Atlas Page 17
By Andrew Garran,
Francis Meyers and F. J. Broomfield

Sydney is well provided with charitable institutions. The new Prince Alfred Hospital, a detached building in the University Reserve, was planned after an exhaustive examination of the best models in Europe and America. It is in a healthy position away from the densely populated part of the town. The original funds were raised by private subscription, but the greater part of the money spent upon the building has been furnished by Government. The management is in the hands of a joint committee, nominated by the subscribers and the Government respectively. All the administrative arrangements are excellent, and the patients enjoy not only comfort, but luxury. The situation is close to the medical school, and the clinical instruction is under the general supervision of the University senate. The old Infirmary, now called the Sydney Hospital, is still carried on, though under the disadvantages attendant on an incomplete building. It is, however, conveniently situated for cases of accident arising among the shipping, or at the northern end of the city, and its wards are generally full. It has a special and detached department for ophthalmic cases. St. Vincent’s Hospital in Victoria Street, on Darlinghurst heights, is a Roman Catholic institution, and though its accommodation is limited, it is excellently conducted. The administration is of course denominational, but the beds are open to sufferers without distinction of creed. At Glebe Point is the Children’s Hospital, to which the Government contributes, though the management is exclusively in the hands of a committee appointed by the subscribers. The Benevolent Asylum, partly supported by private contributions, though mainly dependent on the Government, deals directly with a large amount of casual poverty; it distributes outdoor relief after making all inquiries possible under the circumstances; it has a maternity hospital, and its doors are open at all times to take in waifs and strays who may fall into the hands of the police. The care of destitute children was for many years attended to by the Randwick Asylum, an institution which originated in private philanthropy, but which gradually came to depend mainly on public funds —a tendency common to all the charitable institutions of the colony, which look partly to private and partly to public resources; the only exceptions being those cases in which the Government limits its bounty strictly to a pound for every pound privately subscribed. In addition to the Randwick Asylum, there were for many years a Protestant and a Catholic orphan school at Parramatta, each supported by the Government; but of late years the public policy has undergone a change.

The experiment of boarding out children was undertaken tentatively by a few ladies, in whose hands the Government placed a small sum of money for the purpose. The experiment proved so successful that the Government adopted the arrangement officially. All the State children are now boarded out, and the Government assistance has been withdrawn from the orphan and destitute asylums. But the Randwick Asylum still continues its charitable work, though dependent on its private resources. There are also in Sydney two soup kitchens, two female refuges, and the Charity Organisation Society, which does its utmost to make inquiries before giving relief. In addition to this, all the churches have their detached organisations for relieving the poor and destitute. As a general check upon the abuses of charitable institutions, the Government employs an officer called the Inspector of Charities, who has the right of entry and inspection wherever public money is granted, and whose duty it is to see that the money is properly spent, and that poverty is not encouraged by philanthropy.

The primary schools are maintained at the expense of the Government. The more modern buildings are architecturally good, and have been carefully designed in the light of a large experience. It is difficult in a closely-packed city to secure any large area for playgrounds, but as much has been done in this respect as was practicable, and in every case covered sheds are provided, so as to Ave the children protection from the weather and to admit also of classes being held out of doors. In addition to the public schools, the Roman Catholics have also several excellent private schools. Under the care of the Government there is also a large technical school, in which most of the lectures are delivered in the evening. This institution is supervised by a board, and is intended to give instruction to artisans, especially the young, in the theory as we practice of their respective trades. More than a thousand students are already in attendance at the different classes, and the number is rapidly increasing. The premises used at present are for the most part rented, but it is in contemplation to erect a large college in a central position. The Government has also a high school in the city, close to Hyde Park. Admission is by examination; the education is not gratuitous, but the fees are low. The school is intended principally for the more promising children from the public schools, and is intended to facilitate their preparation for the University. The public grammar school is on the opposite side of the park and adjoins the Museum. It gets from the Government the use of the building and an annual endowment of fifteen hundred pounds it has accommodation for four hundred boys. The situation is conveniently central, but the premises, though largely altered, are old-fashioned, and the area for recreation is limited. As an educational institution, this school has been very successful, and has sent to the University many prizemen.

The Sydney Public Library is at the corner of Bent Street and ‘Macquarie Street. The institution was originally a private subscription library which embarrassed itself by an undue expenditure in building. The Government took the property over and made the library free. The size of the building has since been doubled, and a separate lending branch has been opened in Macquarie Street, nearly opposite. Although the position is not central, the library is well attended. In several of the suburban municipalities there are free libraries, the law allowing a portion of the rates to be applied to this purpose. There is a large library of general literature attached to the School of Arts, access to which is attainable by a subscription of five shillings a quarter. There is also a parliamentary library, a scientific library attached to the Royal Society, a law library at the Supreme Court, and another library at the University, which latter will be greatly enlarged as soon as the Fisher bequest for that purpose has been expended.

The markets of a city are generally characteristic places and in many respects typical of the habits and character of the population. Sydney has two market-places, but neither of them can claim any consideration on architectural grounds. One is situated in the old Haymarket —the hollow that lies between the railway station and Brickfield Hill. This locality as its name implies, was in earlier days the place where the farmers who brought in their hay from the country drew up their wagons and waited for customers. But the character of this trade has now undergone a change; most of the hay comes to the city by train, and goes down to the produce station at Darling Harbour. The George Street frontage of the Haymarket has been let on building lease by the Corporation, and a portion of the spare ground in the rear is a favourite place for travelling circus managers to pitch their tents. On part of the land the Belmore market-sheds have been erected —very plain, commonplace buildings, and only specially interesting on Saturday nights. The market-sheds are then all filled with farm arid garden produce, meat, clothing and children’s toys; buying and selling going on vigorously. In the adjoining open ground merry-go-rounds are humming and roaring, jugglers are playing their tricks on temporary platforms, tragedies are enacted on a stage in front of a canvas theatre, pennyworths of electricity are sold to those who like the sensation of a shock, a panorama of the last great war is to be seen in a showman’s booth, and the sellers of boiled peas ply their trade with vigour; for peas are as much a specialty in Sydney as chestnuts in Italy, roast potatoes in England, and pea-nuts in America. The Sydney larrikins may be studied here enjoying themselves in their own peculiar way. Some of them are shabby, though not from want of money; but others, amid all their vulgarity, affect a certain degree of showiness in dress, accompanied with an evident self-consciousness of the style in which they are got up. The physique indicates a preponderance of the animal and the conversation is painfully overladen with profanity. They with their female companions take a pleasure in seeing and being seen; promenading towards the city at times to turn into one of those dancing saloons, or cheap music-halls, which of late years have, greatly increased in the city —a consequence of the large amount of money which lads in Sydney can easily earn, and which they like to spend in pleasure.

The other metropolitan market is the older one in George Street on the northern side of the Town Hall, adjoining the old ‘city police court.’ Both structures are utterly unworthy of their position or of the city, and their removal or reconstruction is only a question of time. It is at present a disputed point whether the markets ought to be reconstructed here. The site was suitable enough in early days, when Sydney was small, but is not specially appropriate at present. A position on the water’s edge, or nearer to the railway station, would be more suitable. It has been proposed to clear the whole ground for a square, but the land is very valuable, and the Corporation naturally wants a revenue. At a very early hour in the morning on the market days a large business is transacted here by the fruit-sellers, who dispose of their produce to the dealers, and during the day a considerable retail trade is done at the stalls, while the firms engaged in shipping fruit to the other colonies are actively employed in making up their packages and despatching them to the steamers.

Sydney is supplied with fresh fruit of some kind all the year round, for not only has it its own double climate of the coast and the table-land to draw upon, but cool Tasmania to the south, tropical Queensland to the north, and Fiji to the east, all send in their contributions. But the gala time for these markets is the Christmas week, when the dingy sheds are made glorious with flowers and fruit. Nothing strikes a visitor from the northern hemisphere so much as the altered character of Christmas wares in Australia. All his usual associations are upset —the temperature, the vegetation, the fruits and the flowers seem out of season; the year is turned upside down. Let him go into the Sydney market in the Christmas week, and he will see the people all dressed in light summer costume, and the stalls profusely heaped with summer produce. There are lilies, pelargoniums, fuchsias, hydrangeas, and rhododendrons yielding great clusters of bloom, with here and there some roses left from the wealth of spring. Close to them, stacked in profusion, are apples and pears, plums and nectarines, apricots and peaches, with other garden fruit. A few grapes have been already ripened on some sunny eastern slope, and, gathered from a shady patch where once the mosses grew by the waterside, strawberries may yet remain. Side by side with baskets and boxes of cherries looking as fresh as the product of a Kentish June, melons, pomegranates and figs maintain the semi-tropical aspect of the show, which is further accentuated by huge bunches of bananas hanging aloft, close to bread-fruit and date-plums brought from the neighbouring islands. The vendors of animals seem, from the pains they take with their display, to calculate on a good trade at Christmas. Black-nosed pugs, hairy poodles, monkeys, cockatoos, paroquets, flying-foxes, kangaroos and emus are on view. Standing by the main entrance to the market, and looking down the avenue past the piled pomegranates and melons, the palms and the pampas-grass, the blaze of colour from the flowers, the pink-tipped green of the Christmas bush, and the gay-coloured scarves and handkerchiefs of the fancy stalls to the live creatures mewed in cages at the farther end, the scene may seem to a visitor to resemble rather an Eastern bazaar than the market-place of a people of English race. Yet it is unlike either —in fact, it is like nothing else in the world; it is characteristic of Australian development; it has come of a prosperous people slowly departing from their old-world, cold-clime notions under the influence of a semi-tropical sky. Even in dress, manners, and appearance the people are various, and show in different degrees the influence of new conditions. Fronting the same stall two gentlemen may be seen, the one dark-costumed, the other in cool and pleasant white; one wearing a tall silk hat, the other a pith helmet; one in polished boots, the other in canvas shoes. Say not that the one is comfortable and that the other suffers, for there is an appreciable satisfaction in clinging to old-world customs, and the gentleman in broadcloth looks complacent and dignified, though flushed. More noticeable still, perhaps, are the contrasts among those who buy and sell and do the work of the markets. The old porter sitting upon his hand-barrow wears his moleskin and checked cotton shirt as in the days of regulations. If Christmas now brings more grog and tobacco, Christmas is welcome to him; but he would not change the order of his attire for Christmas or any other fete day. And almost as staunch to old traditions is the portly and prosperous man who has kept a stall and sold garden produce for forty years, has kept also his old cut of coat, his old watch-chain with seals, and his old contempt for things new-fangled or un-English. But the sons and grandsons of the earlier generation have taken other views and other forms; the climate has had an effect on them in physiognomy, in physique and in tastes. The youths from the farms and market-gardens are mostly tall and thin, somewhat lank-limbed, sunburnt, often dark-haired and dark-eyed; they match well with their oranges, their melons, their grapes; their taste for rich colours comes naturally in a land where so much is richly-coloured. The veils around their soft felt hats are frequently bright blue or green; they twist crimson sashes about their waists; they are addicted to gorgeous cravats, and lounge about their stalls or carts as though the dolce far niente was a familiar experience.

Not more characteristic, but on a larger scale is the Sydney crowd in George Street on an ordinary Saturday night. Anyone who wishes to study the physiognomy, the dress, the style and carriage of the people, may have his fill of opportunity here. From the Haymarket to King Street is one continuous crowded promenade. Why so many people turn out at this particular time to march in solemn procession, it is hard to say; but men are gregarious and the creatures of custom, and all the world goes where all the world goes. This is not the promenade for the wealthier classes; there is nothing in Sydney approaching to the character of a fashionable Parisian boulevard; George Street on a Saturday night gathers the metropolitan multitude. Of late years several arcades have been made through from George Street to the streets behind. These covered ways are brilliantly illuminated at night, and thickly set with shops on either side, but the main street is the chief promenade A visitor coming in to the city from the railway station for the first time might wonder what the commotion was about; but this is the normal condition of the street every Saturday night. It is a stream of people a mile long, and very seldom indeed is it stirred boisterously and rudely by any exhibition of passion or blackguardism. Although the type is dominantly Australian, there is a visible mixture of various nationalities. This is due partly to the variety always to he found in a great seaport, and partly to the attraction the colony has held out to immigrants from different countries. One may recognise the physiognomy of industrious German settlers, French and Italian vignerons interested in the sale of their wines, and strangely-garbed Asiatics who have strolled up from the ships lying alongside the Quay at the end of the street. Tints of black and brown are seen together; dark Arab boys from Aden, ebon-hued as the coals they handle, without a trace of lustre on their cheeks, clad in dingy blue frocks, red scarves and parti-coloured caps; shiny-brown fellows from Madras and Bombay, many of them as handsome as Greeks, and gaily dressed in crimson and blue and gold. They come to the street bazaar to do a stroke of trade, bringing bundles of carved and polished sticks, trays of silver and filigree work, curiously-cut ivory and scarves and kerchiefs of the rich colours and intricate patterns peculiar to Eastern looms. Passing them may be seen the yellow, flat-faced, slant-eyed Chinamen, who have come in from their vegetable gardens, or up from their gambling saloons and furniture shops, and who thread their way unobtrusively and submissively through the crowd; while deepest in colour, and perhaps lowest in type of all, is the black boy from North Queensland, brought down by some squatter from an exploring or droving trip, and sent down town with an injunction not to "get bushed." Touched with all these points of colour and darkness, ebbs and flows the main Caucasian current, not without peculiarities and curiosities of its own, to some of which sad and strange histories are attached. The blind beggar stands with his medical certificate and scriptural text hanging on his breast, indifferent apparently as a statue, and only moved to display some symptom of life when a passer-by drops a penny in his box. The blind fiddler scrapes away at tunes that seem to have forgotten their music; and the attendant old woman, whose shawl and bonnet look like relics of English workhouse life, extends her saucer in which the pennies rattle. By the steps of the Post Office-as at the gate of the temple called Beautiful-some cripple, hour after hour, makes his monotonous vendor’s call; and the old newspaper seller, with his bundle of assorted wares on his knees, sits patiently, unstirred by the hurry of competition, and taught by long experience that out of all the tens of thousands who pass by enough will want something for Sunday reading to clear out his stock and send him home provided for.

The representatives of the fever of competition are to be found in the newsboys, who, barefooted and often bareheaded, dart at every chance of a likely customer, filling Lip the intervals of actual business with shrill cries and eager appeals, and disposing of thousands of copies of the latest issues of the evening press.

And over all resound the city chimes. Eight o’clock, and the crowd is beginning to gather; nine, and it is thickening fast; ten, it is thinning; eleven, it is hurrying homeward At this hour the slow and aimless step gives place to haste, for the theatres are emptying, the hotel doors are closing by order of law, the shop windows are darkening, and the life and desire of the city is dying out. By midnight George Street is quiet. If the moon be clear the shadows of the great buildings lie across the silent roadways, the policeman’s footfall echoes on the pavement, and the only noise comes from some midnight revellers, homeward bound and trolling forth a chorused song. Later on the silence is hardly broken at all. The policeman is seen passing from door to door trying if each is securely locked; the gas burns faintly in some of the windows; while others are barred and brightly lighted. Down the cross streets that meet the water, the wharf lamps are reflected in the still depths, and the only movement that disturbs the quiet is from some inward-bound vessel working slowly up to her moorings.

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