Atlas Page 13
By Andrew Garran,
Francis Meyers and F. J. Broomfield

COMING towards Port Jackson from the cast, the traveller, as he approaches the coast, may hear the captain’s positive assertion; "We shall be in Sydney by midnight." There is no land visible on the horizon —no outlying islands to serve as pointers. But thanks to the perfection of nautical astronomy, the navigator, if he can get a noonday glimpse of the sun, is as sure of his whereabouts as though he were on land. With nothing but water around him he can tell his position to a mile. The land may not be in sight, but he knows it is there. When the last reflection of daylight has died out of the sky, when the stars are shining through an even depth of gloom from the zenith to the water’s edge, the captain, whose eager glance is ever forward cast, will note, nearly where the sun set, the first indication of a faintly luminous haze. That is the Sydney light, or rather the reflection of the flash thrown up on the sky, for the tower and lantern are still below the horizon. On every reappearance this pale blue light becomes a little brighter, and presently a movement like a very rapid play of faint aurora rays is noticeable. Then a spark, like the nucleus of a comet, seems kindled just beneath the luminous beam —a spark that glows for a moment and then expires, and is again enkindled, and now a little brighter. A little brighter with every minute, a little larger with every quarter of an hour till two hours before the Heads are reached it has grown to be a flash of intense brilliancy, and its long rays sweep the horizon, dividing the darkness with lines of living fire.

All eyes are scanning the coastline, which stands out clearly at each successive flash. Right across the course it stretches, with no apparent opening. Yet almost straight for the steep and rugged rock on which the lighthouse stands the ship is steered, till on a nearer approach the flash is left a little on the port bow. For now another beacon has appeared, red and steady, slightly: to the north of the first light; and between the two is "The Gap" —a dip in the outline of the sea-cliff, over which on a clear night the glow of the Sydney lights may be seen. The outer South Head, from which the’ electric flash darts forth, is a high, bold headland to the south of this gap. It was nearly under this perpendicular cliff —on a wild night black with tempest, and when the old light was invisible during the severest gusts of the driving rain —that the "Dunbar," though commanded by an experienced officer familiar with the port, crashed upon the rock, and went down with the loss of all hands but one.

North of "The Gap" the cliff again rises, and then descends, trending at the same time inland. Its extreme point is the inner South Head, on which is the fixed red light marking the entrance, and serving also as a warning against the short reef in which the headland terminates. Even on a moonless night, the grandeur of the entrance is visible. The tall, steep cliff of the North Head stands up sheer on the right, dark and sombre, and straight in front is the bold outline of the Middle Head. But the breadth of the entrance and the depth of the water permit the vessel to proceed with unchecked speed; and in fact, nothing so impresses the traveller arriving by night, as the ease and confidence with which the largest vessel is taken in, so different from the cautious creeping way in which harbours are frequently entered.

Once inside the North Head, the traveller will notice that there is a large opening to the right. This is the entrance to North Harbour and Middle Harbour. But that is not the route to the city. On the port bow is seen a lightship, anchored there to mark the only obstruction in the entrance —a rocky patch known as the "Sow and Pigs." Between these rocks and the nearest headland on either side lies the shoalest part of the entrance, but having on it twenty feet of water at low tide. To admit the passage of the largest ships at all times, a deep cut has been dredged in the eastern channel, the course of which is indicated at night by lights on the shore, and in the day-time by obelisks. Steering through this channel, and passing Shark Point and Shark Island —names only too suggestive of a danger in which the harbour abounds —the magnificent sweep of the shore-line of Rose Bay is seen on the left, and on the right Bradley’s Head, projecting into the water like a huge and lofty mole. Here begins the inner harbour, and heedless of the sleepers in the villas that crown the heights, the cautious commander wakes all the echoes by a blast of his foghorn, for lie is entering now the region of careful navigation, and is under strict regulations to announce his advance and check his speed. For this inner harbour is alive and active by night as well as by day with colliers, ferryboats, coasters and fishing craft.

At this point the signs of a great city burst into view. All ahead is light and life; lights twinkling, through the trees of the shore on either hand — lights moving rapidly over the surface of the water between all the dark points ahead; lights beyond the red spark which caps the round tower of Fort Denison; and lines of lights where the streets of the city climb and extend along the ridges of the hills. The great ship moves slowly past the round tower, for ferry boats to and from North Shore are crossing and re-crossing, coming out of different bays and approaching may be the last boat to Manly, and the nightly coasting steamers leaving for Newcastle or the Illawarra ports. On the left lie the men-of-war at anchor, and perhaps from some deck, where the spread of bunting and the brilliant illuminations betoken festival, may come strains of music, while swift launches are darting, hither and thither keeping up communication with the shore.

Between Lavender Bay on the one side, and Circular Quay on the other, the lights multiply, and thicken —white lights from overhanging windows, red lights and green from piers and ships, reproducing themselves as luminous columns in the depths. If the water is still, they are so many lines of many-coloured flame, but the splash of an oar, or the dash of a paddleboat, sets them on the dance. They entwine, intermingle, become convoluted — bent and broken in a maze of colour like the transformation scene of a pantomime. The Circular Quay is brilliant with’ the electric beam, which, piercing through the rigging and reflected from the sides of the vessels that crowd the wharves, gives to the water-surface a steely blue, showing up with strong lights and shades the outlines of giant ships and ocean steamers lying round the wharf, and the shadowy masses of the great wool stores behind.

Aloft, tier above tier on the westward side, the lighted windows of old Sydney look down upon the cove where the first anchor was dropped, close upon a hundred years ago; for the steepest part of all the city was the earliest occupied, the settlers clambering up these cliffs, and lingering in sight of the water from which they seemed loth to break away. This high ground is kept in view, as the ship rounds the embattled rise of Dawes’ Point. Another line of jetties, ships, and warehouses occupies the sweep between the Battery and Miller’s Point; and past the latter is the entrance to Darling Harbour —a busy scene even by night. The shore is thick with Jetties, alongside which loom, silent and dark, the bold forms of various craft, while elsewhere are steamers agleam with long rows of cabin lights, their decks alive with the bustle of departure. Passengers, porters and stewards throng the gangways; seamen rush hither and thither at the order of the officer pacing the bridge, and hurrying forward the departure; the shrill scream of the whistle breaks upon the ear; and the clang of the signal-bell ringing out upon the midnight air, echoes from the silent hills that skirt the water’s edge upon the other side. Behind the long line of vessels is the background of the rising land, with houses irregularly grouped and the summit of the rocky hill —the Acropolis of Sydney —crowned with the Observatory tower. It is pleasant after the voyage to step out on the wharf, to hurry up the steep-cut rocky street, to get to rest and dream and wait for the morrow.

To see Sydney first by night is to see it full of bewildering mystery. To see it afterwards by daylight, while it will explain the unknown, will also reveal new charms. A good way to understand the harbour is to take a steam launch, and, starting from Circular Quay, to coast along the southern shore to the Heads, noting en route the continuous succession of promontories and bays, then, crossing over to Manly and Middle Harbour, and following up the northern shore towards Parramatta, to return to Darling Harbour by the western shore. Such a trip will omit the upper part of the Parramatta River, but it will give a fair view of the greater part of Sydney Harbour at present occupied for business or pleasure.

Let the start be made from the Circular Quay at an early hour, just as the great city awakens to another day of strong-pulsed life and bustling activity. From the mouth of the bay a backward glance at the Quay shews the whole situation, and the contour of Sydney Cove —the chief water-gate of the city —with its background of stores, is taken in at one view. The low land at the mouth of the old Tank Stream —shewn elsewhere in a map of early Sydney —was filled in, and a semi-circular wharf replaced the original shoreline, making a splendid city front, with an easier gradient to the main streets than there is from any other wharf. The whole of this frontage remains as one property in the hands of the Government, with the exception of a portion of the north-west side, originally sold to Mr. Campbell, one of the first merchants who settled in the colony, and now the wharf of the Australasian Steam Navigation Company. The extreme point on the western side is not a wharf at all, but a reserve in front of Dawes’ Battery, the guns of which point eastward straight down the harbour; the grassy slope in front —generally dotted over with nursemaids and children —makes on a summer afternoon a pleasant contrast to the adjoining jetties, steamers and sheds, always alive with strenuous labour.

South of these jetties is the berth occupied by the Peninsular and Oriental boats, one of which is always lying alongside, the lascars and coolies on deck, with their red caps and blue smocks, relieving the black hull with bits of foreign colour, while on the slope of the land rise the red brick offices of the A.S.N. Company. South of the P. and O. steamer begins the Government portion of the wharf, with a fine berth for a large vessel, and behind it may be seen the Sailors’ Home, the Mariners’ Church, and the Commissariat Store. This last is one of the oldest stone buildings in the colony, plain but substantial, built of material quarried on the spot, and shewing that Sydney sandstone can weather a hundred years of exposure without deterioration.

The centre of the crescent was once ordinary wharfage, but it has now been entirely give up to waterman’s stairs and for the accommodation of harbour steamers, the passenger traffic focussing here, connected as this place is with the tram service and the omnibus routes. Clustering on the water’s edge along the dark stone coping of the Quay, are the waiting rooms attached to the jetties of the harbour ferryboats. On the eastern side, a portion of the wharf is devoted to outward-bound ships, which load up their cargoes conveniently from the great produce stores, separated from the wharf by only the width of the road. Northward the Orient Company has rented a portion of the wharf frontage, with one of its covered goods sheds, and beyond that again lie the boats of the Messageries Maritimes, lively with foreign uniforms and costumes, and telling of that intermingling of the peoples of many lands which follows so closely in the train of commerce. Adjoining this berth is the boatshed of the harbour police, and next to that the steam ferry for horses and carts, which plies all day long to Milson’s Point. The eastern, like the western point, is still a public reserve, the site of Fort Macquarie, one of the ancient structures, but now destined to give way to a railway shed. Leading up to the point is a rocky escarpment, the pathway along the summit of which has received the borrowed name of the Tarpeian Way.

Glancing round the wharf, the great produce stores arrest the attention of the observer at once, as indicating the character, as well as the extent of the business done. The largest and one of the earliest of these is Mort’s wool store, which occupies the whole frontage between Phillip and Castlereagh Streets. It stands foursquare, simple, massive, elegant, striking as it were the keynote to the commercial movement of the colony. A little distance behind it is the tall stone-built store of Messrs. Harrison, Jones and Devlin, while all along the east front of the Quay runs a line of stores ending with the high, handsome warehouse lately built for the business of Messrs. Maiden, Hill and Clark. The number and capacity of these stores tell the tale of the magnitude of the business for which they were constructed, while their quality displays the enterprise and taste of their proprietors, and the confidence felt in the future. On the high ground behind Mort’s store may be seen the upper windows of two palatial structures built for the accommodation of sonic of the Civil Service Departments, used as offices for the Colonial Secretary, the Minister for Works, and the Minister for Lands; and behind these rise the towers and spires of the city. Through the rigging of the ships, on the eastward side of the Quay, is seen the rising ground of the Government Domain, surmounted by the tower and flagstaff of Government House. The greenery of this Domain, and that of the Battery reserve on the other side of the Cove, is grateful to the eye, bringing as it does into strong relief the contrast between the leisure and the labour of life.

On the outer side of Fort Macquarie lies the little boat-harbour, formed by a projecting mole, which is the landing place for Government House, and also the point nearest to the anchorage of the men-of-war, situated at the mouth of Farm Cove. Here, when not on duty in the other colonies, rides the "Nelson," the Admiral’s ironclad —symbol of the naval power of Great Britain, and of the close connection between the colonies and the mother country. Round her cluster the other vessels of the squadron, ranging in size and power from frigates to corvettes, gunboats and yacht-like schooners. Here, too, anchor all foreign men-of-war that enter the port, and not unfrequently the ensigns of half a dozen nations may be seen at the same time floating on the breeze. Cruisers from all countries, when in these seas, make for Port Jackson to coal and refit, and there is not a well-known flag that has not been seen flying in Farm Cove, including a representative of the new-born navy of Japan. When many vessels are at anchor here, the stairs of the little boat-harbour are alive with officers in uniform landing or departing in long-boats manned by blue-jacketed sailors, or with consuls and visitors going on board to pay their respects, for nowhere is international courtesy more observed, or hospitality to visitors more displayed than in Sydney; and a foreign man-of-war rarely leaves the port without some festive demonstration in return for kindness received.

The view from the deck, or through the large port-holes of any of the men-of-war, is singularly charming, especially to the south, for the eye there rests on the gracefully curved sea-wall of the Cove with the Botanic Garden in the background —its smooth broad lawns in front and its umbrageous slopes and winding walks rising behind. Through the treetops may be seen peeps of here and there a church-spire and the roofs of the taller houses of the city. Government House stands well out to view on the western slope, with its picturesque gardens and lawns terraced down towards the water. A few years ago the dominating object of this view was the Garden Palace —the Exhibition building of 1879 —the dome of which was the largest and finest on which the Southern Cross has ever shone. But one mild summer morning, the whole disappeared, leaving only a heap of ashes. No building however, is necessary to give a charm to the Botanic Garden. One of the earliest attempts at horticulture was made on this site, and from the very beginning it has been carefully reserved. Nature has done much for the position, whose original beauties have been turned to the best account by the art of the landscape gardener. With good reason it is a favourite resort of the Sydney public, especially on the afternoons when there is any performance by one of the military or naval bands. Part of the garden has been laid out with a view to instruction in botany, but the predominant purpose has been to make a pleasure ground. Naval men could not wish for a lovelier spot for their repose than one that gives them a constant view of this singularly charming landscape; and striking indeed, to one standing on the deck, is the contrast between the implements of grim-visaged war and this abode of peace. The house selected for the residence of the Admiral is situated on Kiarabilli Point on the northern side of the harbour, and commands a complete view of the squadron.

On the headland of the peninsula on the eastern side of the Cove, is the stone seat upon which the wife of one of the early Governors, who took much interest in laying out the Domain for popular enjoyment, used to rest after her rambles, and on the stone her name is carved. Sitting on Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair, and looking northwards, the eye rests on the island of Fort Denison —a small rock lying in mid-channel. In early days it was christened Pinch-gut by convict prisoners, who had painful memories of being sent there to repent on short commons. In Governor Denison’s time it was turned into a fortification, a round tower being erected, and several guns placed en barbette. Round Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair is the entrance to Woolloomooloo Bay, on the western side of which are the public baths. At the head of the bay is a wooden wharf much used for the landing of coal and timber, and over the piles of lumber may be seen the clock-tower of the Fish Market; beyond lies a monotonous mass of houses, the streets rising steeply towards the distant ridge, and on the western side is a precipitous rocky escarpment up which stone staircases have been cut foe foot-passengers.

Off the mouth of Woolloomooloo Bay lies Garden Island, where one of the first gardens was formed. It is now given up to the Imperial Government as a naval depot, and the original form of the island is largely lost through the alterations made to fit it for its present purpose. A great part of the naval stores are kept here, though the navy has also a store and landing-place at the head of the bay. At Pott’s Point, business ceases and pleasure takes its place, for here begin those waterside mansions and gardens for which Sydney Harbour is so justly famed. The climate gives every encouragement to the florist and the landscape gardener. Frost is unknown along these harbour slopes, the extremes of summer heat are tempered by the ocean breezes, and flowers can be gathered and roses will bloom the winter long. The mean temperature of Sydney, is two degrees above that of Nice, and only three degrees lower than that of Messina. Here Nature gives heightened effect to the labours of art. The myrtle flourishes beside the orange-tree, and hyacinths burst into all their florid glory with the opening days of spring. At Pott’s Point the rock-face to the water was originally a steep slope, and the utmost has been done, while following the lines of nature, to turn to good account every inch of ground. In some cases the frontage is occupied by boat and bathing houses; elsewhere trees grow down to the water’s edge, and almost dip their branches into the rippling waves. The broad shining leaves of the native fig overhang the grey rock awash at high tide, and beyond are glimpses of green lawns flanked by creeper-mantled terraced walls, above which are the windows of houses peeping through everlasting wreaths of foliage, and festooned with frequent masses of various fragrant bloom. All along the foreshore of the point is the same fair order with perpetual variety-luxurious villas, elaborate garden-grounds. Now and again the rugged ascent is scored with stairways cut from the living rock; carved with balustrades, and adorned with vases, from which spring plants of the cactus or yucca tribes; the heights being sometimes crowned with arbours, ferneries, conservatories, and summer huts, all embosomed in foliage and bloom.