Australian invasion

This piece was written in 1850, at the height of the Californian gold rush, but the rhetoric seems oddly familiar.

Immigration from New South Wales – A paragraph in our last paper, in reference to a late arrival from Sydney, and an intimation of the disreputable character of a large portion of the passengers, seems to have produced no small excitement in certain quarters; and any quantity of indignant comment has been made thereupon by those who are supposed to have decided preferences and sympathies for the people of that celebrated locality.

Now, we hold it to be the duty of the press, as the conservator of the morals, and defender of the rights and interests of the people, to throw its vast power and influence into the scale in favour of whatever is beneficial ; and to expose, fearlessly, and without regard to threats designed to intimidate or restrain it from the fulfilment of that duty, whatever is detrimental to the public welfare.

sailing shipIn the case alluded to, we had reason to believe the statement made was correct ; — for the facts came to us from the most reliable and different sources. Subsequent investigation, however, showed that our paragraph was premature, — that we were entirely in error, in regard to the character of the passengers in the vessel in question, who are represented as of the most respectable people in Sydney. To the females, whom our statement was calculated to injure, it is due that the amende honorable should be made, and we cheerfully make it. We have much too high a regard for virtuous and respectable females, to wantonly cast an imputation upon their reputation ; and regret that in the present instance, we were led to do so unintentionally.

In regard to the foreign immigration now daily landing upon our shores, it is not to be denied that there are many persons of individual excellence ; and it would be strange indeed, if this were not so in relation even to individuals from Sydney. But while we welcome to our State “all good people,” to whatever nation they belong, we confess to the entertainment of fears that a sufficient watchfulness is not exercised to exclude the hordes of scoundrels who are tempted by the prospect of gold or plunder to crowd upon us from the world’s ends, making California the receptacle of the stews of every nation.

We said that our paragraph was “premature;” but that an importation of persons of the very character depreciated is daily expected to arrive from Sydney, we have good authority for believing. That British colony contains a population of about 150,000 persons, of whom over 10,000 are convicts, and nearly 60,000 are unable to read. It is not the place, therefore, from which we can hope to receive the most intelligent class of immigrants, notwithstanding the respectability of those who have arrived during the past week from that port, numbering over five hundred persons. It behoves all good citizens to see that we are not overwhelmed by the tide of corruption that thirst for lucre is hastening to our shores, and to frown upon those shipowners who are willing to become the agents of spreading moral disease and crime into the young State, whose welfare we have so much at heart. — Pacific News, February 21.
Reproduced in the ‘New Zealand Spectator and Cook’s Strait Guardian’, 29 June 1850.

Hordes of scoundrels, tide of corruption, moral disease and crime. Maybe they should have built a wall along the Pacific coast.

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The Price of War

A red commemoration poppy for ANZAC Day on the tiled floor of a war memorial.

Tomorrow is ANZAC Day when Australians and New Zealanders at home and abroad remember their countrymen and women who died in war, and honour those who returned. It’s a uniquely Australasian event first held in 1916 and is commemorated in addition to, not instead of, Armistice Day.

This poem, written at the time of the First World War by English woman Lorna Fane, pays tribute to the casualties we don’t hear about very often.

The Price

‘Tis women who have to stay at home,
Alone with their aching heart,
To wipe the tears from the children’s eyes,
To smile, and to play their part:
While the men-folk fight, and the deed is done,
In rivers of blood ‘neath the setting sun –
And the price is paid.

‘Tis women who have to face the world,
With never a glance ahead;
To lie awake through the midnight hours,
Praying for living or dead:
While the men go down to the gates of hell
To face the thunder of shot and shell –
And to pay the price.

‘Tis women who have to laugh and jest,
With courage that will not fail,
To earn the bread for the children’s mouths,
And trust, though their stout hearts quail:
While the brave men fight, and, if needful, fall,
To answer the cry of the bugle call –
And to pay the price.

‘Tis women who mourn, unheard, unseen,
While the cruel war goes on,
Who weep with anguish for what has been,
Yet hide it all ‘neath a song,
While their loved ones ride to the jaws of death,
To fight for their King with their last, last breath –
Then the price is paid.

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