A TRIP TO PORT ARTHUR.

Otago Witness, Issue 2087, 22 February 1894, Page 47

A TRIP TO PORT ARTHUR.

Have you ever read Marcas Clarke's book " For r,he Term of His Natural Life " 7 If sr » you will no doubt like to accompany me on a trip to Port Arthur, where a great portion o^ the scene of the plot is laid. As I told you before,- Hobart at tbe present time is full of visitors, and this trip is organised for their special benefit, the Union Company having arranged to delay tbe s.s. Oonah until midnight in order that all who wish may be able to see the old convict settlement before they return to Sydney. But before you step on board let me ask if you are a good sailor, for if not you had better stay at home. The Oonah is a big boat, but we shall have to cross Storm Bay and pass Cape Raoul, where the eea is almobt always rough, but where the scenery is so magnificent that once seen it can never be forgotten. There are many people living in Hobart who have never been to Port Arthur, for the simple reason that they are afraid of being sick, and it is only once or twice a year that a large steamer like the Oonah makes tbe trip, so it is sure to be wellpatronised. Nine o'clock is the hour fixed for starting, and during breakfast we are mercilessly chaffed, and received no end of gratuitous advice on the choice of victuals. One suggests a pork chop, another forbids coffee, a third says egga are bilious things, and finally we are reduced to a simple meal of bread, butter, and tea, while all the time horrid tales cf former trips to Port Arthur are dinned into our ears. It is a quarter to 9, but the steamer is already crowded. "We shall never get a seat," we whisper in despair. " Ab, here you are at last," says a friendly voice close by; "I thought you were never coming. I've had the work of tbe world to keep seats for you," and our good-natured friend, who has been epreaoiDg out her skirts and piling her wiaps all round her, now squeezes herself into tbe smallest compass imaginable, displaces the rugs, and makes room for both of us beside her. Another example of what a woman can do 1 At 9 o'clock the bell rings and we are off. Instead of the customary sea breeze, the vind most obligiDgly is blowing off the shore. Consequently tbe sea is oalm, and for tbe present everyone can enjoy the soenery without any qualms of sea sickness. Mount Wellington stands out clearly against a sky of brilliant blue. Not a cloud is to be seen, and everyone predicts a splendid day. The farther down the Derwent we go the grander the scenery becomes. One energetic artist takes out a Bketch book and jots down "impressions" as the steamer glides along. There is the entrance to D'Entrecasteux Channel, where exquisite scenery is to be found ; then comes Wedge Island, the Iron Pot Lighthouse, and after a while Cape Raoul. This marvellous headland calls forth cries of admiration from all on board as we steam slowly by. Giant basaltic columns tower above oar heads, some standing up like organ pipes above tbe rest, clearly defined against tne cloudless sky. Truly it is a wonderful piece of Nature's handiwork, and one can scarcely believe that Englishmen could be such vandals as to do their.'ufcmost to destroy those tapering pinDacles of rock. And yet such is the case — the men-of- wars-men having been actually allowed to use Cape Raoul as a target to practice at, greatly to the destruction of its beauty. Now the luncheon bell rings, and we congratulate ourselves that we are well enough to partake of the excellent Murray cod which the cook has prepared. Wben we come up on deck again Tasman's Inland is in sight, and before long we are under the shadow of tbe bleak hills which shut in Port Arthur. As we steam slowly up the inlet a gale of wind suddenly whistles through the rigging with a melancholy sound. We are passing Dead Island, where tbe bones of departed convicts lie rotting. Can it be that this weird blast which seems to thrill through our bones is a greeting from lonely spirits still hovering over those nameless graves? We shudder as once more that wailing wind moans past us. then dies away into silence. There, on the left, is Point Puer, where the boy prisoners were kept — a low-lying sunny spot, whose yellow banks the waves lap lovingly; yet many a youthful soul was goaded to desperation on that peaceful-look-ing spot, and, to escape tbe agony of living, sought oblivion in those blue waters that wash the shore. " Ah," says an old resident of Port Arthur, " many a time has my heart ached to hear the poor little beggars shrieking for mercy when they were being flogged." It is 1 o'clock by the time our steamer is made fast and we step out upon the wharf at Port Arthur. "Will sail at 3.45 sharp" is chalked all about the deck; so everyone hunies ashore to see all that is to be seen. Those who have not lunched on board the boat make their way to the hotel, formerly the commandant's residence — a picturesque stone house, with grounds slopirjg down to the water's edge. The first building to be explored is the penitentiary, which to-day has been thrown open to visitors. In five minutes they are swarming all over it, running in and out of the cells, and chalking their names on tbe walls after the usual manner of tourists. Flights of stone stairs lead up to the different storeys, and long corridors run from end to end of the building. One, we ate told, was used as the dining hall, and in imagination we can see it filled with greygarbed convicts eating their scanty fare in grim silence under the watchful eyes of the warders. But the penitentiary was only for the better class of prisoners, the worst criminals being lodged in the Model Prison. This historical building has been purchased from the Government by an enterprising parson, who, eager to turn an honest penny, charges a shilling for admission to its precincts. Some of our fellow passengers turn back in disgust, but we have made up our minds to see everything, so we pay our sbilHngs and pass in.

The spirit of the past clings round the wal's of this old prison house now crumbling to decay, and a strange feeling of depression creeps over us as we bid good-bye to the sun-

light outside and pass within those stone walls which speak so eloquently of bygone tragedies.

A grey-bearded old ex- convict acts as our guide. He has spent 23 years in durance vile, and yet now is loath to leave the scene ot bis sufferings. " I was sent out for six years, and they made it into 23." he says. " And that was the way with most of us. There were some bad 'uns, but there were others as were made bad by the treatment, and when yer once got sent here 'twas a chance whether yer ever got free agen." 11 Well, I wonder, Jack, you care to live in Port Arthur now that you are free," says one of our party. " Why, bless yer, sir, I've spent so much of my life here, I may as well stop to the end," is the answer. "It can't be very far off now," he adds, and we silently agree as we gaze pitifully at the old man, iroin whom all life seems to have been crushed out lorjg ago. He takes us into that portion of the gaol which was the chapel, and tells us how each prisoner was hemmed in so that be could nob see bis neighbour, but was only visible to the preacher. No seats were allowed — only sloping boards to lean against, and at the slightest movement or whisper from a prisoner, the preacher could communicate * with the warders, who would as often as not drag out the wrong offender to be flogged. Leaving the chapel, we visit the cells, wbich are all very much alike, with heavy doors and narrow, barred windows high up in tbe wall. Then we come to the padded cell, which is in the last stage of dilapidation. Then, providing ourselves with matches, we make our way to the dark cell. This awful abode i? right at the end of a corridor, and seemingly in the heart of tbe prison, shut away behind three doors. " Once in there yer might shriek yer lungs out, and no one would hear yer," says our guide. " Were you ever in there, Jack 7 " we ask. " Yes, I've had my share of it," he says ; "and if we weren't mad before, that finished us. They treated us like brutes till they made us that bad we deserved all we got." Blowing out the matches, we stand for a minute enveloped in the utter darkness of that awful hele, and then — why then, we cease to wonder that the Port Arthur convict settlement developed 700 lunatics 1 Leaving the Model Prison we next visit the hospital, whioh^stands on a hill, not far from the commandant's house. Ontside Jaok shows us tbe place where the triangles stood. 11 See that pavement, sir," he says ; "we used to keep that polished so bright that we could see our faces in it when we walked up to take s flogging." " Were you ever flogged, Jack ? " we ask. "Lord bless yer, sir, why my back's that 'ard I'd take one now for a glass of grog," is the reply. " They never gave us less than 50 strokes the first time," he continues, " and if a man oouldn't stand that he might as well go up at 8 and down at 9 for all bis life was worth." By this Jack intends us to infer that a man who bad to be taken down before the regulation numbor of lashes had been administered might just as well be hanged, his fellow prisoners holding him in such contempt that his life was no longer worth living. "And we never got 50 a second time," adds the old man ; " 'twas always more — that was one of the rales. The 'orspital's 'andy, yer see, sir. We was took in there afterwards to be salted and 'ealed up." "Tell us about Captain Price, Jack," says one of the party. " He was very cruel, wasn't he?" "He was a bad man, sir ; but not so bad as some of them was to us. Yer see he was only here seven months. Tbe most of bis cruelty was done at Norfolk Island. His daughter married one of the parsons here. She 'ad 'er father's nature, and when she 'card as her father was murdered she was that 'ard on us she'd do all she could to get us into trouble, and we bated her so we'd sooner take a flogging than carry up a bucket of water for 'er ; and if she was on the trolly when we were pulling it we'd always manage to shove it into the briar bushes and tear 'er dress for 'er." None of us can resist a smile at this, and one of our party declares he could listen to Jack all day; but the time is passing, and there is still the old ruined church to see, so we make a collection for the old man, and the captain adds a bountiful supply of tobacco and a stiff glass of grog, which Jack highly appreciates. Bidding him good-bye, we wend our way up tbe hill to what is doubtless the most picturesque ruin in the Australian colonies. It stands on an eminence overlooking the sea. The walls are covered with ivy, the dark green foliage contrasting well with the red of the building and yellow of tbe mouldering bricks a?d mortar. Grass grows within the walls, for only tbe shell is left. We sit down on a grassy patcb, where once the pulpit stood, and silence falls upon us all. Suddenly a voice whispers : " Well, it's the first time I've seen Tommy look thoughtful," and sure enough there is the wag of tbe party lost in mournful meditation, with an expression on his face we have never seen before. " What's the matter, Tommy 1 " we* ask. 11 Ugh I I've got a fit of tbe blues," he says, with a shiver ; " let's get back to the steamer." So we leave tbe ruined church, take a passing glimpse at the red biick deserted house where once lived the clergymen who ministered to the prisoners, and then the steamer blows her whistle, and we hurry down the hill and make our way on board. Slowly we glide out from the little bay, and with a feeling of relief we leave behind that place of desolation, ruins, and mournful memories — Port Arthur.

— Thejpoet Shelley feared being buried alive. In order to guard against it he ordered his heart to be removed. This queer relic is still preserved at Boscombe Manor, Bournemouth.