TALL TALES...OR TRUE?
- Cat Ward
- Jul 27
- 10 min read
"Great Southern Land, in the sleeping sun, you walk alone, with the ghost of time..."
(From "Great Southern Land"- song by Icehouse, lyrics by Iva Davies.)
Australia...to many, the word conjures an image of a land forgotten by time, a harsh and inhospitable terrain, once peopled with convict stock- a land of fire, flood, and deadly flora and fauna, some the likes of which can be found nowhere else in the world.
Emerging from such a turbulent history are tales of gruesome murders, and the ghost stories and poems that they inspired, a couple of which seem to have their roots in reality.
I'd like to share a couple of my favourites, along with the links to the newspaper reports from Trove that contain the original accounts of the ghostly encounters that may have inspired them.
THE GHOSTS IN THE GLEN:
"Shut your ears, stranger, or turn from Ghost Glen now,
For the paths are grown over, untrodden by men now;
Shut your ears, stranger, said the grey mother, crooning
Her sorcery runic, when sets the half-moon in.
To-night the north-easter goes travelling slowly,
But it never swoops down to that hollow unholy:
To-night it rolls loud on the ridges red-litten,
But it cannot abide in that forest, sin-smitten.
For over the pitfall the moon-dew is thawing,
And, with never a body, two shadows stand sawing--
The wraiths of two sawyers (-step under and under-)
Who did a foul murder and were blackened with thunder!
Whenever the storm-wind comes driven and driving,
Through the blood-spattered timber you may see the saw striving--
You may see the saw heaving, and falling, and heaving,
Whenever the sea-creek is chafing and grieving!
And across a burnt body, as black as an adder,
Sits the sprite of a sheep-dog (was ever sight sadder?)
For, as the dry thunder splits louder and faster,
This sprite of a sheep-dog howls for his master.
"Oh, count your beads deftly", saith the grey mother, crooning
Her sorcery runic, when sets the half-moon in.
And well may she mutter, for the dark hollow laughter
You will hear in the sawpits and the bloody logs after.
Ay, count your beads deftly, and keep your ways wary,
For the sake of the Saviour and sweet Mother Mary.
Pray for your peace in these perilous places,
And pray for the laying of horrible faces.
One starts, with a forehead wrinkled and livid,
Aghast at the lightnings sudden and vivid;
One telleth, with curses, the gold that they drew there
(Ah! cross your breast humbly) from him whom they slew there:
The stranger who came from the loved, the romantic,
Island that sleeps on the moaning Atlantic,
Leaving behind him a patient home, yearning
For the steps in the distance-- never returning;
Who was left in the forest, shrunken and starkly,
Burnt by his slayers (so men have said darkly),
With the half-crazy sheep-dog who cowered beside there,
And yelled at the silence, and marvelled and died there.
Yea, cross your breast humbly and hold your breath tightly,
Or fly for your life from those shadows unsightly,
From the set staring features (cold, and so young, too),
And the death on the lips that a mother hath clung to.
I tell you-- that bushman is braver than most men
Who even in daylight doth go through the Ghost Glen,
Although in that hollow, unholy and lonely,
He sees the dank sawpits and bloody logs only.
"The Ghost Glen", (1864) by Henry Kendall.
The eerie, atmosphere-laden poem above describes a grisly murder, and is supposedly based on a real-life crime that took place in Australia's dark and brutal past, in a vastly different New South Wales than the one which exists today. The murder is said to have occurred in the 1820's, in the Illawarra region on the state's south coast; an area which was at that time the domain of those life-hardened men who went in search of Australian red cedar, a highly-valued timber known and prized for its deep, rich colour and fine grain. These men were cedar-cutters, or sawyers, and were for the most part "ticket-of-leave" men- convicts granted early release from prison for good behaviour.
The term "good behaviour", however, was perhaps misused in the case of the Illawarra sawyers, said to be among the roughest to be found anywhere in the colony.
The story details the murder of a young immigrant, said to be of English or Irish origin, whose name is never given in any written version of the story.
He, along with his dog, meets his end at the hands of two such sawyers, who had "befriended" him at an inn he'd stopped at in Kiama, plying him with rotgut liquor...but they did so with the intent of stealing the large amount of money he had foolishly flashed about, a fatal mistake the naive young man made most likely due to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. The three men vanished into the rainy night, and the young immigrant was never seen again. The spectral re-enactment of the murder was later witnessed by a convict servant assigned to a nearby sheep station who became hopelessly lost in dense bushland (treed area) while on his way to the property, somewhere near the tiny hamlet of Gerringong, and what he experienced during that time gave birth to one of the oldest ghost stories from the Illawarra region.
The servant wasn't found for 5 days, and was exhausted and starving after his ordeal, but the tale he told became one that would be passed down through generations of local inhabitants, and which eventually made its way to England, such was its notoriety.
As to whether or not the story of the murder and the resultant ghost has a basis in truth is for the reader to decide, as the story seems to have been related only by word of mouth until the poem depicting it was published in 1864, and thus there are no written records on Trove of any crimes that match the details of the murder to be found...but perhaps within tales even from orally related folklore there lies somewhere a grain of truth. Whether or not this story is one such example, it makes for an enjoyable read, and masterfully evokes the spirit of the Australian bush, and of those that dwelt there in the past.
To offer a little food for thought, though...
There exists, in the vicinity of the area where the story is set, a very real historic property called Alne Bank. According to some authors who've written about this tale in the past, somewhere on that property is a spot known as the Glen, although nobody can recall how that name came to be...
SOURCES:
"Ghost Glen" (poem)
Bell's life in Sydney and Sporting Chronicle (NSW: 1860-1870)
Sat. 14th May 1864, p.3
Accessed on Trove- link here
"Ghost Glen" (article)
Mount Alexander Mail (Vic.: 1854-1917)
Saturday 26th June 1869, p.3
Accessed on Trove- link here
Differently worded versions of the tale (all bearing the same title) can also be found in articles in the following newspapers, including one (**) where the ghost is said to speak to the witness;
*The Gundagai Times and Tumut, Adelong and Murrumbidgee District Advertiser
(NSW: 1868-1931) / Saturday 24 July 1869/ p.4.
Accessed on Trove- link here
*The Goulburn Herald and Chronicle
(NSW: 1864- 1881)
Saturday July 3rd 1869, p.7.
Accessed on Trove- link here
**Queanbeyan Age (NSW: 1867-1904)
Thursday July 8th 1869, p.1
Accessed on Trove- link here
"Great Australian Ghost Stories" (2012, 2018).
by Richard Davis
HarperCollins Australia publishers Pty. Ltd
pp. 64-70
THE GHOST OF MOUNT VICTORIA PASS
The next poem was written by one of Australia's best-known and most beloved early authors, Henry Lawson, and has prompted speculation as to whether or not the iconic literary figure, said to have not believed in ghosts, may have actually seen one himself.
The poem takes us back in time over a century, to the days when the Blue Mountains, now popular tourist destination, were still largely uncharted, and the roads that are now asphalted modern thoroughfares were still being constructed by convicts, at least 16 of whom toiled and died there. It tells of the brutal murder of a teenage girl with a past marred by tragedy, whose awful death, and apparent return in spectral form, saw her become part of Australian ghost folklore...
You'd call the man a senseless fool, —
A blockhead or an ass,
Who'd dare to say he saw the ghost
Of Mount Victoria Pass;
But I believe the ghost is there,
For, if my eyes are right,
I saw it once upon a ne'er-
To-be-forgotten night.
'Twas in the year of eighty-nine --
The day was nearly gone,
The stars were shining,
and the moon
Is mentioned further on;
I'd tramped as far as Hartley Vale,
Tho' tired at the start
But coming back I got a lift
In Johnny Jones's cart.
'Twas winter on the mountains then —
The air was rather chill,
And so we stopped beside the inn
That stands below the hill.
A fire was burning in the bar,
And Johnny thought a glass
Would give the tired horse a spell
And help us up the Pass.
Then Jimmy Bent came riding up —
A tidy chap was Jim —
He shouted twice, and so of course
We had to shout for him.
And when at last we said good-night
He bet a vulgar quid,
That we would see the "ghost in black",
And sure enough we did.
And as we climbed the stony pinch
Below the Camel Bridge,
We talked about the "Girl in black"
Who haunts the Second Bridge.
We reached the fence that guards the cliff
And passed the corner post,
And Johnny like a senseless fool
Kept harping on the ghost.
"She'll cross the moonlit road in haste
And vanish down the track;
Her long black hair hangs to her waist
And she is dressed in black;
Her face is white, a dull dead white —
Her eyes are opened wide —
She never looks to left or right,
Or turns to either side."
I didn't b'lieve in ghosts at all,
Tho' I was rather young,
But still I wished with all my heart
That Jack would hold his tongue.
The time and place, as you will say,
('Twas twelve o'clock almost) —
Were both historically fa-
Vourable for a ghost.
But have you seen the Second Bridge
Beneath the "Camel's Back"?
It fills a gap that broke the ridge
When convicts made the track;
And o'er the right old Hartley Vale
In homely beauty lies,
And o'er the left the mighty walls
Of Mount Victoria rise.
And there's a spot above the bridge,
Just where the track is steep,
From which poor Convict Govett rode
To christen Govett's Leap;
And here a teamster killed his wife —
For those old days were rough —
And here a dozen others had
Been murdered, right enough.
The lonely moon was over all
And she was shining well,
At angles from the sandstone wall
The shifting moonbeams fell.
In short, the shifting moonbeams beamed,
The air was still as death,
Save when the listening silence seemed
To speak beneath its breath.
The tangled bushes were not stirred
Because there was no wind,
But now and then I thought I heard
A startling noise behind.
Then Johnny Jones began to quake;
His face was like the dead.
"Don't look behind, for heaven's sake!
The ghost is there!" he said.
He stared ahead — his eyes were fixed;
He whipped the horse like mad.
"You fool!" I cried, "you're only mixed;
A drop too much you've had.
I'll never see a ghost, I swear,
But I will find the cause."
I turned to see if it was there,
And sure enough it was!
Its look appeared to plead for aid
(As far as I could see),
Its hands were on the tailboard laid,
Its eyes were fixed on me.
The face, it cannot be denied
Was white, a dull dead white,
The great black eyes were opened wide
And glistened in the light.
I stared at Jack; he stared ahead
And madly plied the lash.
To show I wasn't scared, I said —
"Why, Jack, we've made a mash."
I tried to laugh; 'twas vain to try.
The try was very lame;
And, tho' I wouldn't show it, I
Was frightened, all the same.
"She's mashed," said Jack, "I do not doubt,
But 'tis a lonely place;
And then you see it might turn out
A breach of promise case."
He flogged the horse until it jibbed
And stood as one resigned,
And then he struck the road and ran
And left the cart behind.
Now, Jack and I since infancy
Had shared our joys and cares,
And so I was resolved that we
Should share each other's scares.
We raced each other all the way
And never slept that night,
And when we told the tale next day
They said that we were — intoxicated.
"The Ghost at the Second Bridge"
By Henry Lawson (1891)
The true story of the murdered girl whose reappearance in ghostly form is behind the somewhat light-hearted poem is much darker, and is that of the brutal murder of 15-year-old Caroline Collits. The murder occurred and is documented, but once again the truth behind the tale of her return in spectral form is for the reader to decide...if Caroline's ghost is still around today, however, I doubt that any travellers whizzing by in their modern automobiles would see her- they'd likely be moving too fast to notice her...
SOURCES:
A Road of Torture (article)
The Argus, Melbourne (VIC.: 1848-1957)
Saturday28th May 1949, p.13
Accessed on Trove (link here)
"The Ghost at the Second Bridge" (poem)
Freeman's Journal (Sydney, NSW.: 1850-1932)
Saturday 26th December 1891, p.5
Accessed on Trove (link here)
Springwood Historians blog (entry from 18/2/2011)
Ghostly encounters: historical fact or fiction https://springwoodhistorians.blogspot.com/2011/02/ghostly-encounters-historical-fact-or.html
The Berrima and Mount Alexander Murders (article)
The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser (NSW.: 1803-1842)
Tuesday 3rd May 1842, p.2
Accessed on Trove (link here)
Genealogy of the colony of New South Wales; Caroline James family tree:
Review of the play "Collits Inn"
The Argus, Melbourne (VIC.: 1848-1857)
Tuesday 26th December 1933, p.3
Accessed on Trove (link here)
The "Ghost" of Mount Victoria Pass (article)
Lithgow Mercury (NSW.: 1898-1954)
Tuesday 26th September 1950, p.4
Accessed on Trove (link here)
Great Australian Ghost Stories (2012, 2018).
by Richard Davis
HarperCollins Australia publishers Pty. Ltd
pp. 141-146
I can offer no proof or opinion on the reality of these ghosts, whose appearances became part of the fabric of Australian folkloric history- I'm well aware that our early Australian stockmen were known to be fond of "spinning a yarn" to while away the hours!...But I do wonder if perhaps someday, an unsuspecting traveller passing through a densely-treed glen somewhere near Gerringong, or along the road that runs though Hartley Vale and into the misty blueness of the mountain ranges beyond, may be able to provide an answer once and for all to the question- are these tall tales, or true?
-Cat
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