Navvies, Newlyweds and the Goldfields Dream

North Country Notes
by Pharisee

Since the advent of the navvies with the Malcolm-Leonora railway construction, the Malcolm hash houses have received a severe shaking up. Formerly it was only possible to get a square feed if – like Oliver Twist — a man possessed the grit to ask for more. The provender was dealt out in so so niggardly a fashion, that Malcolm hash house patrons always considered themselves well qualified to compete in fasting contests. But no qualms of delicacy affect the navvy, who racks the feelings of the carving genius at the pigeon-hole by backing up with a persistency deadly in its malignity.

” Bli-me,” howls the slinger of food, when the pick and shovel artists depart, “they’ll eat me out of ‘ouse and ‘ome.

That long galoot with the ginger mo backed up for ‘koker-nut puddin’ three times, and the fat bloke with the bowyangs got away with seven spuds, seven I tell you” The unfortunate man is evidently having a bad time, and sighs for a return of the good old days when ravenous travellers paid three shillings for the smell of an oil-rag, and made no insulting allusions.

However, no event of recent years threw Leonora into a wilder state of excitement than Editor Barker’s wedding. He is such an austere, level-headed sort of a fellow that we, who had been accustomed to look upon him with a certain degree of awe, were completely knocked back by his sudden dive into the ‘Whirlpool of Matrimony’, After receiving a ponderous exhortation from J. J. Willyums (Snorky Bill’s friend) at the wedding feast, and in receipt of a lot of trinkets and silver-ware, the wedded pair departed to spend their honeymoon in the nearby and delightful and picturesque city of Malcolm, where imaginative sports conjure up kangaroos and other weird things, and keep up the farce by careering around the country on horseback trying to catch the creatures. According to the Chronicle, a recent effort of the social hunt club resulted in the slaughter of one or two marsupials, but no one saw the scalps as proof. Further comment is unnecessary.

When Governor Lawley visited Morgans, the plats and main levels of the Westralia were whitewashed in honour of the occasion, and a long streak of the composition still connects mine and town to commemorate the historic visit. Raleigh spread his costly cloak for a famous queen to walk upon, but the soulful denizens of Morgans degenerated into whitewash. Morgans is the ideal out-back town, possessing a sociable, easy-going population who would sooner die than imbibe soft-stuff. All hopes, of course, are centred upon the stability of the “Westralia”, which is, without a doubt, one of the finest concerns on the fields. Its up-to-date plant is yet slightly ahead of the development, but sinking from the 300ft level is proceeding apace. Quite recently the rock-drills were brought into the mine to break up sulphides, there being no necessity for them in the soft oxidised ores. Down to the 600ft the mine is fully lit with electricity, and the plant also generates the light for the town. It will be some considerable time before the mine is thoroughly opened out. So far the lode, which is of an in and out-nature, has proved to be of great dimensions, in places showing a width of 40 or 50 feet. Everywhere, there is evidence of capable, cost-saving management.

Close by, ‘The Guest’, though a continuation of the Westralia, has up to the present proved a complete disappointment. There has been too much spent on surface fixings, and previous managers have been satisfied to grope about in a wild, stabbing fashion at a shallow depth. Several brick tenements have been erected on the surface for the accommodation of luxurious persons, who probably did not know the difference between a whip-pole and a winze, yet know enough to raise working capital as a means to make life bearable in the back-blocks. If the money spent on large brick houses had been put into the mine, she would, very likely, have reached a greater depth than 180ft, and the discovery of some of the Westralia’s chutes of gold might have been chronicled. Now the Guest is under exemption to obtain funds for deep sinking.

The poppet-heads and mining machinery necessary to the mine bear a very sorry appearance compared with the expensive residential establishment close by. Further along the range of broken ironstone country, the ‘Millionaire’ is the next mine of any consequence, her last crushing yielding about 27dwts, 16 from battery and 9dwts. from treatment of tailings. About 30 men are employed, but there is considerable talk of soon conducting work on a large scale. The youthful manager, who looks more like a tennis expert, is too dull to be communicative and was a sealed oyster on matters relating to his mine.

His yawn is a fearful exhibition of tired weariness.

Before an interview with him, I found him deeply embedded in the intricacies of a book ‘Deadwood Dick’ and only after a painful effort could he tear himself away. At the conclusion of a wordy conflict with his blacksmith, lately, he informed that flabbergasted individual that he was no gentleman, and haughtily stalked away to the seclusion of his office to solace his wounded feelings with some more fictional atrocities. The Millionaire is still in the whip-pole stage.
Judging by the number of churches in Morgans, the thirsty souls are evidently much in need of spiritual consolation. On Sunday nights, dismal wails of saintly portent strike the sweltering atmosphere. At the corner of Byrne’s pub, a solitary Salvation Army lass is engaged in the desperate task of dragging somnolent soakers to the fountain of faith. Her pathetic pleadings to come and get washed for the Lord awakened no response from obdurate drinkers. If evidence of religion is everywhere manifest, it is also unconventional, and the members of one congregation do not go into hysterics when they discover their beloved pastor enjoying a pipe of the fragrant weed after the ordeal of service. While an attentive listener to his impressive discourse, some time ago, I thought that probably his indulgence in the weakness of humanity rendered him better fitted to appeal to whatever was worthy in the members of his fold than all the saintly utterances of the smug charlatan who preaches Christianity by thundering at the weaknesses to which he is prone.

Every man you meet has a sort of hazy idea that by going out Burtville way, rich shows are to be picked up without much trouble and wealth is the inevitable consequence. “A good ‘poor man’s field’ is the prevailing impression. There is no doubt concerning its patchy richness, but the veins are so excessively small that it sometimes takes about six months to get a ten-ton crushing. Three or four inches covers the average width of Burtville’s alleged reefs. By the time the prospector is ready to crush, he is so deeply in debt that he seldom troubles to look after the results. There is no fear of doing a bolt and slipping up the storekeeper or the shantykeeper, because those alert persons have received timely information and are watching the clean-up with hawk-eyed ferocity. Should anything remain to the hopeless delver to reward his laborious toil, his sickening sense of failure clouds over him like a pall,

and he again drowns his sorrow at the shrine of the out-back grog fiend.

Thus he lives at Burtville from crushing to crushing, always hard up, his dreams of wealth fast fading away. During the three years of work done, only about 1000 tons have been put through the public battery.