<p>END OF BOOK THE FIRST <SPAN name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"></SPAN></p>
<h2> BOOK II.—MACQUARIE HARBOUR. 1833. </h2>
<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></SPAN></p>
<h2> CHAPTER I. THE TOPOGRAPHY OF VAN DIEMEN'S LAND. </h2>
<p>The south-east coast of Van Diemen's Land, from the solitary Mewstone to
the basaltic cliffs of Tasman's Head, from Tasman's Head to Cape Pillar,
and from Cape Pillar to the rugged grandeur of Pirates' Bay, resembles a
biscuit at which rats have been nibbling. Eaten away by the continual
action of the ocean which, pouring round by east and west, has divided the
peninsula from the mainland of the Australasian continent—and done
for Van Diemen's Land what it has done for the Isle of Wight—the
shore line is broken and ragged. Viewed upon the map, the fantastic
fragments of island and promontory which lie scattered between the
South-West Cape and the greater Swan Port, are like the curious forms
assumed by melted lead spilt into water. If the supposition were not too
extravagant, one might imagine that when the Australian continent was
fused, a careless giant upset the crucible, and spilt Van Diemen's land in
the ocean. The coast navigation is as dangerous as that of the
Mediterranean. Passing from Cape Bougainville to the east of Maria Island,
and between the numerous rocks and shoals which lie beneath the triple
height of the Three Thumbs, the mariner is suddenly checked by Tasman's
Peninsula, hanging, like a huge double-dropped ear-ring, from the
mainland. Getting round under the Pillar rock through Storm Bay to Storing
Island, we sight the Italy of this miniature Adriatic. Between Hobart Town
and Sorrell, Pittwater and the Derwent, a strangely-shaped point of land—the
Italian boot with its toe bent upwards—projects into the bay, and,
separated from this projection by a narrow channel, dotted with rocks, the
long length of Bruny Island makes, between its western side and the cliffs
of Mount Royal, the dangerous passage known as D'Entrecasteaux Channel. At
the southern entrance of D'Entrecasteaux Channel, a line of sunken rocks,
known by the generic name of the Actaeon reef, attests that Bruny Head was
once joined with the shores of Recherche Bay; while, from the South Cape
to the jaws of Macquarie Harbour, the white water caused by sunken reefs,
or the jagged peaks of single rocks abruptly rising in mid sea, warn the
mariner off shore.</p>
<p>It would seem as though nature, jealous of the beauties of her silver
Derwent, had made the approach to it as dangerous as possible; but once
through the archipelago of D'Entrecasteaux Channel, or the less dangerous
eastern passage of Storm Bay, the voyage up the river is delightful. From
the sentinel solitude of the Iron Pot to the smiling banks of New Norfolk,
the river winds in a succession of reaches, narrowing to a deep channel
cleft between rugged and towering cliffs. A line drawn due north from the
source of the Derwent would strike another river winding out from the
northern part of the island, as the Derwent winds out from the south. The
force of the waves, expended, perhaps, in destroying the isthmus which,
two thousand years ago, probably connected Van Diemen's Land with the
continent has been here less violent. The rounding currents of the
Southern Ocean, meeting at the mouth of the Tamar, have rushed upwards
over the isthmus they have devoured, and pouring against the south coast
of Victoria, have excavated there that inland sea called Port Philip Bay.
If the waves have gnawed the south coast of Van Diemen's Land, they have
bitten a mouthful out of the south coast of Victoria. The Bay is a
millpool, having an area of nine hundred square miles, with a race between
the heads two miles across.</p>
<p>About a hundred and seventy miles to the south of this mill-race lies Van
Diemen's Land, fertile, fair, and rich, rained upon by the genial showers
from the clouds which, attracted by the Frenchman's Cap, Wyld's Crag, or
the lofty peaks of the Wellington and Dromedary range, pour down upon the
sheltered valleys their fertilizing streams. No parching hot wind—the
scavenger, if the torment, of the continent—blows upon her crops and
corn. The cool south breeze ripples gently the blue waters of the Derwent,
and fans the curtains of the open windows of the city which nestles in the
broad shadow of Mount Wellington. The hot wind, born amid the burning sand
of the interior of the vast Australian continent, sweeps over the scorched
and cracking plains, to lick up their streams and wither the herbage in
its path, until it meets the waters of the great south bay; but in its
passage across the straits it is reft of its fire, and sinks, exhausted
with its journey, at the feet of the terraced slopes of Launceston.</p>
<p>The climate of Van Diemen's Land is one of the loveliest in the world.
Launceston is warm, sheltered, and moist; and Hobart Town, protected by
Bruny Island and its archipelago of D'Entrecasteaux Channel and Storm Bay
from the violence of the southern breakers, preserves the mean temperature
of Smyrna; whilst the district between these two towns spreads in a
succession of beautiful valleys, through which glide clear and sparkling
streams. But on the western coast, from the steeple-rocks of Cape Grim to
the scrub-encircled barrenness of Sandy Cape, and the frowning entrance to
Macquarie Harbour, the nature of the country entirely changes. Along that
iron-bound shore, from Pyramid Island and the forest-backed solitude of
Rocky Point, to the great Ram Head, and the straggling harbour of Port
Davey, all is bleak and cheerless. Upon that dreary beach the rollers of
the southern sea complete their circuit of the globe, and the storm that
has devastated the Cape, and united in its eastern course with the icy
blasts which sweep northward from the unknown terrors of the southern
pole, crashes unchecked upon the Huon pine forests, and lashes with rain
the grim front of Mount Direction. Furious gales and sudden tempests
affright the natives of the coast. Navigation is dangerous, and the
entrance to the "Hell's Gates" of Macquarie Harbour—at the time of
which we are writing (1833), in the height of its ill-fame as a convict
settlement—is only to be attempted in calm weather. The sea-line is
marked with wrecks. The sunken rocks are dismally named after the vessels
they have destroyed. The air is chill and moist, the soil prolific only in
prickly undergrowth and noxious weeds, while foetid exhalations from swamp
and fen cling close to the humid, spongy ground. All around breathes
desolation; on the face of nature is stamped a perpetual frown. The
shipwrecked sailor, crawling painfully to the summit of basalt cliffs, or
the ironed convict, dragging his tree trunk to the edge of some beetling
plateau, looks down upon a sea of fog, through which rise mountain-tops
like islands; or sees through the biting sleet a desert of scrub and crag
rolling to the feet of Mount Heemskirk and Mount Zeehan—crouched
like two sentinel lions keeping watch over the seaboard.</p>
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