil from the dizzying heights of the Pass. He is a guide who holds the reins with a mix of professional pride and a knowing smile, representing the practical, unflappable spirit of the colonial settler.

In contrast, the landscape is populated by historical figures and contemporary landowners who loom over the narrative. Individuals like the late Mr. Steiglitz are remembered for their architectural vanity, leaving behind grand structures like Killymoon to remind the traveler of medieval tastes transported to a remote antipodean setting. Meanwhile, figures like the woolgrowers and the tin miners represent a different class of person—those who hold the "key" to the locked wealth of the earth. These people are often defined by their relationship to the land: some are "infected" by the dreariness of the sheep runs, while others are the silent laborers in the "sepulchral gloom" of the tin mines. Ultimately, the people in this account are transitory, passing through a geography that possesses a much older, more formidable character than any settler could claim.

In Its Own Voice

It is very questionable if such another dreary, monotonous spot exists on the face of the earth as the Corners.

The book opens by establishing a low baseline for the landscape, emphasizing the starkness of the interior sheep country before the beauty of the coast is revealed.

Down—down—down, sweeps the terrible gulf. Higher—higher—higher, ascend the tree-crowned heights, and looking from the road, the traveller feels it would be possible to shoot a bird on the opposite side.

The author captures the vertigo of the St. Mary’s Pass, illustrating how the dense, vertical geography of the island forces the traveler to confront the scale of the wilderness.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book explores the tension between scientific curiosity and the romantic impulse. It is an argument for the intellectual depth of Tasmania, suggesting that the landscape cannot be understood merely by looking at its surface. The text constantly pivots between the "Arcadian" beauty of the scenery and the "cosmical" history revealed by geology. It asks how a settler society reconciles itself with a land that is both incredibly rich in minerals and physically resistant to human travel. The underlying question is whether the land is a resource to be mined or a masterpiece to be observed, and the author suggests that the most rewarding way to exist in Tasmania is to do both—to admire the "aeolian harps" of the trees while acknowledging the "erratic" history of the soil beneath one’s feet.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate the mid-Victorian tradition of the "gentleman naturalist"—that specific blend of poetic observation and rigorous scientific notation—will find much to admire here. There is a distinct pleasure in the author’s voice, which is both erudite and refreshingly unpretentious. The book feels like a long, steady walk through a landscape that has largely vanished, preserved now only in these precise, evocative descriptions of fern-draped ravines and coastal lagoons.

However, modern readers should be prepared for the period-specific attitudes embedded in the text. The author’s colonial perspective is evident, particularly in his casual remarks on the "appropriateness" of European naming conventions and his preoccupation with the economic potential of the land. The prose can be dense with geological jargon, and the author’s habit of assigning classical names to every creek and hill may strike some as a relic of a displaced culture. Yet, for those interested in the history of travel writing or the specific ecology of the Tasmanian North East, the reward lies in the vivid, sensory detail. The descriptions of the St. Mary’s Pass, in particular, remain hauntingly beautiful, capturing a visceral sense of place that transcends the author's own time. It is a book for the slow reader, one who wishes to sit in the passenger seat of a coach and watch a wild, rugged island unfold one mile at a time.