Banjo Paterson

There is something about the Australian bush which holds its sons and daughters relentlessly throughout all the days of their lives.
It may be that those born under the shelter of the gums, whose lullaby is the laugh of the kookaburra, go away in their riper years to live in the crowd and bustle of the cities.
Yet, even should they not return, the bush still keeps her children.
THROUGHOUT their lives they remember nostalgically the wide, brown stretches of the outback; the dust and the flies; the coolness of the creek banks; the good-fellowship of the lonely people.

Andrew Barton Paterson ("Banjo") was born in the bush, on February 17th, 1864, at Narrambla, near Molong, in New South Wales. His father, after whom he was named, was a grazier. While the child was still in his infancy, the family removed to Buckenbah, near Obley, where his father and uncle had leased an unfenced block of land from the Crown. It was dingo-infested country, and among the earliest sounds of which young Andrew became aware was the howl of the wild dogs.
In these untamed surroundings the boy learnt to ride almost before he could walk, he learnt the meaning of the noises of the bush, he learnt to love the glory and beauty of her every mood. He knew real freedom in a world where there was much to be done, but hustle and bustle were unknown; where one had time to be quiet and enjoy the magnificence of a beautiful sunrise, where one rose early enough to realise such magnificence existed.

When he was six the family moved again, this time to Illalong, which was a day's ride from the famous Lambing Flat gold-diggings, where Young now stands. Here, as he developed, he learnt to take an understanding interest in the little things which went on around him; he began to watch his fellows, the men who worked about the place, the neighboring farmers, and he stored up in his mind memories of their peculiarities, their likes and dislikes, their desires and hopes. their ways of doing things.

Among animals, Andrew loved best of all the horse. He saw so much of his world from a horse's back. The horse provided the means of carrying him from one place to another, to glimpse some new beauty, or to take his share in the work of the farm, which is required of all children of the bush.

When he was old enough the boy was sent to Sydney Grammar School, where he soon revealed brilliance at scholarship. Early in the years he spent there he divided the junior Knox Prize with another student. Then, when the holidays came, it was back to the bush for him, back to his well loved horses. As a young man he entered the Sydney University. He had hoped to gain a bursary, which would have covered the cost of his studies, but, unfortunately, just missed obtaining one. He took a law course and, on graduation, became a solicitor in Sydney in partnership with William Street, whose brother was to become Chief Justice of New South Wales.

In these days Banjo Paterson was a happy, genial young man, with a keen sense of humor. He was tolerant of the weaknesses of others, clear-sighted and full of energy. It was only to be expected, therefore, that he found life in the office rather hampering, waiting, as he said, for clients to come in. The business was young and these clients not numerous, so Banjo Paterson had time to turn his attention to the fulfilment of an urge he had long felt—the urge to write. His first effort was rather terrible. It took the form of a pamphlet, entitled "Australia for the Australians," and appeared under his own name.

He was not particularly proud of this work, and decided to have a try at verse. He wrote a flamboyant poem about the expedition against the Mandi, and sent it off to the Bulletin, which was then the cradle for all young ambitious writers. Fearing his name would associate him with his earlier prose effort, he signed the work 'The Banjo."
There followed then a period of waiting, in which he daily expected the return of his manuscript. But it did not come back to him with the usual polite note informing him the editor regretted he would not be able to use it. Instead he received a letter of acceptance and a request to call at the Bulletin office. This was the beginning of a long association with Australia's famous weekly. Regularly every issue for years "The Banjo" twanged in its pages. Banjo Paterson came to know in those years other writers of the day. It was the period of the ballad in Australia's literary history, and the balladists formed a Bohemian group of their own, noted for its good-fellowship.

In 1895 a collection of Banjo Paterson's verse was published in book form under the title of 'The Man From Snowy River and Other Verses." It was an immediate success. The first edition was sold out within a fortnight, and a year later it was in its 10th edition. This collection has never lost its popularity.

Banjo Paterson revealed in his first volume the knowledge and love he had for the outback. Mostly written in the ballad form, the verses possess a humanity and realisation of the little things which make up the character of man. His insight was typical of the writers of his time. The difference between his work and that of Lawson, who wrote about the same subject, was that Banjo Paterson saw the bush from the back of a horse, his heroes were almost invariably mounted, while the other poet saw the great open spaces from on foot.

On occasions Banjo Paterson was capable of great beauty of expression, occasions when he rose above the genial good-humor of the contemporary versifier. Lines from "Clancy of the Overflow," a poem included in this collection, are a good example:
"And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars."

By 1900 the urge to continue with writing, and writing alone, became too strong for Banjo Paterson, and he gave up his profession of a solicitor. Shortly afterwards he was sent to South Africa as an official correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald, to cover the Boer War. He set off on this new adventure surrounded by prejudices towards the civilisation of the enemy that were current during this time. "By all accounts," he wrote, after he had talked with many on the ship which took them to South Africa, "these Boers are only part human."

Soon after arrival in the country, he added, "Met my first Boer prisoner. He is a doctor, holding an English degree, and can make a fifty break at billiards. Apparently there are Boers at any rate partly civilised." His job as a correspondent gave him opportunities not afforded to the ordinary soldier of meeting interesting people in command. Among these was Sir Alfred Milner, who one day asked the young Australian if he would take two English ladies to a jackal hunt with a pack of English hounds. Banjo Paterson protested that he had no horse, as his three mounts had been sent up the line, otherwise there was nothing he would like better than to go. "Oh, an Australian can always get a horse," said Milner.

The Banjo felt his race was being challenged, and, in the face of what appeared insurmountable odds, set out to prove that an Australian could work a miracle. But in Capetown every horse had either been commandeered or else so broken down that it could scarcely carry a saddle, let alone a rider. In the bay there were ships loaded with horses, but the "bullheaded old English Admiral" gave a definite "no" to Banjo Paterson's request to be allowed to land one of them.
Hating to be beaten, he tried every likely and unlikely place. Not a horse was to be had. Finally he clutched at a straw and walked into the depot for army horses, trying to appear as though he had a perfect right to be there. He was almost stupefied when approached by a groom, who, touching his hat politely, said, "Good day, Mr Banjo Paterson."
It was the merest stroke of luck, for it so happened that the groom, an Englishman, had been in Australia and had tended a racehorse which Banjo Paterson had ridden in a race.

"I brought these 'orses over from the Argentine," he said. "and there's some decent sorts in 'em. I'll sneak one out to you."

And so it was arranged. Next morning at dawn a horse and two pounds changed hands, and the Australian was able to take a mount to the train to be transported to the jackal hunt. One of the ladies he was called upon to attend was a duchess, with rather unorthodox ideas of Australians. He tried his best to live up to her picture of how he should behave. In all, a most delightful day was passed. In South Africa Banjo Paterson also met Winston Churchill, then correspondent for the London Morning Post. He admired greatly the Englishman's personality and "push." Typical of the Banjo's daring was the fact that he rode into Bloemfontein in advance of the besieging army, regardless of the danger, so that he could come out in company with the leading citizens when they left the city to surrender to Lord Roberts.
After the Boer War, Banjo Paterson went to London where, with Australian cartoonist Phil May, as guide, he moved in the capital's Bohemian circle.

While in England he stayed with Rudyard Kipling, whom he liked immensely for his unassuming manner and simplicity of life. With him he went for a trial run in the new Lanchester car, which was a great novelty at that time.
From England he went on to China, after the Boxer Rebellion, in his capacity of a correspondent, and then to the Philip. pines. His second volume of verse appeared in 1902. This was "Rio Grande's Last Ride and Other Verses." Again success awaited him, and the next months saw frequent reprints of the book. In town and country his work was read. From the platforms of little bush schoolrooms and from the stages of city halls, his verses were recited, until it was not long before he earned the title of "the most recited rhymster in Australia."

In the year following "Rio Grande," Banjo Paterson married Alice Walker, and in 1904 he became editor of the Sydney Evening News. In 1905 he published a collection of Australian bush songs. In doing so he made a very valuable contribution to his country's literature, for he preserved for posterity old verses and songs which might otherwise have been lost. They form the nearest approach that there is in Australia to the folk songs of the older lands. For the most part their authors are unknown. Until Banjo Paterson collected them they had lived by being sung or recited round the camp fires at night where boundary riders and swagmen swopped yarns. They appeared with the title of "The Old Bush Songs—Composed and Sung in the Bush-ranging, Digging and Overlanding Days."

About this time he was asked by The Times, London, to contribute articles to its pages on Australia.
In 1906 there appeared Banjo Paterson's first attempt as a novelist, "An Outback Marriage." Although it was well received, and, indeed, was reprinted in its fourth edition as late as 1924, prose was not Banjo Paterson's best medium of expression; it is in verse that he excelled. Editorship of the Town and Country Journal, a Sydney publication, followed. Banjo Paterson took this position in 1907 and retained it for two years, until he felt the call of the bush so strong in him that he decided to buy a property in the country and retire altogether from the city. He and his family settled at Coodia, a pastoral property in the Wee Jasper district near Yass.

An unusual experience of Banjo Paterson's life, about this time, was when he received a summons to wait on Lady Dudley, the wife of the Governor-General of the Commonwealth. He knew she had recently started a campaign to organise a group of bush nurses for the outback areas, an undertaking in which she had met strong opposition. He thought, perhaps, she was going to ask him to write her a publicity poem or article in favor of the scheme.She received him graciously in a private parlor, and he was struck by her delicate beauty and determination. She had planned, she informed him, to conduct a tour of the bush and speak on the cause of bush nursing. Visions rose before him of this gentle little lady standing on the crude platforms of outback schools and halls, of the lack of amenities, and the kerosene lamps. Then she explained his part in the plan: she wanted him to organise the tour for her and help with the publicity.
He felt at the time lie would have done anything for so courageous a woman, but other commitments forced him to decline. Actually, the tour never took place, as the Dudleys returned to England shortly afterwards. As fate would have it, though, Banjo Paterson was later to become attached to another of Lady Dudley's good works.

But for the outbreak of the first World War, Banjo Paterson might have spent the rest of his life on his property at Coodia. The end of 1914, however, found him once more a correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald. He travelled to the other side of the world in a ship carrying two battalions. Many of the men were English-born, migrants from the old country, and had already seen service. The Commanding Office, Brigadier-General McLaurin, had never himself been in battle, a rather topsy-turvy state of affairs.

Arrived in London in December 1914, Banjo Paterson was eager to get to the front, but so were thousands of others. Correspondents were just kicking their heels in the capital and becoming more and more annoyed. Visits to the War Office effected nothing; they were just told there was nothing doing. But Banjo Paterson, it must be remembered, was not easily beaten, so he called on T. A. Coghland, the Agent-General for New South Wales, who said he might be able to get him there. The one condition, however, was that he was not to mention he was a correspondent. or that he had ever been inside a newspaper office, and most decidedly not to attempt to write any copy.

It was arranged that Banjo Paterson was to go to France as an ambulance driver at probably one of the most extraordinary hospitals which ever existed. It had been taken to France in spite of the War Office, financed by a group of wealthy women at the head of whom was none other than Lady Dudley. It was still the centre of much argument, but this remarkable woman persisted relentlessly in the face of all officialdom. Banjo Paterson did not remain an ambulance driver long, as he realised how hopeless his chances were of ever doing correspondent's work. He, therefore, returned to Australia where he received a commission in the Remount Service. He was stationed in Egypt, and rose to the rank of major before the end of the war.

While he was still overseas, two books of his appeared, both in 1917. These were "Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses" and a collection of short stories, "Three Elephant Power and Other Stories." He returned to Australia at the end of hostilities, but did not go back to the land; instead he remained in journalism for the rest of his days. He was too tightly bound to his profession now to be able to break loose from it again. A collection of Banjo Paterson's verse was published in 1921, which included poems from all his previous books.

It was now many years since Banjo Paterson had written anything new in verse. He seemed to have lost his old humor, his ability to write of the little men outback, of the small and big things which made up their lives. Perhaps it was that he had left them behind with his youth. He had also lost touch with most of his fellow-writers, and the once happy, uninhibited, horse-back poet was becoming morose and introspective.

About 1930 George Robertson, the grand old man of the publishing firm of Angus and Robertson, sent for him. It was just after the time that C. J. Dennis had made himself famous with his story poem, "The Sentimental Bloke." "You know, Banjo Paterson," Robertson is said to have remarked, "Dennis made a huge success with his 'Sentimental Bloke.' want you to do something the same for the Bush. Create a 'Sentimental Bloke' of sorts, set him in the wool sheds and the cattle camps and other places, and let us see what results. Here's a hundred pounds for you to go on with."

The Banjo went off with the cheque, his eyes were bright, his heart was singing, some of the fire of the old days was warming the blood in his veins. He was no longer a "has-been" He would show the world what he could still do. But in spite of his enthusiasm, the task was beyond him. The old spirit could not be brought back to life, it belonged to the years which were gone.

Within a week Banjo Paterson had returned to Robertson with the cheque. "Sorry, G.R.," he said, "I've gone flat. 1 haven't an idea in the old head. And 1 wanted that £100 pretty badly." Not that Banjo Paterson's literary work ended here; he was to the last a prolific writer. In 1933 a book of verse for children appeared, under the title of "The Animals Noah Forgot." And the following year saw the publication of "Happy Dispatches," in which he described his meetings with various well-known people. Two years later "The Shearer's Colt," a work of fiction, was published.

But Banjo Paterson was still living in the past, in those days when he had been a newspaper editor and the most popular writer of verse in Australia. He became gradually more difficult of approach; even autograph hunters could do nothing with him. His yearning for the days which were gone is, perhaps. best expressed in lines from his own verse "Black Swans":

1 would fain go back to the old grey river,
To the old bush days when our hearts were light; But alas! those days they have fled forever
They are like the swans that have fled from sight. And I know full well that the strangers' faces
Would meet us now in our dearest places;
For our day is dead and has left no traces
But the thoughts that live in my mind tonight."

In the Honors List of 1939 Banjo Paterson was awarded the C.B.E. He still continued with his journalistic work, living more and more to himself. Towards the end of January in 1941 he became ill. He was now in his seventy-seventh year. After a fortnight's sickness he died, on February 5th, in a private hospital. His remains were cremated. His wife and a son and a daughter survived him.

And so the voice of The Banjo was silenced, but his works live on. Still from the circled campfires his verses are recited, at bush socials those lines, which preached no morality but spoke with good-will and open-heartedness of the citizens of the outback, still have their place. And the song "Waltzing Matilda," which appeared in "Saltbush Bill," has found even a wider audience; has, indeed, re-echoed round the world.