Australian Tales - Setis
Australian Tales - Setis
Australian Tales - Setis
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<strong>Australian</strong> <strong>Tales</strong><br />
and Sketches From Real Life<br />
Houlding, John Richard (“Old Boomerang”)(b. 1822)<br />
A digital text sponsored by<br />
<strong>Australian</strong> Literature Gateway<br />
University of Sydney Library<br />
Sydney<br />
2003
http://purl.library.usyd.edu.au/setis/id/houaust<br />
© University of Sydney Library. The texts and images are not to be used for<br />
commercial purposes without permission<br />
Source Text:<br />
Prepared from the print edition published by Sampson Low, Son and Marston<br />
London 1868 416pp.<br />
All quotation marks are retained as data.<br />
First Published: 1868<br />
RB1568.13 <strong>Australian</strong> Etext Collections at short stories 1840-1869<br />
<strong>Australian</strong> <strong>Tales</strong><br />
and Sketches From Real Life<br />
London<br />
Sampson Low, Son and Marston<br />
1868
Preface.<br />
MOST of the following tales and sketches have appeared in the “Sydney<br />
Mail;” and I have good reason to believe that they have been favourably<br />
received by thousands of subscribers to that influential newspaper. In<br />
publishing them in a volume, I am yielding to the persuasion of many kind<br />
friends, who have expressed their belief that they will be well received, and be<br />
useful.<br />
I have spent much time in altering and improving all the articles; and they<br />
will be fresh to my old readers. The fact of the articles having appeared in the<br />
columns of the “Sydney Mail,” will be a sufficient guarantee to parents, that<br />
they need not scruple to place the volume in the hands of their children. I will<br />
only add, that there is nothing controversial or sectarian in it; and I have used<br />
my utmost efforts to make it both amusing and instructive. English readers will<br />
find many phases of <strong>Australian</strong> life depicted; for which I claim this merit, that<br />
their accuracy may be relied on.<br />
The extensive circulation of my recent work, “<strong>Australian</strong> Capers,” (see<br />
appendix,) encourages me to hope that this volume will meet with a favourable<br />
reception; not only from my many friends in Australia, but also in Great<br />
Britain.<br />
OLD BOOMERANG.<br />
Darlinghurst, Sydney, N.S.W.<br />
August 31, 1867.
<strong>Australian</strong> <strong>Tales</strong>, and Sketches from Real<br />
Life.
Mr. Phiggs and His Christmas Breakfast.<br />
A SEASONABLE STORY.<br />
“GOODNESS me, Mr. Phiggs, be rational, there's a dear! Only fancy;<br />
boiled fowls smothered in rice, currants, and onions; or curried nonsense,<br />
fiery as red-hot cinders, for friends coming hungry and squeamish off a<br />
steamboat, and on a Christmas morning too! You surely must be joking!<br />
But I tell you seriously, I cannot cook an Indian breakfast, so pray do not<br />
miscalculate my skill; and I'm sure Sally would as soon consent to cook a<br />
horse's head. I dislike such peppery messes at any time; but at this special<br />
season for old English cheer, I particularly disapprove of foreign<br />
trumperies on my table. Consider again, Jacob, and don't perplex me at<br />
this critical time, there's a good man.”<br />
“Patience, Dolly,” said Mr. Phiggs, with a smile. “It is plain that you<br />
know very little about Oriental fare, or you would not speak so<br />
disparagingly of it. When I proposed to give our expected guests an<br />
Indian breakfast, I did not suppose that you would cook it. Not at all. But<br />
if you will tolerate my little whim, for once and away, I shall esteem it a<br />
favour. I have a strong desire to try my skill in cookery by way of<br />
experiment; and if you will allow me the undisturbed use of the kitchen<br />
and the cooking utensils to-morrow morning, I think I shall be able to<br />
remove your prejudices against foreign messes, as you call them. I<br />
breakfasted with Captain Carraway the last time I was in Sydney, and<br />
such a dainty meal (prepared under his own supervision) I never before<br />
partook of. I wished you had been there to enjoy it with me, though I<br />
know you always advocate simple diet. I procured from the Captain plain<br />
written directions for making veal olives, curried kidneys, pillaued<br />
chicken, savoury omelettes, milk coffee, cream potatoes, and sundry<br />
other exquisite dishes (from recipes furnished to him by Rajah<br />
Mulleegrubbee's chief cook); and as some of our oldest friends are<br />
coming to spend Christmas with us, I should like to surprise them with<br />
something out of the common way, and of my own preparation. Friend<br />
Samson will assist me in the kitchen; and, as I do not wish to trouble<br />
you, or either of your servants, you can lie in bed an hour later than<br />
usual, and the cook can go for a morning walk if she likes. You, of<br />
course, can cater for the Christmas dinner, which is the grand social<br />
event of the year, but do let me have the pleasure of providing the<br />
breakfast, just to see what I can do. Now, don't object, Dolly, there's a
duck;” added Mr. Phiggs, coaxingly kissing his loving wife, who during<br />
his explanation had sat thoughtfully pondering how she could humour<br />
her worthy spouse's odd fancy without upsetting all her domestic<br />
arrangements for the day, which were rather more onerous than usual,<br />
considering that she was expecting eight or nine friends from Sydney by<br />
the next morning's steamer, to spend a merry Christmas with her and her<br />
family.<br />
In anticipation of the reader's inquiry. “Who are Mr. and Mrs. Phiggs?”<br />
I briefly explain that they were a crummy old couple, brimful of human<br />
kindness, who lived in a quiet little sea-side town, not a hundred miles<br />
from Sydney, and were well to do in the world. They were decidedly not<br />
fashionable folks, but they liked to entertain their friends in a cozy,<br />
homely style, which all true lovers of comfort appreciate, and they often<br />
welcomed visitors beneath their hospitable roof, and used their utmost<br />
efforts to make them feel at home. Although they had been many years in<br />
the colony, their early imbibed tastes for old English customs were as<br />
fresh as ever. Foremost among the endearing remembrances of their<br />
loved native land was Christmas-tide, with its special family reunions, its<br />
joyous festivities, and peculiar good fare. Mr. and Mrs. Phiggs loved to<br />
keep up Christmas Day's social rites, if they were less zealous of the<br />
more hallowed observances of the time, of which, however, they were<br />
not wholly unmindful; and while all within their own household were<br />
regaled with seasonable good cheer, they took care that the homes of<br />
their poor neighbours were supplied with material comforts, for rejoicing<br />
the hearts of the inmates; thus testifying their Christian love and good<br />
will towards all men, free from narrow prejudices against country,<br />
colour, or creed. I trust there are thousands of good souls in this land who<br />
will, at this auspicious season, especially remember their duty, and try to<br />
gladden the hearts of their needy neighbours around them, by dispensing<br />
with an ungrudging heart, a portion of the good things with which kind<br />
Providence has entrusted them.<br />
I would not have my reader suppose that Mrs. Phiggs was<br />
unreasonably tenacious of her domestic prerogatives, or that she was at<br />
all inclined to exercise an arbitrary dominion over her good husband's<br />
will. Far from it. She was the most ductile little wife in the district; one<br />
who neither snapped nor sulked, and who never encroached beyond her<br />
own strict line of duty on her husband's right of rule. But on the present<br />
occasion she foresaw a houseful of troubles and vexations attendant on<br />
his odd whim; not the least of which was the risk of rousing the fiery<br />
spirit of Sally Skewers, who, cook-like, was very jealous of undue<br />
interference in her department, and whose services were especially<br />
necessary on that day to prepare a suitable dinner for the unusual number<br />
of guests who were expected. Mrs. Phiggs also lacked confidence in her<br />
husband's skill in culinary matters. She did not really believe him capable
of cooking a potato, or a red herring, for he had never manifested the<br />
least talent in that way; and as for his plainly-written recipes, on which<br />
he placed so much reliance, she well knew that such things are generally<br />
of not much more practical use than the written directions of a conjurer,<br />
as to the safest method of swallowing a sword, or a bundle of paperhangings;<br />
and she dreaded the failure of his projects at a time when such<br />
a mishap would be particularly inconvenient. She urged her objections in<br />
her usual out-spoken, though good-tempered manner; but Mr. Phiggs so<br />
pertinaciously clung to his crotchet, and pleaded his cause with so much<br />
tact, that she at last, like a good pliant wife, withdrew her opposition;<br />
though, at the same time, she laughingly predicted that “he would make a<br />
pretty mess of it.” To that monition Mr. Phiggs nodded his head<br />
sagaciously, and replied, “Wait a bit, Dolly; I believe I shall astonish<br />
you, and receive the commendations of all our company.”<br />
After despatching Samson to various tradesmen in the town for the<br />
extra provisions required, and which were to be at the kitchen door at<br />
peep of day, Mr. Phiggs sat down to study his chart — as he called it<br />
— the plain directions for cooking an Indian breakfast, which he had<br />
received from Captain Carraway, and which seemed to Mr. Phiggs as<br />
simple as a little boy's “Reading Made Easy.”<br />
An hour before daylight next morning. Mr. Phiggs crept quietly out of<br />
bed, as he supposed, without awakening his wife; but had the bedroom<br />
lamp burned a little brighter he would have seen the tassels on the<br />
curtains dancing in sympathy with the merry mood of Mrs. Phiggs, who<br />
was making the bedstead shake with her smothered laughter, at the idea<br />
of the “pretty mess” she would have for breakfast.<br />
Friend Samson turned out of bed at the first word of command, and<br />
very soon he had kindled a fire in the old-fashioned kitchen range, large<br />
enough to roast a calf.<br />
Punctually at the prescribed time came the milkman with a large can of<br />
extra milk and a basket of eggs; other tradesmen speedily followed with<br />
various articles ordered on the previous night, and the dresser was soon<br />
strewed with a strange collection of crude material for the feast. The<br />
butcher brought the kidneys all correct, but “was very sorry the<br />
thunderstorm in the night had spoilt his veal, so he had brought a nice bit<br />
of tender beef instead.” That was annoying certainly, for the veal olives<br />
were intended to form the leading triumph; however, Mr. Phiggs<br />
promptly decided upon making some savoury sausage-cakes instead; so<br />
Samson set to work with an axe, and soon the house began to vibrate<br />
with his vigorous blows as he chopped up the beef into sausage-meat,<br />
and at the same time chopped the kitchen-table into corduroy grooves<br />
and ridges, the cedar chips nicely mixing with the meat by way of<br />
seasoning.<br />
The noise of Samson's axe awoke Sally Skewers, as it might have done
if Sally had been sleeping in the house on the opposite side of the street,<br />
and although she had been nervously apprised by her mistress on the<br />
previous night of what was to take place in the kitchen the next<br />
morning — and notwithstanding she had given her mistress a sort of<br />
sulky promise that she would not interfere with her master's whimsies for<br />
once, seeing her nice, smooth table greased and cut up in that savage<br />
style was too severe a trial for her forbearance; so out she came, halfdressed,<br />
and both Mr. Phiggs and Samson were positively electrified by<br />
the fiery torrent of temper which she poured forth. “Molly-coddles” and<br />
“fishfags” were the mildest epithets she applied to them, and there they<br />
stood gazing at each other, as if deciding whether it was not their safest<br />
course to flee from their unexpected assailant. They however, stood their<br />
ground like men, and tried, though in vain, to soothe Sally, by promising<br />
to vacate the kitchen in two hours at the farthest. After exhausting her<br />
stock of expletives, she flung a chopping board on Samson's toes, and a<br />
chopping knife on to the table, then bounced into her bedroom again,<br />
from whence she soon afterwards re-issued in her holiday frock, her hat<br />
and feather, and dove-coloured boots. With a passing anathema on her<br />
dirty pots and kettles, and a glance at her master and Samson, fierce<br />
enough to frizzle them both, she flung herself out of the kitchen, and<br />
slammed the door with a bang like a great gun.<br />
“I hope she won't come back till we have finished our business,” said<br />
Mr. Phiggs, with his eyes full of tears, as he handed some chopped<br />
onions to Samson to mix with his sausage-meat. “I had no idea that Sally<br />
had such a tongue in her head, she fairly frightened me. I'm very glad she<br />
is gone out for a walk.”<br />
“So am I,” said Samson; “I don't like her. She has nearly knocked my<br />
little toe off with this chopping board. I am sorry I have spoilt the table<br />
though; but I didn't see the board and mincing knife before.”<br />
“Never mind the table,” said Mr. Phiggs, “that can be mended tomorrow.<br />
Now then, Sam, if you have done the sausages, just smash up<br />
these potatoes; I think they are boiled enough; and mix — let me see<br />
(consulting his chart) — yes, mix a quart of new milk, and beat all up<br />
fine with a fork; that's the way to make cream potatoes. Now go to work,<br />
while I see after the curried kidneys. Stop, hand me another saucepan and<br />
a long spoon.”<br />
When she heard Sally's violent tirade, and her noisy exit from the<br />
house, Mrs. Phiggs thought it was time for her to bestir herself; so she<br />
got up accordingly; and first of all quietly peeped into the kitchen, when<br />
the sight she beheld was anything but exhilarating on a merry Christmas<br />
morning. There was Mr. Phiggs, his face as red as the warming pan,<br />
against the wall, puffing and perspiring before an enormous fire, stirring<br />
a saucepanful of rice, which she judged by its odour had been allowed to<br />
burn. The floor was garnished with grease, onion parings, cinders, egg
shells, and a variety of other refuse, whilst cooking utensils and dishes of<br />
all sorts and sizes littered the place in every direction. Every saucepan<br />
and kettle in the kitchen had been brought into use, and the range was<br />
covered with them. The fryingpan, filled with curried kidneys, was on a<br />
chair, the long handle of the pan protruding through a broken windowpane,<br />
and the sooty coffee-pot, with the spout burnt off, was placed on<br />
the dresser shelf. Samson was sitting on the floor with a saucepanful of<br />
potatoes between his knees, which he was actively stirring with a<br />
toasting fork, and smoking a cigar at the same time.<br />
“Now, then, Sam, let us consider,” said Mr. Phiggs, again consulting<br />
his chart; “I think those potatoes will do now. Dear, dear!” he added,<br />
after a short pause, “I see we have made an annoying blunder; the quart<br />
of new milk should have been boiling hot. What a nuisance! the cream<br />
potatoes will be as cold as cream ice before they are dished. However, it<br />
can't be helped now; we must try if we can warm them up again. Turn<br />
them into that pie-dish, and put them on the hob. Look alive, there's a<br />
good fellow!”<br />
“Don't you think they would have looked nicer if they had been peeled<br />
before we made cream of them?” asked Sam.<br />
“Peeled, to be sure! why what a precious gowk you must be not to have<br />
done that without my telling you,” said Mr. Phiggs, with considerable<br />
warmth of temper. “Who the dickens would have thought of smashing<br />
potatoes with the skins on but a pig with his tusks or a donkey with his<br />
hoofs?”<br />
Stung by that severe reproof, Samson rose to his feet in a moment, and<br />
sharply retorted upon Mr. Phiggs, in the attitude of a pugilist. A stormy<br />
altercation ensued, and ended in Samson's donning his coat, and leaving<br />
the kitchen to the sole occupancy of his half-bewildered friend, who had<br />
long since began to wish his Indian breakfast at the bottom of the Indian<br />
Ocean.<br />
Mrs. Phiggs was aware of her husband's dilemma, and would willingly<br />
have gone to his aid, as well for his own sake as for the good order and<br />
credit of her house; but she knew his disposition too well to interfere<br />
with him at such an exciting time; so, like a wise little woman, she kept<br />
aloof, but at the same time actively exerted herself with her other servant<br />
in preparing the breakfast-room, as far as she could, for her coming<br />
guests, whom she expected very soon, as the steamer had been signalled<br />
for some time. She once or twice felt a quizzical disposition to peep into<br />
the kitchen, and wish Jacob a merry Christmas, but pity for him would<br />
not allow her to tease him at a time when he was almost overwhelmed<br />
with perplexity.<br />
“Let me see,” soliloquised Mr. Phiggs, putting on his spectacles, “let<br />
me see; one pound of best Mocha coffee, boiled down to a quart, and put<br />
into a gallon and a quarter of boiling milk. Yes, that's all right; there's the
milk, and here's the coffee; I suppose I had better mix them at once.” In<br />
went the coffee, grounds and all, into the boiling milk, and when too late<br />
to remedy it, Mr. Phiggs, to his grief, discovered that he should have<br />
strained and fined the coffee first; for the mixture looked like brown<br />
paint, or a road puddle after a heavy shower.<br />
“Everything is going against me this morning,” grumbled he, while he<br />
turned the curried kidneys into a soup tureen, and put them on the hob to<br />
keep warm; then wiped out the frying-pan and put it over the fire, with<br />
the handle poised on the back of a chair. “Now for the omelettes,” he<br />
muttered, and again referred to his instructions. “Put half a pound of<br />
fresh butter into a clean frying-pan, then beat up two dozen eggs, mix an<br />
onion chopped fine, and a small bit of sage, fry quickly, and serve up<br />
hot.” “All right; that's plain enough any way,” he continued, as he put a<br />
lump of butter into the red hot pan, which frizzled and sputtered, and<br />
slightly scalded his face. “Botheration take the breakfast,” he pettishly<br />
exclaimed for the tenth time. “Now for the eggs. Well, well! I declare<br />
that stupid fellow Samson has not half beaten them; I should like to beat<br />
his head with this gravy spoon.”<br />
“My dear! our company are coming up the street,” said Mrs. Phiggs,<br />
peeping into the kitchen. “Is the breakfast ready, Jacob?”<br />
“Dear me, are they coming so soon? — that's vexing. I can't get<br />
breakfast ready in a minute less than half an hour,” said Mr. Phiggs,<br />
wiping his heated brow with a smutty towel. “I say, Dolly, send in Jane<br />
for a little while, there's a good soul, just to clear the kitchen a bit; I'm<br />
expecting Sally back every minute, and if she catches me here she will<br />
very likely storm my ears off. I am getting on delightfully, only that<br />
blundering fellow Samson has — hallo! ow! fire! fire! Good gracious,<br />
Dolly! send for help — quick, hoo!” roared Mr. Phiggs, at that instant<br />
hopping about the kitchen with his left foot in his right hand, while his<br />
face expressed terror and torment, and his groans were heard above the<br />
roaring of the fire in the chimney. In turning round hastily, with a<br />
basinful of eggs in one hand and a fork in the other, he had trodden on a<br />
lump of suet, slipped down, and spilt the eggs all over him. In falling he<br />
had struck the handle of the frying-pan, and tipped the half pound of<br />
fresh butter into the fire, except a small part, which had fallen into his<br />
left slipper, and set him dancing like an insane harlequin.<br />
The attempt to describe the uproar and confusion that ensued would be<br />
altogether too much for me. Just as the company were walking up to the<br />
door, expecting a warm reception from the Phiggses, as usual, a stream<br />
of fire shot up from the kitchen chimney, high above the roof of the<br />
house, and the screams of Mrs. Phiggs and Jane, the housemaid, added to<br />
the roaring of Mr. Phiggs, were, to say the least, astounding. Fortunately<br />
it happened that one of their guests was a member of the Sydney fire<br />
brigade, so he at once mounted to the roof of the house through a dormer
window, and being furnished with buckets of water by some of the<br />
excited neighbours, he poured a copious supply down the blazing flue,<br />
and soon put out the fire; but at the same time he put the finishing touch<br />
to Mr. Phiggs's Indian breakfast by smothering everything with soot,<br />
making all the dainty dishes on the hobs as black as an Indian's woolly<br />
head, and turning the kitchen into a mimic Black Sea.<br />
Mr. Phiggs's guests were all old friends, and jovial ones too; and that<br />
they were not disposed to desert a brother in his distress was evident<br />
from their all flocking into the kitchen to see their unlucky host, and to<br />
cheer him up with “compliments of the season.” There he sat, covered<br />
with soot, egg sauce, and melted butter, nursing his basted foot, and<br />
surrounded by a confused collection of cooking tools and little islands of<br />
soot, in a sea of grimy water. But despite his sores and sorrows he could<br />
not but join in the uproarious bursts of laughter, which nearly split the<br />
shingles above his head, as the cause of his mishaps was explained to the<br />
visitors by his waggish little wife, whose eyes were overflowing with<br />
fun.<br />
A breakfast was extemporised, to which the guests soon afterwards sat<br />
down, headed by Mr. Phiggs, who had cleansed himself, and applied a<br />
chalk plaster to his sore foot (which, by the way, is an excellent remedy<br />
for scalds or burns), and many were the jokes passed upon his morning's<br />
exploits by his fun-loving friends, at which none laughed more heartily<br />
than did the good-humoured host himself.<br />
After breakfast Mr. Phiggs put on his hat and went out in search of<br />
Samson and Sally, to offer the amende honorable, while Jane ran for<br />
Mrs. Scrubb, the charwoman, and set her to work to clear the kitchen.<br />
Samson was fishing on the wharf, and looking as sullen as a boy in a<br />
dunce's cap; but Mr. Phiggs's frank apology soon restored him to good<br />
humour, and he returned to the house laughing immoderately. Sally was<br />
sitting in her mother's parlour, crying, and vowing she would never enter<br />
old Phiggs's kitchen again, when her humbled master entered. His kind,<br />
coaxing words, and peace offering of a new shawl for a Christmas-box,<br />
very soon altered her views, and half-an-hour afterwards Sally was<br />
stuffing a goose at her damaged table, with her face all over broad grins,<br />
while old Mrs. Scrubb was clearing away the wreck like an able seaman.<br />
Mr. Phiggs's dogs, Pincher and Snap, had a dainty Christmas breakfast.<br />
They evidently appreciated the pillaued chicken, although it was half<br />
raw: they enjoyed the cream potatoes too, but declined to eat the sausage<br />
cakes, possibly because Samson had accidentally put a double quantity<br />
of cayenne into them.<br />
And Mr. Phiggs's guests had a dainty Christmas dinner, although it was<br />
an hour later than usual. Heartily they enjoyed their good cheer and each<br />
other's cheerful society. They were merry and wise, so of course they<br />
spent a happy Christmas; such a happy Christmas as I most cordially
wish to all my friends, and my enemies too.
Speaking a Word in Season.<br />
SOME time ago I was told an amusing story about a good old man,<br />
who, in his labours of love, occasionally shewed more zeal than<br />
discretion. I do not vouch for the authenticity of the incident, but as it<br />
may convey a useful moral to other over-zealous workers, I will quote it<br />
with a few fanciful variations.<br />
“There once lived a barber, I cannot tell where, but it was in some<br />
populous neighbourhood. He was a good, simple-minded man, and<br />
feeling in his heart that joy and peace which all true believers feel, he<br />
was desirous that his neighbours should share in the happiness he had<br />
found ‘without money and without price,’ and which is as free for the<br />
poor as for the greatest personages upon earth. To carry his good desires<br />
into operation, the barber resolved upon ‘speaking a word in season’ to<br />
every customer who patronised his ‘easy shaving shop’ — a<br />
praiseworthy resolution certainly — but one requiring much judgment in<br />
its execution. One day a crabbed looking old gentleman walked into the<br />
shop, and after taking off his hat, coat, and cravat, seated himself in a<br />
chair, and gruffly intimated that he wanted to be shaved. The barber<br />
bowed politely as usual, placed a napkin under his customer's chin, and<br />
began to ply the lather brush about his face in true tonsoric style.<br />
Meanwhile, the good barber was mentally debating on the most effective<br />
mode of putting the all-important questions to his customer, as to the<br />
state of his mind, and whether he had a good hope of heaven. But his<br />
visage was so grim, and his demeanour so uninviting, that the barber's<br />
courage almost failed him; so, to sharpen it up, he began to strop his<br />
razor, and while doing so, a thought suddenly suggested itself to his<br />
mind, that he had better not risk offending a strange customer by<br />
abruptly putting questions to him upon so solemn and delicate a subject.<br />
‘Ah, that's the devil, but I'll settle him,’ muttered the barber to himself,<br />
though just loud enough for his lathered customer to overhear; and not<br />
knowing that the zealous shaver's soliloquy had reference to the<br />
supposed inward suggestion of Satan to neglect his duty, the old man<br />
began to sit uneasily, under the impression that the barber was going<br />
mad. Presently, as if he had sufficiently sharpened himself and his razor<br />
too, he stood before his palpitating customer, with the blade of the razor<br />
at right angles with its handle, and taking hold of his nose, in order to get<br />
a fair scrape at the surface beneath the chin, asked in a solemn tone, and
with a searching gaze, ‘My friend, are you prepared to die?’<br />
“ ‘O good lack! murder! murder!’ roared the old gentleman, starting<br />
up, overturning his chair, and rushing out of the shop in the utmost<br />
consternation, closely followed by the poor bewildered barber, razor in<br />
hand, vainly endeavouring to explain that he was only anxious about the<br />
safety of his soul.<br />
“ ‘Murder! police! help!’ shrieked the half frantic old gentleman, as he<br />
ran down the street, minus his hat and coat, with the napkin about his<br />
neck, and his face bedaubed with soap. ‘Hoo-o! for gracious sake, catch<br />
him somebody; he is going to cut my throat.’<br />
“ ‘I tell you I have no idea of cutting your throat, my good friend,’<br />
gasped the barber, close behind his runaway customer; ‘I only wanted<br />
to — — ’<br />
“ ‘Whoa!’ cried a brewer's drayman, putting one of his huge feet before<br />
the barber and tripping him up, then sitting upon him kept him down<br />
until several policemen arrived, took away his razor, and regardless of<br />
his loud attempts to explain his pious motives, hurried him away to the<br />
watch-house.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
As I premised, I am not, sure that the foregoing story is veritable, still,<br />
it exemplifies the indiscriminate zeal of many good-meaning Christians<br />
in the world, who sadly lack tact and judgment to direct their monitory<br />
efforts, who — like the barber — are apt to mistake the promptings of<br />
common sense for the suggestions of the evil one, and whose<br />
commendable desires to do good are often thwarted by the illtimed or<br />
bungling way in which they execute them.<br />
“Shall we try and speak a word in season to any one we see this<br />
morning?” asked a rather eccentric friend, who was riding with me one<br />
day towards some of the wharves in Sydney, to go on board of a ship.<br />
“Yes; certainly,” I replied. “That is an everyday duty; but we must be<br />
careful that our words are seasonable, or they may do harm instead of<br />
good.”<br />
Soon afterwards we ascended the side of a ship, and stood upon the<br />
deck. The mate was near the main hatchway, with his cargo book in his<br />
hand, superintending the bustling operation of taking in goods of various<br />
kinds. He stepped up and politely accosted us, when my zealous little<br />
friend held his hand, and looking into his face with a peculiar smile,<br />
kindly enquired after the condition of his soul.<br />
The mate looked rather confused, and being anxious to see the mark on<br />
a case which was then being lowered into the hold, he returned a hurried<br />
but civil answer, and began to make another entry in his cargo book, with<br />
something like a curl about his mouth, as if he had just eaten a green
gooseberry.<br />
“I don't think that was speaking a word in season,” I quietly remarked<br />
to my friend, as we seated ourselves on a skylight; “quite the contrary; I<br />
think it was decidedly out of season, and may have the effect of making<br />
that man think unfavourably of religion, or that those who profess it are<br />
troublesome bores. It was very unlikely that he would keep his crew<br />
standing idle, while he told you his religious experience before them; but<br />
had he been sitting quietly on the booms smoking his after-dinner pipe,<br />
your question might not have been inopportune, though even then, I<br />
think, it would have been more effective if put in a less direct form. You<br />
would be more likely to impress a sailor with a few good words<br />
judiciously infused into your cheerful conversation during an hour's walk<br />
with him on deck in the middle watch on a quiet night, than you would<br />
by preaching to him while he is putting the ship about, or hauling up the<br />
main-sail in a squall.”<br />
The same principle is applicable to landsmen as well as sailors.<br />
Suitable times must be selected for speaking good words, otherwise your<br />
good words may be worse than useless, for, like fruit, they are<br />
unpalatable, and sometimes positively unwholesome, when “out of<br />
season.”<br />
I do not think my reasoning convinced my eccentric — though very<br />
worthy — little friend, for he had much to say in favour of his system of<br />
“sowing beside all waters,” notwithstanding his palpable failure to<br />
impress the busy mate with a solemn sense of the important question he<br />
had just put to him, with the kindest of motives, though with illtimed<br />
precipitancy.<br />
I could give numberless instances, if necessary, of similar lack of<br />
judgment, exhibited by well-intentioned persons, which have come under<br />
my notice. I have often heard, too, the motives of such persons unjustly<br />
impugned, and themselves ridiculed or abused, simply because they<br />
failed to make themselves understood by those whom they were kindly<br />
endeavouring to benefit. While I have of course deprecated such<br />
ingratitude, I have not been surprised at it, and could not but lament that<br />
the subjects of it had not, in addition to their other studies, studied human<br />
nature a little more.<br />
Few readers will be likely to mistake the meaning of my remarks. It is<br />
far, indeed, from my wish to discourage any humble-minded person from<br />
endeavouring to comfort or edify his needy fellow creatures around him;<br />
on the contrary, I would encourage him in every way in my power. I<br />
simply wish to urge the policy of studying to do good in the most<br />
effectual way, and prevent good from being spoken evil of.
Will He Kick?<br />
“WILL he kick?” nervously enquired Mr. Bradbury Spriggs, a spruce<br />
little city friend, who was on a visit to my house, as he prepared to mount<br />
my favourite hack.<br />
“Oh dear, no,” I replied, “he's quiet as an old cow.”<br />
“He'll bear the spurs, then, I suppose.”<br />
“Why, yes,” I replied, honestly, “he is livelier for a slight touch of the<br />
spur now and then. I always let him know that I have them on, though it<br />
is very seldom I use them, for I think it is cruelty and ingratitude,<br />
drumming a poor beast's ribs with spurred heels, while he is trudging<br />
along under me.”<br />
“He doesn't shy, does he?” asked Mr. Spriggs again, as he gathered up<br />
his reins, and stuck his legs out straight, to show the fashionable cut of<br />
his pantaloons.<br />
“Not he,” I replied, somewhat impatiently; “he wouldn't shy if he met a<br />
gang of gorillas carrying a turnpike-gate.”<br />
“All right; good-bye,” said Mr. Spriggs. Away he bounded at a brisk<br />
canter; and soon I could catch occasional glimpses of his figure, between<br />
the distant trees in the bush, riding like Tam O'Shanter.<br />
In a few hours he returned, looking fatigued, while the perspiration was<br />
dropping off my steed, and his bleeding sides showed painful evidences<br />
that his rider had given him considerably more than a slight touch of the<br />
spur now and then.<br />
“He's a spendid animal,” remarked Bradbury, with the knowing look of<br />
a connoisseur in horse-flesh, as he slowly dismounted. “I never rode a<br />
beast I liked better. Such paces! and withal so free and gentle; I found,<br />
however, that he required the spur occasionally.”<br />
“Humph!” I quietly ejaculated, as I led my panting favourite towards<br />
the stable — “rather an equivocal appreciation of your merits, my poor<br />
old Jack; but I'll sell you to a knacker before I let that hide-rasper mount<br />
you again.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
It was not a rare occurrence for city friends to pay visits to my house in<br />
those halcyon times. Residing in a pleasant and accessible part of the<br />
country, I had sometimes more visitors than I could entertain to my own
satisfaction. As they usually had a penchant for riding, I could not but try<br />
to gratify them, though frequently to my own inconvenience and<br />
vexation. I had a strong objection to lend the horse I usually rode<br />
myself — for having drilled him into paces which best suited my comfort<br />
in travelling, I had a dread lest casual riders should drill him out of those<br />
paces again. Whenever I could hire a nag for a visitor, I did so; but as<br />
that could not always be done, I sometimes found myself compelled by<br />
courtesy to lend my own hack.<br />
About two years after the foregoing incident Mr. Bradbury Spriggs<br />
paid me another visit for a day or two: and one of his early enquiries was<br />
for “the splendid animal which had carried him twenty-five miles in two<br />
hours.”<br />
“Ah! I've sold poor Jack,” I replied, with a slight sigh: “he is now<br />
drawing a hawker's cart; an ignoble occupation for such a handsome<br />
beast as he once was. I lent him one day to a friend, who unfortunately<br />
threw him down and broke his knees. But I have another Jack, in the<br />
paddock, a finer horse than the last one, at least he suits me better, if he<br />
is not such a general favourite with my friends.”<br />
“Ah! I should like to see him,” replied Mr. Spriggs, while his face<br />
brightened up, like a boy's who is just going to have the first spin at his<br />
new humming-top. “Could you let me have a trot on him for an hour or<br />
so; I haven't had a ride since the last time I was here.”<br />
“Hum! I'll see,” I slowly replied, as I tried to see if I could find some<br />
honourable excuse for declining to let him have a trot, having an<br />
annoying recollection of his two hours' gallop on the former occasion.<br />
“Yes — you can have him for an hour, Mr. Spriggs,” I at length<br />
replied, “but I hope you will not ride very fast, for I have to take a long<br />
journey to-morrow, and I want Jack to be pretty fresh.”<br />
“Oh, certainly not, I'll not ride him hard; I'll take care of him, you may<br />
depend on it,” replied my excited friend; and away he went to his<br />
dressing-room, to prepare himself for the jaunt, while I gave orders for<br />
the horse to be saddled and brought to the door.<br />
In a few minutes out came my city friend, armed with a hammerheaded<br />
whip, and glittering spurs at his heels, and looking as bold as a<br />
bushranger. He was preparing to mount when I quietly asked, “Will you<br />
ride with spurs, Mr. Spriggs?”<br />
“Ye-e-s,” he replied, with some hesitation, and an earnest glance into<br />
my face. “Why, sir, will your horse not bear them?”<br />
“He does not like them,” I replied, which was true enough; indeed, it<br />
would be hard to persuade me there is a horse on earth that does like<br />
them.<br />
“Oh, well, perhaps I had better take them off. I am glad you told me!”<br />
and forthwith he began to unbuckle his spur leathers.<br />
“Who-o-o-o, Jack,” I shouted, as I suddenly snatched at my horse's
idle, and began to pat his neck, while he of course retreated a pace or<br />
two in surprise. This was observed by my friend, who timidly<br />
enquired —<br />
“Does he bolt?”<br />
“I never saw him positively bolt,” I replied carelessly. “Who-o-o-o,<br />
Jack, stand away from his heels there!” I shouted to my grinning groom.<br />
“Will he kick!” asked Mr. Spriggs with a very nervous look, as he took<br />
a wide circuit to hand his discarded spurs to the man.<br />
“Well, I have seen him lift his legs,” I replied, “but I don't think — — ”<br />
“Ah, that's a very dangerous habit; perhaps I had better not ride him today,”<br />
said Bradbury, who had evidently made up his mind on the subject.<br />
“Oh, by all means ride him,” I replied, “but ride carefully, keep a<br />
tolerably tight rein on him, and do not give him too much of that whip,<br />
I'll warrant he'll not run away with you — who-o-o, Jack, who-o-o!”<br />
“Well, I don't care much about riding to-day,” said Mr. Spriggs; “a<br />
— a — the fact is, I am not a very a very good rider, and this is a strange<br />
animal, if it were the other horse I'd — no thankee, I won't ride to-day.<br />
I'll just take a walk into the bush, it looks beautiful. I shall enjoy that<br />
quite as much as a ride, much obliged to you.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
The horse was turned into the paddock again, and as he kicked up his<br />
heels with delight, at being freed from the prospect of a tiresome duty, I<br />
could see that my timid little friend mentally congratulated himself upon<br />
his prudent determination, in the full conviction that he had narrowly<br />
escaped breaking some of his bones by riding such a vicious brute;<br />
whereas poor Jack was one of the steadiest old roadsters in the colony.<br />
* * * * *<br />
I have occasionally seen a pompous official metamphorically spurring<br />
a patient subordinate; and have been at once reminded of the cowardly<br />
little griffin, who mercilessly overrode my faithful old hack, because he<br />
knew Jack would not kick.
A Matrimonial Juggler;<br />
OR, MR. TEDDINGTON TROUT AND MISS CHARITY GLIMM.<br />
“WELL that has a bonâ fide look certainly,” simpered Miss Charity<br />
Glimm to herself, as she pored with exulting eyes over an advertisement<br />
in the Herald. “There is an air of candour, and a gentlemanly style about<br />
it, that struck me at first sight as being genuine. I would not for the world<br />
reply to a thing of the sort, if I had the least idea that it was a hoax,<br />
invented by a party of idiots, as is often the case, merely for the sake of<br />
laughing at creatures almost as foolish as themselves. No, I really believe<br />
that this is no meaningless joke, but the pure breathings of a refined,<br />
manly soul, which is longing for sympathy and comfort, which it cannot<br />
find in an ordinary way.” As Miss Glimm thus soliloquised, she took up<br />
the paper again and deliberately read aloud the following stimulating<br />
composition: —<br />
“MATRIMONY.<br />
“The advertiser, who is turned forty-one years of age, of pleasing<br />
personal appearance, and easy means, is desirous of forming a<br />
matrimonial engagement with a lady of suitable age. Money is not an<br />
object, and will by no means counterpoise a lack of the main desiderata,<br />
viz., agreeable person, amiable disposition, and domestic acquirements.<br />
The most honorable secresy may be relied on. Address, in full<br />
confidence, B. O. H., Post Office, Sydney.”<br />
The honest reality of the foregoing so impressed Miss Charity, that her<br />
appetite for mutton chops became quite inert; so she sipped a cup of tea,<br />
then opened her writing desk, and after two hours' perplexing study she<br />
had produced the following note, in time for the eleven o'clock iron<br />
receiver: —<br />
“To B. O. H., Post Office, Sydney.<br />
“SIR, — The apparent candour and gentlemanly honesty which<br />
pervades every line of your advertisement in this day's Herald, induces<br />
me to reply to it with the feminine candour which it deserves. In full<br />
confidence that I am not mistaken, I send you herewith my carte de<br />
visite, which was taken on the first of May last. I was then thirty-seven<br />
years of age, and a spinster; which I am still. I was brought up under the<br />
eye of a virtuous aunt, whose only aim in life was to see me grow up<br />
thoroughly domesticated. At her death she left me ninety pounds a year<br />
for life, and her little brick cottage nicely furnished. It would not become
me to say anything which might be called self-praise, so I will simply<br />
remark that I believe you would find in me all those qualities which you<br />
so feelingly express your desire to gain in a wife. If you think this worthy<br />
of a reply, please address, in the first place, to Floy, Post Office,<br />
Paddington.<br />
“P.S. — I had almost forgotten to mention that the spot on the left side<br />
of the nose, in my carte, is the accidental mark of a fly, and the slight<br />
squint in the right eye is entirely owing to the artist forcing me to look<br />
animated.”<br />
Next morning the postman's sharp rat-tat at the door made Charity's<br />
heart bound like a football. In another minute she was gazing with<br />
throbbing admiration at a carte de visite which was enclosed in a scented<br />
note, written with rather a tremulous hand, as follows: —<br />
“MY DEAR MADAM, — MY pen cannot express the happiness I felt<br />
on receipt of your truth-breathing epistle this morning, accompanied by<br />
your likeness. As I have carefully studied Lavater, you will perhaps<br />
allow me to say, without suspecting me of flattery, that yours is a face<br />
which indexes a mind — such a mind as I am sure could appreciate the<br />
warm overflow of my soul. I will not stay to write more, for I am<br />
impatient for an interview, if your kindness will extend itself so far as to<br />
grant it. I enclose my carte, and beg to subscribe my real name, as your<br />
devoted admirer,<br />
“TEDDINGTON TROUT.”<br />
Half an hour afterwards, Charity had posted another note, intimating<br />
that she should be happy to see Mr. Trout at his earliest convenience, and<br />
then she sat down in her easy chair to study his picture. Whether she took<br />
a short nap or not is uncertain; at any rate, she was still sitting in the<br />
chair, fondly gazing at the carte, when a rat-tat-tat at the door suddenly<br />
brought her down from the top story of a lofty aerial castle, and before<br />
she had time to go to her dressing-room to adjust herself, that stupid girl<br />
Biddy had shown the gentleman into the parlour. Charity blushed, of<br />
course, and nervously apologised for her deshabille; but Mr. Trout put<br />
her at her ease in an instant, and with a sweet smile, which displayed a<br />
perfect set of teeth, he assured her that he was delighted to find her in<br />
unstudied attire, and further, “that it was the charming naïveté manifested<br />
in her portrait, and in her note too, which had given spurs to his desire to<br />
see her, and had induced him to trespass upon her at that unfashionable<br />
hour of the day.”<br />
At her request he took a seat, then took off a tightly-fitting glove, and<br />
passed his hand gently over his hair, which was curly and glossy, and as<br />
black as a raven's tail; with most fascinating whiskers and beard to<br />
match, but no moustache, as she was happy to remark. He was rather a<br />
genteel figure, though very thin, with a peculiar stoop, which, however,<br />
was only to be seen at times, when he appeared abstracted. His putting
his hand to his back so frequently, Charity thought was a slight<br />
eccentricity, but it could by no means be taken as an indication of<br />
weakness, for the unusually bright colour in the parts of his face that<br />
were bare, clearly showed the ruddy glow of health. That his legs were<br />
curved could not be denied, but that was a trifling defect, which she<br />
thought even his handsome beard alone would overbalance. His being<br />
“all of a shake,” indicated a highly sensitive organisation and a becoming<br />
modesty; indeed, she concluded that the man who would not shake a<br />
little under such circumstances must possess an ossified heart, wholly<br />
unimpressible by domestic perfection. Omitting the details of their long<br />
interview (during which a mutual confidence had been exhibited, and a<br />
satisfactory outline of each other's history had been given), I briefly<br />
record, that before the clock struck two their engagement had been<br />
ratified by a true lover's kiss; after which — to the surprise of Biddy<br />
— the happy pair sat down to a homely dinner.<br />
I must hurry past the succeeding ten days of active courtship, merely<br />
noticing that their admiration for each other hourly increased, and as all<br />
needless delay was held to be sheer cruelty, and having neither parents<br />
nor guardians to consult, they mutually agreed to be married on New<br />
Year's Day. In order to save the unnecessary “fuss of inviting a lot of<br />
quizzical friends to their wedding,” they decided to go to Newcastle,<br />
there to get married in a quiet way, then go to Singleton by rail, to revel<br />
in honey moon-shine.<br />
Next Monday morning they joined the seven o'clock steamer, taking as<br />
little luggage with them as possible, to save trouble. The weather was<br />
fine and clear, though a strong N.E. breeze made the vessel pitch and toss<br />
very uncomfortably for a squeamish man. But Charity — who was never<br />
sick — said she enjoyed it amazingly. She playfully remarked, “that her<br />
dear Teddy had entirely lost his colour,” and advised him to go below<br />
and lie down, but he manfully protested against leaving her on deck<br />
alone; so he got some cushions from the cabin, and made her a<br />
comfortable couch on the skylight, then tucked her feet in his railway<br />
wrapper and put his travelling shawl tenderly over her hat, to keep the<br />
spray from spoiling the blue feather. After handing her a copy of the<br />
Sydney Mail to amuse and edify her, he walked about in the fore part of<br />
the ship in order to cure his squeamishness.<br />
There were few fore cabin passengers on board that morning, and those<br />
few were below, for the spray made the deck very moist forward. Mr.<br />
Trout was glad there were no unsympathising eyes to gaze at him, for he<br />
felt woefully sick, and wished to ruminate over the side of the ship, and<br />
watch the bubbles gaily dancing by. Quietly stepping down to the cabin,<br />
unseen by Charity, he got an old tweed coat and vest from his bag, and<br />
returned to the fore deck. He then put on a sailor's tarpaulin jacket (which<br />
was lying on the fore hatch) to keep himself dry, and got as far as he
could in the lee fore sponson. There, unseen by human eyes, he soon<br />
began to make the most varied facial contortions and guttural gwarcks<br />
that ever aroused expectation in a hungry fish; and if he were not very<br />
bad indeed, his noises and his wry looks terribly belied him. The spray<br />
had long before washed away all his rouge, and his bile-tinted face<br />
looked like a suet pudding made for paupers. His change of dress, too,<br />
had strangely altered his figure, for there was no padding in his old tweed<br />
coat, and the crook in his back was as apparent as the curve in a<br />
monkey's tail. Loudly he lamented that he had not gone to Richmond by<br />
rail, instead of travelling by steamer on such a windy morning. Severe<br />
were his denunciations of steamers in general, and of that one in<br />
particular. Horribly profane were the curses he invoked on his own weak<br />
stomach, on his eyes and limbs, and on his soul too. Presently, as if in<br />
direct answer to his invocations, and to convince him how easily his<br />
blasphemous breath could be stopped for ever, he was seized with an<br />
unusually fierce internal qualm, during which, a tiny morsel of<br />
regurgitating breakfast slipped into his windpipe, and provoked a<br />
convulsive wheeze. In an instant, to his intense horror, out flew all his<br />
teeth, which were bran new only three weeks ago, and more horrifying<br />
still, in his frantic efforts to clutch them he jerked off his cap, and with it<br />
his span new wig and whiskers. Away they went, all of a heap, “into the<br />
tumbling billows of the main.”<br />
For an instant he stood aghast and paralyzed; his sunken chops<br />
quivering with emotion, and his dirty, bald head covered with beads of<br />
cold perspiration, like a gigantic toadstool in a thunder shower. “Ghost of<br />
Buonaparte! I'm ruined! I'm ruined! What shall I do now?” he gasped in<br />
tones of wild despair. (The escaped steam from the safety valve at that<br />
moment went Who-o-o! as though in mockery of his misery.) He had left<br />
his old wig and fixings and his other teeth at his lodgings; so what could<br />
he do, so remote from barbers and dentists? And it was not possible to<br />
quietly scalp a sailor, for there was not one to be seen in the fore part of<br />
the ship. How could he explain his dilemma to Charity? And whatever<br />
would she say to his wrinkles, and to the palpable fact that he was sixtytwo,<br />
instead of forty-one years of age? These were thoughts which<br />
rushed into his mind with distracting force. In the midst of his dismay,<br />
however, was a gloomy joy that no eye had witnessed his disaster. So he<br />
resolved to get his shawl to cover his head, then to call Charity into the<br />
cabin, there to explain his misfortune, and appeal to her tender<br />
sympathies. Accordingly he ran aft (without taking off his tarpaulin<br />
jacket), and rushing up to his darling, he mumbled out with awful<br />
incoherency, “Gip me my shawl; I'm pery bad.”<br />
“Ugh! mercy pon us! get away, you nasty old creature! Wha-a?”<br />
shrieked Charity, in terror, and in utter ignorance who the crooked old<br />
phantom was, who had so rudely attempted to steal her lover's shawl.
“Led go id I dell you!” he cried, tearing the shawl from her head, while<br />
she loudly called for Teddington to come to her aid.<br />
“Hallo, daddy, what are you doing aft?” asked the chief mate, running<br />
up to the rescue of Charity, and collaring the stranger, who was making<br />
stuttering efforts to convince her that he was her intended husband.<br />
“Do you know this old chap, ma'am?” asked the mate.<br />
“Goodness me, no! certainly not. I never saw him in my life before. O!<br />
for pity's sake drag him away, Mr. Mate,” said Charity, looking round for<br />
her lover to protect her, and calling for the stewardess to help her below,<br />
out of sight of the hideous old lunatic.<br />
“The old bloke is cranky, there is no mistake about that,” said the mate.<br />
“Lay aft here, the watch. Catch hold of him, some of you, and shove him<br />
into the paint locker, and block up the door. Don't hurt him, lads, don't<br />
hurt him, poor old fellow. He is a runaway from Tarban, I suppose, but I<br />
didn't see him come on board.”<br />
In another minute Trout was seized, neck and legs, by half-a-dozen<br />
sailors, and, despite his violent kicking and cursing, they carried him<br />
forward, and put him into a little closet on the fore-sponson, where they<br />
left him loudly protesting against their illegal proceedings.<br />
“O dear me! that horrid old man has given me such a fright,” said<br />
Charity, rubbing her forehead with rose water. “Stewardess, do go on<br />
deck, if you please, and ask Mr. Trout to come down. You will see him<br />
in the fore part of the ship — a gentleman with black beard and whiskers,<br />
and a military cap on.”<br />
Away went the stewardess, and in ten minutes she returned with the<br />
startling news “that no such gentleman was on board.” An awful scene of<br />
excitement ensued. A search was made through the ship, from the hawse<br />
holes to the rudder trunk, but no Trout was to be found; and the terrible<br />
conviction forced itself upon every mind that the mysterious madman<br />
had thrown the unfortunate gentleman overboard, which idea was<br />
confirmed by a brief examination of the murderer, who persisted in<br />
mumbling that he was the identical Mr. Trout himself. Double irons were<br />
procured, and he was securely bound, and barricaded in the paint locker.<br />
A flag was hoisted half-mast, and general sympathy was manifested for<br />
the disconsolate lady who — as the mate remarked — had so tragically<br />
been made a widow the day before she was a wife.<br />
When the steamer arrived at Newcastle, Charity was too much griefstricken<br />
to go on shore; so it was arranged that she should stay on board,<br />
and return to Sydney next trip, in order to give evidence against the<br />
murderer of her lamented lover. The captain generously gave up his<br />
cabin to the mourner, and the stewardess volunteered to extemporise<br />
some mourning gear, taking care, of course, to keep the blue feather and<br />
all such unseasonable trifles out of sight, in the hope that they would go<br />
out of mind too.
* * * * *<br />
Two days afterwards, Charity, covered in crape, entered the police<br />
office with her solicitor, amid the sympathy of the full bench and a<br />
crowded court. The prisoner in the dock looked more sanguinary than<br />
ever, and eyed Charity with maniacal tenderness, which made her dread<br />
that he would leap out of the dock and bite her. Ever and anon he<br />
mumbled that he was Mr. Trout, and had never been murdered, and that<br />
he was going to be married to Miss Glimm. Close confinement, in irons,<br />
amongst the paint pots and oil cans for two days and nights, and on low<br />
diet too, had sadly damaged his appearance. His bald head was bedaubed<br />
with a variety of colours, like a painter's palette, and his nose and<br />
which nearly met — were garnished with engine grease, from his having<br />
used an old wad of cotton waste, in lieu of a pocket handkerchief. It was<br />
not until the gaoler threatened to gag him that he was induced to keep<br />
silent, while Charity gave her evidence.<br />
After a lengthened examination — during which it was pretty generally<br />
believed that the prisoner would be hanged — the magistrate asked,<br />
“Have you had any previous acquaintance with the prisoner, Miss<br />
Glimm?”<br />
“O dear no, your Honour. I never saw him in my life before he attacked<br />
me on board the steamer, in the way I have described,” said Charity, with<br />
an affecting shudder.<br />
“On your oath, madam. Do you say you never saw the prisoner<br />
before?” asked the counsel for the defence.<br />
“Certainly I do, Sir,” said Charity, with a toss of contempt at the mere<br />
assumption that she could be guilty of telling a falsehood. The counsel<br />
then requested that the witness might retire, which she was politely<br />
ordered to do. He then drew from his blue bag a set of teeth, a black wig<br />
with whiskers and beard conjoined, and a black cartout, coat, and vest,<br />
and handed them to the prisoner, who forthwith arrayed himself in them<br />
with magical alacrity: and the improvement in his appearance caused a<br />
buzz of admiration throughout the court, which six constables shouting<br />
silence could not smother. He was then told to step out of the dock, and<br />
to stand near to the door of the ante-room, and Charity was re-admitted.<br />
The moment she saw him, she exclaimed, hysterically, “Good gracious!<br />
Is it possible? Yes, yes, it is my own dear, dear Teddington!” then flung<br />
herself into his arms and fainted away. She was carried from the court to<br />
be rubbed and rinsed into consciousness, and in twenty minutes she reentered<br />
looking much better.<br />
“Do you still assert that you never saw the prisoner at the bar before?”<br />
asked the counsel, pointing to Trout, who was again in the dock in all his<br />
paint-disfigured baldness. “Look at him carefully, Miss Glimm; don't
hurry with your reply.”<br />
Charity looked steadily at the prisoner for half a minute, then replied<br />
with the fervour of honest conviction, “I solemnly declare that I never<br />
saw him until he assaulted me; but I don't accuse him of murdering Mr.<br />
Trout, because he is in court somewhere, I'm happy to say.”<br />
“Oh, is he?” said the counsel, with a waggish smile. He then handed<br />
his blue bag into the dock to the prisoner, who again arrayed himself in<br />
his whiskers, wig, and teeth, amidst the loud laughter of the assembled<br />
crowd, which no one attempted to check; while Charity covered her face,<br />
and “fie'd for shame.”<br />
The prisoner was of course acquitted of the charge of murder; but<br />
failing to satisfy the Bench how he obtained an honest livelihood, he was<br />
committed to gaol for three months, as a rogue and a vagabond. Swifter<br />
than a scared sheep, Charity sped out of the court, then got into a cab and<br />
drove rapidly homeward, wringing her hands in vexation of spirit. Next<br />
week she left the colony, under the nom de guerre of Nancy Dunn.<br />
Where she is now I do not care to know, but I trust she is growing wiser;<br />
and I heartily hope that her humiliating experience may be a warning to<br />
her sex in general against the egregious folly of answering matrimonial<br />
advertisements, and thereby subjecting themselves to the terrible risk of<br />
being made miserable for life.
Bryan Grady and His Twin Brother Teddy.<br />
A PARTY of gentlemen (including Dr. McMerry) in travelling<br />
overland from New South Wales to Victoria, camped one Christmas eve<br />
in the bush: and as they sat around their camp fire, they each related an<br />
incident from their colonial experience. The following is the doctor's<br />
story: —<br />
“It is thirteen years this Christmas-tide since the events I am about to<br />
relate. I was surgeon of the ship Walrus, on my first voyage to<br />
Melbourne. Amongst the emigrants were Bryan Grady and his wife<br />
Bridget, his daughters Nora and Judy, two buxom, blue-eyed girls, and<br />
three ragged-headed gossoons, ‘with cheeks like thumping red potatoes,’<br />
as the old song says. Pat, Mike, and Denis played more mischievous<br />
pranks on board than the boatswain's baboon, and the frequent whacks<br />
with the thin end of their father's shillelah were apparently as inoperative<br />
as gentle words to deaf bears. While watching the capers of those<br />
youngsters I have sometimes been strongly inclined to Monboddo's<br />
whimsical notion, ‘that men are monkeys with their tails rubbed off.’<br />
Bryan Grady was an unsophisticated, honest-hearted Irishman, with a<br />
merry face, twinkling eyes, and an active tongue strongly tipped with the<br />
brogue. His wife was a quiet little woman, without the least pretensions<br />
to anything out of the common; in fact, the whole family were of the<br />
humblest class of Irish peasantry. They had long ‘struggled with hard<br />
times in the ould country,’ as Bryan remarked, ‘an shure enough,<br />
dochter, everything was dead against us, an it was nigh starvin we wor,<br />
though it was hard enough we toiled for the rags on our backs an the bit<br />
o' victuals we ate, which wasn't enough to kape us from bein cowld an<br />
hungry.’<br />
“ ‘What are you going to do in Australia?’ I asked him one evening, as<br />
he was sitting on the windlass smoking his little black dudheen.<br />
“ ‘Troth an I can't tell yez that, sir,’ he replied, running his fingers<br />
through his grizzly locks. ‘I don't know what I'll do at all, but it's mighty<br />
little I frit meself about that same, cos we're not half-way there yit. I'm<br />
able an willin' to work, thank God, an the bhoys and girrls are rale good<br />
workers too, so it ull be hard enough iv we don't pick up a clane honest<br />
crust. Anyhow we can't be worse off nor we wor in the land beyont,<br />
unless we are stripped an starved out an out. Besides me brother Teddy is<br />
in Australy somewheres, an iv I can only find him he'll help me on a bit
niver fear — that is iv he's able to do it; and if he isn't, why dash it all,<br />
we can help ourselves and no thanks to nobody, as the rats sed whin they<br />
got into ould Mulligan's granary.’<br />
“ ‘In what part of Australia does your brother reside?’ I asked.<br />
“ ‘Shure an I don't know where he is at all, sir; I whish I did know.<br />
Teddy ran away from home many years agone, when he was a gossoon<br />
not much bigger nor my bhoy Mike. He sint us a letther soon afterwards,<br />
to tell us that he wasn't drowned on the voyage to Sydney, and that he<br />
wos goin' up the counthry to some outlandish place wid a long whuzzy<br />
buzzy name that I cud niver spake widout coughin', and which I've clane<br />
forgot years agone. That's all I know about Teddy; but maybe I'll find<br />
him one of these days, an he'll be plaised enough to see me, I'll wager,<br />
for it's twins we were whin we were bhoys, and as much alike as two<br />
wild rabbits, only he'd got a dale more gumption nor meself, which was<br />
plain enough from his rinnin' away from poverty, while I stopped in it till<br />
it pritty nigh ate the heart clane out ov me. Och hone! an thire's a mighty<br />
lot ov poor hungry souls in ould Ireland, so there is, wus luck.’<br />
“Soon after the Walrus's arrival in Melbourne I took steamer for<br />
Sydney, intending to stay there a month or two, in order to secure the<br />
best season of the year for returning home by way of Cape Horn. I went<br />
to stay with my old college friend, Grant, who was living in tolerably<br />
good style, in a pleasant part of Sydney. The day before Christmas I had<br />
been strolling about the city, looking at the numerous well-stocked<br />
provision shops, and the fruit market, and contrasting the sultry, dusty<br />
atmosphere with Christmas weather at the antipodes. I returned in the<br />
afternoon, weary, warm, and dusty to my friend's house, and stretching<br />
myself on a sofa in his sanctum, was watching the pertinacious attempts<br />
of a grey mosquito to tap my nose, when Grant walked in, with a letter in<br />
his hand. ‘I have been looking for you Mac. Here is an invitation for you<br />
to accompany me to a dinner party to-morrow, at my friend O'Grady's. I<br />
hope you are not otherwise engaged,’ he said, tossing the letter to me to<br />
read.<br />
“ ‘Your friend, O'Grady, is not a scholar,’ said I, smiling, as I returned<br />
the quaintly worded note of invitation, ‘However, he may be a clever<br />
fellow for all that, and I am sure he is a respectable man or you would<br />
not own his acquaintance. I will go with pleasure.’<br />
“ ‘O'Grady is certainly not a scholar, as you remark,’ said Grant, ‘still<br />
he has a large share of good practical sense, with general information,<br />
and a vein of native humour which the most prosy savant in the land<br />
would appreciate; in short, he is a capital fellow, and you will enjoy his<br />
company — for I know you love thorough men, whatever their condition<br />
in life may be. His wife is a high-bred lady; perhaps a little too stately<br />
beside her uncultured spouse, but withal a kind-hearted woman.<br />
O'Grady's history is rather an amusing one. He came to this colony thirty
years ago, a mere lad, or a bare-legged gossoon — to use his own words.<br />
He went into the bush, and ten years afterwards he won the heart of a<br />
rich widow, with his handsome face and his blarneying ways; and now<br />
he owns several stations in the interior, and I don't know how many<br />
houses in Sydney besides. He is member for Midgyborough; and though<br />
he admits that it is mighty little he knows of political science, he has<br />
more influence in “the House” than many men of greater pretensions. In<br />
his own house he is one of the most hospitable, off-hand, humourous<br />
Irishman that I have ever met with; but you shall see him and judge for<br />
yourself.’<br />
“Next day my friend Grant and I drove to Derrydown Hall, which was<br />
a stylish mansion, charmingly situated in the most fashionable suburb of<br />
Sydney. We were met at the door by our host, whose hearty, homely<br />
salute assured me that I was welcome, more than the most polished<br />
address would have done. I fancied I had seen him before, but could not<br />
remember where. His wife received me with stately etiquette, and<br />
presented me to her daughters, three tall, handsome girls, whose bearing<br />
more resembled that of mamma than papa. There were about a dozen<br />
guests in the drawing-room, and the hostess expressed to Grant her regret<br />
at the absence of others — who had been invited — through a sudden<br />
family bereavement. I need not minutely describe the house and its<br />
contents, suffice it to say that the mansion was commodious; it was<br />
furnished in elegant style, and its surroundings showed a rare<br />
combination of natural and artistic beauties.<br />
“The company were in that peculiar state of suspense which is often<br />
observable a few minutes before the hour for dinner, each one seeming<br />
undesirous of beginning a conversation, which might be abruptly<br />
terminated by the summons to adjourn to the dining-room, when<br />
suddenly the awkward silence was broken by noisy voices in the hall,<br />
accompanied with sounds of scuffling. I had a few minutes before<br />
observed a spring cart, full of men and women, pass the windows<br />
towards the front door of the house.<br />
“ ‘Och bad manners to yez! ye pickled pork-faced spalpeen! what do ye<br />
mane by kickin' me down the steps an' spillin’ me bist hat?” uttered an<br />
excited voice, which sounded familiarly in my ears. ‘Be the hoky iv ye<br />
lift yer hoof to me agin, I'll knock yer big head into brawn, so I will. Go<br />
an' tell yer masther I want him, an' bad cess to yez.’<br />
“ ‘Be off I tell you! you can't see Mister O'Grady to-day,’ said the<br />
footman.<br />
“ ‘Be off is it! Wheugh! an who are you to tell me I can't see him, when<br />
I've come a hundred thousand miles amost on purpose. Och Mike, what<br />
next! I'll bet a penny ye'll see somethin' yerself pretty quick that you<br />
won't like above a bit; ye'll git the dhirty kick out by and bye, an' go<br />
howlin' home like a hound wid a bad leg, or maybe ye'll get yer blatherin
head put in a sack, an' sarve ye right for yer imperence.’<br />
“ ‘Get out you saucy ragamuffin?’ said the servant angrily, at the same<br />
time we heard a heavy thud outside, and the door was slammed to. It was<br />
evident that the intruder had been pushed out of the house, which seemed<br />
a clear indication that he was not welcome in it.<br />
“ ‘Hallo! hallo! what's all that whirly burly about, I'd like to know?’<br />
exclaimed the host, walking from the farther end of the drawing-room as<br />
though intent upon going into the hall to investigate the cause of the<br />
uproar. At that instant a man, covered with dust, presented himself at one<br />
of the open French windows, holding a battered hat in his hands.<br />
“ ‘Be the livin' jingo! iv that isn't Teddy himself!’ shouted the man,<br />
dropping his hat and springing into the room. ‘Savin' yer prisense, ladies<br />
and jintlemen, and axin yer pardon for gettin' in at the windee like a thief,<br />
I've come to see me brother, an' here he is sure enough, God bless him.<br />
He's the ony son ov me mother, barrin' meself an' me sisther Meg. Troth,<br />
I'd know him in the middle ov a regiment ov sogers, iv they were all as<br />
nakid as skinned weasils — so I wud. Teddy, honey! an' don't ye know<br />
yer own darlint brother Bryan?’ he added, advancing nearer, with his<br />
eyes full of affectionate earnestness.<br />
“The host stood for a moment as if petrified with amazement, while his<br />
handsome face twitched with emotion. Then a happy smile began to play<br />
round his mouth, but almost simultaneously he burst into tears, and flung<br />
himself into the open arms of the dusty man, whom I at once recognised<br />
as my humble friend Bryan Grady; at the same time I observed his wife<br />
and five children grouped round the window, staring into the room, with<br />
faces expressive of wonder and delight at the moving scene. The<br />
surprised looks of the guests, and the very natural embarrassment of the<br />
hostess and her daughters, at the unexpected arrival of relatives with<br />
whom they were wholly unacquainted, would have made a rare picture.<br />
Releasing himself from the athletic hugs of his brother, Bryan blundered<br />
out an apology to the guests, then turning to the group at the window he<br />
exclaimed: —<br />
“ ‘Arrah, come inside here, ivery one ov yez, Nora and Judy darlints!<br />
kiss yer uncle tinderly. Bhoys take yer skull caps off an' wipe your noses.<br />
Bridget jewel! this is me brother Teddy, as ye've heard me mintion a<br />
million o' times. Long life to him, and God bless everybody else.’<br />
“ ‘Wisha! wisha! an' is that Teddy himself now? Shure I'm right glad to<br />
see yez, honey!’ said Bridget, humbly approaching to take the proffered<br />
hand of the host. Then the girls, pushed onward by their father, timidly<br />
drew near to kiss their sobbing uncle, while the boys were making a<br />
series of bows to the whole company, in a style peculiar to peasant boys<br />
in general, and shuffling about on the velvet pile carpet like young bears<br />
on hot tiles.<br />
“ ‘Save us iv there isn't Dochter M'Merry here too,’ exclaimed Bryan,
as he caught sight of me for the first time; then in the same breath he said<br />
to his boy Denis, ‘rin and tell Barney not to go away wid the cart, we'll<br />
be wid him in a jiffy. We mustn't sthop here to bother all these ladies and<br />
gintlemen. Och philleloo, whack! good luck to this happy day! who'd ha'<br />
thought ov seein' all this fun at onst? Troth an' I'm feard it's ony draming<br />
I am afther all.’<br />
“ ‘Stay boy,’ cried the host, as Dennis was bounding through the<br />
window, ‘ye shall all stay an' dine with me, every one ov ye. It isn't<br />
meself that would sind any mortal out ov me house hungry on a blissed<br />
Christmas Day, not a bit ov it. Ye're all honest and clean, I'll be bound,<br />
though ye're not rigged out in superior gear; an' anybody prisent who is<br />
ashamed ov me for doing what's right and fair to me own flesh and blood<br />
may go an' git his dinner somewhere else if he likes. That's all I've got to<br />
say, maning no offince nathir.’<br />
“ In order to shorten my story, I pass over the comically expressed<br />
objections of Bryan and his wife to ‘dine with sich elegant company,’ the<br />
good-natured way the hostess seconded her husband's hearty invitation to<br />
his humble relatives, the cordial manner in which the guests received the<br />
strangers, and the thorough enjoyment of the whole amusing scene. Soon<br />
afterwards the whole family were seated at the lower end of the diningtable,<br />
in the places of the absent friends before alluded to, and dinner was<br />
served up in grand style. To relieve the embarrassment of the party to<br />
some extent, I arranged to sit at the lower end of the table too, and it was<br />
only by extraordinary effort that I preserved becoming gravity during<br />
that meal, as I witnessed the awkwardness of the boys, and the anxiety of<br />
their father ‘to make thim behave dacintly before their supariors.’<br />
“ ‘Arrah, Mike! look out that ye don't poke that big fork in yer eye.<br />
Shure an’ ye niver ate yer dinner wid sich a tool as that afore,’ said<br />
Bryan, in a loud whisper; and in the same breath he added — ‘Pat,<br />
where's yer new pocket-hancher what I bought yer yestreen? ‘Be dacint,<br />
can't yez? Norah, jewel! it isn't manners to be houldin' that turkey's leg<br />
wid both hands; an' don't be shovin' yer elbow into Judy's mouth naythir.<br />
Dash that bhoy Denis! kick him, Bridget. Bad scran to him, look at him<br />
now, the greedy spalpeen! Och, I'm ashamed ov yez outright, so I am,’<br />
he vociferated, with a severe look across the table at the culprit, who had<br />
taken a tureen of mint sauce — which was before him — and was<br />
supping it with the ladle, in utter ignorance that he was transgressing the<br />
rules of etiquette.<br />
“ ‘How did you discover your brother's whereabouts, Bryan?’ I asked,<br />
hoping to relieve his chagrin by engaging him in a little conversation.<br />
“ ‘It was mighty curious altogether, sir. I wint about Melbourne every<br />
day for a month or more, axing everybody I met wid iv they knowed<br />
Teddy Grady; but not a sowl culd tell me a haporth about him, an' I was<br />
afeard I'd never find him at all, in this great big counthry. But as good
luck wud have it, I wint on board the steamer what had jist come in from<br />
Sydney one mornin', an' axed the captain, who was a rale sinsible-lookin'<br />
man, an' ses he to me, “I know a jintleman in Sydney, named Edwin<br />
O'Grady, Esquire, M.L.A.”<br />
“ ‘ “Shure that isn't me brother Teddy, sir,” ses I, “for he isn't a squire,<br />
nor a Malay naythir; he's an Irishman every bit ov him, an' there isn't a<br />
single tint ov black blood in his carcass, I'll engage.” The captain<br />
laughed, an' ses he, “What sort ov a lookin' chap is this brother Teddy ov<br />
yours?” “Dear knows what he looks like now, sir,” ses I; “but he was a<br />
rale broth ov a bhoy thirty years agone; jist like meself, an' not a morsel<br />
or difference atween us, only he'd got more sinse in his head nor me.” “I<br />
know him well enough,” ses the captain; “he has often sailed wid me.<br />
Hasn't he got a scar jist over his nose?” “To be shure he has, sir,” says I,<br />
“an' well enough I ought to know it, too, for it was meself as made it for<br />
him. We was havin' a bit ov sport one day, in Larry Flynn's barrn, an' me<br />
sthick slipped an' hit Teddy a little bit too hard, wus luck, an' pretty nigh<br />
knocked his nose off altogether. That's him safe enough, sir,” ses I, “an'<br />
though he's got a little O nailed afore his name, an' a hape ov jinglin'<br />
titles afther it, like tin pots to a dog's tail, he's me own brother Teddy, an'<br />
all the whizzinags in the world won't alter it, soh. I'll go an' see him pritty<br />
quick,” ses I. So I shouldered me luggage an' took all them crathers wid<br />
me on board an empty collier brig, an' the captain gave us a passage<br />
chape bekase we found our own victuals an' slept on the stone ballast in<br />
the hold; an' here we are all on us safe and sound — thank God — an'<br />
there's me brother Teddy too beyant, lookin' as grand as the Lord Mayor<br />
ov Dublin — long life to him. Troth it's the merriest Christmas Day I've<br />
ever seed in my life, so it is; though that long flunkey there, in the yellow<br />
breeches, knocked me spinnin' down the steps, and made this big bump<br />
on top ov me head. But niver mind that, good luck to everybody, that's<br />
all I've got to say. Ugh! Pat, what a gorf ye must be to go an' choke<br />
yerself wid that red hot what-you-may-call-em?’ added Bryan, with a<br />
reproving glance at his son, who was sneezing and coughing<br />
immoderately, having eaten a large capsicum, supposing it to be an<br />
<strong>Australian</strong> plum.<br />
“After the cloth was removed, the host — who had been unusually<br />
thoughtful during dinner — rose, and in a rich musical voice spoke as<br />
follows:<br />
“ ‘My dear friends, I'm not a man to spake much, and dear knows,<br />
some ov the fellows who gabble a mighty dale had better be quiet, there<br />
may be fewer folks would know they were sich fools. I'm plaised to see<br />
ye all here to-day, and though there are more here than I invited, there's<br />
not one that isn't welcome. Frinds, whin I look beyant there (pointing to<br />
his brother's family), I feel like a fellow who has just been caught<br />
cheating a poor blind man, and that's a fact. It's more nor thirty years
since I seen thim crathers; leastways, I didn't know the young uns at all<br />
thin, bekase they wasn't born; but as I was going to say, I've bin in this<br />
counthry living in luxury, rolling in riches, as the saying is, and not a<br />
blissed thought did I think about me poor frinds at home, till they all<br />
walked in at me windee this morning to ate their Christmas dinner wid<br />
me. Troth they might all have bin starved outright for all I knowed, or all<br />
I cared either, and I could aisily have sint them a good big Christmas-box<br />
ivery year, widout hurting meself the laste bit in life; but I didn't do it,<br />
more shame to me, and it's a wonder to me that God didn't take all me<br />
money away from me, for being so greedy. I'm worse nor a haythin, a<br />
mighty dale, bekase I knew what was me duty and I didn't do it. Shure<br />
many's the time I've read in me Bible, “Whoso hath this world's good and<br />
seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion<br />
from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?” Poor Bryan! you've bin<br />
in need bad enough, and I'm rale sorry I didn't help you; but I'll be a<br />
brother to ye from this out, honey, niver fear, and may God forgive my<br />
past neglect. You shall niver see hard times agin, Bryan, if I can help it,<br />
take my word for that.’ Here the host's voice faltered, and his eyes filled<br />
with tears, while all the company showed sympathy.<br />
“ ‘Aisy, darlint!’ said Bryan, rising as his brother was about to say<br />
more; ‘whisht a bit, Teddy, dear, an' let me spake a word or two.’<br />
“Bryan's address would, doubtless, have been very pathetic, but<br />
unluckily at that moment a pet kangaroo bounded across the lawn<br />
towards the window. ‘Ow! ow! ow!’ yelled the boys in concert; ‘och,<br />
what a rum-lookin' donkey — look at his tail!’ shouted Dan, standing up<br />
and pointing to the animal, while his mothers and sisters opened their<br />
mouths wide in wonder and consternation.<br />
“ ‘Ye're a donkey yourself, and bad manners to yez!’ vociferated<br />
Bryan, at the same time giving Dan a cuff on the head for his breach of<br />
decorum.<br />
“A simultaneous burst of laughter from the whole company drowned<br />
Dan's howls, and the balance of Bryan's speech too.<br />
“But I must soon end my long story,” said the Doctor. “I cannot tell<br />
you all that took place at Derrydown Hall on that merry Christmas Day,<br />
unless I keep you here all night; but it was certainly one of the<br />
pleasantest days I have spent in the colony.<br />
“O'Grady faithfully kept his promise, and soon afterwards settled his<br />
humble relatives on a snug farm at Illawarra. In a few years the boys and<br />
girls formed comfortable homes for themselves; and Bryan has now a<br />
score or more of blooming <strong>Australian</strong> grand-children. He blesses the<br />
lucky day that he landed on these shores; and on every Christmas Day he<br />
stands up at the head of his well-filled board, and shouts ‘long life to his<br />
twin-brother Teddy,’ till all the children around him laugh like merry<br />
little elves, and his good wife's eyes overflow with love and gratitude.”
Joey Goosgog and Jasper Spindle's Trip to Bondi Bay in<br />
a Pony Chaise.<br />
MR. Joseph Goosgog and Mr. Jasper Spindles were a comical looking<br />
pair of Cockneys. They had voyaged from London to Sydney together a<br />
few years ago, and from those four months of constant intercourse, and<br />
the mutual participation of the dangers and disagreeables, inseparable<br />
from a long voyage, a close friendship had sprung up. Though in their<br />
externals they were the very antipodes of each other, their habits and<br />
tastes were strangely identical — their minds seemed to have been cast in<br />
the same mould, and were as much alike as two winter mornings.<br />
Mr. Goosgog, in his city shoes, stood exactly five feet three and threequarter<br />
inches, and was what is termed a podgy man, of fourteen stone or<br />
thereabouts; while Mr. Spindles, though three or four stone lighter than<br />
his friend, was a trifle over six feet one inch in his slippers, and was<br />
lathy, leathery, and angular, with his shoulders peeping into his ears, and<br />
his face as long as a gold-digger's boot.<br />
They were confirmed bachelors, and as shy of young ladies as they<br />
were of sharp dogs. They lodged in the same house, near Sydney, and<br />
boarded together, of course. They were engaged in trade in the city<br />
during the day-time, but they invariably spent their spare hours<br />
together, — in fact, they were almost as uniform in their movements as<br />
the Siamese twins, or a pair of coach wheels. They were plodding men of<br />
business, sharp as razors in their own particular department of soft<br />
goods, but outside that they were soft goods themselves. They knew the<br />
value of time, and seldom took a holiday out of the general course, but<br />
they invariably commemorated their birthdays by a little merry-making<br />
to themselves, and at those times especially they were “jolly good<br />
fellows” by their own unanimous verdict.<br />
One evening in January, that pair of odd fellows, and their landlady,<br />
Mrs. Cobbrer, might have been seen very carefully packing sundry<br />
edibles into a market-basket, together with knives and forks, plates,<br />
tumblers, and tablenapkins for two. The next day was Mr. Spindle's<br />
birthday, and the two friends had decided upon a trip together to Bondi<br />
Bay in a pony chaise, which Mrs. Cobbrer's cousin Phil. had agreed to<br />
lend them for a moderate consideration.<br />
“It will be a baking day,” said Mr. Goosgog, who sat pouring out the<br />
coffee at the breakfast-table on the following morning; “a fiery hot wind,
I think.”<br />
“Hot enough to cook a salamander,” replied Mr. Spindle, with his<br />
mouth full of cold mutton and chutney. “I shall wear my grasscloth suit,<br />
and my Chinese hat with a white turban. What time was the chaise to be<br />
ready, Goosgog?”<br />
“Nine o'clock — oh, here it is, I declare, punctual to a second. I like<br />
that,” said Mr. Goosgog, rising, and going to the window. “And it's a<br />
neat turn out too; just big enough to seat two, comfortably. The pony<br />
pricks his ears rather suspiciously though; I hope he won't run away with<br />
us. By the bye, can you drive, Jasper? I forgot to ask you that before.”<br />
“Ye-yes — certainly — I have driven on several occasions, that is to<br />
say, I have sat on the box with the driver, which is all the same, you<br />
know, for I was very observant. It's a simple operation, very; you have<br />
merely to pull the rein gently, whichever side you wish your horse to<br />
incline, and it's as easy as opening oysters when you get the knack of it.<br />
Oh, yes, I can drive delightfully.”<br />
“I am glad of that,” said Mr. Goosgog, “for I could not drive a lame<br />
donkey; and I am always rather nervous in vehicles, unless I am with an<br />
experienced driver. I think the sooner we start the better, Jasper; and we<br />
shall get down to the sea beach before the hottest time of the day. We<br />
had better take some towels, and our oilskin skull caps, and we can have<br />
a delicious bath in the surf, free from dread of sharks and stingerees; for<br />
those disagreeable fish don't like the surf, I have heard sailors say. Bring<br />
in the basket, Mrs. Cobbrer.”<br />
“Yes sir,” said Mrs. Cobbrer, hobbling in with the market basket,<br />
which was rather more than half a load for her.<br />
“Have you got the mutton chops from the butcher, Mrs. Cobbrer?”<br />
“Yes, sir, two pounds and a half; they are in the basket, with the cold<br />
sausages, and sardines, and the peach pie, and the bananas, and a<br />
pineapple, and a big sugar melon.”<br />
“And some nice potatoes, Mrs. Cobbrer?”<br />
“O yes, sir, I forgot — ten beautiful taters; I washed 'em all ready for<br />
cooking; and I put in a screw of pepper and salt too.”<br />
“Thank you, Mrs. Cobbrer; you have managed very nicely. You may<br />
expect us home about seven o'clock this evening. Good morning, Mrs.<br />
Cobbrer.”<br />
Very soon afterwards the two friends got into the chaise, after lashing<br />
the basket behind it; and as the driving seat was, of course, a few inches<br />
higher than the other seat, Mr. Spindle considerately insisted upon his<br />
friend taking it, as he was decidedly the shortest man.<br />
“But I can't drive,” urged Mr. Goosgog, with slight trepidation, “I told<br />
you that before, Jasper.”<br />
“I don't want you to drive, my good sir,” replied Mr. Spindle, taking<br />
the reins and whip in his hands, like an expert Jehu. “It does not matter a
tittle to me which side I sit, I can manage capitally. Now pony, get away,<br />
sir! Hi! what's his name, boy?” he asked of the grinning youth who had<br />
been holding the pony's head.<br />
“His name's Jerry, sir.”<br />
“Ah! O yes, thank you. Get along, Jerry,” said Mr. Spindle, giving the<br />
reins a jerk, and just stroking him with the whip-lash.<br />
“Hit him hard, sir,” said the youth aforesaid; “he's as knowing as an old<br />
magpie, that pony is. He won't care no more for your just tickling him<br />
with the whip-cord, than if a mosquito was kicking him, not a bit.”<br />
“He won't run away, boy, will he?” asked Mr. Goosgog, in rather an<br />
anxious tone.<br />
“Not he, sir,” said the boy, grinning as before; “he's a plaguey deal too<br />
lazy for that. He wouldn't run away if you'd got a hen-coop full of<br />
cockatoos in the chaise all in full scream, or a fire bell hanging to the<br />
axletree, ringing for the engines. Dash him! I often wish he would run<br />
away. Hit him very hard, sir, he won't hurt you.”<br />
“Ah! I'll make him go, I'll warrant, the lazy fellow,” said Mr. Spindle,<br />
giving him a savage slash with the whip, which Jerry seemed to<br />
understand from experience, for he whisked his tail — rather pettishly<br />
though — and started off at a smart trot, while the two friends smiled and<br />
looked as triumphant as if they had tamed a tiger. The boy grinned again,<br />
then went on his way home, whistling “Billy Button.”<br />
Away they jogged, behind Jerry, through the turnpikegate, along the<br />
red road to Paddington, without anything very remarkable occurring.<br />
They roused up a disagreeable dust, which their white jackets evidenced;<br />
but that is not remarkable on that road. The soldiers at the barrack gates,<br />
and the idlers at the roadside inns, stared and giggled at them as they<br />
trotted by; but it would have been remarkable if they had not done so, for<br />
Mr. Spindle was administering half minute strokes with his whip on the<br />
pony's hips and ribs as vigorously as if he were killing snakes, while Mr.<br />
Goosgog assisted to stimulate the sluggish brute to go forward, by giving<br />
him frequent downward digs, on a convenient part of his body, with the<br />
ferule end of an umbrella, and at the same time peremptorily<br />
commanding him to “come up.” Round spun the wheels, and soon the<br />
city of Sydney was more than three miles behind them, and the spirits of<br />
the two liberated tradesmen were as light as gossamer or blond tulle.<br />
“Ah! this scenery beats Richmond Hill all to ribbons; it is richer than<br />
our show-room, I declare!” exclaimed Mr. Spindle, with lackadaisical<br />
rapture, as he ceased working with the whip for a short time, and let the<br />
pony take his own pace when they had got to the top of Waverley<br />
heights, to allow time for enjoying the magnificent views of Port Jackson<br />
and Botany Bay, with the lovely landscape all around, where nature and<br />
art combine to make a picture which is unrivalled in this world of beauty.<br />
“Oh, dear, dear,” sighed Jasper, “this is a charming prospect; eh! Joey?”
“Beautiful, beautiful!” responded Mr. Goosgog, in a sentimental tone,<br />
at the same time gazing around, and gasping in the fresh air, like a<br />
snapper just taken off the hook. “I should like such an excursion as this<br />
once a fortnight, Jasper; my mind being freed from the shrivelling<br />
influence of the shop, would expand like a patent mackintosh life<br />
preserver. The pure, invigorating air, the balsamic fragrance from the<br />
bush flowers, the thrilling music of the locusts, and the intensely<br />
gratifying pros — — Good gracious, Jasper! whatever is the matter with<br />
that abominable pony? I'm afraid he's going mad; O dear, dear! look at<br />
him!”<br />
“Whoa — whoa — wa — quiet, sir — quiet, pony!” shouted Mr.<br />
Spindle, turning as white as his grasscloth waistcoat.<br />
“Whatever ails the disagreeable beast, I should like to know? I never<br />
saw such an extraordinary horse in my life before. Oh! ah! I see now<br />
what's the matter with him; the right rein is under his tail; that's what<br />
makes him kick so dreadfully. Don't be frightened, Joey; I'll soon pull it<br />
clear. Coil your legs up on the seat. Whoa, Jerry! whoa, my boy! poor<br />
old fellow! whoa, then — whoa!”<br />
But Jerry seemed determined not to whoa, for the harder Mr. Spindle<br />
tugged at the rein, in his violent efforts to disengage it from Jerry's<br />
tightly tucked-in-tail, the more he kicked and jibbed; knocking the<br />
dashboard to tatters, and putting the poor travellers behind it into intense<br />
bodily fear, and bodily danger too.<br />
“Lift up his tail, Joey, while I pull the rein,” cried Spindles, in an<br />
imploring tone; at the same time he doubled his long legs under him, on<br />
the seat, like a tailor or a Turk, to keep out of the reach of Jerry's active<br />
hoofs. “Make haste, Joey, lift up his tail.”<br />
“Oh, Goblins! I won't lift his tail; he'll kick my nose off, or do me some<br />
other horrible damage,” groaned poor Goosgog; “I'd sooner lift a hot<br />
poker. I never handled a tail in my life, Jasper; you lift it; you are<br />
stronger than I, and you have had experience with horses.”<br />
“What's to be done? What's to be done?” gasped Spindles, not noticing<br />
what his terrified friend had just advised him to do, and evidently<br />
resolved not to risk his brains by touching Jerry's tail. “What shall we do<br />
to stop him? he's running backward, the contrary creature. Here, hold the<br />
reins, Joey, while I jump out over the back, and run to the hotel yonder<br />
for a hostler.”<br />
“No, no, no!” vociferated Joey; “you shan't jump out, Jasper; he'll run<br />
away with me while you are gone, and break my neck. I won't have<br />
anything to do with the reins. I know no more about driving than my old<br />
Aunt Becky.”<br />
“No more do I; no more do I; and I fancied I did,” howled Spindles,<br />
now nearly frantic. “Oh, Dimity, we shall be smashed up like old bonnetboxes<br />
directly, for he'll back us into that quarry. What an ass I was, to
say I could drive a horse. Something must be done at once. Whoa, horse!<br />
whoa! whoa, I say; confound the animal! he doesn't mind a bit what I say<br />
to him. Just hoist up his tail with the hooky end of your unbrella, Joey;<br />
he can't kick you if you're careful. Try, Joey, pray do, there's a good<br />
fellow.”<br />
“Ods bodkins! I'm afraid I can't do it; his tail fits so close; but I'll try,”<br />
whined Joey, trembling with terror, as he wriggled his umbrella through<br />
a rent in the dashboard, and, by a powerful lunge, succeeded in forcing<br />
the hooked handle under Jerry's tail, which had the immediate effect of<br />
making him dreadfully indignant, and to kick and plunge twice as hard as<br />
before, threatening the entire demolition of everything within reach of<br />
his iron heels.<br />
“O lawk a mercy! that won't do, Joey — that won't do! pull your<br />
umbrella away again; pull it away, quick, quick!”<br />
“I can't, I can't! He won't let it go; it's under his tail as tight as if it grew<br />
there. Hoo lud! now it's gone altogether,” roared Goosgog, with despair<br />
stamped on his turnip-coloured countenance. In his nervous efforts to<br />
release the umbrella he had let it slip from his grasp; when falling down<br />
behind Jerry's legs, and opening out wide, it so thoroughly roused and<br />
scared him that he started off at a run-away pace, for the first time in his<br />
life.<br />
“Stop him! Stop him! Boo-o-o!” bellowed the terrified friends. But as<br />
there was no person within hearing to stop him if it had been practicable,<br />
they thought they had better try to do it themselves; so they seized the<br />
left rein, and pulled together like sailors at the main-tack, till Jerry's head<br />
was exactly square with his tail; the natural result of which was that the<br />
chaise inclined to the left side of the road. Presently it came in contact<br />
with a thick bush, and the next instant it was lying on its side, with one<br />
wheel spinning round horizontally, and the pony lying on his side too,<br />
while Goosgog and Spindles were sprawling in the dust, like gigantic<br />
frogs, rather out of their element, surrounded by knives and forks, cold<br />
sausages, raw potatoes, and the whole contents of the market-basket.<br />
Their Chinese hats were rolling briskly down the hill before a fair wind,<br />
and the sugar melon was rolling down the hill too, closely followed by<br />
the basket itself.<br />
“Oh, dear me!” gasped Jasper, who was the first on his legs, and<br />
looked as if he had been peppered all over with Scotch snuff. “How are<br />
you, Joey? Are you hurt, my friend?”<br />
“I'm afraid I am,” replied Goosgog, in a dismal tone, “I fear so, but I'm<br />
not quite sure. What shall we do now, Jasper? I'm a good mind to kill<br />
that pony now he's down, for he certainly tried to kill us, confound him!<br />
What shall we do now? that's the first consideration.”<br />
Jasper would have been totally unable to tell his friend what to do<br />
under the circumstances, but fortunately for them, just at that moment,
two working men came up, and in the prospect of a liberal reward they<br />
speedily put the pony and chaise upright. Jerry had lain quite still; no<br />
doubt being glad of the temporary rest, and there was nothing broken by<br />
the upset; so in less than an hour they were once more on the road to<br />
Bondi; with their basket lashed up behind, as before. But Mr. Spindles<br />
was particularly careful to keep clear of Jerry's tail, and to that end, he<br />
took the driving seat, and held the reins up about level with the top of his<br />
hat; using both hands; while Mr. Goosgog exerted himself with the whip.<br />
In due course they arrived at Bondi Beach without further mishap.<br />
They drove the chaise into a shady nook; then took the pony out,<br />
unharnessed him, and tethered him by the reins to a green bush, off<br />
which he was expected to dine: for Mr. Spindles assured Mr. Goosgog,<br />
that he had been informed — upon no less an authority than a<br />
that horses in the interior are very glad to eat bushes sometimes; but it<br />
did not occur to Mr. Spindles that horses generally ate bushes upon the<br />
same principle that hungry men have sometimes been glad to eat their<br />
boots — when they could get nothing better to eat. Jerry might have been<br />
more satisfied with his scrubby dinner, if he had had a draught of water<br />
first; but his drivers forgot that, in their haste to get into the water<br />
themselves.<br />
I do not mean to imply that those gentlemen would have grudged Jerry<br />
a shilling's worth of corn and hay had they thought of it while they were<br />
packing up their own provisions, for they were not niggardly men, far<br />
from it. But with obliviousness which is peculiar to that class of<br />
horsemasters, they thought no more about baiting their nag than they did<br />
about greasing the wheels of the chaise. A feed of corn and a bucket of<br />
water would probably have induced Jerry to stand quietly, and would<br />
thus have saved his drivers much subsequent suffering. Careless<br />
horsemen had better take warning from the mishaps of these two unlucky<br />
excursionists.<br />
The market basket was carried down to a convenient place, under an<br />
over-hanging part of the cliff, close to which was a deliciously-cool<br />
streamlet of fresh water trickling down the rocks above into a little<br />
natural basin, for which many thirsty boys have been grateful.<br />
Bondi Bay is one of the many romantic spots around Sydney which<br />
often allures and delights the holiday-loving citizens. But I cannot now<br />
attempt a description of its beauties.<br />
Jasper and Joey were enraptured with the place; and were overjoyed,<br />
too, at being mutually assured, after a careful inspection, that they were<br />
free from all personal marks of their late mishap. With that important<br />
matter decided so cheeringly, of which before they were both in some<br />
anxiety, they walked together on to the beach, pleasantly conversing as<br />
they went; they stepped into the sea together, and, in another minute<br />
were dashing about in the water like dugongs. Previous to undressing,
they had lighted a fire on a rock, and put the potatoes down to roast.<br />
“Halloa, Joey! look at that confounded pony,” said Jasper, about ten<br />
minutes afterwards. “What's the matter with him now, in the name of<br />
wonder? I do believe he's trying to break loose. He's a perfect torment,<br />
that animal; and I would rather have walked here, and carried the basket,<br />
than have been bothered with him, if I had known his vicious disposition<br />
before, I believe he is a thoroughly bad horse, Joey, and that's the reason<br />
we got him so cheap. I must run and fasten him up with double reins; and<br />
I'd tie his legs, too, if I thought he wouldn't kick me.”<br />
Now whether Jerry had never before seen a tall bony man without his<br />
garments, and was, naturally enough scared at the spectacle; or whether<br />
the desire had entered his head to bother his inexperienced drivers as<br />
much as he possibly could for the day; or whether, which is the most<br />
likely, he wanted something to eat and drink, and he saw nothing to<br />
prevent his getting it, but the clumsily fastened tether, I, of course, am<br />
not certain; but he no sooner saw Mr. Spindles striding towards him, like<br />
a “native companion,” than he gave a smart tug, and broke his tether,<br />
then leisurely jogged off into the bush.<br />
“Hoy! Joey!” shouted Spindles; “here's another nuisance, Jerry's got<br />
loose. Come and help me catch him. Make haste, there's a good fellow.<br />
Bring the boots with you, for the ground here is covered with prickly<br />
things, like pins and needles.”<br />
Goosgog emerged from the sea, like some rare amphibious animal, and<br />
was soon waddling towards his friend, as fast as his short legs would<br />
allow him to travel; with two pairs of Wellington boots in one hand, and<br />
a long rough stick in the other, which he thought might be useful to assist<br />
him in catching the pony.<br />
After putting on their boots, which was not a very easy operation with<br />
wet and naked feet (as most people know who were Wellingtons), they<br />
ran after the fugitive beast, and a most uncomfortable run it was, for the<br />
bushes are rather thick about Bondi, and some of them stimulate, very<br />
much like furze or gooseberry bushes, which the wincing pursuers soon<br />
discovered, and they were reminded every minute that they had omitted<br />
to put on their garments as well as their boots. However, they were<br />
sanguine of soon catching Jerry, for Spindle had several times stridden<br />
within seven yards of him; but, after many experiments, he found that he<br />
never could get half a yard closer than that, which was again rather<br />
discouraging when weighing the chances of catching him. After spending<br />
more than an hour in that doubtful chase, Mr. Goosgog, who had<br />
followed up, with his long stick, as fast as he could trot, and who was<br />
grunting like a hunted hippopotamus, and perspiring, too, like a<br />
gentleman lying on a wooden griddle in the Turkish bath, now declared,<br />
with tears in his eyes, he would rather be flogged with a birch broom,<br />
than run any further through those horrible bushes in his present
vulnerable condition. So it was hastily decided that Jasper should run<br />
back to the beach for their clothing, while Joey kept watch over the pony,<br />
who had just discovered a small spot of green grass, and was quietly<br />
grazing, about one hundred yards distant.<br />
Mr. Goosgog accordingly sat himself down under a tea tree, and busied<br />
himself in the three-fold occupations of picking some of the thorns out of<br />
his irritated skin, brushing away the mosquitos, and watching Jerry;<br />
while Mr. Spindle endeavoured to make his way back to the beach at a<br />
quick march.<br />
Now Mr. Spindle, in his exciting chase after the pony, had omitted to<br />
take notes by the way, so being a bad bushman, and unskilled in tracking,<br />
and withal having to dodge away from the most formidable of the<br />
bushes, he wandered about in a circle, or rather in a series of zigzags, for<br />
an hour and a half, and at last, when almost ready to lie down in despair,<br />
he unexpectedly returned to the spot, where Mr. Goosgog sat under the<br />
tree, fast asleep, with myriads of grey mosquitos covering him, like<br />
young feathers.<br />
“Halloa,” roared Jasper, scratching his head, and gazing at his friend<br />
with a woe-stricken visage, which might have forced a sigh from a<br />
Cossack. “Halloa, Joey! why here I am again. Bless my soul! I'd no idea<br />
where I'd got to; I thought I was lost altogether.”<br />
“Hey-day, Jasper!” muttered Joey, rubbing his eyes, having just woke<br />
up. “I'm so glad you've come back, for these horrid mosquitos have been<br />
poking their horns into me, like five thousand of the ‘best drilled-eyed<br />
sharps,’ and I can't keep them off. I never knew the value of a suit of<br />
clothes before, though I have sold hundred of suits. I shall always feel for<br />
the poor blackfellows in future. Where are my clothes, Jasper?”<br />
“Where's the pony, Joey?” inquired Mr. Spindle.<br />
“Eh? — there he is — no — yes, he was there a few minutes ago, I'm<br />
sure,” stammered Joey, rising and gazing around him, and seeing nothing<br />
but bushes and sand-hills. “Well, I declare he's gone! Yes, confound him,<br />
he's gone, and I don't know which way no more than this stump that I am<br />
standing upon. I have been asleep, and that designing beast has taken<br />
advantage of my unwatchfulness by running away; that's all I know<br />
about it. Good gracious me! I wish we had never come out to-day; or I<br />
wish I had killed that wretched horse, when he upset us at Waverley, and<br />
then gone back to the shop. What shall we do now, Jasper?”<br />
“Let us go back to the beach as fast as we can, and get our clothes on<br />
first of all,” said Jasper, “for I'm blistered with the sun, and nearly<br />
irritated beyond endurance with these prickly bushes, mosquitos, and<br />
soldier-ants. I am getting very hungry, too, and I'm afraid we shall not<br />
have fire enough to cook the chops, when we get back. But come along<br />
Joey, let's get back, let's get back. The pony may go to the dogs before I<br />
look for him any more in this plight; and if he's lost we must pay for him,
that's all. He isn't worth much. Ugh! I shall never like live horses again<br />
as long as I live.”<br />
It fortunately happened, that Mr. Goosgog had not been able to run so<br />
fast as his long-legged friend, so he had had more time for observation as<br />
he ran, consequently he knew the track back to the beach, to which they<br />
made the best of their way, — walking side by side, like the “babes in<br />
the wood”. But when they got there, to their intense horror and grief,<br />
they found that some person or persons had taken away every article of<br />
their apparel, and their market basket too, and had literally left them “on<br />
the strand,” hungry, and totally destitute of every article of civilized<br />
convenience, with the exception of their bathing caps, their Wellington<br />
boots, a few baked potatoes, and the pony chaise.<br />
It would be cruel to picture their unphilosophical endurance of that new<br />
and most trying misfortune. They were not large-brained men, as I before<br />
hinted; but I omitted to say, at the same time, that two more inoffensive<br />
creatures never entered Sydney Heads. Their tempers were sweet and<br />
smooth as “Everton toffee,” or “golden syrup.” Not a single jar — even<br />
of the smallest size — had ever been exchanged by those stanch friends<br />
from the first time their eyes met up to that distressing hour. But now,<br />
alas! that friendship, which ordinary mishaps and the struggles of every<br />
day life had tended to rivet as strongly as a highpressure boiler, was<br />
doomed to a temporary fracture, through the accumulated disasters which<br />
had on that memorable day descended about their devoted heads, like a<br />
cataract of icicles, and, for a time, frozen up the best sympathies of their<br />
kind hearts.<br />
I will but cursorily glance at the events of the next hour and a quarter;<br />
how, alas! their native suavity totally forsook them for a time, and they,<br />
first of all gave vent to intemperate outbursts of wrath at the unknown<br />
peculators who had so disgracefully wronged them; while Mr. Goosgog<br />
brandished his long stick, like a cannibal chief, and loudly declared that<br />
if the thieves were anywhere near, and would come forward at once, he<br />
would thrash them into barley straw. And after that fierce paroxysm was<br />
over, how Mr. Spindle gave vent to his feelings, and rashly cursed his<br />
birthday; and afterwards bitterly inveighed against the pony, and the<br />
chaise too. How Mr. Goosgog just then, with unprecedented haste, and in<br />
terms of caustic severity, condemned his friend for his bombastic vanity<br />
and downright deceit in pretending to drive; when it had been so<br />
miserably evident that he knew no more about a horse than a stupid ass,<br />
or the “tailor's dummy” that stood just inside their shop door. How Mr.<br />
Spindle, at that unexpected thrust and the degrading comparisons, got<br />
madly wrath with his friend; called him a fat China pig, and knocked him<br />
down. How Mr. Goosgog got up again, like a gamecock, and fought<br />
three rounds with Mr. Spindle, and got knocked down six times more.<br />
How they then simultaneously burst into tears, and embraced each other
like brothers, then mutually apologised, shook hands, wished each other<br />
many happy returns of the day, and sat down on a rock to devour the<br />
half-cooked potatoes, which had been overlooked by their spoilers, and<br />
to discuss what it was best to do next.<br />
After a short time they decided upon drawing the chaise and harness to<br />
the junction of the South Head Road, there to wait till darkness should<br />
partially hide their unfortunate poverty of apparel; then to draw the<br />
conveyance and appurtenances aforesaid to the nearest hotel, and wait<br />
there until they could send to Mrs. Cobbrer, for fresh suits from their<br />
wardrobe.<br />
Fortunately, the apron of the chaise, and the dog skin mat, were not<br />
taken away, so Jasper took the former, and Joey the latter, and tied them<br />
about their persons with parts of the harness. Then, Jasper took the<br />
shafts, and Joey pushed behind, and, with many sighs and groans, they<br />
slowly moved the chaise along the sandy road towards Sydney. They had<br />
not gone far, however, when they heard merry voices just before them,<br />
and had barely time to leave the chaise and run into the bush, when a<br />
furniture van appeared in sight, containing Mr. and Mrs. Duddle, with<br />
their large family of grown-up sons and daughters, and two or three<br />
neighbours beside, who were on their way to the beach to spend an hour<br />
or two.<br />
Of course they stopped to examine the chaise, and to speculate upon<br />
the-cause of its being left there, apparently abandoned, in the middle of a<br />
wild bush road. The opinions expressed on the subject were very varied;<br />
old Mrs. Duddle, however, was the only one of the party who believed<br />
that it was exposed there for sale. The discussion was abruptly closed by<br />
Mr. Duddle, who, having caught a glimpse of the remarkable figures of<br />
Jasper and Joey dodging through the scrub, and thinking of course that<br />
they were escaped lunatics, he, in consideration for his large family, and<br />
possibly for himself too, thought he had better drive away from their<br />
dangerous vicinity as fast as he could, which he did accordingly.<br />
Goosgog and Spindles wriggled on their way, they knew not whither,<br />
in a state of bewilderment and physical suffering only to be imagined;<br />
but before long they came in sight of a large house. Luckily for them<br />
— as they then too sanguinely thought — two maid-servants were<br />
engaged outside the fence, shaking carpets.<br />
Leaving poor exhausted Goosgog at the foot of a large spreading tree,<br />
Mr. Spindle stealthily approached, under cover of the scrub, till he got<br />
within hail of the maids aforesaid, and screening himself behind a<br />
favouring stump; he called out in his most insinuating tones, “Young<br />
women, young women, if you please.”<br />
“Oh, gemini! what's that, Jane?” enquired Jane's fellow servant, turning<br />
very pale, and gazing all round and up in the air too.<br />
“Goodness me! I don't know,” replied Jane; “I heard somebody, but I
can't see nobody.”<br />
Mr. Spindles, with the most scrupulous delicacy, just then peeped from<br />
behind the stump and said with an intensely imploring look, which ought<br />
to have had more influence —<br />
“My dear girls, just listen a moment — — — ”<br />
“Ah lud!” screamed the girls in concert; “there's a nasty great fellow<br />
behind the stump. Aaron! Aaron! Aaron!”<br />
“For pity's sake, listen to me one moment, dear young women,”<br />
implored Mr. Spindles; “do, pray hear me — I've lost my clothes.”<br />
“Aaron! Aaron!” screamed the girls, fairly terrified, while they ran<br />
inside the fence as fast as they could, leaving their carpets on the ground.<br />
Mr. Spindles sprang forward in desperation, seized a piece of the carpet,<br />
wrapped it closely round him, and was going up to make an appeal to the<br />
master of the house, when a savage-looking gardener, and a still more<br />
savage-looking dog appeared at the gate hastily advancing to welcome<br />
him. Mr. Spindles turned round instinctively, and ran away much faster<br />
than he had ever ran before; and he never had such good reason to be<br />
thankful for his long legs and his Wellington boots, for he had barely<br />
time to get to the tree, up which Goosgog had already climbed, when the<br />
dog was at his heels. Fortunately for Jasper, he dropped the carpet in his<br />
rapid flight, which the dog stopped for a second or two to smell, and<br />
gave him barely time to mount into the tree, and thus save himself from<br />
being partially devoured.<br />
“Hoold him! hoold him! hoold him! Growler,” cried the savage man,<br />
running after Jasper with a garden rake in his hand. “Catch him, boy;<br />
catch him.”<br />
But Mr. Spindles had very fortunately got out of catching distance, and<br />
when the gardener came up the wretched friends were perched on<br />
opposite branches of the tree, looking like two strange species of<br />
melancholy monkeys, almost breathless with terror and their violent<br />
exertions of climbing to their refuge; while Growler — an immense<br />
mastiff — was sitting at the base of the tree, showing his teeth, with his<br />
mind evidently made up to wait there till they found it convenient to<br />
come down and be worried.<br />
“Hur yer bushranging ruffians; I've got yer now safe enough; I've been<br />
looking for you this long time,” snarled the man, coming up within pistol<br />
shot of them — but no nearer. “Look to them, Growler! Hoy, Mike,” he<br />
roared to a stable boy, “Mount black Jack, and ride in for three or four<br />
constables; tell em to bring handcuffs for two, for I've got two desperate<br />
rascals — Gardiner and Gilbert I think — bailed up in a gum tree. Look<br />
sharp, do yer hear, Mike?”<br />
“I'll be there an' back agin afore you could ate a hot murphy,” said<br />
Mike, as he ran to the stable for the horse, and was soon riding off at full<br />
gallop towards Sydney.
“Now, my pretty ‘Cockatoo Islanders,’ you'd better hop down off your<br />
perch, and march to the stable yonder,” said the gardener, “and then I can<br />
keep you under-lock and key. I'm not going to stay here all night looking<br />
at your ugly mugs.”<br />
“Oh, pray hear us speak; for mercy's sake do,” whined Mr. Goosgog<br />
and Mr. Spindles together, “we are not thieves, sir, we are — — ”<br />
“Not thieves, eh!” sneered the man, “why confound your impudence,<br />
what next will you say? didn't I see you running away with the parlour<br />
carpet, with my own eyes, eh? And haven't you frightened my wife into a<br />
fit, yer great, long, ugly bundle of bamboos. You're the very same<br />
fellows as stole the garden roller, and the gig harness, the week before<br />
last. I know yer manoeuvres, my boys — you came here on a foraging<br />
expedition, and yer thought if yer came naked, I shouldn't be able to<br />
swear to yer clothes, but that old trick won't do at this shop. I'll write my<br />
mark on yer directly, and you won't be able to scratch it out very quickly.<br />
Now then, my hobgoblins, are you coming down into the stable or not?<br />
that's what I want to know.”<br />
“Oh, for goodness sake, hear us! Call away that great dog, there's a<br />
dear man, then we'll come down directly — we are — ”<br />
“Call away the dog, eh? I dare say, and give you a chance to bolt? No,<br />
no, not to-day, daddy-long-legs. I've seen how you can run, and perhaps<br />
the fat fellow can run too; I might as well try to catch a kangaroo as catch<br />
you, if I let you give me the slip. No, no, I can't do without the dog; but<br />
I'll give you a few minutes to consider about it, while I go and get my<br />
gun: and if you don't come down I'll tattoo you all over with dust shot;<br />
and then if you do get away from me, I shall know you again. Look to<br />
them, Growler, my boy, pin 'em, Growler.”<br />
The surly gardener then went into the house for his gun, leaving the<br />
dog sitting at the foot of the tree; looking at his poor shivering prisoners,<br />
as stolidly as if he were made of the hardest timber.<br />
The gardener returned from the house in about ten minutes, armed with<br />
a double-barrelled gun, and a shot belt round his waist. “Now then; once;<br />
twice; thrice; as the soldiers on sentry say. I'll give you fair warning, and<br />
if you don't come down from the tree, and walk straight into that stable<br />
yonder, I'll pepper you till you do; so mind your eyes. I don't want to kill<br />
you, though you don't deserve any mercy (dust shot won't break your<br />
bones) but I want to caution you like I do the flying foxes, that steal my<br />
peaches. I told master last week I thought I'd catch you fellows soon.<br />
Now then; — once.”<br />
“Hoo-o — hoo-o — hoo-o,” roared Mr. Goosgog.<br />
“Ay, it's no good making that row, my native bears; you had better<br />
come down. Twice — — ”<br />
“I protest against your murdering us in this cold-blooded manner,”<br />
shouted Mr. Spindles, rousing up his courage. “You shall suffer for this
outrage, you cowardly villain. We are gentlemen, and we — — ”<br />
“Ho-ho-ho!” jeered the gardener. “Gentlemen, are you? That's just<br />
what Dick Turpin and his mate, Tom King, the infamous highwaymen,<br />
used to say. You look very genteel, certainly. Now, don't give me any<br />
more of your sauce. Time's up — thrice. My name's Aaron Horseradish,<br />
and that's my mark — I can't write.”<br />
Saying which he pulled the trigger, and the charge of dust-shot<br />
scattered through the tree, and a proportion of it entered the skins of poor<br />
Joey and Jasper, who acknowledged the receipt thereof by a prolonged<br />
howl.<br />
“There, that's one; and as you don't seem to like that, I'll give you<br />
another,” said Aaron; but just as he was about to give them another, his<br />
attention was drawn to a number of horsemen, who were riding rapidly<br />
through the bush towards him.<br />
“Hoy, my man,” shouted one of the horsemen, “have you seen<br />
anything of two nak — — ”<br />
“Seen 'em? ay, to be sure I have,” interrupted old Horse-radish,<br />
dancing and pointing with his gun to the tree with fiendish triumph,<br />
while the dog got up and wagged his stumpy tail in delight, as if he were<br />
exactly of the same opinion as his master — that the horsemen were<br />
detectives, come out in search of two notorious bushrangers.<br />
“Hurrah! here they are,” yelled Horseradish, as the strangers rode<br />
rapidly up; “I've bailed them up in the tree, and I was just going to give<br />
'em some more black pepper. They're an awful looking pair of scoun —<br />
— ”<br />
Before he could finish the libellous sentence he was knocked down,<br />
gun and all, by the excited party of horsemen, who crowded round the<br />
base of the tree. But the joyful exclamations of Goosgog and Spindles<br />
drowned the cries of the unlucky gardener; with the howls of Growler<br />
too, who had his toes trodden on by one of the panting steeds, and had<br />
run away to his kennel lest he should get them trodden on again.<br />
Words are inadequate to describe the delight of the two poor sufferers<br />
at beholding the welcome faces of about half a score of their intimate<br />
acquaintances; and it would be equally impossible to describe the<br />
consternation of Aaron Horseradish, on finding that he had been shooting<br />
at two respectable citizens of Sydney, instead of those terrible scourges<br />
of society, Gardiner and Gilbert.<br />
A rapid explanation followed, which I must give as rapidly. It appears<br />
that some boys who had wandered along the rocks, from Coogee to<br />
Bondi, had found, first of all, the market basket; and as “boys will be<br />
boys,” they sat down and ate everything in it that was eatable. After they<br />
had done so, and while they were perhaps looking about for another<br />
basket to devour, they espied two heaps of clothing under a cliff, at<br />
which they were rather alarmed, for they naturally concluded that the
owners thereof were drowned. After a hasty look for bodies on the rocks,<br />
and along the beach, without being able to find any, they took the<br />
clothing and the basket, and hurried into Sydney with the alarming news.<br />
A “hue and cry” was raised immediately, and poor old Mrs. Cobbrer<br />
went into hysteries. When she came out again, she found her house full<br />
of sympathising enquirers of both sexes, whom she was, of course,<br />
unable to enlighten in the smallest degree, beyond giving them a sight of<br />
the empty basket and the empty clothes, for which they all seemed very<br />
much obliged to her.<br />
A general muster of the friends and acquaintances of the lost ones took<br />
place, and a large muster it was. Without loss of time, they started out on<br />
horseback and in vehicles of various kinds to Bondi Bay. Their good<br />
friend Captain Codger, had a coil of rope round his horse's neck, with a<br />
small grapnell attached. The crowd increased as it went forward, and<br />
about four o'clock, to the astonishment of Mr. Duddle and his party, who<br />
were just taking tea, a multitude of persons descended to the beach, and<br />
began to search every hole in the rocks big enough for a large crab to<br />
crawl into, while the captain uncoiled his rope and grappled in the surf<br />
with an energy and anxiety quite touching.<br />
As soon as Mr. Duddle ascertained the object of the excited seekers, he<br />
informed them of the two nude figures he had seen dodging through the<br />
bush; so a party of horsemen immediately started in search of them; but<br />
the majority of the friends were sceptical of Mr. Duddle's information,<br />
and remained behind to examine the rocks, and assist old Codger to<br />
investigate the rollers with his grapnell.<br />
The reader knows the result of the bush expedition, and my story will<br />
soon be ended. It is not necessary to dwell upon the horror of Aaron<br />
Horseradish, who dreaded being tried for “wounding with intent, &c.”<br />
Nor upon the magnanimous manner in which the truly kind-hearted<br />
friends raised the contrite gardener from his knees before them, and how<br />
they afterwards accepted his pressing offer of the loan of two suits of his<br />
best clothes. How that four policemen rode up, armed with loaded<br />
carbines, just as the friends smilingly emerged from Aaron's house, clad<br />
in suits of worsted cord and colonial tweed, which could hardly be called<br />
“good fits,” considering that Aaron was a slim man of only five feet six.<br />
Mr. Goosgog and Mr. Spindles were taken home in triumph in a<br />
“Hansom,” with the chaise and harness towing behind, and followed by<br />
an immense cavalcade, including the constables; and as they rode along,<br />
their honest hearts glowed with pride and amazement at the general<br />
affection which was manifested towards them. They had not the least<br />
idea before that they had so many friends; quite forgetting, in their<br />
simplicity, that they were supposed to be dead. In the excess of their joy<br />
that they were not dead, and at being so highly appreciated by such a<br />
respectable multitude, they nobly invited everybody to sup with them, to
the utter bewilderment of poor Mrs. Cobbrer, whose house was filled to<br />
overflowing, and the contents of many cooks' shops were necessary to<br />
feed the hungry guests.<br />
Mr. Spindles made his debût as a speaker that night; and in returning<br />
thanks for an appropriate toast to his honour, he, among many<br />
noteworthy sentiments, remarked emphatically “that he had never spent<br />
such an exciting birthday since the day of his birth.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
Soon afterwards Jasper and Joey went into partnership; and in a few<br />
years the firm of Spindles and Goosgog was reputed to be wealthy.<br />
Wealth and wisdom are often supposed to be associated, and Mr.<br />
Spindles was waited on by a deputation, requesting him to represent<br />
them as Member of Parliament for East Sydney. They declared their<br />
unanimous opinion of his fitness for the work and honour, in such<br />
forcible terms, that his doubts began to dissolve. He smirked and tried to<br />
look modest, while his long face was flushed with new pride. He was<br />
about to express his willingness to exert his talents for the publie good,<br />
when Mr. Goosgog stepped quietly up and whispered in his ear,<br />
“Remember Bondi Bay, and the pony chaise.” Jasper was startled at the<br />
salutary hint, but so far from getting cross, he smiled pleasantly at his<br />
partner, and manfully confessed to his admiring friends, that he was<br />
totally ignorant of political science, for which simple reason, he must<br />
decline the honour of representing them in parliament.<br />
There are many eager aspirants for legislative honours, who know as<br />
little of political economy as Jasper knew about driving a pony, and if<br />
they will follow his prudent example, and leave parliamentary seats for<br />
able men to occupy, they will confer a great benefit on the community,<br />
and perhaps save themselves from Aaron Horseradish's “black pepper,”<br />
in the form of public contempt and ridicule.
Poor Girl!<br />
THERE she stands, under that public-house gas-lamp, with a maudlin<br />
smile on her faded face, and an affected, careless air; but her soul is as<br />
be-clouded as a winter's night, and her heart within her is seared. She<br />
attracts but few libidinous glances from prowling “fast men,” for her<br />
charms are all blighted by disease, anxiety, and sensual excesses; and,<br />
like a tender flower, withered by a hot wind, her beauty is gone. Her<br />
draggled finery is faded too, and betokens poverty and neglect, while<br />
scarcely a trace of maidenly modesty, or self-respect, is visible.<br />
But she is still young, and her figure retains somewhat of its bygone<br />
symmetry; while her long brown tresses — though dishevelled by the<br />
rough wind — tell of the time when they fell in flowing ringlets over her<br />
fair shoulders, and attracted the admiration of all beholders. Her full blue<br />
eyes too, though lustreless as rough pebbles in a rock, are mournfully<br />
suggestive of those happy days of girlhood and innocence, when the<br />
proudest youth in our city would have felt honoured by a favouring<br />
glance from Mary May.<br />
Why stands she there in her scanty attire, on this bleak night? Dark<br />
storm-clouds are gathering in the western sky, and the rumbling thunder<br />
forewarns that a tempest is approaching. Why stands she there, as if in<br />
defiance of the warring elements, while most of the citizens of Sydney<br />
are preparing for their beds? Why does she not go home? Alas! poor girl!<br />
In all this wide world she has not a roof to shelter her head from the<br />
angry winds; she is homeless, cheerless, and penniless. A wreck on the<br />
strand, or a waif on life's turbulent ocean. A miserable outcast — a poor<br />
lost girl. May God pity her! for no pity does she get from man, and very<br />
little from woman either. To the tender sympathy, and kindly offices of<br />
her sex, she has long been a stranger; and she is ignorant of God's love<br />
and mercy, in providing a way of redemption for even such as she.<br />
Spurned and contemned by all but the very lowest dregs of society. she is<br />
a sworn foe to mankind, who have severed her from all endearing social<br />
ties, blasted her hopes, and made her young life a dreary waste, and an<br />
intolerable burden; from which she has often been tempted to rid herself<br />
by violent means, and wickedly to rush into the awful presence of her<br />
Maker.<br />
Do you ask me, reader, who is this poor girl? Are you anxious to know<br />
what has so cruelly blighted her happiness? Listen then and I will tell
you, for I know her history well. I have known her ever since the time<br />
when her prattling tongue could but imperfectly pronounce my name;<br />
and when her little hands were often held out for the “sweeties,” which<br />
my coat-pocket usually contained for my many young favourites.<br />
Memory — obedient to my will — flies back a dozen years or more,<br />
and presents poor Mary to my mental gaze, as I knew her, a frolicsome<br />
girl of thirteen; the hope and pride of indulgent parents, who idolised<br />
their only child, and expected for her the admiration of all their friends<br />
and neighbours. Mr. and Mrs. May were a simple-hearted old pair; true<br />
and just in all their dealings; unsuspecting and confiding in their nature.<br />
They had seen very little of the world, and were unacquainted with its<br />
sophistries. Their beloved daughter was as innocent as a lambkin<br />
sporting in the green meadows beside its dam, and as unconscious of evil<br />
lurking in her pathway. If she knew that she was beautiful, she knew not<br />
the dangers to which that much coveted gift would expose her. Life was<br />
full of happiness to her sanguine view, for she had seen nothing of its<br />
dark obverse. Trouble had never darkened her happy home, and real<br />
sorrow had never chased the sunshine from her charming face. The world<br />
to her seemed bounded by the meandering river, whose noiseless<br />
current — typical of her own life — flowed before her parents' cottage in<br />
peaceful beauty, and the wild woods beyond, whither she so often<br />
rambled to gather flowers to bedeck their rustic home, or to weave<br />
garlands for her pet kangaroo.<br />
“Far from the busy world's ignoble strife,<br />
Her sober fancies never learned to stray;<br />
Along the cool sequestered vale of life,<br />
She held the even tenor of her way.”<br />
Well do I remember little Mary in those days of innocence; often have<br />
I stroked her sunny ringlets, and gazed with delight into her merry blue<br />
eyes, so full of artless love and childish fun. She was indeed as joyous<br />
hearted a maiden as ever made a wilderness vocal with cheerful melody.<br />
I can fancy I see her now: and as I contrast her with that draggled, forlorn<br />
creature under the gin-shop lamp, my heart within me sickens at the<br />
sight, and with difficulty I restrain the rising feeling of wrath, which<br />
would tower over my settled loathing for the creature who could<br />
deliberately lure to ruin an innocent girl, whom he should feel bound by<br />
every manly consideration to shield from impure influences, and be ever<br />
ready to guard from injury or insult. While I tearfully gaze at the wreck<br />
before me, at the wretched victim of a villain's perfidy, my fervent prayer<br />
ascends on her behalf to the mercy seat of the Almighty Judge of all the<br />
earth, who alone can comfort her care-worn spirit, and redress her<br />
wrongs.
But I have promised to give an outline of poor Mary's history. Very<br />
brief it will be, for my pen falters at the task. This is not a solitary case in<br />
my experience, I have seen many such, and have been an eye witness to<br />
scenes of anguish, which might move the veriest roué in the land to pity,<br />
if his heart were not wholly burnt up by the lustful fires which his life<br />
has been spent in feeding.<br />
Mary's father died when she was about sixteen years of age, and it then<br />
became necessary for her to contribute to her mother's support. To that<br />
end she bound herself for a term to a respectable woman (who kept a<br />
little shop in the country), to be taught the millinery business. Every<br />
morning after breakfast Mary hastened away to her work, and returned<br />
home in the evening: the distance was but little more than a mile. For a<br />
few months all went on smoothly. Mary made good progress in her new<br />
occupation, for she was a quick, intelligent girl, and she looked joyfully<br />
forward to the time when she would begin to earn a little money and be<br />
enabled to add to her mother's comforts, and perhaps to increase her own<br />
limited stock of finery and necessaries.<br />
About this time, Lionel Wolfe, the eldest son of a wealthy landed<br />
proprietor in the neighbourhood, returned to the colony, after finishing<br />
his education and his travels on the continent of Europe. He was a young<br />
man of showy exterior, about twenty-five years of age; and being the heir<br />
of the Wolfden estates, his return created no small stir in the usually<br />
quiet village of Woollaburra.<br />
If I say that Lionel Wolfe was a “fast young man,” almost every one<br />
will understand his character, so I need not particularise it. It was not<br />
long before his gloating eyes were fixed upon Mary May. Her rare<br />
beauties and modest mien smote his heart with love, — stay; what am I<br />
writing? A feeling so holy and pure as love never entered the heart of a<br />
practised debauchee, never! It was not love, but quite a different kind of<br />
passion, which inflamed Wolfe's breast at the first sight of the pretty little<br />
country lass, as she tripped along one evening towards her mother's<br />
cottage. He saw her, and at once conceived the designs against her virtue,<br />
which, alas! he too surely carried into effect.<br />
To describe all the arts employed by that accomplished seducer, would<br />
require a more patient pen than mine. He did not effect his purpose by a<br />
coup de main, he was too wily to attempt anything so bold, with the<br />
timid unsophisticated girl, who trembled at the notice of one so much her<br />
superior in position. Slowly and deliberately he concocted his schemes;<br />
slily he spread his nets, and anxiously he watched them, until the poor<br />
little bird was inveigled within their fatal meshes; then very soon her<br />
lovely plumage was ruffled, her golden wings broken, and her joyful<br />
song of innocence was silenced for ever.<br />
Here I will digress from my story a little. Grieved indeed should I be,<br />
to pen one word which would raise a blush on any fair cheek. I do not
willingly choose this delicate and distressing subject for my pen; nor do I<br />
enter upon my task with a light feeling; but a fatherly love for, and an<br />
earnest desire to guard the virtue of the young maidens of this land,<br />
constrain me to offer a few words of counsel, which I pray them to<br />
ponder over.<br />
I would speak to you, fair girl, whose bright eyes glance over these<br />
sketches! In words of affectionate warning, I would say to you, beware<br />
of the first advances of the bold designing man. One repellent look,<br />
indicative of the horror with which your pure young mind regards his<br />
rude remarks, full of hidden meaning, his sensual leers, the undue<br />
pressure of your gentle hand, or any other ungentlemanlike way in which<br />
his insidious work is begun. One such look may save you from a<br />
repetition of the rude familiarities of those traitors, with whom you are<br />
too often thrown into accidental contact. Very few such fellows would<br />
have the courage to renew an attack, when thus foiled in the first<br />
instance, for they are usually as cowardly as they are treacherous. Poor<br />
Mary May neglected that precaution; perhaps she had never been warned<br />
of the danger of encouraging the forward salutations of strangers;<br />
howbeit she did not repel young Wolfe's first advances; an intimacy<br />
sprung up, and in a very short time she fell a victim to the practised arts<br />
of the seducer. Pardon me, dear young reader, for naming you in the<br />
same lines with that polluted wreck under the gas lamp yonder; and for<br />
beseeching you to take warning by her sad fate, and flee from the voice<br />
of the flatterer. Pardon me, I ask, and remember that I knew her when<br />
she was as lovely and as pure as you are now; and when all about her<br />
pathway was sunshine and joy.<br />
I shall never forget the heart-rending scene which my eyes beheld in<br />
widow May's cottage, a little more than a year afterwards; a scene which<br />
I should like to compel every seducer to witness before receiving a<br />
merited flogging. Months before I had heard of the faux pas of the<br />
village belle; for in small country communities scandal flies swifter than<br />
swallows. I had heard of her intimacy and her flirtations with Lionel<br />
Wolfe, and had warned both Mary and her mother too of their danger,<br />
and advised them at once to sever their connection with the unprincipled<br />
rake, who from his antecedents I judged was plotting the young girl's<br />
destruction. But my advice was too late to be of real service to them, for<br />
Wolfe had completely gained the girl's affections, and had persuaded her<br />
mother that he loved her daughter, and intended to make her his wife. I<br />
need not enter into painful details; it is the old sad story, which has been<br />
told hundreds of times before, which has been the death blow to many<br />
aged parents, and “brought down their grey hairs with sorrow to the<br />
grave.” Poor Mary fell a victim to the plots of Lionel Wolfe: how could<br />
it be otherwise after she had once admitted his influence? She was a<br />
comparatively easy prey, for her mind was unfortified by religion; she
had not been early instructed in divine truth; she had not learned to know<br />
and love the Saviour, and to flee to Him at all times for support and<br />
guidance; she lacked, too, sound paternal counsel and protection. A<br />
resolute sire, or brother, are as effective in scaring prowling villains from<br />
the domestic hearth, as sharp dogs are in guarding back-yards from petty<br />
thieves. But she had no such trusty guardians, which her deceiver well<br />
knew; moreover, she loved him with all the warmth of her young heart's<br />
first affections; and for that love, that self-immolation, he very soon<br />
returned coldness, then closely followed neglect, scorn, and positive<br />
brutality. To her impassioned appeals to him to save her reputation, to<br />
fulfil his oft-repeated promise and make her his wife, he from time to<br />
time returned evasive answers; and to her last pathetic appeal to him, on<br />
her knees, for the sake of the infant which she shortly expected to bring<br />
into the world, he spurned her from him, and coarsely applying an<br />
epithet, at which every woman shudders, he left her tearing her hair in an<br />
agony of grief.<br />
* * * * *<br />
There she lay, with an infant folded to her bosom, when I entered her<br />
cottage, about a week after her accouchement. I shall ever remember that<br />
dreary morning, though I wish I could forget it, for my heart aches while<br />
picturing it, even now.<br />
Pillowed up in an old arm chair in the front room, sat Mrs. May, with<br />
the marks of death in her countenance. The anxiety of the last few<br />
months had proved too severe for her impaired strength, and she had<br />
sunk beneath the trial. Her mind, too, was as enfeebled as her body,<br />
which was perhaps a merciful alleviation of her sufferings. At times she<br />
seemed to forget her griefs, and to fancy her Mary was again a child<br />
playing beside her, in the same merry mood that she used to do in happy<br />
days gone by: and then the poor old soul would hold imaginary<br />
conversations in the fondling style in which she used to talk to her “wee<br />
Polly;” and repeat the nursery rhymes, which in those days delighted her<br />
little smiling companion. Suddenly, however, the recollection of the<br />
present forlorn condition of her still idolized daughter, would burst upon<br />
her mind like an overwhelming flood, then her anguish and weeping<br />
exclamations of despair were more than I could bear to witness, and I<br />
was glad to escape from that scene of sorrow, even to one, scarcely less<br />
painful to behold, in the adjoining room, where lay poor Mary on a clean<br />
little stretcher bed, with her infant pressed to her agitated heart. Her<br />
disengaged hand was held before her eyes, but tears coursed down her<br />
face, and her sobs prevented her from articulating a word. I stood beside<br />
her bed and gazed at her in mournful silence. My heart was too full to<br />
speak, but she knew that I sincerely pitied her; she knew that I had not
called to upbraid her, as some of her neighbours had done not an hour<br />
before, while they professed to condole with her. There lay the poor<br />
young creature almost destitute of common necessaries, and oppressed<br />
with grief indescribable; and as I gazed at her I could not but contrast her<br />
deplorable condition with a scene fresh in my memory — that of a happy<br />
young wife, with her first-born on her bosom, and every comfort at her<br />
command; cheered by the caresses of her loving husband, and the<br />
congratulations of surrounding friends, and her heart bounding with joy<br />
and pride while fondling her precious little new-born treasure, which<br />
every one was praising.<br />
But I must hasten on with my dismal story. In a few days Mrs. May<br />
died of a broken heart, and before poor Mary could rise from her<br />
wearisome couch, she had the anguish of seeing her only parent's body<br />
borne away to the grave, and the additional pang of feeling that she had<br />
been the cause of her beloved mother's untimely death, and the months of<br />
misery that had preceded it.<br />
I should have mentioned before, that directly Mrs. May had discovered<br />
her daughter's critical state, she made a personal appeal to Lionel Wolfe's<br />
father and mother to use their influence and induce their son to do justice<br />
to her daughter, and marry her, as he had solemnly promised to do. But<br />
the arrogant old pair would not listen to the end of her tearful address;<br />
she was moreover told by Wolfe's prudish sisters, that she and her<br />
brazen-faced daughter had designedly entrapped their brother to the<br />
disgrace of his family. They also refused the smallest assistance, and<br />
ignored Mrs. May's claim upon them in any shape; then peremptorily<br />
ordering her not to enter the gates of Wolfden again, they turned from<br />
her in disdain, and left the old lady to retrace her weary way home with<br />
her heart stricken by a sorrow which can only be comprehended by those<br />
whose domestic hearth has been similarly desolated.<br />
How Mary May struggled on for the next two years was often a matter<br />
of speculation for those who feast upon scandal, and there were many<br />
such moral pests in Woollaburra. Several respectable residents, however,<br />
could testify that Mary lived a virtuous life during that period. She<br />
worked to support herself and infant, and her scanty earnings were<br />
supplemented by voluntary donations from friends who carefully<br />
watched over her. She lodged with a worthy old couple in the outskirts of<br />
the town, and kept very secluded; seldom going beyond the garden which<br />
surrounded her humble domicile.<br />
Her infant died when about two years old. Doubtless it was a merciful<br />
dispensation of Providence in removing it beyond the influence of a<br />
frowning world, and taking it to Heaven; but it was a terrible loss to poor<br />
Mary. She felt it hard to part with her baby, though it had caused her<br />
such crushing trouble. It seemed the only tie she had to life; it was her<br />
constant companion, and the only creature in the world that she had to
love. She lavished all the affection of her nature upon it, and its innocent<br />
prattle helped to lighten her life's dreary burden, and to cheer her<br />
blighted heart. Mothers will understand her feelings better than I can<br />
describe them, and I need not further dwell upon this fresh trial, which<br />
very nearly shattered her reason. Daily she would wander to her baby's<br />
grave to moisten the cold sod with her tears, and pour out her sorrows<br />
unseen by any eyes but the little birds in the tall sighing oaks around the<br />
cemetery, and by that Omniscient eye which watches the little birds, and<br />
sees that all their wants are supplied. Poor girl! she was almost brokenhearted;<br />
the woods often reechoed her melancholy lamentations for her<br />
lost baby, and throughout long sleepless nights she would bemoan her<br />
hapless misery.<br />
About that time, Lionel Wolfe (who had settled in Victoria), paid a<br />
visit to Wolfden for a month, and, during that period he had repeated<br />
interviews with Mary May, notwithstanding the remonstrances of the<br />
honest old folks with whom she lodged. Weakened as her mind was by<br />
her various troubles, and especially by her recent bereavement, it is no<br />
marvel that he easily obtained a mastering influence over her, and that<br />
she became again his willing slave. One morning, shortly after Wolfe<br />
had departed for Victoria, Mary was missing at Woollaburra, and for<br />
sometime her whereabouts was a mystery; but at length it transpired that<br />
she was in Melbourne, in the keeping of the unprincipled author of all<br />
her miseries.<br />
Further efforts were made by friends who were interested in her case,<br />
to rescue her from her betrayer; but the means they tried were all in vain,<br />
she seemed fast bound by a fatal spell which she would not try to break.<br />
Drink was resorted to by her to drown reflection, and madly she sped in<br />
the race to ruin, as thousands of other miserable girls are rushing at this<br />
very hour. She lived but a few months with Wolfe; he soon grew tired of<br />
his companion, who was usually either madly hilarious from the effects<br />
of drink, or suffering from its reaction, and sorrowing in all the bitterness<br />
of ruined hopes and down-crushed love.<br />
Soon she was an inmate of a fashionable brothel in Melbourne. She had<br />
been cast off by her paramour (who had gone into the far interior to<br />
evade his creditors), and was pounced upon by one of those wicked hags<br />
who live by the wages of poor deluded women, to whom a young and<br />
still beautiful girl like Mary, was a prize which would for a short time<br />
prove a new attraction to her horrible lair, and bring money to her hoard.<br />
I dare not trust my pen to express my abhorrence of these rapacious<br />
fiends, or those persons who encourage their iniquitous calling.<br />
Down, down, down! whirled poor Mary, like a frail canoe in the rapids.<br />
No mind can picture her sufferings during the succeeding five years. Her<br />
own sad words were, “My body and mind have been racked with the<br />
tortures of hell; and death, in its most painful form would have been a
luxury to me. Disease, delirium, madness! have poisoned my blood! have<br />
wrecked me!” Poor girl! what a wasted life of misery has yours been!<br />
Who can understand the anguish of your blasted heart? Tottering old<br />
roués look at her! Fast young men look at her! Mothers and sisters look<br />
at her! May God look in pity upon her, and may He inspire many<br />
Christian hearts to pity her, and others who are like her, dreary wanderers<br />
on the world's wide stage.<br />
Mary has recently come from Melbourne in search of Lionel Wolfe;<br />
and she harbours wild vengeance in her heart. She will perhaps try to<br />
murder him if they meet, and then commit suicide, for she is desperate.<br />
There she stands, on the verge of perdition; but she must not be suffered<br />
to go over, while she is within the reach of Christian hands. “Haste to the<br />
rescue.” Her blood will be upon your head if you allow her to perish<br />
without attempting to save her.<br />
* * * * *<br />
There is a “Home” in this city for such as she; and polluted as she is,<br />
she will be gladly received within its walls, and have all her wants kindly<br />
attended to. There she may find a refuge from the cold winds and still<br />
colder blasts of the world's scorn. There she will be led to Him who<br />
kindly suffered such an one as she to wash his sacred feet with her tears;<br />
to her Saviour, who loves her, who will graciously receive her, and fill<br />
her poor torn heart with peace, such as she never felt, even in the<br />
blithesome days of her childhood; He will gently guide her along life's<br />
rugged road, and when she arrives at her journey's end receive her<br />
cleansed soul into His glorious rest.<br />
All honour to those benevolent ladies and gentlemen who conduct the<br />
Female Refuge. Through their noble efforts many fallen women have<br />
been lifted up, almost from the depths of despair, and restored to the path<br />
of virtue. The great day alone will declare the sum total of good, which<br />
has been wrought by that excellent institution.<br />
Reader! help it with an annual contribution. It will be money well<br />
invested, and help to make its freely offered hospitality known to those<br />
homeless wanderers, who you so often see staggering in your pathway.<br />
Pity the poor creatures, and try to turn them gently round and put them<br />
on the road to heaven. And if this should be read by one of those forlorn<br />
ones; I beg of her to go at once, knock at the door of the Refuge, and<br />
therein find rest for her weary body and mind.
Old Daddy Gummy and Kitty Mayberry.<br />
“HA, ha, ha! I'm so glad!” chuckled Jabez Gummy, as he sat on the<br />
side of his bed, stitching a brace button on his drab kerseymere small<br />
clothes, one Monday morning. “No more stitching for me after I have<br />
fastened this blessed button: this is my last act of molly-coddlery. Hurra!<br />
I'll throw my thimble out of the window in a minute, and give my cotton<br />
box to old Mrs. Budge — no, no, I won't though, I forgot, it was a<br />
present from my grandmother, forty years ago last Christmas, so I'll keep<br />
it for her sake; it would be undutiful to part with it, and Mrs. Budge does<br />
not deserve it, for she has woefully neglected my wardrobe. My best<br />
linen shirts look as yellow as old blankets, and I do believe she wears my<br />
flannel waistcoats, drat her. Ha, ha, ha! I'm to be married next Friday!<br />
Won't it be funny! If I had plucked up heart to take the mysterious leap<br />
long ago, I might have made some pretty little maid a happy wife, and<br />
have had — but never mind, I'm just in time. The fact is, I have been<br />
afraid of the feminine gender ever since that unlucky affair with Ann<br />
Spike, in 1840, which split my heart like a ripe plum. But bother her, I<br />
don't care a button for her now; my dear little Kitty is worth forty old<br />
cats — ha! ha! ha! Bravo, Jabez! you have not forgotten the way to<br />
wheedle the women, though you have been long out of practice, but you<br />
have got a real jewel at last — or almost as good as got her. Hurra!<br />
again; no more domestic discomforts, which I have writhed under for<br />
nearly half a century. No more losing arguments with old Mother Budge<br />
about her omnivorous cat, and her mischievous boy Billy, or her<br />
mystified accounts. No more dull wearisome days, and lonely nights. No,<br />
no; I shall have a dear little wife to develope the latent virtues of my<br />
disposition; to love, honour, and cherish me, and make this sombre old<br />
house as shiny as a light-house lantern. Ho, ho, ho! how nice it will be!”<br />
The exciting idea made Mr. Gummy chuckle again, till he began to<br />
cough so fiercely, that he owned to himself, as he sat down to his solitary<br />
breakfast-table, a few minutes afterwards, “that he felt quite weak in the<br />
knees.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
“Zounds! what next? Daddy Gummy is actually going to marry Kitty<br />
Mayberry,” grumbled Mr. Grouts. “Did anybody ever hear of such an old
gooseberry?” He is sixty-five years old if he is a fortnight, while the girl<br />
has only just done with her dolls, and has no more love for the toothless<br />
old toddler than I have for Mammy Wombat, the black gin. Poor little<br />
puss, she is bedazzled by the glitter of his money, the idea of a grand<br />
wedding, and riding to church in a coach. I dare say it is rare fun for her<br />
to prattle with her playfellows about her fine house, and her dear old<br />
fogey who doats upon her, but I doubt if she has bestowed five minutes<br />
serious thought on the responsibilities she is taking upon herself; much<br />
less has she foreseen the gloomy reality of being tied to a ricketty old<br />
man, whose temperament is as opposite to her own as June is to January.<br />
I pity her, poor thing, but as for Jabez — well, perhaps I had better not<br />
say all I think of him, or I may be thought uncivil. I will say though, that<br />
he ought to have common sense enough to know that a giddy girl will not<br />
make him a good wife. In his long life he has doubtless seen scores of<br />
homes made wretched by want of sympathy and unity of feeling, and he<br />
cannot reasonably expect much of those social virtues from a girl young<br />
enough to be his grand-daughter. Pshaw! I have no patience with the old<br />
gander! But I consider it is positively wrong to sit still and see a silly<br />
couple plunge into misery, so I am determined to stop them, if warning<br />
words will do it.”<br />
“Ugh! stop them indeed! you may as well try to stop a train by<br />
whistling ‘Cockabendy,’ ” growled Mrs. Grouts. “They will be tied<br />
together, as tightly as you and I are, before this day week in spite of all<br />
you can say. The little minx told our Betsy last night, that she will jingle<br />
the mildew off the old boy's money as soon as she can coax the keys of<br />
the cash box from him; so it is plain enough what she is marrying for,<br />
and I'll bet you a penny she will bolt off with young Ben Spry before she<br />
is a year older. As for Jabez he is up to his eyes in love, as the saying is,<br />
and all the words in the dictionary won't cure him, so don't bother<br />
yourself in trying, master; that's my advice. You had better take warning<br />
by what your Uncle Dick got for himself when interfering in a similar<br />
case. You know he had to wear a bob wig, all his days, to hide the mark<br />
of the hot fire-shovel on his crown.”<br />
“I don't care for hot fire-shovels if they are in the way of duty,” said<br />
Mr. Grouts, bravely. “I mean to use my influence with Kitty's mother, if<br />
Jabez won't listen to reason.”<br />
“Poogh! that's no use neither, for she told me only yesterday she knew<br />
Gummy would make her girl a good husband. ‘To be sure he is older<br />
than Kitty,’ said she, but that isn't of much account now a days; you often<br />
see such disparities. He is a healthy man, though rather skinny, and he is<br />
as merry and frisky as she every bit; besides, he is not so old as folks say,<br />
and is able to provide handsomely for her, so I don't see that it is such a<br />
bad match as the times go. He is doatingly fond of her, there is no doubt<br />
of that, and Kitty will like anybody who is kind to her.’ Those are the
very words widow Mayberry said to me,” continued Mrs. Grouts, “so it<br />
is pretty clear that what you may say to her will not stop the match, but<br />
will very likely make all the family enemies to us; then woe to our<br />
garden, for they will let all their cocks and hens loose again!”<br />
“Humph! But Jabez is an old crony of mine and I am really more<br />
concerned about him than about the girl,” said Mr. Grouts. “We know<br />
that only a week or two ago she was flirting with Ben Spry, and I dare<br />
say she is fond of him, for he is a smart young fellow, only he happens to<br />
be poor, which is equal to a serious failing with widow Mayberry; more<br />
simpleton she, for I declare if Kitty were my girl, I would rather let her<br />
have Ben with only his trade to depend on, than old Gummy if he could<br />
load the ship “La Hogue” with Spanish dollars. I don't like to say<br />
anything to Jabez about Kitty's flirtations, for it would look like tattling,<br />
and you know I abhor that sort of mischief; but if I could stop his<br />
marriage by some honest means, I am sure he will be much obliged to<br />
me when he returns to his senses. At any rate, I'll try what I can do,”<br />
added Mr. Grouts, taking his hat and stick. “I'll walk over to his house<br />
and have a little quiet chat with him, and if love has not blinded him<br />
outright, he will see that he is running into nettles, and stop in time.”<br />
His wife exclaimed, “Stnff and nonsense!” Nevertheless, away went<br />
Mr. Grouts on his delicate errand, and soon he was welcomed by his old<br />
friend Jabez, whom he found very busy overlooking his wearing apparel,<br />
and arranging it in a handsome wardrobe, which had been sent from the<br />
upholsterer's that afternoon.<br />
“Glad to see you, Grouts,” said Jabez, grinning like an ape who had<br />
just picked up a soldier's jacket; “I'm in a bit of a muddle, you see, but I<br />
know you will excuse it. Take a seat — stay, stay, don't sit on my frilled<br />
shirt, or you'll ruin me. That is an important part of my wedding outfit.<br />
Blue coat, drab breeches and gaiters, buff waistcoat, and a frilled shirt;<br />
shan't I look buckish? ho, ho, ho! Wasn't you tremendously tickled when<br />
you heard I was going to tie the knot?”<br />
“No, I wasn't tickled at all, Jabez, but I was very much astonished at<br />
your choosing a girl who only a month or two ago was in short<br />
petticoats,” said Mr. Grouts, drily. “We have always been in the habit of<br />
speaking plainly to each other, so I tell you candidly that I wish you had<br />
courted her mother instead.”<br />
“Ha, ha, ha! I always liked spring lamb,” chuckled Jabez; “Kitty is<br />
much handsomer than her mother, and she is intensely fond of me. She is<br />
always stroking my beard, and calling me her pee-weet. She will make a<br />
loving little wife, I'm sure; just the one for me, for I like to be petted. The<br />
darling! ho, ho, ho! Don't you wish you were Jabez Gummy, eh,<br />
Grouts?”<br />
“Bah!” grunted Mr. Grouts. “I hope you won't get pepper-mint sauce<br />
with your spring lamb. Now, seriously, Jabez, do you think it is natural
for a lass of seventeen to be very fond of an old chap of seventy.”<br />
“Stop, stop, I'm not seventy,” said Jabez, with a show of anger, “I am<br />
only sixty-six next January, so don't cheat me: and I can't see anything so<br />
unnatural in the affair as you wish to make out. You see old chaps, as<br />
you call them, marrying young girls often enough, so there is nothing<br />
very wonderful in my preferring a young wife to an old one.”<br />
“Yes, and you often see those young wives neglecting their homes and<br />
their old husbands, and there is nothing wonderful in that neither,”<br />
replied Mr. Grouts. “I don't intend to say a syllable to the prejudice of<br />
Kitty, or to insinuate that she will not make a faithful wife, but in general<br />
terms I mean to say that when old men are silly enough to marry young<br />
girls, they usually look for more attention from them than they get, or<br />
than they can reasonably expect; thus they are very often tormented with<br />
jealous fears and fancies, real or imaginary, and their lives are made<br />
miserable. I will give you one sad example, which just occurs to me. A<br />
gentleman, more than threescore years old, married his gardener's<br />
daughter, a buxom lass of nineteen or thereabouts. She was a good girl,<br />
and I believe for several years was as true a wife as any in the land, still<br />
her husband suspected her of flirting with every young fellow who<br />
presumed to look at her pretty face. In vain did she try to reason him out<br />
of his jealous fancies, and give him every proof she could give of her<br />
fidelity; he grew worse as he grew older, until her life was a complete<br />
burden. She became reckless and ill-tempered. Horse-whipping did not<br />
improve her; she took to drinking, and a few years ago you might have<br />
seen her on any night you chose to look into one of the singing saloons<br />
of Sydney; so you may guess her deplorable end. Mind, I don't say that<br />
all such unequal marriages terminate so badly, for I have known cases<br />
quite contrary; but they are rare, and I take the freedom of an old friend,<br />
to warn you against the risk you are incurring in marrying a girl so much<br />
younger than yourself. That lassie will not make a suitable wife for you,<br />
Jabez, I am sure of that, and I advise you for pity's sake to give her up.”<br />
“O dear me! I can't, I can't. Don't say that again, Grouts, it hurts. I love<br />
the girl, and if I give her up I shall give up the ghost in less than three<br />
weeks; I am sure of that. Can't you see how my knees are knocking<br />
together, at the bare idea of it? The fact is my heart has been as<br />
impenetrable as a fire-proof safe for nearly thirty years, but Kitty has<br />
picked the lock at last, and got right inside, and to turn her out would be<br />
ten times worse than skinning me. I can't do it, Grouts. Ask me to do<br />
anything else that's reasonable, and I'll oblige you in a minute, but I can't<br />
give up Kitty, I'd almost as soon give up taking snuff, and that would be<br />
the greatest trial in life that I can think of. Besides, look at this house full<br />
of feminine knickknacks, what would be the use of them to me if I lost<br />
my little doxey? They were all bought for her, bless her heart!”<br />
“Please, sir, a boy has brought a lot of bottles and things from Mr. Lint,
the chemist,” interrupted Mrs. Budge, opening the door, without<br />
knocking.<br />
“Yes, yes, all right, lots of scent; I shall smell like a nosegay on Friday.<br />
Bring them in, Mrs. Budge. Let me see, I think I'll put them on a shelf in<br />
my wardrobe for the present,” said Jabez, who forthwith began to stow<br />
away sundry bottles of perfumery, and a large gallipot full of pomatum,<br />
which Mr. Lint had specially prepared and warranted it would make hair<br />
grow on Jabez's bald head, and turn his grey beard dark brown. “Excuse<br />
me for neglecting you, Grouts, but you see I am up to my neck in<br />
confusion. I wish you would come and see me this day fortnight, and<br />
stay a long while: I shall be calm as a dish of cream then, and we can talk<br />
over things comfortably. Say you will come, and bring Mrs. Grouts with<br />
you. Hoy, Mrs. Budge! stop the boy! he has left a bottle of soothing<br />
mixture for Mrs. Fitz, over the way.” Jabez hobbled out of the room with<br />
the mis-sent bottle, and while he was gone Mr. Grouts glanced over the<br />
perfumery on the shelf, especially noticing the pomatum pot, which was<br />
without a label.<br />
“I don't want to hinder you,” said Mr. Grouts, as Jabez returned<br />
breathless and faint, after his exertion of running to the front door, “but I<br />
was going to remark, when your housekeeper disturbed us, that if you<br />
love Kitty as I believe you do, you may prove the disinterestedness of<br />
your love, and do a noble action for which she will ever venerate you.<br />
This is the plan I would suggest: Take a cottage for her, furnish it with<br />
some of the superfluous things that you have recently bought, and give<br />
her away to some deserving young fellow, who will make her happy<br />
— in short, adopt her as your daughter. You have neither kith nor kin in<br />
the land, and you have more money than you can reasonably spend on<br />
yourself. Take my advice, Jabez, and you will rejoice over it by-and-bye,<br />
and the girl will rejoice too. You may live to have many merry romping<br />
games with your adopted grand-children, and — — ”<br />
“Pshaw! get out Grouts! what nonsense you talk,” said Jabez, sharply.<br />
“The girl would break her heart if I jilted her in that underhand way, poor<br />
little bird! give her away to some deserving young fellow, indeed!<br />
poogh, I won't. Besides, where will I find one more deserving of her than<br />
myself? I love her, and she loves me; that's a mutually admitted fact, and<br />
I won't allow anybody but grim Death himself to separate us — that's the<br />
way to say it. Excuse me for getting warm,” added Jabez, relaxing into a<br />
grin, “but you are too late with your advice, my boy. My honour and<br />
happiness are at stake. I must be married on Friday: ho, ho, ho! I must<br />
have a wife, for my feet get very cold on winter nights; very cold indeed;<br />
but Kitty will be twice as good as my water bottle, or a hot brick, ho, ho,<br />
ho!”<br />
“Now go home, Grouts, there's a good fellow; don't bother me any<br />
more, for I want to look to my linen. Hoy! Mrs. Budge, bring me a flat
iron and the marking ink. Excuse me, Grouts — good night — much<br />
obliged to you. Give my love to Mrs. G. — Good night.”<br />
Chapter II.<br />
AFTER Mr. Grouts left his friend Gummy's house, he walked slowly<br />
homeward; and any one meeting him would have fancied him under the<br />
influence of laughing gas, or something else equally exciting, for he<br />
chuckled and poked the air with his stick in the most facetious manner<br />
imaginable.<br />
“Whatever is the matter with you, Grouts,” asked his wife, when he<br />
entered his home, still laughing and blinking both eyes at once. “You<br />
haven't broken your pledge, I hope? Let me smell you. All right,” she<br />
added, after a few satisfactory sniffs at her jovial spouse. “You are quite<br />
sober, though you look half drunk; but what is tickling you so<br />
amazingly? Tell me this minute, you giggling old image, or I'll run up to<br />
Gummy's house and ask him.”<br />
“Sit down, missus, and I'll tell you a secret,” said Mr. Grouts: so Mrs.<br />
Grouts sat down, and her husband told her all about his interview with<br />
Jabez, and something besides, which set her giggling too. After an hour's<br />
merry conference, the old couple went to bed, laughing all the way up<br />
stairs.<br />
* * * * *<br />
“Oh, my dear! what do you think?” exclaimed Widow Mayberry,<br />
entering Mrs. Grouts's cottage — in a state of great excitement — two<br />
days after the above recorded events. “Would you believe it, Gummy is<br />
a — a — a deceitful old cripple; I have made such a humiliating<br />
discovery. I don't know when I have felt so staggered, since the night I<br />
was run over by the safety cab.”<br />
“What in the world is it, neighbour?” asked Mrs. Grouts, with well<br />
feigned wonder in her looks. “Sit down and compose yourself a bit, then<br />
tell me what has happened. Let me get you a cup of tea with an egg in it.<br />
Poor thing! You look quite upset. There now, untie your bonnet strings<br />
and sip that, while you tell me what is the matter. It is something serious,<br />
I'm afraid. I hope it isn't fire or — — ”<br />
“I'll tell you in a few words. An hour ago I was up at Gumberry<br />
Lodge — though I don't mean to call it by that name any more, the old<br />
fellow named it after himself and Kitty; for he said that his and Kitty's<br />
names looked uncommonly nice together; but he must stick something<br />
else to his gum now, or leave it bare, for he shall never have Kitty<br />
Mayberry while my name is Ruth. Well, as I was saying, I went there an<br />
hour ago to see him about the stuffing for the sucking pig — for I don't
think he likes sage and onions — and he had gone into Sydney. So<br />
naturally enough I began to look about the house, as it belongs to me in a<br />
manner of speaking, and, of course, I was anxious to see what was in it.<br />
In peeping into his wardrobe, what do you think I beheld?”<br />
“Patience knows! A lot of old fusty clothes, I suppose.”<br />
“No, I didn't look at the clothes, but I dare say they are mere rags. A<br />
shelf full of doctor's bottles and pots caught my eye, and my curiosity<br />
was excited in an instant; so I began to examine them, and the very first<br />
thing I looked at was a big pot, marked in pencil, ‘salve for sore legs.’<br />
Ugh! fancy how I felt, my dear! I was too much shocked to look any<br />
further, for I was afraid of seeing something worse still, so I slammed the<br />
wardrobe door to and sat down to stifle my feelings, which kept bubbling<br />
up like boiling stew. Presently Mrs. Budge came into the room; so<br />
without telling her what I had seen, I said to her as calmly as I could:<br />
‘Mrs. Budge, you are a mother and know a mother's feelings, tell me like<br />
a good honest soul, what is the matter with your master's legs?’ She<br />
seemed startled at the solemnity of the question, but after a moment she<br />
said, ‘Upon my word and honour I don't know, ma'am — leastways, I<br />
don't know for certain, for I never saw them in my life. I have lately<br />
noticed his knees knock together harder than they used to do, and he has<br />
worn long worsted stockings all the summer; but I didn't suspect there<br />
was much the matter with his legs, till two nights ago I overheard him<br />
say — mind this is a secret, Mrs. Mayberry, I would not for the world let<br />
him know that I was listening — he said to old Mr. Grouts, in this very<br />
room, that Kitty would nurse him and do him more good than a hot<br />
brick.’<br />
“ ‘Ugh! the nasty old fellow!’ said I, boiling over with wrath. ‘How<br />
dare he compare my daughter to a hot brick? How dare he to have the<br />
impudence to say that she would nurse him? Bah! she wouldn't touch<br />
him with a clothes prop,’ said I. ‘Oh, the dirty old man! I'll let him see<br />
when he comes home; I'll talk to him with a vengeance. He ought to be<br />
ashamed of himself!’<br />
“ ‘Oh for goodness sake, ma'am, don't say a word to him,’ said Mrs.<br />
Budge, beginning to cry. ‘I shall lose my place, and my poor boy Billy<br />
will be turned out of house and home. I'm sorry I told you, ma'am,’ said<br />
she; ‘but, as you say, I know a mother's feelings, and I shouldn't like for<br />
a girl belonging to me to be compared to a lump of dirt — for a brick is<br />
nothing more — and be made to nurse a miserable old man all the days<br />
of her life. I had no other motive in telling you, I assure you, ma'am<br />
— for I have no objection to your daughter as my mistress — and I hope<br />
you won't get me into trouble.’<br />
“So I promised I wouldn't say a word about it, and told her not to let<br />
her master know that I had called. Then I went straight home and told<br />
Kitty.”
“Did you though?” exclaimed Mrs. Grouts, “and how did she bear the<br />
shock? poor thing! I suppose she was sadly cut up?”<br />
“Cut up, not she indeed! why she would have gone right straight off to<br />
the lodge and scratched his face, only I stopped her. She has her mother's<br />
spirit in her, and that's not to be trifled with I can tell you. Between you<br />
and me Mrs. Grouts, Kitty never cared a threepenny-bit for Gummy, and<br />
only that she was anxious to be married before Lotty Jiggs, she is glad<br />
enough for an excuse to be rid of him. That shows how much she is cut<br />
up. She'll cut him up, for she never intends to see him again. A hot brick<br />
indeed! a pretty thing to call a young girl, who is worthy of the best man<br />
alive.”<br />
“But had you not better see Jabez, and come to some understanding, so<br />
that he may save the wedding breakfast and stop the company from<br />
assembling on Friday?”<br />
“No, I won't see him, that's plain; I have too much pride in me to go<br />
near him, after his cruel attempt to kidnap my poor girl. Leave matters to<br />
me, Mrs. Grouts; I'll explain all to him at the right time. Promise me you<br />
will not say anything about it, or take any notice of what I've told you.”<br />
“Oh dear me, I don't want to have anything to do with it, I'm sure,” said<br />
Mrs. Grouts. “Poor Gummy will be dreadfully disappointed. It is a pity<br />
he had not made you his confidante; if his legs are so much out of order,<br />
perhaps you might have helped to cure them, and then — — ”<br />
“Faugh! Do you think I would have let him court my girl if he had told<br />
me that?” asked Mrs. Mayberry, fiercely. “Not I, indeed! Though I am<br />
not rich, I am clean and wholesome, Mrs. Grouts; I have sprung from a<br />
sound stock, and there never was a bad leg in my family, I am proud to<br />
say. Before I gave my consent to the match I was careful enough to ask<br />
him if he was healthy, and he told me he was as sound as a new tub, and<br />
never had a serious ailment in his life, those are his very words, the<br />
wicked old fellow.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
“But I say, Grouts, don't you think you ought to tell Jabez that Kitty<br />
will not have him? It is a pity for him to prepare an expensive breakfast<br />
for nothing,” said Mrs. Grouts to her spouse, after she had told him all<br />
that widow Mayberry had said a few hours before.<br />
“Don't disturb your mind about that, Missis; the breakfast shall not be<br />
wasted, I'll engage. It's many a long day since Gummy prepared a good<br />
meal in his house for guests or himself either, and all his kitchen tools<br />
were as rusty as prison bars. If I knew that he could not afford the<br />
expense, of course, I should act differently; but he has plenty of money,<br />
and it will do him good to spend some of it, and do others good too.<br />
Where is Kitty, do you know?”
“She has gone up to her Aunt Sally's at Lane Cove. Her mother said<br />
Jabez wont dare to go there to trouble her; but if he does he had better<br />
mind his bad legs, for her cousin Phil has come back from the diggings.”<br />
“I am glad she is out of the way. Now, don't you say a word to any of<br />
the neighbours about this affair. It will all turn out right if you act<br />
prudently, and have patience. In the meantime, gossips will be busy<br />
enough, but don't let them be able to say that they heard your tongue in<br />
the matter. That's my advice to you, Missis.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
On Friday morning, Jabez was up at the first streak of light; in fact, he<br />
had lain awake all night, thinking of the bliss that awaited him on the<br />
coming day, and picturing himself in his wedding suit.<br />
“Friday isn't a lucky day with me in general,” he soliloquized, as he<br />
began to fit on his new flannels. “I was wrecked on a Friday, robbed on a<br />
Friday, fell down an area coal-hole on a Friday, and — but pooh, pooh! I<br />
won't be superstitious.”<br />
“Hoy, Mrs. Budge! send Billy up with my shaving water, and a cake of<br />
scented soap; and just air those new lambswool stockings for me, will<br />
you? Ahem-hem-hem! dear me, my winter cough is not coming on today,<br />
I hope. I'm afraid my nightcap was damp last night. That old woman<br />
is so careless; she thinks I'm made of gutta percha. Ah, never mind, I<br />
shall have a young woman in the house presently, and all my own too<br />
— ho, ho, ho! all my own for life! how nice! Bless her heart! she'll see<br />
that my linen is well aired, I'll be bound. She'll coddle me up, and pat my<br />
back when my cough is choking me. She'll rub away my rheumatism,<br />
and make me as lively all day long as a Scotch fiddler. Heigho! I wonder<br />
how she is this morning? I dare say she is rather mournful at leaving her<br />
mother, poor little thing! I'll cheer her up as soon as I get her. I feel<br />
uncommonly shivery, but I suppose it is natural for a man to be nervous<br />
on his wedding morning. I hope I sha'n't cut my nose off while I'm<br />
shaving my upper lip. That would be a bad job indeed — ha, ha! I should<br />
look funny going to church to be married without my nose. I wonder if<br />
Kitty would love me then as now? or whether the loss of half-an-ounce<br />
of gristle would be a serious consideration with her? Pooh! not at all; I<br />
won't wrong her by supposing such a thing. She has a soul far above such<br />
petty influences, and would love me all the more for my misfortune. The<br />
loss of my nose would doubly endear me to her, especially as it was cut<br />
off on my wedding day, and in her service I may say, for if it wasn't for<br />
her I should not shave at all. Pretty little dear! she does not like<br />
moustachios, so I'll mow them down twice a week, as long as I live.<br />
Hurrah! I've got over that hazardous operation, and my nose is as sound<br />
as a new bugle: now for some of that wonderful pomatum, warranted to
make hair grow on a marrow-bone. Ha, ha, ha! won't my bare poll look<br />
nice and shiny?” chuckled Jabez, putting away his shaving-tackle, and<br />
taking up the pomatum pot. “Eh — hallo! what's this? Botheration take<br />
that fellow Lint! if he hasn't sent me a potful of salve for sore legs, in<br />
mistake. What a nuisance! Well, never mind, it can't be helped now, and<br />
it won't do to get cross this morning. I must sprinkle my head with<br />
‘Jockey-club,’ and stroke my beard with a wax candle.”<br />
Eleven o'clock struck, and Jabez was in the drawing-room receiving his<br />
guests, and looking longingly out of the window every minute for his<br />
little “robin redbreast,” as he called Kitty. Never had his neighbours seen<br />
him look so smart before, and compliments were showered upon him till<br />
he blushed blue. He was just telling Mr. Grouts that he felt happy enough<br />
to fly, when Mrs. Budge placed a note in his hands. He opened it, then<br />
turned pale, and with a prolonged groan he hastily left the room, toddled<br />
upstairs as fast as he could and jumped into his bridal bed. He was<br />
quickly followed by a score of friends, all anxious for an explanation of<br />
his mysterious flight, but no clue could they gather from him. To their<br />
united entreaties to come out of bed, or merely to show his face, he only<br />
replied in smothered yells from beneath the bed clothes, as if his mouth<br />
were full of blankets —<br />
“Go home! go home! every one of you. Leave me alone! Leave me<br />
alone! I shall never get up any more.”<br />
After an excited discussion, which did not enlighten any one in the<br />
least degree, all the company — save Mr. Grouts — went home, without<br />
breakfast; some declaring that Jabez was drunk, but the majority<br />
believing that he was suddenly struck silly. An hour afterwards not less<br />
than a hundred boys and girls were seated in a green paddock adjoining<br />
Gumberry Lodge, and the wedding breakfast was portioned out to them<br />
by Mr. and Mrs. Grouts, to the great satisfaction of the children, but to<br />
the marked disgust of old Mrs. Budge, and her ravenous boy Billy.<br />
Mr. Gummy kept to his bridal bed (in full dress) for three days, during<br />
which time he doggedly refused to speak or to partake of any<br />
refreshment. On the fourth day he felt very hungry, so he got up and<br />
ordered a rump steak and fried potatoes. After a hearty meal, he went<br />
into Sydney and gave orders to an agent to let Gumberry Lodge,<br />
furnished. He then returned home, gave Mrs. Budge and her boy Billy a<br />
week's wages and their dismissal, and the next day he started for<br />
Melbourne, without saying goodbye to any of his neighbours.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Thirteen months after the above occurrences, Mr. Gummy and Mr.<br />
Grouts were sitting by the fireside in a little back parlour at Gumberry<br />
Lodge. Mr. Gummy had recently returned from his tour, and regained
possession of his house, with a new housekeeper. After hearing various<br />
items of local news, he asked his friend, “And what has become of that<br />
little rogue that jilted me so mysteriously? Ha, ha, ha! The mischievous<br />
young puss! it's a mercy she did not kill me.”<br />
“She was married, seven months ago, to a steady young fellow named<br />
Spry, a clever mechanic,” replied Mr. Grouts.<br />
“I am very glad of that; poor little bird! very glad indeed. I hope she<br />
will be happy. She was far too young for me, Grouts, and I ought to have<br />
known that; but the fact is, I was struck spoony as they call it, and<br />
common sense deserted me. I have often thought of your kindness in<br />
trying to dissuade me from the silly step, and I thank you Grouts; though<br />
I verily believe that all the friends I have in the world would not have<br />
reasoned me out of it at the time; I was so obstinately in love. Ha, ha, ha!<br />
What a silly old gander I was to be sure. But tell me why she gave me up<br />
so suddenly, Grouts? you see I am sane upon the subject now, so you<br />
need not mind telling me all that you know. I received half-a-dozen lines<br />
from Mrs. Mayberry, on my wedding morning, telling me ‘that she had<br />
sent Kitty into the country, and that she would rather bury her in the wild<br />
bush, than give her away to a good-for-nothing old cripple, who regarded<br />
her as a mere brick.’ That's all I know about it, and it's all a mystery to<br />
me.”<br />
Mr. Grouts then briefly explained to his friend the ruse he had invented<br />
to prevent a match, which he saw must end in misery, knowing, as he<br />
did, that Kitty was a giddy little creature, who could only be managed by<br />
a smart young husband; and, moreover, knowing that she was in love<br />
with Ben Spry, more than she was, perhaps, aware of herself. “Finding<br />
all my logic ineffectual,” said Mr. Grouts, “I had recourse to the scheme<br />
which I have explained.”<br />
“But how and when did you manage it? It seems like a piece of<br />
conjuration,” said Mr. Gummy, while tears of fun rolled down his merry<br />
old face.<br />
“While you went down to the door with Mrs. Fitz's physic, I took out<br />
my pencil and wrote ‘salve for sore legs’ on your pomatum pot, and that<br />
is all I did. I intended that Mrs. Mayberry should see it, for I knew it<br />
would blister her pride in a minute; but I was saved further trouble by her<br />
prying curiosity and Mrs. Budge's tattling tongue together. They<br />
managed the rest of the business for me, and that is how you lost your<br />
little spring lamb, Jabez. But I have explained the matter to Mrs.<br />
Mayberry long ago, and I expect she will call on you, and humbly<br />
apologise for her rudeness. For my part, I confess it was a great liberty I<br />
took with you, which nothing but the extreme necessity could warrant,<br />
and I ask you to forgive me, Gummy.”<br />
“Forgive you, my boy! I thank you with all my heart,” said Jabez,<br />
seizing his friend's hand. “You have not only saved me and that poor girl
a life of misery, but you have made a man of me, Grouts. Do you know<br />
that while I lay in bed sulking, and trying to starve myself, I overheard<br />
the merry voices of the children whom you collected to eat my wedding<br />
breakfast, and though it was not welcome music to me at the time, it has<br />
since suggested some important considerations to my mind, which I have<br />
had ample time to reflect upon. The fact is, I have seen that my life has<br />
been a waste; I have been hoarding up money, and living in selfish<br />
idleness — burying my talent in a napkin, as it were — and totally<br />
neglecting the most important concerns of life; but I hope I am now a<br />
wiser, and a better man. If God spares me, you shall see some of my new<br />
plans in operation very soon, and I trust that thousands of poor children<br />
in this land will be permanently benefited thereby. Forgive you, indeed!<br />
ha! ha! ha! You are the best friend I ever had in my life. Ho! ho! ho!<br />
Your salve made me smart for a time, but it has doubtless saved me from<br />
life-long heart-ache; at all events it has softened my heart towards my<br />
needy fellow-creatures around me, and let me feel the luxury of doing<br />
good with my money. Give me your hand, Grouts! God bless you, my<br />
boy! This day fortnight is Christmas Day, you know, and you must dine<br />
with me, so don't say nay. You shall see such a gathering in my paddock<br />
on that day as nobody ever saw there before. I have invited all the poor<br />
people I can find to a good dinner, and I am going to give them a<br />
Christmas-box beside. Ha! ha! ha! won't it be glorious to see hundreds of<br />
poverty-stricken mortals filled with joy and gladness?”<br />
* * * * *<br />
Not long afterwards Mr. Gummy married Widow Mayberry; and it<br />
would be worth while for any old gentleman afflicted with chronic<br />
celibacy, to peep into Gumberry Lodge now. Mr. Ben Spry is a master<br />
wheelwright. thanks to the timely aid of Mr. Gummy, and his buggies<br />
and bullock drays are generally approved of. Kitty makes a devoted wife<br />
and a careful mother. Grandfather Gummy may often be seen frolicking<br />
with her children, like a sunny old soul as he is; and when he has done<br />
playing, he has always got useful work to do, “to visit the fatherless and<br />
widows in their affliction.” His home is full of harmony, and his heart is<br />
full of love; but if care-clouds perchance overshadow his brow on rare<br />
occasions, his loving wife gently pats his bald head, then coquettishly<br />
rattles the lid of the pomatum pot (which is kept as a chimney ornament),<br />
when his face brightens up in an instant, and he laughs like a kilted<br />
Highlandman trying on a pair of top-boots.
“Old Bogies.”<br />
NOT long ago I overheard a mother thus address her little daughter,<br />
who had strayed from her side, and with childish curiosity was peeping<br />
into an open door-way. “Come hither, Minnie! you little monkey! Do<br />
you hear me, miss? Old Daddy Longlegs will catch you in a minute, if<br />
you don't mind what I say to you. Here he comes! My goodness! he'll<br />
catch you!” The dread of Daddy Longlegs had an immediate effect upon<br />
Minnie's short legs, and away she ran towards her mother, who seemed<br />
much pleased at the manifest alarm of her offspring, and at the success of<br />
her own silly expedient.<br />
I do not refer to that occurrence on account of its novelty, for it is not<br />
uncommon to hear mothers call their children names, even less<br />
complimentary than “little monkeys,” and to consign them to powers<br />
more terribly real than “daddy Longlegs.” I wish to make a few remarks<br />
on the folly and danger of exacting obedience from children by operating<br />
on their fears; and I would commend my subject to the consideration of<br />
mothers and of nurses in general.<br />
I was recently conversing with an intelligent lady friend upon various<br />
matters connected with the training of children, when she related the<br />
following facts, and gave me permission to make what use I pleased of<br />
them. She said that when about eight years of age, she was on a visit at<br />
the house of a relative; and during her stay there she shared the bedroom<br />
of two adult female cousins. One night she had been rather tardy in<br />
disrobing, and her cousins were in bed before her, so the duty of<br />
extinguishing the candle devolved upon her. “If you don't make haste and<br />
put out the light, Annie,” said one of her cousins, “old Bogy will catch<br />
hold of you as you are getting into bed.”<br />
My friend said that she put out the light instantly, and sprang into bed<br />
with a palpitating heart, and there she lay conjuring up a hideous array of<br />
images, which scared away sleep, and filled her mind with horror. The<br />
next morning she was in an unusually excited state. In the course of the<br />
day she went shopping with her cousins, and while in the city she<br />
suddenly left them and ran as fast as she could to her home, which was<br />
some distance off. When she arrived there, she rushed up to her mother,<br />
flung herself into her arms, and burst into an hysterical fit of weeping.<br />
“Next day,” my informant remarked, “I was seized with an attack of St.<br />
Vitus's dance, which baffled all the remedies of the doctor for several
months; indeed, I was subject to periodical returns of the disorder for<br />
years; but by degrees my nerves recovered their tone, and now — thank<br />
God — I am as free from dread of old bogies as most adults are. But I<br />
have not forgotten the occurrence, and it has made me very careful to<br />
avoid exciting my children in a similar way; and also to be very watchful<br />
over my nursemaids, for I have good reason to believe that children are<br />
sometimes terrified by servants, as the following tragical incident will<br />
prove.”<br />
“A lady whom I knew very well,” resumed my informant, “was one<br />
evening at a party at a friend's house, when suddenly she was impressed<br />
with an unaccountable idea that some terrible disaster had befallen her<br />
child, a little girl about five years of age, whom she had left in charge of<br />
the nursemaid. The lady hastily departed for her home, and on reaching<br />
it, ran up-stairs to the nursery, when to her horror, she beheld her darling<br />
child lying in its little bed — dead. Its eyes were wide open, and were<br />
directed with a ghastly stare to a hideous-looking figure at the foot of the<br />
bed, which the lady speedily discovered was a broom, dressed up with a<br />
black shawl and other sombre habiliments, to represent an ‘old bogy.’<br />
The poor child had actually been frightened to death; and perhaps it was<br />
well for her she was dead, for it is probable, had she lived, she would<br />
have drivelled out her days in hopeless idiocy. That unpardonably cruel<br />
trick had been perpetrated by the nursemaid, to make the child lie still,<br />
and allow her to go to the servants' hall, and join in the revels, which<br />
were there going on in the absence of the mistress of the house.”<br />
I do not mean to insinuate that such barbarity is often practised by<br />
nurse-maids in civilised life. I hope it is a very rare case, and I further<br />
hope that if the foregoing fact should be read by persons who have the<br />
charge of young children, that it may serve as a warning against the<br />
dangerous expedient of quieting them by means of “old bogies,” tangible<br />
or otherwise. Nurses would do well also, to beware how they instil into<br />
young minds frightful tales of ghosts and goblins, which many children<br />
have an eager desire to hear, or the consequences may be very serious;<br />
and if not in many cases so disastrous as in those above related, it may<br />
tend to mental imbecility and other evils of a life-long tenacity.<br />
An old friend of mine has assured me, that though grey hairs are<br />
frosting his brow, he has not forgotten the ghostly legends which were<br />
crowded into his mind when he was a child. Even now, he is obliged<br />
— when in certain positions — to keep a vigilant check on his<br />
imagination, lest it should overpower his reason for a time, and surround<br />
him with a host of self-created phantoms, horrible as the figure of death<br />
itself. He further told me, that a schoolfellow had once declared to him,<br />
that he had accidentally run up against his Uncle Bill's leg, as he was<br />
crossing a country churchyard one dark night. The leg was sticking up<br />
perpendicularly, with the toes bare. “That grossly absurd story,” added
my friend, “had such an effect on my boyish fancy, and created such a<br />
dread of straying legs, that rather than even pass the churchyard wall<br />
after dark, I have walked two miles round.”<br />
I remember stopping — some years ago — at a comfortless bush inn,<br />
after a wearisome day's journey on horseback. The weather had been<br />
wet, and the roads were boggy. I reached the inn about two hours after<br />
sunset; and a more uninviting reception I never met with in travelling. I<br />
was shown into a dreary apartment, and after the lapse of an hour was<br />
supplied with a greasy supper.<br />
When I had finished my meal, I rang the bell and asked the landlady if<br />
she could accommodate me with a newspaper. She replied, that in<br />
consequence of the river being flooded, there had been no postal<br />
communication for several days; but she had last Saturday's —<br />
— Mercury. I had read that issue of the paper, so I asked if she could<br />
oblige me with a book. She thought she could, and in a short time<br />
brought me a tattered volume of Mrs. Crowe's “Night Side of Nature.” I<br />
sat before the fire and read about ghosts and spectres, until a sort of<br />
horrible fascination stole over me; and it was long after the house had<br />
been closed, that I was warned to bed by the flickering candle. But the<br />
terrors of that night are still vividly before me, when I allow my mind to<br />
dwell on them. A short allowance of bedding, a hard bed, an illventilated<br />
room, and a supper of fat bacon, are quite enough to mar<br />
refreshing slumbers; but my physical discomforts were nothing<br />
compared with the mental horrors which gradually crept over me, until<br />
they completely got the mastery of my reason, kept sleep from my<br />
eyelids, and filled my chamber with imaginary spectres, diabolical<br />
enough to scare even Mrs. Crowe herself. I have not seen that lively<br />
book since, nor do I wish to see it again. I recommend it — with all<br />
similar books — to be carefully kept out of the reach of children, and<br />
dismal-minded adults; as it is very likely to frighten them out of their<br />
wits.<br />
I would advise parents, and all persons entrusted with the care of<br />
children, to be very cautious what story books they allow them to read,<br />
or what stories they allow them to hear; for I have good authority in<br />
stating, that many poor children have had their minds shaken to idiocy by<br />
ghastly legends and romances, which only Satan himself could dictate,<br />
and which can serve no better end than to please him.<br />
I wish all those persons, who either thoughtlessly or savagely delight in<br />
frightening children, could be made as thoroughly ashamed of<br />
themselves as my literary friend Grinn was, some time ago. Mr. Grinn<br />
was by no means an enemy to children; on the contrary, he was usually a<br />
favourite with them, and few old men studied to please them more than<br />
he did, in general. But even literary men are peevish at times, and the<br />
event I am about to record, happened on one of those days when Mr.
Grinn's brain was rather over-taxed, and he was as indisposed for<br />
infantile fun as a giant with a broken jaw. He was on a visit to a friend in<br />
a neighbouring colony; and was one morning busily engaged preparing a<br />
lecture which he had promised to deliver that evening. His quiet studies<br />
were frequently intruded upon by the son of his host, a pretty, merry little<br />
fellow, just beginning to chatter; and though at most times Mr. Grinn<br />
would have been glad to see him, and have a frolic with him, his private<br />
opinion, on that occasion, was that Jamie was a little nuisance. At one<br />
time he would open the door to show Mr. Grinn a wooden horse, without<br />
head or tail; then he would apply for instruction in spinning his<br />
humming-top; and soon afterwards tease his old friend with a box of<br />
puzzles, or a squeaking cat. At each visit Mr. Grinn received his little<br />
tormentor as blandly as he could, and used every legitimate artifice to<br />
induce Jamie to stay outside, but to very little purpose, for at intervals of<br />
seven minutes he would return, in full song, and though Mr. Grinn had<br />
fastened the door, it did not avail him in the least degree, for Jamie<br />
would kick it until it was opened.<br />
“Here, Jamie, my dear, run and get some lollies; and don't come in here<br />
again, there's a good boy. I am very busy this morning, and can't spare<br />
time to play with you,” said Mr. Grinn, with an appealing look at the<br />
boy, on his ninth visit. “Here's a penny for you; run away now, there's a<br />
man.”<br />
Jamie took the money and ran away to buy his lollies, and probably ran<br />
all the way back too, for he was not gone long, and of course he rushed<br />
directly into the room, to share his purchase with his generous friend.<br />
“I don't want any lollies, Jamie. Do go away, there's a good boy,”<br />
groaned Mr. Grinn, who was just finishing a passage which he expected<br />
would produce thunder-claps of applause from the body of the hall, and<br />
“hear, hear,” from all the sedate gentlemen on the platform. “Go away,<br />
Jamie; I think mamma wants you. Go and give her a lolly.”<br />
Jamie ran away, and Mr. Grinn resumed his work, but in less than five<br />
minutes the boy was back again, disarranging the lecturer's papers with<br />
his sugary fingers, and singing “diddle daddle, diddle daddle dum,” with<br />
all his vocal energy. Mr. Grinn's patience forsook him for an instant, and<br />
he grew positively savage. Throwing down his pen, and looking straight<br />
at the boy, he made a grimace hideous enough to make an old cab-horse<br />
bolt, and exclaimed in hissing tones, “If you don't go away this instant,<br />
I'll eat you up.”<br />
“Hoo-o! hoo-o! hoo-o-o!” roared Jamie, as he ran out of the room in<br />
terror, while his mother rushed down-stairs to meet him, and to learn the<br />
cause of his unusual outcry. “Hey, Jamie, my darling! what's the matter?”<br />
asked his fond mother, in excited tones.<br />
“O mammy, mammy! gent'man going to eat me up,” screamed Jamie,<br />
while poor Mr. Grinn felt that he would be glad for somebody to eat him
up, just then, and save him the shame of confronting his kind hostess,<br />
and confessing his folly in thus frightening her boy; which he really did<br />
not intend to do.<br />
“No, no, Jamie! Mr. Grinn will not eat you. He is a kind gentleman,<br />
and loves nice little boys.”<br />
“Yes, mammy, he will eat me. Hoo! hoo-o!” roared Jamie.<br />
“Nonsense, my sonnie! he won't eat you. Come in with me,” said the<br />
lady, walking into Mr. Grinn's studio, with Jamie in her arms, his little<br />
eyes staring with terror.<br />
Mr. Grinn blushed and shivered, as guilty men usually do, while he<br />
stammered out an awkward explanation, the effect of which was to<br />
incline the lady to the horrible belief that he really had cannibalish<br />
designs upon her chubby little son. Few modest men have ever felt more<br />
abashed than poor old Grinn did, at the look of contemptuous surprise<br />
which over-spread the handsome features of his hostess. She spoke not a<br />
word, but, hugging her trembling boy to her breast, walked out of the<br />
room with a calm dignity and closed the door, leaving her guest as<br />
miserably chapfallen as if he had been publicly exposed as an impostor.<br />
His studies were completely upset for that day, and his lecture at night<br />
was a failure.<br />
While I feel a good deal of sympathy for my unlucky friend, under the<br />
peculiar circumstances, I cannot too strongly denounce the practice of<br />
frightening children, either by threatening to eat them, or by invoking<br />
“Old Daddy Long-legs,” or any other mystical nobody, to catch them.<br />
And though I have a thorough contempt for old bogies in general, I think<br />
I could countenance a special one, whose office should be to nightly<br />
twitch the noses of all disseminators of hideous ghosts and goblin stories;<br />
the tendency of which is to spoil promising children, to oppress their<br />
young brains with pernicious trash, and terrify them into miserable<br />
imbeciles.
Don't Lie Down and Fret.<br />
ONE afternoon I was sitting on the poop of a fine ship, then on a long<br />
voyage, when we were overtaken by a violent squall. The majority of my<br />
readers doubtless know what a scene of bustle and commotion a ship's<br />
deck presents at such a time, so I need not minutely describe it. The wind<br />
roared, the officers shouted, and the sailors sung hoy, hoy! as they<br />
hurriedly clewed up, or hauled down the flapping sails. All hands were<br />
on deck, and actively engaged. In the midst of the exciting scene, I<br />
particularly noticed the eccentric movements of a pale little man, who<br />
was yclept “Jemmy Ducks,” the cognomen which is usually given to the<br />
individual who has charge of the pigs and poultry on ship-board. The<br />
poor fellow was on his first voyage, and had scarcely got what sailors<br />
call his sea legs. He was evidently sea sick, and looked as helpless and<br />
scared as a black fellow on a runaway omnibus. Presently I saw him fall<br />
flat on the deck, having lost his footing in a violent lurch, caused by a sea<br />
striking the ship on the broadside. While I was preparing to go to him, to<br />
ascertain if he were hurt, I observed a rough-looking old seaman (who<br />
was running with some others to the main topsail reef tackles), as he<br />
passed the prostrate Jemmy Ducks, gave him a smart kick in the ribs, and<br />
at the same time grumbled out, in that dry ironical tone so peculiar to<br />
sailors, “don't lie down there, you'll be in the way.” The poor poultry<br />
man scrambled up, and with a rueful face, staggered to his hen coops<br />
under the top-gallant forecastle; doubtless thinking it was an equivocal<br />
sort of sympathy which the old son of Neptune had manifested for his<br />
downfall, and his bruises. I confess that while I pitied him, I could not<br />
avoid smiling at the sailor's mode of emphasising his advice, by kicking<br />
the poor fellow, instead of helping him up; and the comical expression<br />
on the faces of the other sailors, shewed that they viewed his<br />
discomfiture with much the same feeling that they would display at<br />
shaving an uninitiated shipmate, while crossing the line.<br />
I was at that time comparatively inexperienced in the ways of the<br />
world; and I bestowed but little reflection on the incident; but — trivial<br />
as it was — it has often recurred to my mind, when I have seen the spirit<br />
of the old sailor imitated by folks on shore, on their luckless friends who<br />
have been knocked down, either by their own folly or by misfortune;<br />
though I have not always felt so disposed to laugh at the exhibition, as I<br />
did at the prostrate Jemmy Ducks and his kicking shipmate.
“Don't lie down there: you'll be in the way!” I would address the words<br />
of Jack Junk, to such of my readers who may be disposed to lie down and<br />
despair, in consequence of present trials and difficulties, which to their<br />
troubled minds appear insurmountable. So far from administering a kick<br />
with my caution, I would offer a few words of counsel and friendly<br />
encouragement to such downcast ones, and endeavour to lift them up;<br />
lest some of their neighbours stumble over them.<br />
In general, those persons are disappointed who look for much<br />
sympathy from the public for their pecuniary reverses, or at all events<br />
who expect that feeling to be very lasting; and it would be unwise to<br />
calculate upon much revenue in return for a tale of ruin. Your society is<br />
more likely to be shunned than courted, if you are too ready to pour out<br />
your troubles. A fire, a shipwreck, an explosion, an inundation, or any<br />
other great catastrophe, which had suddenly reduced you to poverty,<br />
might create a strong impression, and procure you general condolence for<br />
a brief period after its occurrence; but the emotion would be very<br />
transient, and it is marvellous how unsympathisingly the majority of<br />
folks would hear you recite the details of the mishap, twelve months<br />
afterwards; and what difficulty you would experience in raising even the<br />
price of a dinner, by the most dismal story you could tell. Do not then<br />
voluntarily lie down and fret, in the belief that you will gain much by<br />
doing so, for you are more likely to be kicked than pitied. Rather try to<br />
stand up and face your trials and difficulties, whatever they may be. Put a<br />
manly, cheerful courage on, then half your troubles will fly away, and<br />
you will probably find help to battle with the other half. It is an old<br />
saying, that “a merry-faced fellow could raise a guinea at any time, but a<br />
dolorous individual, on the contrary, could not raise ninepence if his life<br />
depended on it.”<br />
“Do you see that gentleman on the opposite side of the street?” I<br />
enquired of a friend with whom I was walking one day.<br />
“Yes, I see him. He looks very miserable: who is he, and what is the<br />
matter with him?”<br />
“I knew him a few years ago, as a flourishing merchant,” I replied; “but<br />
he failed, from some cause of which I am ignorant, and he has never held<br />
up his head since. He seems to have lost heart and energy altogether, and<br />
looks grief-worn and poverty stricken.”<br />
“Poor wretch!” exclaimed my friend, with a momentary glance of<br />
sympathy towards the desponding merchant; then he added, “what a<br />
simpleton he must be not to stand up stiff under his burden, if he cannot<br />
shake it from his shoulders entirely.”<br />
“There are the old sailor's sentiments again, and the kick too,” I<br />
thought, as I continued my walk beside my friend, who, by the way, was<br />
not an unfeeling man. Like scores of other men immersed in business, he<br />
had neither time nor inclination to moralize on such apparent trifles; and
he would probably never take the trouble to enquire into the causes of<br />
that poor man's dejection, or offer to help him with even ten pounds'<br />
worth of goods, to make a fresh start in the world. But were any brisk,<br />
energetic-looking individual to present himself at his warehouse, and ask<br />
credit for a hundred pounds' worth of goods to help to restock his shop,<br />
which was burnt out the other day, it is probable my friend would give it<br />
cheerfully.<br />
“Nil desperandum” is a capital motto; and “never give up,” — which is<br />
almost the same sentiment — has saved many a storm-shattered ship<br />
from sinking to the bottom of the sea. Courage and perseverance often<br />
overcome extraordinary difficulties; and a hopeful spirit at such times is<br />
as cheering as sunshine in a gale; while anxiety, and gloomy misgivings,<br />
destroy that cool presence of mind, which is so essential in all<br />
emergencies; paralyze the faculties, and hasten on the evils you so much<br />
dread.<br />
“The ship is sinking!” raved a terrified man from the fore part of a<br />
steamer, which was labouring heavily in a furious gale, on this coast, one<br />
memorable night.<br />
“She is not sinking!” shouted the captain from his post on the bridge.<br />
“Bale the water out of the fore cabin, and nail tarpaulins over the<br />
skylights.”<br />
The cool, determined spirit of that commander, inspired his crew with<br />
hope and energy, and their efforts saved the vessel. Had he suffered that<br />
startling cry to paralyze his judgment, the steamer would doubtless have<br />
foundered, and the lives of all her passengers would have ended. The<br />
same hopeful energy, put forth in the storms which often threaten our<br />
social or commercial prospects, would generally help us to escape them,<br />
or at any rate it would help to alleviate their effects; while, on the<br />
contrary, a desponding, lie-down-and-die sort of spirit, would be<br />
productive of disaster, and perhaps ruin; to say nothing of its panicraising<br />
influence on our neighbours.<br />
“What are you going to do?” I once asked a farmer, who was gazing at<br />
the smoking ruins of his barn, which had been burned to the ground.<br />
“Do, sir?” he replied, “why go to work and build a bigger barn: it's not<br />
a bit of use crying over those cinders.”<br />
“Bravo, Sam! that's plucky,” said a good-natured by-stander. “I'll lend<br />
you my bullocks and dray, to draw in the split stuff from the bush.”<br />
“And I'll give you nails for the job,” said another friend.<br />
Sam's barn was soon rebuilt, and if he did not altogether forget his<br />
mishap, he soon ceased to trouble himself about it. By showing a manly<br />
resolution to help himself, he got help from his friends, and his<br />
temporary troubles were surmounted. If you have obstacles in your way,<br />
reader, push them aside if you can; if not, jump over them, run round<br />
them, or do anything but lie down beside them and fret, for by doing so
you will increase your troubles, and you will probably be kicked for<br />
being in the way, by some of your bustling neighbours.<br />
“We overstate the ills of life, and take<br />
Imagination, given us to bring down<br />
The choirs of singing angels, overshone<br />
By God's clear glory, — down our earth, to rake<br />
The dismal snows instead; flake following flake,<br />
To cover all the corn. We walk upon<br />
The shadows of hills across a level thrown,<br />
And pant like climbers.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
I do not mean to infer that it is always possible to chase away<br />
distressing thoughts, by a mere effort of the will; or as easy to put away<br />
our troubles, as to throw off an overcoat; but as I believe it is possible to<br />
increase them by fretting over them — for like produces like — so it is<br />
possible to lessen them, by looking hopefully to the probability of their<br />
terminating. It is much more comforting to hope for things to mend, than<br />
to fear they will be worse; and it is miserable waste of time to dread evils<br />
which may never come near us. Unavoidable troubles, of course, must be<br />
borne, and the more patiently we bear them the less are we likely to be<br />
galled. A man who has used every honest effort to avert disaster, will<br />
feel a degree of satisfaction at having done his duty, and his conduct will<br />
doubtless be rightly estimated by thoughtful men around him.<br />
That there is a good deal of distress, at the present time, throughout the<br />
colony, is indisputable; and to trace some of the causes and their effects,<br />
would not be difficult. There are few reflecting men, however, who did<br />
not expect severe straits to result from the terrible inundations which<br />
lately ravaged many of the agricultural districts, and the repeated failure<br />
of wheat crops from rust. Droughts, too, have seriously affected some of<br />
the pastoral and mining districts. The lawless depredations of<br />
bushrangers, and political disruptions, together with many other minor<br />
occurrences and calamities, have tended to depress trade, and the<br />
influence is easily traceable to individual exchequers. However much<br />
these things are to be deprecated, merely deploring will never remedy<br />
them, and the truest philosophy is to look at our difficulties boldly, and<br />
strive to diminish them if we cannot surmount them altogether. We only<br />
double our trouble when we trouble ourselves over it. Though many<br />
persons just now join in the cry of bad times, there is plenty of room for<br />
hope that times will mend, for this is a great country with boundless<br />
resources, and no rational man will fear that general distress can be<br />
permanent. Every one knows the beneficial influence the frosts of winter
have upon the soils of some parts of our globe, in destroying noxious<br />
weeds and vermin; and may not such seasons of depression as the present<br />
have a salutary influence on our commercial and social systems.<br />
Uninterrupted prosperity would not be good for us, in a moral, or in any<br />
other sense, and occasional reverses may be regarded as wholesome<br />
correctives. After cool consideration, I have arrived at the firm<br />
conclusion — which is strengthened by many years' colonial<br />
experience — that there is no need for an honest, industrious, healthy<br />
man to despond in Australia; so to all to whom it may apply, I repeat the<br />
old sailor's injunction, “don't lie down, you'll be in the way.” Try to smile<br />
away the gloom from your faces, and the effort will lighten your hearts,<br />
and shed a cheering influence around you.<br />
It would seem like trifling with the misfortune of those, who from<br />
bodily infirmity, or overwhelming distresses, are incapable of getting up<br />
to offer them advice suitable only for the strong and healthy. To such<br />
poor sufferers I would say, lie still, friends, and try to bear with patience<br />
the trials which you cannot avert; while you take comfort in the belief,<br />
“that all things work together for good.” Remember that precious gems<br />
have to be rubbed and ground a good deal before they are fitted to grace<br />
the crown of a monarch. There is doubtless a “needs be” for all your<br />
afflictions, which by and bye you will joyfully acknowledge. There will<br />
be an end to them all — perhaps very speedily — and like the polished<br />
gems, you will shine brighter for the hard rubs and severe grinding under<br />
which you now writhe and groan.
Sunshine in Winter; Or, the Loves of Old Mr. And Mrs.<br />
Dovecott.<br />
Chapter I.<br />
A BEAMING old pair were Mr. and Mrs. Dovecott, whose loves I am<br />
about to depict, in the tenderest manner I can. To see them as they<br />
toddled to church on Sundays was as pleasing a sight as that of a tree<br />
laden with ripe cherries. Arm in arm they jogged along — which they<br />
could comfortably do, for Nanny wore no crinoline to rasp her husband's<br />
ancles, or to keep him an arm's length from her side — while love and<br />
sympathy were evident by their clinging contact, and by their every act<br />
and gesture. The simple little fact, too, of Nanny's goloshes peeping out<br />
of David's coat pocket, in doubtful weather, and her warm plaid wrapper<br />
hanging over his arm, plainly indicated his thoughtful care for the health<br />
and comfort of his darling wifie.<br />
Almost any one may write a love story; that is to say, almost any one<br />
may find material enough for the purpose, by merely putting his head out<br />
of window on a sunny day, or on a moonlight night either; but I am sorry<br />
to believe that he would have to wander about a long while to find many<br />
such specimens of genuine old lovers as the subjects of my story.<br />
Perhaps it is worth while for the reader to pause a minute and consider<br />
the causes of the comparative lack of mutual warmth in aged wedded<br />
hearts. Why so many old folks grow cold, and cross, and negligent of<br />
each other. I have thought upon the subject carefully, and am of opinion<br />
that in most cases the primary cause of unhappiness and discord, is the<br />
absence of that strong abiding love which is founded upon a knowledge<br />
of, and an esteem for each other's virtues; and a secondary cause, is the<br />
lack of tact and prudence in studying each other's dispositions, and<br />
mutually bearing and forbearing with infirmities and peculiarities, which<br />
should have been ascertained before the irrevocable marriage vows were<br />
made. The following little sketch of marriage à In mode will perhaps<br />
help to illustrate the latter proposition better than any abstract reasoning.<br />
A soft-hearted pair, just merging from their teens, meet for the first<br />
time at a picnic, a ball, a bazaar, or what not, when the young gentleman<br />
is “struck spoony” with the bright eyes, the glossy hair, and fascinating<br />
air of Julia Daffodil. Of course he is as killing as he can be, and young<br />
love boldly enters her susceptible breast, without meeting with the
slightest resistance. She is struck too, and forthwith becomes enamoured<br />
of sentimental songs, set to die-away music, begins to study the language<br />
of flowers, and to indulge in moonlight reveries and rhapsodies. The<br />
stricken pair meet again very soon, for love always manages to effect<br />
those little amatory contretemps; when the swimming eyes of Horace<br />
Hawthorn softly declare his heart's overladen condition, and the dovelike<br />
glances, and rising blushes of Miss Daffodil, plainly evidence that<br />
the tender feeling is mutual. Horace's love soon grows violent, and<br />
impatient: he boldly sues for the heart and hand of his inamorata, and is<br />
accepted at once with appropriate tears, and gushing expressions of<br />
never-dying constancy. How can two such fond hearts exist apart?<br />
Impossible? With such a fierce flame within them they would soon be<br />
burned to death. They are speedily married, and revel for a fortnight on<br />
holiday fare and love, in their temporary lodgings at Kissing Point. Oh!<br />
What a delightful time that is! Comparable to nothing in every-day-life;<br />
and only to be rightly estimated by poets. They have nothing to do but<br />
ramble about and listen to the pretty birds, and gather bush flowers; or sit<br />
beneath a sweetbrier hedge, and mutually confide all the secrets they<br />
have ever had in their hearts, and tell each other everything they know,<br />
even to their own follies and foibles — which candour they will possibly<br />
regret before they are a month older. But the golden days speed by; alas!<br />
too swiftly for love and them. Their honeymoon wanes. They sigh over<br />
departing joys, and wish that honeymoons were perennial. At length,<br />
Horace's leave of absence expires, and they go home to begin married<br />
life in earnest; he to earn the necessary funds for bread and sundries and<br />
she to the matter-of-fact duty of managing her household economy, and<br />
examining for the first time the mysterious depths of his trunks, and<br />
discovering the shortcomings of his bachelor's buttons, &c.<br />
I shall not accompany this hastily-matched pair through the short<br />
stages of their conjugal progress, up to their first quarrel. By an elaborate<br />
computation it has been settled that the average duration of amity and<br />
peace in such households is six weeks. The satiated lovers then begin to<br />
discover what they should have been careful to find out before the fatal<br />
knot was tied, viz., that they are wholly unsuited to each other, in every<br />
way; which fact they loudly confess with tears and angry recriminations;<br />
and in less than six months Horace Hawthorn may be heard, ten times a<br />
day, saying in effect, to his pouting spouse — “I wish we were<br />
unmarried.”<br />
That is a short but far from an over-wrought sketch of flaring affection<br />
and precipitate unions; and though it is drawn from fancy, I have only to<br />
give my memory a slight rub, to cause many sadder examples from real<br />
life to arise. But I am about to draw a far more pleasing picture of<br />
wedded life. Leaving young lovers' downy dreams, and their waking<br />
flights, to be chronicled by persons who understand them better; I will
try to depict the life-long loves of an affectionate old couple, which<br />
delicate task has certainly more of novelty to recommend it, for few<br />
persons make old folks the hero and heroine of a romantic tale. Love<br />
stories usually end with marriage (though I do not see why they should),<br />
but the mutual love of my two worthy old friends will not end with my<br />
story, and I hope — indeed I feel sure — it will live for ever.<br />
Dear reader! if you knew David Dovecott and his amiable wife, I am<br />
sure you would love them as warmly as I do. The mellow tints of a<br />
summer evening's sky are not more pleasing to gaze on than the<br />
benevolent faces of that genuine pair, and their faces are true indices of<br />
their warm hearts. If you are fortunate enough to know them, and can<br />
appreciate a simply told tale of honest, enduring affection, take a<br />
favourable opportunity of asking Davey to relate his first love<br />
impressions, and his marital experience of forty years, and you will have<br />
an entertainment far surpassing the Lancashire bellringers' striking<br />
melodies. Those who cannot have the superior pleasure of hearing the<br />
story from the old man's lips, may — if they choose — read my account<br />
of it, which, as I transcribe, I fancy I see him sitting in his verandah on a<br />
pleasant evening, with his devoted wife beside him, her eyes swimming<br />
in loving kindness, and her silvery hair braided over a countenance<br />
which might have been photographed for the emblem of mortal<br />
goodness. Here then I begin his story, which I wish I could give in his<br />
own rich racy style.<br />
“It is — let me see — sixty-six years come the fourteenth of next July,<br />
since I first saw my own darling Nanny here,” began Mr. Dovecott,<br />
chuckling his smiling wife under the chin at the same time. “Sixty-six<br />
years ago: that is a long time, Mr. Boomerang, but I remember it as<br />
distinctly as though it were but last Christmas Day. I was going home<br />
from Dame Tingle's school, at the end of our village, and was knocking<br />
down butterflies with my empty dinner-bag, when I almost ran up against<br />
a little girl, about five years old, dressed in a short blue print frock, and a<br />
round straw hat; but with only one shoe on. She was standing near to the<br />
crossing-place of the brook, crying: so I went up to her and said —<br />
“ ‘What is the matter, little girl!’ ‘I have lost my shoe,’ she answered,<br />
wiping her eyes on her frock. ‘Where did you lose it?’ said I. ‘I was<br />
picking a waterlily, and I slipped off that rough stone, and my shoe came<br />
off and swam away down the brook. Hoo — o — boo — o — o! What<br />
shall I do?’ ‘Don't cry, little girl,’ said I, ‘I'll try and find your shoe for<br />
you. Here, hold my dinner-bag.’<br />
“So I pulled off my shoes and stockings, and rolled up my trousers, and<br />
away I paddled into the brook. I soon found the shoe, which had a little<br />
hole in the side, so it had not floated far. I wiped it as dry as I could with<br />
my pinafore, and gave it to her; when she sat down on the grass and put<br />
it on. She certainly looked pleased, but I don't think she said thankee. I
am not sure about that, but never mind, she has very often said thankee<br />
since then. That was the first time I ever set eyes on my dear Nanny; and<br />
little did I then think that that wee tiny girl would prove to be the best<br />
friend I ever found in the world, and would gladden my life with the<br />
genial influence of her love — would prove to me a greater treasure than<br />
all my gold, even if it were multiplied ten thousand fold, and worked into<br />
filigree jewellery.”<br />
“Hush, hush! Davy my dear,” said Mrs. Dovecott, while she gently<br />
patted her husband's lips with her hand. “You must not praise me any<br />
more, or Mr. Boomerang will think me a vain old creature to sit here and<br />
listen to you.”<br />
“Well, well, my lass, I won't if it makes you feel uncomfortable,<br />
though I have not said half as much as I should like to say about you,<br />
bless your little heart!”<br />
“Some folks would say it is all nonsense to talk about a boy of seven<br />
years old falling in love; but I can certify that it is quite natural for all<br />
that,” continued Mr. Dovecott, addressing me. “You will believe what I<br />
say, Boomerang, and I assure you I fell in love with that little girl, who<br />
had lost her shoe; though I did not know I had fallen at all, till I got<br />
home; indeed, I did not even then know the name of the strange feeling<br />
which came over me. It was a peculiar sort of sweet sensation, with a<br />
tingle in it, more like brimstone and treacle than anything else I could<br />
then compare it to; and I used to feel it strongest when I crossed the<br />
brook, or whenever I saw a little shoe with a hole in it: and I sometimes<br />
used to dream that I saw a little girl picking a waterlily, and crying<br />
‘Hoo — o — boo — o! I've lost my shoe!’<br />
“About twelve months after that occurrence, the same little girl came to<br />
Dame Tingle's school, and I felt so glad, though I scarcely knew why.<br />
Whenever I bought a half-pennyworth of hard-bake or bulls-eyes, I<br />
always saved some for little Nanny Roseley. She used to look so pleased<br />
when I gave them to her; and one day she gave me a young turnip, which<br />
I thought was as sweet as a golden-pippin, and it was nice and warm too,<br />
through being carried in her pocket. I remember the first wicked act<br />
which love tempted me to commit, and I did not soon forget the penalty I<br />
paid for it. One morning I was going to school, and in passing Squire<br />
Leveret's garden, I saw a bed of lovely pinks just inside a briar hedge. I<br />
thought how much I should like one of those pinks to give to Nanny; and<br />
without stopping to reflect on the sin I was going to commit, I worked<br />
my head and shoulders through the hedge, and was in the act of picking<br />
the flower, when I was strikingly conscious that some angry person was<br />
behind me, with a stick in his hand; indeed the evidence of that was plain<br />
enough five weeks afterwards. I withdrew my head and shoulders in a<br />
very short time, when to my great dismay there stood Squire Leveret,<br />
with a savage look, and the ashen switch in his hand, which had
descended so smartly on my tight corduroys. ‘O my, sir! pray don't hit<br />
me again; I'll never do so any more, sir!’ ‘What do you mean by robbing<br />
my garden? You young gaol-bird!’ shouted the squire. ‘I was only<br />
picking a pink for Nanny Roseley, sir,’ I sobbed. ‘Who is Nanny<br />
Roseley?’ he asked. ‘She is a little girl who goes to our school, please<br />
sir.’ ‘You had better take care she does not lead you to the gallows,’ he<br />
replied gruffly, at the same time giving me another blow with the stick;<br />
whereupon I thought I had enough stick for one pink, so I made use of<br />
my young legs, and ran off with two large pink stripes on my person,<br />
which of course I kept to myself.”<br />
“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Mr. Dovecott. “What an old goose Squire<br />
Leveret was to utter such a sentiment as that! I remember feeling more<br />
indignant with him for thus defaming my Nanny, than I did for his<br />
striking me with the switch, and I was strongly tempted to throw a stone<br />
at his head; but I am glad that I did not. Lead me to the gallows indeed!<br />
Why the dear soul has all her lifetime been leading me to Heaven. Her<br />
gentle, sympathetic counsel has often chased away the ruffles from my<br />
troubled brow, and her honeyed words have sweetened many a bitter<br />
sorrow. Her tender nursing hand has softened many a throb of pain; and<br />
her example of Christian patience, meekness, and love, has had more<br />
influence on my soul than all the doctrinal sermons I ever heard<br />
preached. But I must not say any more about her virtues, for I see she is<br />
blushing again, and I would not cause her a moment's uneasiness, even to<br />
give myself a month of pleasure.”<br />
Chapter II.<br />
AFTER passing a few good-natured strictures on Squire Leverett's<br />
angry prognostications, Mr. Dovecott thus resumed his narrative: —<br />
“A short time afterwards I was taken from Dame Tingle's, and sent to<br />
Mr. Wagstaff's school — about five miles off — as a weekly boarder; so<br />
I only saw Nanny on Sundays, in our village church. I loved to sit and<br />
look at her, in her brown beaver bonnet with red ribbons, and her<br />
nankeen tippet and sleeves; and I used to wonder if it were wicked for<br />
me to think her ten times prettier than the little mahogany angels that sat<br />
on the top of the organ. If it happened to be a wet day, and she was not at<br />
church, I always felt something like a dry cork sticking in my throat, and<br />
when I attempted to sing I would sometimes burst out crying, which<br />
usually gained me a dose of rhubarb when I got home, for my mother<br />
used to think I was poorly.<br />
“At fourteen years old I was apprenticed to Mr. Smalts, the grocer, on<br />
our village green, and Nanny, who had grown a fine big girl, often came<br />
to the shop with her little market basket. I always tried to serve her,<br />
though I began to feel unaccountably shy of speaking to her, much more
so than I had been six or seven years before. I often longed to give her a<br />
few plums or a stick of barley-sugar, but I was afraid she had grown far<br />
above such things, and would feel offended if I offered them. She always<br />
looked so modest and reserved, that whenever she came into the shop I<br />
was struck serious, and as overawed as if she were the parson's wife or a<br />
young saint. Had I any idea that the sly little rogue was, at the same time,<br />
over head and ears in love with me, it is very likely I should have<br />
summoned courage to have said a soft word or two; but she never gave<br />
me the slightest clue to her real feelings, for which becoming maidenly<br />
modesty I afterwards admired her the more of course. I remember one<br />
day after she had gone out of the shop, Tom Bullskin, my fellow<br />
apprentice, made some coarse remarks about her, when I immediately<br />
fired up and gave him a smart knock on the nose, which made his eyes<br />
water. ‘Now you had better take that from me,’ said I, ‘than let me tell<br />
her father what you have just said.’ ‘Oho! that's it, is it?’ said he, trying<br />
to look facetious, ‘I didn't know she was your sweetheart.’ From that<br />
time it was the talk of the gossips in the village that Nanny and I were<br />
lovers; still I never even whispered a word of love to her for years<br />
afterwards. At length my passion got to such a pressure that I felt I must<br />
ease my heart, or it would burst like an over-fired steam boiler. Nanny<br />
was then a lively lass of fifteen or sixteen. She was handsome as a satinbird,<br />
— but I need not attempt to describe her charms; just look at her<br />
now, Mr. Boomerang, and I leave you to judge what she was then,” said<br />
the old man, gazing at his wife, and passing his hand gently over her<br />
silvery locks. “You may imagine how she looked as Queen of the May<br />
fifty years ago, sir. You can fancy, too, how anxious I felt lest some one<br />
of the smart lads of the village should pluck my pretty May flower (as<br />
they were all looking after her as much as they dared, for her father and<br />
her big brother scared them from making any bold advances), and, as I<br />
said before, I had not the least idea that the little puss was sighing her<br />
heart sore for me, and perhaps fearing that some of the other village<br />
lasses would win my heart.<br />
“How to declare my love to her puzzled me wonderfully. I knew no<br />
one whom I could ask for advice except my mother; and I was half<br />
ashamed to speak to her on the subject, for I had often told her that I<br />
should never love any one in the world so much as I loved her. However,<br />
I thought I might get information from her, enough for my purpose,<br />
without exactly letting her know that she had,’ been supplanted in my<br />
affections; — so one evening, as she was sitting at her spinning-wheel (I<br />
always went home at night) after a good deal of thought how I should put<br />
the question, I said boldly, ‘Mother, what did poor father say to you<br />
when he first came courting?’ My stars, sir! you should have seen how<br />
the dear old lady stared at my unexpected question. ‘Why what on earth<br />
do you mean by asking me that, Davy?’ she exclaimed, stopping her
wheel and gazing into my blushing face. ‘Oh, nothing very particular,<br />
mother, only I like to know all about everything in the world; and you<br />
know you encourage me to acquire useful knowledge. — Do tell me all<br />
about it, mother,’ said I, in a coaxing tone, and putting my arms round<br />
her neck at the same time. I could see the loving old lady's heart was<br />
warming at the tender recollections which my question had awakened.<br />
She sighed, took off her spectacles, and wiped some tear marks from<br />
them, then began to smile, and playfully chide me for my inquisitiveness.<br />
After a little more gentle persuasion she sighed again and said, ‘Your<br />
poor dear father was a man of few words, Davy, still for all that, he was<br />
very acute, and a man of good taste too. He found out that I loved him,<br />
though I am sure I had not told it to a soul in the world; nor did he say a<br />
word to me about it either, but went straight off to my father, and said<br />
right out in his blunt way, “Mr. Dobbs, I want your daughter Grace; I<br />
love her awfully hard, and I am able and willing to work to keep her.<br />
What do you say?” My father, who always liked straight-forward people,<br />
said to him, “Come inside, Master Dovecott, and have a mug of cider; we<br />
will talk the matter over.” So in he went, and in a very short time he got<br />
father's consent. Then he came into the dairy where I was putting a<br />
cheese into the vat, and asked me if I would have him for a husband. You<br />
must be aware that I did not say nay, boy, and that's all about it. But what<br />
in the name of fortune do you want to know that for?’ ‘Nothing very<br />
particular, mother — I will tell you to-morrow night,” said I, kissing her<br />
affectionately.<br />
“I then put on my hat, and away I went across the fields to Mr.<br />
Roseley's house, repeating my father's successful form of address all the<br />
way I went. There sat old Mr. Roseley outside his front door smoking his<br />
pipe. ‘Good evening, Davy, my lad?’ said he; ‘Good evening, Mr.<br />
Roseley,’ said I. Then I felt all of a twitter inside, as though I had<br />
swallowed a nest of young skylarks. But I soon plucked up heart, and<br />
speaking as nearly as possible in the bluff style that my father always<br />
spoke in, I said, ‘Mr. Roseley, I want your daughter Nanny. I love her<br />
awfully hard, and am able and willing to work to keep her. What do you<br />
say?’ Goodness me, sir! how the old man stared at me. His pipe went out<br />
directly, and his nose reddened as if it were going to relight the tobacco.<br />
He did not swear, certainly, for he was a sensible man in the main, but he<br />
blustered like a black north-easter, and almost upset me. ‘Look ye,<br />
Davy,’ said he, ‘I believe you are an honest lad, or else, do you see that<br />
whip behind the door there? I'd give you that for your impudence in<br />
coming to ask for my girl as carelessly as if you merely wanted to<br />
borrow my wheelbarrow. “I want your daughter Nanny.” Zounds! is that<br />
the way to ask for such a girl as mine? Besides, do you think I am such a;<br />
fool as to let a lass of sixteen get married, unless I wanted to see her an<br />
old worn-out woman before she is in her prime? Ugh! get out, you
monkey, or I shall kick you into the duck-pond!’<br />
“ ‘Oh, Mr. Roseley, I beg your pardon,’ I timidly stammered, ‘you<br />
make a mistake, sir. I don't want to marry her — — ’<br />
“ ‘Eh, what! Then what the dickens do you want with her?’ roared the<br />
old man, stopping me before I had half said my say, for I meant I did not<br />
want to marry her for five years. ‘Confound your impudence! Let me get<br />
hold of you! Here, Boxer, Boxer, Boxer! Hool him, boy! hool him!’<br />
“Boxer was a large mastiff that I had often seen following Nanny, as if<br />
to protect her, and as I was always timid of dogs, I did not wait till Boxer<br />
arrived from the back of the house, but away I went with my heart in my<br />
mouth, as the saying is, and jumped over the garden gate just as the dog<br />
was about to spoil my Sunday pantaloons. You can have no idea, sir,<br />
what a humble opinion I had of myself as I retraced my steps across the<br />
fields. When I got home I told my mother all about my misadventure,<br />
and she said I was a young gosling for not telling her what I was going to<br />
do, and she would have advised me how to go about it better. I ought to<br />
have borne in mind, she said, that my father was nearly thirty years old<br />
when he went courting; — moreover, he had a farm of his own, and a<br />
good house to take a wife to, ‘little matters which generally<br />
counterbalance roughness of address, in a great measure, as the times<br />
go.’ She further told me, ‘that I might have been sure Mr. Roseley would<br />
not let an apprentice-boy marry his daughter; that I ought to have gently<br />
told him I loved Nanny, and asked his permission to pay my addresses to<br />
her.’ Of course, that was all I wanted, — I only wished to secure my<br />
pretty bird, lest she should fly away with some other mate; but I sadly<br />
blundered in my way of making known my wishes and purpose, and I<br />
had not courage to go to Mr. Roseley again with explanations, for I<br />
dreaded Boxer's teeth, and the horsewhip behind the door. Nanny never<br />
came to our shop after that, so I thought my chance of caging her was<br />
very small indeed, and the mental distress I suffered in consequence I<br />
cannot well describe. To add to my torment, too, Tom Bullskin had by<br />
some means got hold of the story of my running away from the dog; and<br />
sometimes, when he was out of the range of my fist, he would whistle,<br />
and call out ‘Boxer, hool him, boy!’<br />
“When I was twenty-one years old my apprenticeship expired, and I<br />
accepted an engagement with a London wholesale house which supplied<br />
my master with dry-saltery goods. I shall never forget the grief I felt at<br />
leaving my native village for the first time in my life. I had a few days'<br />
leisure before I went, so I resolved to ramble through every lane, and<br />
field, and nook, for miles round — which had been dear to my boyhood's<br />
fancy. The woods where I went nutting, the old elm by the roadside<br />
leading to the church, which I had so often climbed for birds'-nests, and<br />
the brook where I used to catch minnows and bullfrogs, or, more<br />
endearing recollection of all, where I fished up little Nanny's leaky shoe.
All those scenes and objects were dear to me, and I thought as it might be<br />
long before I saw them again, I would indulge my fancy with a good<br />
long revel among them. One lovely afternoon, I remember it well, I was<br />
slowly walking along the margin of the brook, thinking of the merry days<br />
of childhood, when who should I see under a willow tree by the identical<br />
place where fourteen years before I had raised the sunken shoe, who but<br />
my darling Nanny. Yes, there she sat with a water-lily in her hand gazing<br />
at the brook, perhaps admiring her own beautiful image. There never was<br />
anything like lackadaisical sentiment about Nanny Roseley; so, strange<br />
as it seems, she had not gone there on purpose to meet me; not at all, sir,<br />
she had too much modesty for that. She has since told me with her own<br />
truthful lips, that she did not know why she went there on that identical<br />
afternoon, but we understand it now, sir; her going there was not mere<br />
chance. However, there she sat, looking as graceful and modest as the<br />
lily in her hand; and I must necessarily have passed by the place unless I<br />
had turned round and walked back, which would have looked very<br />
unmannerly if she had happened to turn her head and see me. So onward<br />
I went — timidly enough you may be sure — and when I came up to the<br />
spot where she sat, I felt as though I had been electrified; my heart<br />
actually leaped up to my throat, and forced my tongue to say, ‘Nanny!’<br />
she turned round quickly, and, oh, sir! the sight of that beautiful blushing<br />
face would have knocked a cannibal down on his knees, or melted a Turk<br />
into tenderness. Of course I had not premeditated my address, how could<br />
I do so, when I had had no idea of seeing her? I rushed instinctively up to<br />
her and seized her lily white hand, and my heart spoke again right plump<br />
out, ‘Nanny, I love you!’ That is all I said, all I could say in fact, but that<br />
was enough, and I saw in a moment that Nanny loved me, though she did<br />
not speak a word. Oh, what a rush of rapture coursed all through me at<br />
that happy discovery! Never shall I forget it. It is a wonder I did not clasp<br />
her to my heart and kiss her luscious lips. It is fortunate too that I did not<br />
do it, for it might have frightened her, and — but I see you are getting<br />
excited, Mr. Boomerang, and so I will hurry past this touching part of my<br />
story. We sat beneath the willow tree for an hour or more, and Nanny<br />
lisped out the innocent confession, ‘that she had loved me ever since the<br />
day when I restored her lost shoe to her.’ Was not that very wonderful,<br />
sir? Of course I did not commit a second blunder by asking for her hand<br />
there and then, for I felt sure she would not give me any promise without<br />
the cognizance of her father, and I knew, too, that it would be wrong to<br />
press her for it. I merely asked her to reserve her heart for me, subject to<br />
her father's approval, which she promised to do, and then an interchange<br />
of lovers' vows took place which I sealed with a kiss; the first kiss I had<br />
ever impressed on a maiden's lips, and oh, sir, it was — but I beg pardon,<br />
I see I am exciting you again; I am afraid you are losing patience at my<br />
soft descriptions.
“Next day I went to London, with my mind fully resolved to work my<br />
way up in the world, and to provide a comfortable home for my heart's<br />
idol. I had plenty of uphill work, sir, but I will not trouble you with the<br />
details of that. An honest, determined spirit can overcome a host of<br />
difficulties. I not only acquired a more thorough knowledge of<br />
mercantile usages, but I found time to cultivate my mind, and improve<br />
the limited education I had received at school. Eighteen months<br />
afterwards I returned to Beechwood, to spend Christmas. I was then a<br />
man; and Nanny would now tell you, if I only paused a minute to allow<br />
her to speak, that I was rather a smart-looking young man too. I no<br />
longer feared Boxer, or the horsewhip (in fact, sir, I feared nothing in<br />
those days but dishonour), so I called on Mr. Roseley, and after much<br />
explanation and negotiation, I was acknowledged as Nanny's betrothed. I<br />
spent a merry Christmas at Mr. Roseley's house; and as I sat by the<br />
blazing ingle side, with my mother on one side of me and Nanny on the<br />
other, I would not have exchanged lots with the Duke of York. What fun<br />
we had that night to be sure! Old Mr. Roseley sat in his easy chair<br />
puffing his pipe and looking as benevolent as Father Christmas himself;<br />
the company roared with merriment when the old man told the story of<br />
my abrupt application for Nanny; of his wrathful rejection of my suit,<br />
and my flight over the garden gate just as Boxer was about to take a large<br />
bite from my maximus muscle.”<br />
The recollection of that comical incident was so vividly presented to<br />
the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Dovecott, that they laughed till the tears rolled<br />
down their faces. Of course I laughed to see them so merry, and you<br />
would have laughed too, dear reader, had you been with us.<br />
“But soon after that an important change took place in my prospects,”<br />
continued Mr. Dovecott. “A trustworthy young man was required to fill a<br />
responsible post in this colony, and I was strongly recommended for the<br />
office by my employers, who, though loth to part with me, felt a true<br />
interest in my welfare. An offer was made to me, which I had three days<br />
to consider, and then, if I accepted it, a week to prepare for my voyage. It<br />
would be hard to convey to you an idea of my conflicting feelings at this<br />
critical juncture in my affairs. On the one hand there was a brilliant offer<br />
of an honourable and lucrative post, with almost certain advancement to<br />
fortune; and on the other hand, there were ties of the most tender and<br />
sacred nature binding me to England. I was fairly perplexed, and the<br />
more I pondered the matter, the more complicated it seemed. So I<br />
earnestly sought guidance and direction from that unfailing source where<br />
I have all through my life found help in time of need; — and after a time<br />
I felt my mind perfectly free from doubt on the subject, and I was<br />
thoroughly convinced that it was my duty to go to Australia. It has ever<br />
been my rule, Mr. Boomerang, when I have clearly ascertained the path<br />
of duty, to pursue it, without reference to opposing feelings or interests;
so I accepted the offer, then prepared to go down to Beechwood to break<br />
the news to my dear mother and Nanny Roseley; and to take a last look<br />
at my native woods, and the old-fashioned thatched house near the<br />
village green, where I first drew the breath of life.”<br />
Chapter III.<br />
“MY mother was overwhelmed with grief when I tremblingly<br />
acquainted her with my new designs and prospects,” continued Mr.<br />
Dovecott. “And it is no wonder the poor old soul was cast down, for I<br />
was her main stay, and the only earthly object of her heart's strong<br />
affections to centre upon. She had buried my father and my sister years<br />
before, and had had a hard struggle to keep a comfortable roof over her<br />
head, and to give me a little bit of schooling as she called it. When I<br />
began to earn money of course I supported her, for she had grown too<br />
feeble to earn much at her spinning wheel; indeed, I did not allow her to<br />
work for pay after I had the means of supplying all her wants. It was a<br />
proud day for me, sir, when I remitted her my first quarter's salary, and<br />
told her in a loving letter that she was henceforward to live like a lady.<br />
The idea then of my going from her to the other side of the world, and<br />
over the terrible wide sea, seemed like blasting all her earthly comfort,<br />
and cutting off her supplies of daily bread too. She could not see a single<br />
ray of light through the thick cloud which had so suddenly darkened her<br />
life; and her piteous appeals to me not to leave her alone in the world,<br />
almost shook my resolution to pieces. Any logical efforts to assuage her<br />
grief just then would have been vain, I knew, so I deferred reasoning<br />
with her until the first heavy burst of her sorrow was past. Depend on it,<br />
sir, that is the best plan to adopt in such cases. I have often seen<br />
sympathizing friends trying to administer comfort to persons who had<br />
been suddenly overtaken by some distressing calamity, and I have<br />
fancied that the eloquence of their looks would have been more soothing<br />
than their tongues. ‘Cheer up! Don't fret! pray don't give way to such<br />
immoderate grief!’ and similar little bits of good advice, tend rather to<br />
irritate than to console, under the first heavy pressure of calamity. If a<br />
horse tumbles down with a loaded cart behind him, a skilful driver does<br />
not immediately shout ‘Come up,’ in his ears, for he knows that the<br />
violent efforts the horse would make to rise, under the excitement caused<br />
by his fall, would probably break the harness, and perhaps break his<br />
knees or his backbone. So the driver lets the poor panting beast rest for a<br />
few minutes to recover the shock, and meanwhile eases the load as much<br />
as possible, and after that he may say ‘gee up’ with effect. You may as<br />
well try to extinguish a blazing house with a boy's squirt, as to rally grief<br />
out of the heart of a poor mortal crushed down with sudden affliction, by<br />
saying ‘cheer up; don't cry!’ Better to let the tears come if they will, for
they often afford more ease than a volume of dry philosophy would do.<br />
That is my opinion, sir, and I have seen something of human nature in<br />
seventy years or more. I gently embraced my poor weeping parent, and<br />
whispered ‘Mother, dear! I will leave you for an hour or two, I must go<br />
over to see Nanny. You are a Christian; and when you have calmed down<br />
a bit, I know you will consider whether this is not an essential discipline<br />
that you have to pass through, and you will seek for comfort and<br />
direction from the source of all blessings.’ After kissing her again and<br />
again, I left the cottage, and as I crossed some newly mown meadows to<br />
Nanny's house, the fragrance of the new hay seemed to revive such a<br />
gush of recollections of happy school days, that I threw myself upon a<br />
haycock, and actually groaned off some of the pent up emotions in my<br />
heart.<br />
“Old Mr. Roseley was violently opposed to my going abroad; and after<br />
insinuating many ungenerous things, he told me in plain terms that if I<br />
went I must give up Nanny altogether, for he would never consent to her<br />
going to Botany Bay, as this colony was called. Australia was then but<br />
imperfectly known in England, and was associated in the minds of most<br />
persons with convicts and kangaroos; and a voyage here in those days<br />
was thought as stupendous an undertaking — especially by inland<br />
villagers — as an exploring expedition to the Arctic regions would be<br />
now-a-days. I had anticipated some opposition from Mr. Roseley, but I<br />
did not expect to see him so rough and unreasonable, and you may be<br />
sure, sir, I did not feel very happy; still my resolution was unshaken,<br />
because — as I said before — I felt sure I was in the highway of duty. I<br />
kept calm, and used all the arguments I could to convince Mr. Roseley<br />
that it was my interest to accept the offer, and that it would probably lead<br />
to my advancing higher in the social scale than I ever should in England,<br />
when he dashed his pipe on to the hearthstone and said, ‘He did not care<br />
a flip for social scales or weights either; he was not going to sell his girl<br />
like a sack of malt or barley-meal.’ And after working, himself into a<br />
rage, he finally declared ‘that if Nan ever went to Botany Bay, she would<br />
go at the King's expense, with iron bracelets on, as many bright girls had<br />
gone; but she should never go with his consent, or at his cost, even<br />
though I were made governor of the land.’<br />
“Nanny was sitting by when her father uttered that cruel ultimatum,<br />
and her poor pale face might have moved a savage to pity. She did not<br />
speak a word, but as she rose and left the room she turned her swimming<br />
eyes upon me, and there was something more than mortal love in her<br />
look, sir, it seemed to lift my heart like a powerful lever. I soon followed<br />
her into the hall, where she silently put on her hat and tippet at my<br />
request, and accompanied me for a ramble across the fields, and beside<br />
the rippling brook where we had first met. I need not tell you all that<br />
passed in the long twilight of that summer evening. As we stood on the
margin of that memorable stream, dear Nanny leaned her glossy head on<br />
my breast for a few minutes, and wept as though her heart would break.<br />
Suddenly, however, she became calm and composed, which quite<br />
puzzled me, till she took my hand within hers, and said in a firm but<br />
deliciously soft voice: ‘Davy, dear Davy! forgive me for exhibiting so<br />
much weakness at a time when you most require comfort from me. But I<br />
am better now, the sight of this spot with its tender recollections shook<br />
all my firmness for a minute. Go to Australia, love! I am sure it is your<br />
Providential path, and I would not stop you for the world. I will not pain<br />
you by offering to release you from your engagement with me, for I<br />
know how you feel just now, dear. I am sure you love me fondly, and I<br />
know your inclination is now struggling with your sense of duty; I would<br />
rather strengthen your resolution than induce you to break it. I know not<br />
what is in the future, but I feel something within me assuring me that all<br />
will be well if we pursue the right path. I believe we shall happily meet<br />
again, and that hope will sustain me under the pangs of parting with you,<br />
for you know how dearly I love you, Davy. Go, dearest, and ever believe<br />
that your Nanny is faithful to her sacred, betrothal pledge. I will not<br />
promise to act in opposition to my father's wishes, you would not have<br />
me do that, I am sure, but I feel that in some way, which I cannot at<br />
present see, his decision will be over-ruled. However that may be, I<br />
promise I will be your wife, Davy, or I will die Nanny Roseley. Go,<br />
dearest! and may the great God of heaven and earth go with you.’<br />
“Was not that nobly said, Mr. Boomerang?” exclaimed Mr. Dovecott,<br />
pausing to stroke his wife's silvery hair again, and to look a volume of<br />
love into her glistening eyes.<br />
“Well, sir, I parted with Nanny that night, after we had said many soft<br />
things to each other near the romantic spot where I had fished up the<br />
little shoe, and I then walked towards my mother's cottage with a heavy<br />
heart, for I dreaded her sorrowful pleadings far more than I had Mr.<br />
Roseley's wrath. Judge my delight, sir, when I entered the cottage to see<br />
the dear old lady smiling sweetly, though her poor thin face bore traces<br />
of recent tears. She clasped me in her arms and sobbed out in a peculiar<br />
manner, between a laugh and a cry, ‘Davy, my son! my darling boy! You<br />
may go to Botany Bay; and your poor widowed mother's blessing will go<br />
with you. I have been on my knees, Davy, ever since you went away, and<br />
I have had such comforting answers to my prayers, that my poor old<br />
heart has danced for joy. Though I scarcely dare hope to see you again in<br />
this world, Davy, I can give you up, for I feel it will be for your good;<br />
and I stay my heart upon the comforting belief that we shall surely meet<br />
again in the life beyond this, where there will be no more sorrowful<br />
partings. Go my boy! and may God bless you! I will not wound you by<br />
asking you not to forget your poor old mother; I am sure you will never<br />
do that cruel thing, never. You have been a dutiful son, Davy; the pride
of my life, and the prop and support of my tottering age. To part with<br />
you is more than my poor unassisted nature could do, but I have received<br />
strength from above, Davy. My heart trusted in God and I am helped;<br />
and am enabled to bow submissively to what I believe to be God's will.’<br />
The dear old soul could not wholly conquer nature though, for she then<br />
gave vent to a flood of tears, though she seemed smiling all the while. I<br />
struggled manfully against betraying weakness, but it was no use, sir, and<br />
presently I burst out crying too, and our sobbing and shouts of ‘praise<br />
God,’ were heard in the village smithy, and would you believe it, sir? the<br />
wicked old blacksmith told the tapster next door that I was tipsy, and was<br />
giving my poor old mother a good beating before I went to Botany Bay.<br />
“Next morning I was up before the sun, and hastened across the fields<br />
to the old churchyard, and dropped a silent tear on the graves of my<br />
father and sister. Then I crossed the wood, cut this hazel stick on my<br />
way, sir, took a last look at Nanny's house, and at old Dame Tingle's<br />
school, stopped at the brook to take a long drink, and to fill my waistcoat<br />
pockets with pebbles, which are carefully preserved in yonder cabinet;<br />
then returned home damp with dew, to eat my last breakfast under my<br />
mother's thatch. I pass over the tender scene of parting with my mother,<br />
sir, for I do not think I can trust myself to tell it. At nine o'clock I<br />
mounted the London mail coach, and in ten minutes more my swimming<br />
eyes took a last fond glimpse of Beechwood, my native village.”<br />
The old gentleman's voice here grew husky, and he paused in his<br />
narrative to polish his spectacles; so I took that opportunity to make a<br />
few remarks to his affectionate spouse. She smiled, and with a half<br />
coquettish glance at her husband, said, “Ah, poor fellow, he did not know<br />
how eagerly I was watching him that morning from my bed-room<br />
window, and what I was suffering. As the coach descended the hill out of<br />
my sight, such a cloud of sorrow burst upon me that my poor racked<br />
mind was almost overwhelmed. I threw myself on my knees, and had<br />
such a cry; while I sobbed out prayers to God for comfort. I shall never<br />
forget, sir, the help I received in that time of need. I seemed to be<br />
directed to my little text book, and on opening it I read the consoling<br />
words, ‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ My heavy<br />
load of anguish began to diminish at once, and I cried with happiness. In<br />
half an hour I descended to my dairy work with my heart full of hope.”<br />
“Ten days after that I was on shipboard bound for Sydney, Mr.<br />
Boomerang,” continued Mr. Dovecott, who had recovered his natural<br />
tone of voice, and lost the ominous tinge from the tip of his nose. “It<br />
would not interest you much to give you the particulars of our voyage; to<br />
tell how we were dismasted and had to put into Rio, how we ran short of<br />
water, then short of provisions, and other mishaps and miseries which<br />
were common enough in those days, when ships trading here were of a<br />
much poorer class in every way than the ships of the present day. Suffice
it to say, that after seven months' voyage, I reached my destination in<br />
safety, and was soon afterwards installed to my office.<br />
“Viewing the enlightened state of the colony at the present time, you<br />
could form but a faint conception of what it was nearly half a century<br />
ago, sir; but I do not mean to allude to that subject further than my story<br />
requires me to do. Of course, you know that there were comparatively<br />
few free settlers here in those days, and there was not much free labour<br />
to be obtained. I had a large number of convicts, or assigned servants, to<br />
superintend, and the duty was not a light one, I assure you. Some of my<br />
men were very difficult to manage, in fact were incorrigible rogues; but I<br />
could give you many cheering instances of fidelity and good principles<br />
which I experienced in others under my charge. I could also tell you<br />
some harrowing stories of cruel scenes which I have witnessed, if there<br />
were any advantage in recurring to the revolting annals of those penal<br />
times, which will surely never be revived in this land.<br />
“I had many disagreeables and privations to bear, and many dangers to<br />
encounter during the first five years of my residence in this colony; and<br />
often as I sat in my lonely cottage in the interior, have I been disposed to<br />
doubt the prudence of the step I had taken in thus isolating myself from<br />
civilized society, and from those near and dear relatives and friends for<br />
whom my heart yearned with a fondness which at times induced<br />
melancholy thoughts and purposes. Those seasons of sadness were<br />
transient, however, for I usually felt buoyed up with a hope that good<br />
would spring from it; and I was not without occasional little proofs of<br />
that which it would perhaps not be modest of me to further mention.<br />
“The postal communication too, in those days was very irregular, and<br />
often protracted; still every ship which arrived from England brought me<br />
letters from my mother and Nanny, full of endearing tokens of affection<br />
and fidelity. I wrote them by every opportunity, and I need scarcely say<br />
that I remitted to my mother ample funds to provide her with every<br />
comfort she required. Rather strange to say, sir, I had a man as house<br />
servant (a convict transported for poaching) who was born in the next<br />
village to Beechwood, and at one time had worked for Mr. Roseley. You<br />
have no idea, sir, what pleasure it used to afford me on dreary winter<br />
evenings to hear that man talk about the woods and fields around my<br />
native home, of old Mr. Roseley's peculiarities, and his pretty daughter<br />
Nanny's excellencies, though of course he did not know how warmly I<br />
was interested in that young lady. Poor Jem Traps was an honest fellow,<br />
though he was a convict; and his simple stories of rustic life around<br />
Beechwood were as entertaining to me as a fiddle is to a sailor. But I<br />
soon got more agreeable companions than Jem to cheer my drooping<br />
spirits. An important change took place about that time in my position<br />
and my prospects.”
Chapter IV.<br />
“As I before remarked, sir, an important change took place in my<br />
affairs, after I had been about six years in the colony,” said Mr.<br />
Dovecott, while his face began to glow like the rising sun just emerging<br />
from a fog bank. “One morning at daybreak, I was lying on my stretcher<br />
bed, trying to kick myself cool, and cogitating whether I should turn out<br />
and have a shower-bath, or take another nap, for I had passed a very<br />
restless night. The weather was excessively warm, and the mosquitos had<br />
probably mistaken me for a ‘new chum,’ for they were unusually vicious;<br />
my skin was covered with the marks of their sharp little snouts, and my<br />
ears had been annoyed all night long with their satirical songs, after<br />
drinking my health. While keeping my involuntary vigil, I was thinking<br />
as usual about Nanny and my mother, and roaming in imagination<br />
through every lane and leafy nook around my native home; until I<br />
actually fancied I would rather be a fox in Beechwood Copse, with a<br />
fox's freedom, and the society of other foxes, than be in my isolated<br />
position, with all its prospective honours and emoluments. There was<br />
I — I thought — pining away my prime in forced celibacy, and yonder<br />
was the darling of my heart at the other end of the earth, pining for me<br />
like a little jenny-wren with her mate caught in a brick trap. And this<br />
waste of love was all caused by the stupidity of old Roseley, who<br />
obstinately believed that one of the finest countries in the world was as<br />
much to be dreaded as the cells of Old Bailey.<br />
“But those gloomy musings were not very lasting, for I seldom<br />
encouraged such thoughts. Hope was a prominent bump in my cranium;<br />
still I suppose the most sanguine of men have occasional seasons of<br />
dumpiness, especially in close muggy weather, when their gastric<br />
secretions are apt to get disarranged. I was doubtless suffering to some<br />
extent from the enervating effects of the sultry weather, and the<br />
depression which the sight of ruin and semi-starvation induced, for it had<br />
been a season of protracted drought, and I was obliged to put my men<br />
upon reduced rations. However, there I lay, rolling about on my<br />
stretcher, and avenging myself upon the gorged mosquitos on the slabs,<br />
by tapping them on the head with my slippers, when suddenly Jem Traps<br />
entered my room in a state of great excitement, and handed me a letter<br />
which a special messenger had just brought from Sydney. The missive<br />
informed me of the sudden death of my superior officer, through eating<br />
toad-fish, and intimated that I was required to proceed to head quarters at<br />
once, and fill the important post which had become vacant by his<br />
decease.<br />
“I must avoid details, Mr. Boomerang, or I shall keep you here for a<br />
week listening to my story. By that sudden event I was promoted to a<br />
position of influence and honour, with a large income, and a fine
commodious house, replete with every convenience and comfort I could<br />
desire, except one — that first essential in a house — a wife. That<br />
desideratum was wanting; but as I was now able to offer a home, with<br />
every luxury the colony could afford, I thought the time was come to<br />
send for Nanny. Then came the next posing question, how was I to win<br />
her father's consent. I did not for a moment think of her coming without<br />
his sanction; but how to overcome his obstinate prejudices was the<br />
question which knocked my bump of hope as flat as a florin. Many<br />
sleepless nights I spent considering that difficulty; and many times, both<br />
by day and night, I sought Divine direction in the matter, for I felt how<br />
essential a wife was to my happiness, and to my usefulness too. At length<br />
my mind seemed directed to a certain course just on the eve of a ship<br />
sailing for London. The vessel was a regular trader, and I was well<br />
acquainted with the captain, so I explained my plans to him<br />
confidentially, and arranged with him for the accommodation of my<br />
darling Nanny, old Mr. Roseley, his son, and his son's wife and children;<br />
also for my dear mother, my sister's orphan children, and an uncle and<br />
aunt, with a lot of cousins, who were barely earning a livelihood in<br />
England. Every kith and kin belonging to the Roseley and Dovecott<br />
families were to be comfortably accommodated in the ‘Dolphin’ at my<br />
expense, if they chose to come to Sydney. The captain promised to see<br />
them personally, and try his best to induce them to accept my liberal<br />
offer before he let his cabins to other passengers; but he would use<br />
special efforts to bring out Nanny and her father, and my mother. At the<br />
same time I sent home money sufficient to provide them all with<br />
necessary outfits; and I promised to do my best to settle them<br />
comfortably in the colony, and to have board and lodging ready for them<br />
on their arrival. No one will be able to tell me that I was shabby enough<br />
to neglect or scorn my poor relations after I had risen in the world, Mr.<br />
Boomerang; and though I have not often met with grateful returns, I am<br />
satisfied at having performed my duty, if some of those I have helped<br />
have neglected theirs.<br />
“Now comes a very remarkable part of my story, sir. About two<br />
months before the Dolphin reached England, old Mr. Roseley's house<br />
and barns were burnt to the ground; so he and his son Matt were totally<br />
ruined, for they were not insured. Of course it was a sudden downfall to<br />
them, and they felt it severely, for they were all rather proud in their way,<br />
except Nanny. They had lots of sympathy while their buildings were<br />
blazing, in fact a good deal more than they wanted, but it vanished with<br />
the smoke; or the only tangible shape it assumed was in a subscription to<br />
buy the old man a razor grinder's barrow, for he was remarkably handy<br />
with edge tools, and had never seemed happier than when he was doing<br />
odd jobs as an amateur tinker. His simple-hearted friends thought they<br />
could not buy him an article more to his taste; and withal, it was a cheap
way of setting him up in the world again, and removing their dread of his<br />
borrowing or begging from them. So the barrow was bought, and old<br />
farmer Vetch drove off in his cart to deliver it, with as much pride and<br />
good will as though he were going to present a new organ to the parish<br />
church. His surprise was great when after reading the brief address of the<br />
donors, Mr. Roseley, instead of expressing gratitude for the gift, cursed<br />
the barrow and all the contributors too. A storm of high words ensued<br />
and frightened the horse, which bolted off, upset the cart, and broke the<br />
barrow to little bits. Nothing was saved but the grindstone.<br />
“My mother offered a temporary home to Nanny and her father, which<br />
they gladly accepted. Soon afterwards, Nanny arranged to go to Squire<br />
Leveret's, as nursery governess, though she did not much like the idea,<br />
for some of the children were as rough as their father. But on the very<br />
morning she was preparing to start for the Squire's, my letter arrived, and<br />
caused no small commotion amongst them, you may be sure. Strange to<br />
say, old Mr. Roseley was the first to propose that they should all get<br />
ready to start as soon as possible. ‘Botany Bay, or any other cannibal<br />
country was preferable to Beechwood,’ he said, ‘now he had no other<br />
prospect than a tinker's barrow or the workhouse. Feed me on kangaroos<br />
and cornstalks, if you like, but deliver me from the neighbours who<br />
would mock my misfortunes, and send me about the country grinding<br />
scissors! A fugitive and a vagabond, and a poverty-stricken old tramp<br />
tinker! Come along, Nanny, my girl! I am ready. I can tie all my traps in<br />
a bundle handkerchief, so let us be off as soon as possible.’<br />
“A day or two after that, Captain Luff went down to Beechwood. He<br />
had no difficulty in persuading them all to accept my offer, though some<br />
of the younger ones shuddered at the mention of Botany Bay, as if it<br />
were the favourite watering place of old Bogy and his crew.<br />
“I remained in suspense as to the result of the captain's mission, for we<br />
were unusually long without a mail. Several months had elapsed since<br />
the arrival of a ship from England, and as the time for the return of the<br />
Dolphin drew near, you may imagine how anxiously I watched the signal<br />
staff from day to day, and how often my fancy pictured in dreams at<br />
night the arrival of my fondly expected ones, but only to teaze me on<br />
awakening to a sense of my dreary bachelorhood. Ugh, those days of<br />
single misery! of odd stockings and changed collars, broken buttons and<br />
yellow linen. Mr. Boomerang, I assure you, I would not be single<br />
again — even for six months — for all the brass bedsteads and other<br />
bachelor traps in the world and a cart-load of beadwork slippers to boot.<br />
Not I, sir; ha, ha, ha! Not I. Give me my wife, and water-gruel diet, if<br />
you like, and you will see me happy — jubilant; but give me the range of<br />
an oriental palace, with all Rajah Rumanputtee's diamonds to play with,<br />
and a daily fare of curried peacocks, and without my wife I should be as<br />
miserable as an old jack tar who had lost his tobacco box.”
Mr. Dovecott here arose from his chair, kissed his laughing spouse on<br />
both cheeks, and told her that she was sweeter than a ton of barley-sugar.<br />
He then made a feint to dance a fandango, but was seized with a twinge<br />
in his left leg, whereupon he reseated himself, rubbed his hands in merry<br />
ecstacy, and laughed again, then resumed his narrative.<br />
“One morning, directly I had got out of bed, I looked as usual from my<br />
window at the flagstaff, and to my great delight there was a black ball on<br />
the south yard arm, and a square blue flag at the mast head. Hurrah! there<br />
is a ship to the southward, perhaps it's the Dolphin! and then I merrily<br />
sang as I pulled on my holey stockings: —<br />
“ ‘Haste, Nanny! I'm weary of living alone.’<br />
“I dressed myself extra smart that morning, and oiled my bushy beard<br />
and whiskers. I dare say my servant was a little doubtful of my taste, in<br />
preferring the external air to hot coffee and mutton ham for breakfast, for<br />
I would rise from the table every now and then and pop my head out of<br />
the window to see if the ship were signalled. Presently I saw an angular<br />
red flag run up under the blue one. Hurrah! I shouted; a ship from<br />
London! ‘Tell Trap to get my boat ready immediately,’ I said to the<br />
astonished servant. ‘Hurry, Duff, hurry: then you can clear the table. I<br />
don't want any more breakfast.’<br />
“Half an hour afterwards I was dashing down the harbour under all sail,<br />
with a strong southerly breeze, and as I rounded Bradley's Head I could<br />
see the Dolphin tacking up to her anchorage. How can I possibly<br />
describe the alternations of hope and fear which filled my breast at that<br />
exciting time, Mr. Boomerang? But I see you understand them, sir, by<br />
your sympathizing muscular movements; you look as earnest as though<br />
you were preparing to spring on deck to catch Nanny for me. I thank you<br />
for the interest you display in my recital, sir. My well manned boat sped<br />
swiftly over the waves, and in a very short time I was within hail of the<br />
ship, and the first persons I distinguished on the poop, were my darling<br />
Nanny and my devoted mother, side by side, waving their white<br />
handkerchiefs in token of recognition.<br />
“ ‘Ods, bobs, take hold of the tiller, Trap! boo — hoo — whoo!’ I<br />
blubbered, in spite of all my manly efforts to look composed and<br />
dignified; then dragging my handkerchief from my pocket, I buried my<br />
face in it; and, as Paddy Spudd, the bowman, afterwards explained to his<br />
hut mates, ‘I cudn't cry for laughin', and I cudn't laugh for cryin', nor I<br />
cudn't spake for kissin' the girls afther I got on boord the ship.’<br />
“Oh what an ecstatic meeting that was, sir! I can no more describe it<br />
than I could paint a landscape. I mounted the gangway, and the first thing<br />
I noticed was old Roseley sitting on the capstan playing a fiddle, which
set me laughing; the next minute I was locked in my mother's arms,<br />
which set me crying. Then I embraced Nanny — very gently, of<br />
course — which set me — but I cannot explain all my emotions on that<br />
blessed morning, you must imagine them, sir — and I must shorten my<br />
story.<br />
* * * * *<br />
“Ten days afterwards, the bell in old St. Philip's round tower rang out<br />
like fire, and almost all the bunting in the colony was fluttering in the<br />
breeze to celebrate my marriage with Nanny Roseley. Good old<br />
Archdeacon Cowper united us, and after a sumptuous dejeuner at my<br />
house (which was partaken of by numerous guests, including thirty-five<br />
of my relatives and friends, who had just arrived in the Dolphin), we<br />
drove off to Parramatta to spend our honeymoon, and a bright moon it<br />
was too.<br />
* * * * *<br />
“Now tell me what you think of that for a tale of true love,” said Mr.<br />
Dovecott, who was evidently well pleased with it himself. “Is there not<br />
more honest wholesome material in it — though badly dressed — than in<br />
those insipid hashed-up love stories of the age, full of broken hearts and<br />
hobgoblins, and all that sort of calf's head stuffing, which, I am sorry to<br />
believe, sell as readily as ripe gooseberries! What do you think of it, sir?”<br />
“In brief, sir, I think your career has been singularly marked by<br />
Providential circumstances, and that it is highly suggestive,” I replied.<br />
“But pray tell me what became of your friends who came out in the<br />
Dolphin; I should like to hear a little more about them.”<br />
“I will tell you in a few words, sir. My dear mother lived for fifteen<br />
years with us in peace and comfort; and Nanny will certify that her<br />
experience belies the cynical report, that mothers-in-law are always very<br />
troublesome in a household. My mother was a help and a blessing to my<br />
wife, and I can testify that I never heard a note of discord from either of<br />
them; on the contrary, thanksgiving and the voice of melody filled my<br />
home from morning till night. She is now in her home above. Her tomb<br />
is on the Sand-hills, and the memory of her many virtues is embalmed in<br />
my heart. Poor Mr. Roseley is gone to heaven too. He lived to a good old<br />
age in a nice little cottage on the Rocks, and his time was spent in doing<br />
good to every one around him. He often blessed the hour when his house<br />
and barns were burnt, as it was that Providential circumstance which had<br />
led him to Sydney. He had the happiness of seeing his family all<br />
flourishing in temporal things — but best of all, of knowing that they<br />
were living in preparation for the better life beyond the grave. His son
Matt got a grant of land, and in time grew wealthy and influential. Some<br />
of his descendants are now filling positions of honour and usefulness in<br />
the colony, as you are aware, sir. My uncle and aunt unfortunately drank<br />
themselves to death. My sister's children and my cousin's all prospered<br />
amazingly. They are well known in the south, and in the west country,<br />
for their hospitality and other sterling virtues. Their descendants are<br />
branching off in all directions, and some of them are becoming lights in<br />
the land. So you see, Mr. Boomerang, that my coming out here as<br />
pioneer, was — through God's blessing — the means of establishing two<br />
families in respectability and affluence; in removing them from poverty<br />
to a ‘land flowing with milk and honey.’ ”<br />
I freely expressed my opinion on his interesting narrative, and on the<br />
useful lessons it was calculated to teach, to young men especially;<br />
showing the advantage of strictly pursuing the path of duty with manly<br />
courage and perseverance, and of acknowledging God in all their ways. I<br />
then said, “I should like to hear a little of your marital experience, Mr.<br />
Dovecott, if you have no objection to relate it.”<br />
“Come in and have some supper, sir,” said the old gentleman, with a<br />
significant glance at me. As we walked towards the parlour, he added, “I<br />
will finish my story by and bye, if you wish to hear it; but I must first<br />
persuade Mrs. Dovecott to go to bed, for there are some subjects which I<br />
must allude to that would touch her feelings acutely. She is as tenderhearted<br />
as a little ‘budgery ghar,’ bless her! It would be improper for me<br />
to praise my wife, I know, but I must say that she is a model woman; in<br />
short, the nearest resemblance to an angel that I ever saw. That is a fact,<br />
Mr. Boomerang.”<br />
Chapter V.<br />
“NOW, my precious koh-i-noor, you had better go to bed, for Mr.<br />
Boomerang and I want to have a chat upon a subject which would not<br />
delight you,” said Mr. Dovecott, addressing his wife, after we had<br />
finished supper. “You will forgive me for staying up an hour later than<br />
usual, I am sure, for it is not often that our old friend spends a night with<br />
us.”<br />
Mrs. Dovecott rose, made a few pleasant remarks on the advantages of<br />
retiring early to rest; then intimated to me that I would find extra bedding<br />
behind the door if I needed it, shook hands with me, and retired to her<br />
chamber.<br />
“Take the sofa, and make yourself comfortable,” said my host, at the<br />
same time he threw himself into an easy chair and began to rub his nose,<br />
his usual expedient for stimulating his ideas in drowsy seasons. “You<br />
wish to hear some of my conjugal experience, sir, but it will be<br />
comparatively little that I shall be able to tell you before the midnight
dial warns us to bed. To concentrate the product of a forty acre vineyard<br />
into one puncheon, would be as feasible a task as to give you in one<br />
sitting even the most meagre description of forty years of growing love<br />
with that estimable creature who has just gone up-stairs. But I will try,<br />
sir; and as I heard a celebrated lecturer from London say a few years ago,<br />
‘I will throw out a few jets of thought for your after consideration.’<br />
“Well, sir, my young wife took charge of her household with as much<br />
grace and dignity as if she had been accustomed to control a large<br />
establishment for years. Nobody ever heard her fussing and grumbling<br />
about trifling troubles, peculiar to the colony, or complaining that she<br />
had not been used to this or that inconvenience, as weak-minded women<br />
often do, thinking thereby to increase their importance; whereas such airs<br />
are usually to be regarded as signs that they never had half so many<br />
conveniences before. Nanny was kind and considerate to her domestics,<br />
still she was firm and mistress-like, and they all loved her. We had a<br />
dozen assigned servants about the house, and with a few trifling<br />
exceptions — scarcely worth mentioning — I never had any trouble with<br />
them. Of course there was occasional wrangling among themselves,<br />
which I did not pretend to hear. I seldom noticed trifles which did not<br />
positively infringe my rules and regulations. Nanny managed her<br />
household by the rule of kindness, and, on the whole, things went on<br />
with perhaps rather more regularity than our town clock in those days.<br />
Several of our servants stayed with us after they had received their<br />
tickets-of-leave, and one woman lived with us for ten years after she<br />
became free, in fact she lived with us till she died. For obvious reasons I<br />
refrain from mentioning real names, sir, but I could give you — if there<br />
were any advantage in doing so — the history of several of our servants,<br />
who became thoroughly reformed characters, who lived useful lives and<br />
died happy deaths, and whose descendants now deservedly rank among<br />
the patriots and the benefactors of the country.<br />
“About twelve months after her arrival, my dear Nanny presented me<br />
with a darling little boy, which seemed to open a fresh avenue in my<br />
heart for love to enter. I know you are fond of little boys and girls, sir,<br />
for I have seen you hopping about like a kangaroo with a lot of children<br />
after you screaming with fun; so you will understand how I loved my<br />
precious boy, who, as he grew up and began to toddle about, seemed to<br />
fill the house with rare music, and my heart with new joy. How dearly<br />
Nanny and I prized him! too much, sir, I fear, for we almost idolized<br />
him. By his thousand engaging pranks, and his winning little ways, he<br />
wound himself round our hearts so tightly, that other and higher love was<br />
almost excluded; and I believe that is why God saw it would be a mercy<br />
to take our idol from us, and to ruffle our too even course of happiness a<br />
little.<br />
“Sickness prostrated our darling boy, and day after day, and night after
night we watched him with that anxious interest which none but fond<br />
parents know. Gradually he sank under the wasting influence of fever,<br />
which no human skill could allay. His round rosy cheeks became pale<br />
and sunken, his plump little limbs were wasted and shrivelled. The merry<br />
laughter, which had sounded like the music of spring birds in our home,<br />
gave place to a low piteous whine, and the smiles on his pretty dimpled<br />
face were changed to the sharp wince of suffering, which racked our<br />
hearts to witness. Our house was silent as a sepulchre, for all the servants<br />
were fond of little Charlie, and sadness beclouded each face as the doctor<br />
went away day after day without saying a word to encourage a ray of<br />
hope of the recovery of our loved one. I need not tell you, sir, that I often<br />
prayed to God to spare my boy, and my dear wife prayed too. But I did<br />
not ask unreservedly for the life of my child; to my earnest pleadings for<br />
him I always added the condition, ‘Lord, Thou knowest what is best:<br />
help me to say, Thy will be done.’ Still I felt it very, very hard to say,<br />
‘Take my boy, Lord, if Thou seest it best to do so.’ Oh how difficult it is,<br />
sir, to see wisdom and mercy in such a dispensation, while our spirits are<br />
crushed down by the afflictive stroke.<br />
“One afternoon there was an apparent improvement in him, and hope<br />
revived in our hearts. Our darling's eyes looked brighter, there was a<br />
slight colour in his cheeks, and he smiled while he faintly lisped our<br />
names. How carefully Nanny and I watched him that evening, and how<br />
we cheered each other with the promise of his recovery. How we<br />
admired his pretty sleeping form, with the curly locks clustering about<br />
his noble brow. How we sat and drew bright pictures of our future<br />
happiness in training him up to manhood. But all those hopes were<br />
suddenly blighted, and the pride of our eyes faded before us like the<br />
ephemeral tints of a rainbow. About midnight an unmistakable change<br />
stole over our beloved child's features, and while we stood beside his cot<br />
gazing on him with streaming eyes, his gentle spirit soared away home.<br />
Oh, sir! what a crushing blow that was to us. But you have experienced a<br />
similar loss, so you understand it. May God comfort all those who are<br />
now mourning as Nanny and I mourned on that memorable night of<br />
death.<br />
“The loss of that dear child was an intense grief to us for several<br />
months; but time softens down our heaviest sorrows, and we tried our<br />
best to bear our trial with resignation. Dear Nanny gathered up all<br />
Charlie's clothes and toys, and everything that had belonged to him, and<br />
locked them in a separate drawer of her wardrobe. Nothing that could<br />
recall the memory of the dear little fellow was to be seen, and we rarely<br />
ventured to speak of him for several weeks. It is marvellous though how<br />
small a thing will suddenly re-open the springs of sorrow, when we think<br />
they are almost dried up, as the following little incident will show. One<br />
evening I was searching in my study for a document which I had mislaid,
and in turning over a waste-paper basket I found a little toy kitten,<br />
Charlie's pretty little pussy as he used to call it, and which he had put to<br />
bed in my paper basket, as I remembered, the very evening before he was<br />
taken ill. The sight of that little simple toy proved to me that I had not<br />
forgotten my darling boy, and that my tears would still flow in spite of<br />
my reason. In fact, sir, I have not forgotten him to this day, nor shall I<br />
ever do so while memory holds her seat. But my sorrow is turned into<br />
joy and gratitude, for I cannot have the shade of a doubt that he is safe in<br />
Heaven, and I shall soon re-unite with him, for the sand in my life's glass<br />
has not long to run. Yes, he is safe, I know; but had he been spared to me<br />
when I so earnestly longed to keep him, how can I tell what sad fate<br />
might have befallen him? It is awfully possible that I might now be<br />
weeping in bitterness over his poor wrecked soul.<br />
“Oh, Mr. Boomerang! depend upon it, it is all right when God takes<br />
our children from us in early life, painful though it be for us to part with<br />
them. It is all right, sir, and more a matter for thanksgiving than for<br />
sorrowful repining, which many parents have owned after the keen edge<br />
of their grief has been worn down, and they are able to see through the<br />
cloud that overshadowed their spirits.<br />
“About two years after Charlie's death, we were blessed with another<br />
bright-eyed boy to fill his place, and our hearts again rejoiced. But I must<br />
allude very briefly to this subject, sir, for reasons which you will shortly<br />
understand. At four years old little David was seized with a dangerous<br />
epidemic, which had carried off many children in Sydney. I was almost<br />
frantic at the idea of losing him, and I never felt so much opposed to the<br />
Almighty's dispensations. I believe I prayed to God unconditionally, to<br />
spare my child, to save myself and my wife the bitter pang of losing him<br />
as we had lost our first-born. He was spared, sir,” continued Mr.<br />
Dovecott with increasing emotion. “He grew up to manhood. I will<br />
forbear to ‘draw his frailties from their dread abode.’ He is dead. He died<br />
a violent death. Oh, God! Oh, God! Would that I had buried him in<br />
infancy! Poor boy! My poor ruined boy!”<br />
The old gentleman was so overcome by the sad recollections of the<br />
untimely death of his son, (who I afterwards learned had committed<br />
suicide), that he could not continue his narrative. I refrained from<br />
inquiries on the distressing subject, and after a few words of sympathy I<br />
bad him good night and went to my chamber, pondering over the<br />
mysterious dispensations of Providence, as displayed in the late touching<br />
recital.<br />
Next morning — rather to my surprise — Mr. Dovecott was almost<br />
merry, but I now ascertained that his cheerfulness was studied, in order<br />
to prevent his wife suspecting the gloomy nature of his conversation on<br />
the previous night. After breakfast I took a pleasant stroll through the<br />
garden with him, when he thus continued his story: —
“My career in this country has not been an unruffled one, far from it, I<br />
have had my trials, sir, but I believe I have not had more than was<br />
essential to keep me humble; for uninterrupted prosperity is very<br />
dangerous, and is apt to engender pride and self-importance. But<br />
whatever troubles I had in my business affairs, I had always peace and<br />
comfort at home; and with the exception of one blighting source of<br />
anxiety, which I alluded to last night, my home circle was always a<br />
happy one. When reverses overtook me, it was then that I most felt the<br />
sympathy and cheering counsel of my dear wife; and I found that the<br />
stormy blasts of adversity only made her cling closer to my side.<br />
Twenty-three years ago I was all but ruined, in common with many other<br />
wealthy colonists. I had extensive landed possessions certainly, and<br />
sheep and cattle too, but, commercially speaking, they were almost<br />
valueless, for a monetary panic over-spread the country, and there was<br />
scarcely a possibility of selling property, either real or personal, except at<br />
mere nominal prices. I must tell you that I had retired from my office<br />
some years before, an independent man; in fact, I supposed myself to be<br />
wealthy, and had lived in a style proportionate to my means.<br />
“I recollect going home one evening very much cast down with the<br />
pressure of my pecuniary embarrassments, and I said to my wife,<br />
‘Nanny, my love, I have tried as long as I could to save you from the<br />
anxiety of knowing our involved circumstances, but I can't longer<br />
conceal from you the fact, that we are on the verge of ruin.’ How do you<br />
think she bore the news, sir. Did she cry, do you suppose, as some<br />
women would have done, and reproach me with want of judgment, or the<br />
like? or did she shudder at the approach of poverty and say, that she<br />
could not do without this or that luxury or comfort? Nothing of the sort,<br />
sir. She clasped her hands round my neck, and with her usual cheering<br />
smile, said, ‘Davy, dear, I am sorry you did not tell me this before, that I<br />
might have shared your burden of anxiety. But cheer up, love! we both<br />
know how to work, and we are not too proud to do anything that is<br />
honourable. We have a good reputation left to us, and good health too<br />
— let us be thankful for these blessings. Above all, “we know that all<br />
things work together for good, to them that love God.” And that is a<br />
consolation which we may claim, for we both love God, and have<br />
hitherto trusted in Him. “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be<br />
afraid.” Listen to some of my plans, dear. We can take a small house, and<br />
manage with only one servant, or without a servant at all if needs be; and<br />
it will surprise you how little money I shall require to keep house with,<br />
for I know how to bake, and to make candles, and butter, and a score of<br />
other things which will save outlay of money. Then we can do without<br />
new clothes for a year or more, and who knows what may take place in<br />
that time? Cheer up, Davy, dear! “The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness<br />
thereof,” I am sure he will not let us want.’
“You have no idea how that cheered me, sir. It was like a shower in a<br />
season of drought, and my heart was as light as a poppy head in a<br />
minute. How I did bless the day when I first saw her dear face! Seeing<br />
that she could bear trouble so nobly, I opened my mind freely to her, and<br />
I was really surprised at the solidity and practical character of her<br />
counsel, and her ready plans for retrenchment. We did retrench, sir — we<br />
dismissed all our servants except two, dispensed with our carriage, and<br />
economised in every way we could; and though our circle of fashionable<br />
visitors was lessened in consequence (which we found to be an<br />
advantage), our real friends did not desert us, and we had the satisfaction<br />
of knowing that we were gradually recovering ourselves. My wife's<br />
inspiriting conduct put new courage into me, and I went to work like a<br />
skilful mariner to save my shattered bark from foundering. The fortunate<br />
expedient of boiling down sheep and cattle, saved me the necessity of<br />
sacrificing my real property, and though it was a hard struggle with us<br />
for several years, we eventually weathered the storm. Times gradually<br />
improved, as you are aware, sir, and soon after the gold was discovered<br />
in the colony, I found myself in more affluent circumstances than I had<br />
ever been before.<br />
“My children have grown up to comfort me in my old age — you know<br />
the positions they occupy in society, sir. Poor Davy was the only sad<br />
exception, and his case was a powerful warning to the others. One of<br />
these days, I may tell you in confidence some of the particulars of his<br />
deplorable career, and what was the cause of his fine constitution being<br />
ruined, and his intellect shaken to idiocy. Oh, sir, I often shudder when I<br />
see the thoughtless way in which some parents discharge the responsible<br />
duties devolving upon them, and I long to speak to them and offer some<br />
hints on matters which it is important to study, if they value their<br />
children's souls and bodies. I have had the pain of seeing many young<br />
persons cut off in the bloom of life, through yielding to certain debasing<br />
practices acquired in childhood. I need not speak plainer to you, sir, for I<br />
think you will understand me, but if not, I refer you for information to<br />
‘Todd's Student's Manual,’ chap. 4. The testimony of an eminent<br />
philanthropist, (whose recent death was a great loss to our community)<br />
has proved how deeply he thought upon that subject to which I allude.<br />
Moreover, I have in my desk a cleverly written treatise, in manuscript,<br />
from the pen of one of the first physicians in the colony, which not only<br />
depicts the terrible consequences of the sinful habit, but proves, alas, that<br />
it is sadly prevalent. I heartily wish that I could ensure the perusal of that<br />
treatise by every parent in the land. I am sure it would arouse them to<br />
watchfulness.<br />
“A short time ago I heard a Rev. Doctor relate an anecdote of a poor<br />
widow who lived near a railroad, on some part of the sea coast of<br />
England. One winter night, during a violent snow storm, the sea broke
over its embankment and made a great chasm in the railway line. The<br />
widow knew that a mail train would pass along the line at a certain hour,<br />
and that if unwarned it would rush with all its living freight to<br />
destruction. So she arose, and facing the pelting storm, waded through<br />
the snow to some distance along the railway; then lighted a fire, and<br />
watched beside it till the arrival of the train, which was thereby saved<br />
from sudden ruin. That is the spirit which should actuate every heart, sir,<br />
when a fellow-creature is in danger. It is that spirit, I trust, which<br />
prompts me to caution parents whenever I can, to carefully watch over<br />
their children, lest they should unhappily acquire habits which will<br />
— apart from the moral aspect — as surely shatter their physical health,<br />
as the worm at its root will destroy the vitality of a young tree.”<br />
Chapter VI.<br />
“I HAVE uttered a good deal of nonsense, Mr. Boomerang, while<br />
speaking of my wife, and I daresay you think I am a silly old fellow; but<br />
bear in mind there was fun as well as folly in my remarks, and I did not<br />
mean all I said, of course not. I have called my Nanny an angel, and a<br />
bird of Paradise, but bless her heart she is only a woman after all, I know<br />
that very well. She is as wingless as an emu, and has not even got a<br />
feather on her bonnet. My whimsical figures are not intended to be<br />
subjected to matter of fact scrutiny, and I don't suppose they would go far<br />
with a common jury in establishing my wife's superiority, or my common<br />
sense either. Still, for all that, I can and will say in sober earnestness, that<br />
she is a superior woman in every way, mentally and materially; that I can<br />
prove by a thousand evidences. But even superior women have little<br />
marks of human nature about them, and the man who expects to find a<br />
wife without them had much better remain a bachelor all his life.<br />
“As I have said before, sir, Nanny was free from all fussy whims and<br />
fancies, which some young wives think it pretty to exhibit, still she<br />
was — she was — well, sir, she was not an angel — that is the best way<br />
to express it. She was not perfect, so I began to study her little<br />
pecularities or idiosyncrasies, and in a short time I could keep her in tune<br />
as mellow as my German flute. She was subject to nervous depressions,<br />
poor thing, owing to spinal weakness. Those sufferers who understand<br />
what that means, will readily sympathise with her; but persons with no<br />
nerves usually laugh at such disorders, which they call by a variety of<br />
ridiculous names, and treat the victims of them with contempt rather than<br />
with pity. When at home, her father (who knew no more about nervous<br />
disorders than a brewer's horse) used to try to rally her out of her<br />
mopishness, as he called it, by blustering at her in his characteristic style,<br />
or recommending half-a-dozen rough remedies in a breath, which usually<br />
sent her to her room in tears. I took another plan, sir, for I had too high
an opinion of her sense to believe that her malady was induced by any<br />
whims and fancies as her father said it was. I knew when her nervous<br />
attacks were coming on, and I used to contrive to take some little<br />
business trip into the country for a week or so, and to take her with me.<br />
Change, and cheerful companionship were the best remedies for her<br />
complaint, I knew, and after a time she got much better.<br />
“It would take too long, sir, to tell you all the little methods I adopted<br />
in order to mould her to my own mind. I had had plenty of time to think<br />
over that important subject in my lonely bachelorhood, and I used to<br />
reason thus. ‘I take a great deal of pains to break in my hack horse to<br />
casy paces, and to keep him from buck-jumping, bolting, stumbling, or<br />
shying; and I find it necessary to know the dispositions of my servants, in<br />
order to manage them efficiently, and shall I neglect to study the<br />
characteristics of my wife when I get her? Not I, indeed! that shall be my<br />
chief delight.’ That's the way I used to argue to myself, sir, as I lay<br />
rolling about on my bachelor bed on warm nights; and I carried out my<br />
principle when I got married. My wife showed her appreciation of my<br />
kindness by studying all my little whims and oddities, in a way that no<br />
one had done before; and I became under her gentle treatment, as<br />
tractable as a tame lion. Therein lies the grand secret of our life-long<br />
happiness, sir, we carefully studied each other's weak points, and tried to<br />
strengthen them, while we mutually learned to ‘bear and forbear.’ There<br />
was perfect confidence between us, and we rarely had a thought or a<br />
wish concealed. I certainly kept from Nanny for a time, the knowledge of<br />
our pecuniary embarrassment, but I regretted it afterwards, and I always<br />
found my troubles reduced by acquainting her with them.<br />
“I will not say that we never had a ‘tiff,’ as it is called, during our forty<br />
years intercourse, or you may be disposed to doubt me, but I can truly<br />
say, sir, we never ‘let the sun go down on our wrath,’ if there was any<br />
wrath at all in our tiffs. I am rather fidgety at times, sir, as you have<br />
doubtless observed, and I dare say if some women had the management<br />
of me, I should be known as the ‘great bear,’ by all the gossips in the<br />
colony. But dear Nanny can cure my fidgety fits as cleverly as she can<br />
cook a plain dinner. She knows exactly how long to let my ill humours<br />
simmer, or ferment, and when to pass her gentle hand over my brow and<br />
kiss me into good humour. She can tell at a glance if it would be safe for<br />
her to steal up behind me and tickle my ear with a straw, or playfully<br />
take hold of my whiskers and say, ‘Davy, you rogue! what do you mean<br />
by looking so cross? kiss me this minute, sir, and be a good boy!’ Of<br />
course I never could help smiling under such discipline, and before I had<br />
time to recollect my cause of vexation, she would be clinging about my<br />
neck and saying all sorts of funny things to me, which would make any<br />
man laugh if his house were on fire. Sometimes I have gone into my<br />
sanctum to cool down after some vexatious excitement or other, for we
are all subject to these sort of trials, sir, and I think it would be a good<br />
thing if every one had a sanctum to cool down in. In about half-an-hour<br />
my door has been gently opened, and Nanny has just peeped in with her<br />
mouth screwed up into kissing shape, and with an arch look such as she<br />
well knew how to put on, she has gazed at me for half a minute, then<br />
with a roguish toss of her head muttered, ‘I don't care for you!’ shut the<br />
door and ran away before I could throw my slipper at her. In ten minutes<br />
more she would slyly open the door again and peep in to find me<br />
laughing, of course, how could I help it? That is the way the dear soul<br />
would gently chase away little petty vexations from my heart; she took<br />
other methods in serious matters, but with invariably the same results.<br />
“Now, sir, I will try to picture for a moment what might have resulted<br />
from my impatient temper, had Nanny behaved to me in the teasing spirit<br />
which I have seen some very good, but thoughtless wives exhibit when<br />
their husbands have been temporarily ruffled. Suppose, when I had gone<br />
into my study to cool down my wrath, as I before explained, that Nanny<br />
had followed me in and said carelessly, or perhaps sharply, ‘What is the<br />
matter now?’ or ‘What makes you look so glumpy?’ I should probably<br />
have been vexed at her intrusion, and replied hastily, ‘I will tell you<br />
presently, my dear; leave me just now, if you please.’<br />
“Suppose she had replied, ‘I am sure it must be something dreadful to<br />
make you look so cross, and I want to know what it is?’<br />
“ ‘I ask you to leave me, Mrs. Dovecott!’ I might have said<br />
emphatically; perhaps I should have said something much sharper than<br />
that, for I confess I am not particularly polite when irritated, and I can<br />
easily imagine how a regular storm might have been raised had she<br />
retorted in my own pungent style. Had she, too, adopted a popular<br />
expedient and ran for her father, or her brother and his wife, or some of<br />
her cousins to adjudge our quarrel, their interference would perhaps have<br />
provoked me to fighting pitch, and a furious family brawl would have<br />
been the result. The parson of the parish would perhaps have been sent<br />
for to repair the breach, and seeing faults on both sides he would not<br />
have been able conscientiously to decide in favour of either,<br />
consequently he would have offended us all, and would probably have<br />
lost us from his congregation, for staying from church is the usual silly<br />
plan people adopt for evidencing their dislike to their minister, and<br />
avenging themselves on his pocket at the same time. The fracas would<br />
have been as relishable as hot muffins and eschalots to the gossips of the<br />
neighbourhood, and through their influence the mischief might have<br />
spread far and wide like a dust storm. Of course it would have been<br />
reported that Mr. and Mrs. Dovecott lived ‘a cat and dog life.’ Friends<br />
would have poured in sympathy and condolence on both sides, and<br />
thereby fomented strife; thenceforward family brawls would have been<br />
as frequent as the whirls of a weathercock. A deed of separation would
have been the dernier ressort, as it generally is in such cases, and dear<br />
Nanny and I would be perhaps pining apart at this day in solitary<br />
sadness, or abusing each other in bitterness of spirit.<br />
“If you think this an over-drawn picture from fancy, Mr. Boomerang,<br />
here is an analogous one from real life. I could give you more, but one<br />
such specimen is sufficient for you, I'm sure. A young married couple<br />
were debating on the tender subject of choosing a name for their firstborn.<br />
The husband's choice was Peter, but the wife, after sharply<br />
condemning his taste, declared she would sooner call the boy Poker or<br />
Pitchfork. High words ensued — for they were two simpletons — and<br />
grew into a violent quarrel, when the wife, with an hysterical outburst of<br />
feeling exclaimed, ‘I'll go and tell father!’ and ran off to her sire, who<br />
lived not far away, and soon he was hastening to the house in a red hot<br />
rage with his excited daughter behind him. It is no marvel that the young<br />
husband, goaded to fury by his father-in-law's abuse and undue<br />
interference, kicked him out of the house. The old man's litigious spirit<br />
was aroused, an action for assault and battery — with heavy damages<br />
— was begun forthwith, and that trumpery quarrel, which has taken me<br />
two minutes to tell of, extended over two years, drove the husband into<br />
the Insolvent Court, and forced the wife to earn a separate maintenance.<br />
Whether they are reunited I cannot say, but I am half inclined to say<br />
— for the sake of posterity — I hope they are not.<br />
“ ‘What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,’ is a solemn<br />
injunction, which if more generally observed, would wonderfully add to<br />
the peace of many disjointed families, and to society at large. I have<br />
known the happiness of a household completely blasted by the<br />
interference of relatives or friends, with perhaps the best intention too.<br />
When either a husband or a wife begins to even whisper of each other's<br />
faults or short-comings to a third person, Ichabod is written on the door<br />
of their home. That is my opinion, Mr. Boomerang, and I would<br />
affectionately warn married folks — young couples especially — to be<br />
very watchful against those rankling sources of discord and hatred, and<br />
to bar their doors as carefully against idle gossips and scandal-mongers<br />
as they do against midnight robbers.<br />
“I knew a married couple, good old folks they were, too. I believe they<br />
loved everybody but themselves — and they would have loved and<br />
respected each other, if busybodies had not tampered with them. They<br />
had occasional tiffs about trifles not worth a penny cabbage, but instead<br />
of going into their sanctums to cool, and to pray at the same time, then to<br />
come out and kiss away their contentions, they were in the habit of<br />
sending for a neighbour to settle their disputes, and he usually made<br />
matters worse, though I dare say he strove to mend them. Mr.<br />
the said neighbour — was a worthy man in his way, though not<br />
overstocked with common sense, or he would have declined the
thankless office. Of course he told his wife all about the rupture when he<br />
returned home from his unsuccessful missions, and his wife told her<br />
grown-up children, so by a natural process, the petty brawlings of Mr.<br />
and Mrs. Glumps were soon as public as other sporting intelligence, and<br />
the poor old pair were the table-talk of all the vulgar gossips in town.<br />
“I wish I could have the privilege of speaking to the world for even<br />
half-an-hour before I die, Mr. Boomerang,” said Mr. Dovecott, with<br />
earnestness. “Among many important items from my long experience in<br />
the world's ways that I could quote, I would say to young folks who are<br />
on the look out for partners in life, or rather I would say to their natural<br />
guardians, for they are most responsible, ‘Be careful that there are no<br />
striking disparities between these inexperienced lovers, or they cannot<br />
reasonably expect conjugal happiness. Above all, see that virtuous<br />
principles are alive in their hearts, for where they are lacking, the<br />
consequences may be anything that your imagination can picture that is<br />
dreadful.’ A moment's sad reflection on passing events is sufficient to<br />
convince us of that, Mr. Boomerang. Let your fancy picture a youthful<br />
pair tripping jauntily up to the altar in God's house, to be united in holy<br />
wedlock, and while the bridegroom is promising to love, honour, and<br />
cherish the blooming girl whose hand he clasps, just conceive, sir, that it<br />
is awfully possible, that in less than twelve months' time he will go home<br />
drunk, beat his wife savagely, and throw her bridal wreath of orange<br />
blossoms behind the fire. Ay, more horrible still, that in less than five<br />
years hence he will murder her. It is a frightful conception, sir, but true to<br />
life. Alas! it is true to life in our very midst. Where virtue is not the<br />
guiding principle of the heart, the Devil rules supreme; and what limit is<br />
there to his power for evil?<br />
“Then I would say to young newly-married folks,” continued Mr.<br />
Dovecott, “ ‘You are setting out together on a toilsome journey, friends,<br />
and whether it be a long or a short one to you, it is for life; so you had<br />
better arrange the cushions in your travelling car so as to prevent bumps<br />
and bruises by the way. In other words, you had better begin at once to<br />
study each other's tempers and dispositions, and be resolved to mutually<br />
yield where principle does not imperatively forbid you. Set up God's altar<br />
in your household and take God's word for your guide, and you will be<br />
happy.’<br />
“To old folks who are tottering down the hill of life, and throwing glass<br />
bottles and sharp pebbles in each other's pathways, I would say, ‘Friends,<br />
sit down a-bit, and listen to reason. Apart from the sin of your acts, they<br />
are irrational, as you must admit if you reflect even for a minute. How<br />
much wiser it would be for you to smooth each other's way and jog along<br />
comfortably — to be mutual helps instead of hindrances. What cripple is<br />
so impolitic as to whittle his crutches, and thus weaken or destroy his<br />
only means of moving about? Surely none but an idiot would do that.
Wife! what better friend have you in the world than your husband?<br />
Husband! what warmer friend have you in the world than your wife?<br />
None: certainly not. Cleave to each other then in love; and live in<br />
preparation for another world “where they neither marry, nor are given in<br />
marriage.” ’<br />
“Why old folks should not love each other as tenderly as young folks,<br />
Mr. Boomerang, I can see no reason at all; but I can see strong reason<br />
why they should do so. Surely the recollection of ten thousand acts of<br />
kindness and love should foster tender feelings. There are many old pairs<br />
in the land who live jarring lives, and I wish it were otherwise. But it is<br />
not too late for them to alter their conduct, and hence-forward to live in<br />
amity and peace. The following little story conveys a useful moral,<br />
though it is not so new as some of my stories. An old couple, who had<br />
long been notorious for their quarrelsome tempers, suddenly reformed<br />
and became loving and gentle. The change excited the curiosity of a kind<br />
neighbour, who one day inquired of the old man the cause of the marked<br />
change, when he replied, ‘that they had lately taken two bears into their<br />
house.’ The gentleman smiled, while he thought that formerly, when the<br />
old man and woman were at home, there certainly were two very savage<br />
bears in the house; he then asked the old man for an explanation, when<br />
he replied, ‘Why, sir, this is it: Sally and I have lately learned to bear and<br />
forbear with each other's failings, and since we have taken those bears<br />
into our house, we have lived in peace and happiness.’<br />
“But we have had a long walk, Mr. Boomerang,” said Mr. Dovecott,<br />
“so come in doors and take a little fruit and rest awhile. It is no use to<br />
offer you wine I know. Nanny! Nanny!” he shouted, as we entered the<br />
house. “Come this way, love; I want you. Now, sir, walk into the<br />
drawingroom, and I will show you something that I only show to my<br />
most intimate friends. Nanny, dear, give me the key of the cabinet.”<br />
“Take a careful look at this,” continued Mr. Dovecott, walking towards<br />
me, after taking from a cabinet in the corner, a little rose-wood box,<br />
inlaid with pearl, and placing it in my hands. “Take a good look at it,<br />
sir.” I did look at it scrutinisingly, and admired the workmanship.<br />
“Bother the box! but look inside, sir. Open it.” I did open it, and to my<br />
surprise, I saw therein a little old leather shoe, with ancle straps and a<br />
rusty button. “There, sir,” said Mr. Dovecott exultingly, while tears stood<br />
in his eyes, “that is the identical little shoe that dear Nanny was crying<br />
for when I first saw her sweet face, sixty-nine years ago, on the margin<br />
of Beechwood brook. And this, sir,” he added, holding up a coarse linen<br />
bag, with a tape string in it, “this, sir, was my dinner-bag, that I used to<br />
carry to Dame Tingle's school, and these white pebbles I picked from the<br />
brook the very last time I set foot on its well-remembered crossingplace.”<br />
“At some future time, sir, I should like to philosophise a little on the
mysterious influence which even minute circumstances sometimes have<br />
on one's whole life,” said Mr. Dovecott, handling the little shoe as<br />
affectionately as if it was a pet bird stuffed. “Look at that fracture in the<br />
upper leather, sir; and reflect that to that lucky little hole I owe the<br />
possession of one of the best wives in the world! for it is clear to me that<br />
if the shoe had not leaked it would not have sunk, and Nanny would have<br />
recovered it without my aid, and would perhaps have gone home singing,<br />
instead of standing by the brook crying, for me first to pity her, then to<br />
love her, afterwards to marry her, and after living forty years with her, to<br />
love her forty times better than ever! Ods, bobs! talk about love stories!<br />
where did you hear one to equal mine? Why there is romance enough in<br />
it to make a book twice as big as ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ ”
Widow Giles's Little Grocery Shop.<br />
A GLANCE at Widow Giles's little shop would suffice to convince an<br />
observant person, who knew anything about shopkeeping, that she was a<br />
thriving trader. The stock was well selected and nicely kept; there was a<br />
display of taste as well as tidiness in the arrangement of the goods on the<br />
shelves, and there was no litter anywhere. Her counter was always clean,<br />
and the brass scales upon it shone like sovereigns. No one ever saw an<br />
unsightly accumulation of scraps of bacon, fragments of cheese, or heads<br />
and tails of dried fish wasting on the corner of her counter, for she never<br />
allowed “odds and ends,” as she called them, to collect, well knowing<br />
that they did not improve by keeping, and she usually sold them at a<br />
reduction in price, to get quit of them. If you sent to her shop for a pat of<br />
fresh butter, you might be sure of having it free from dust, for she always<br />
kept a clean damp cloth over her butter dish. If weevils invaded her rice<br />
bag, or her pearl barley drawer, she got her boy Billy — when he came<br />
home from school — to sift them out into a tub of water, in the backyard.<br />
The mice never had a chance of nibbling at her mould candles, and<br />
soiling them at the same time; for she always kept a lid on her candlebox.<br />
In fact, there were not many mice to be seen in her house, for there<br />
was no garbage to entice them, and food of all sorts was usually kept<br />
beyond their reach; besides, the cat kept a sharper look after them than<br />
even her mistress did; and mice very soon desert a house where they see<br />
such unmistakable signs that they are not welcome in it.<br />
Mrs. Giles had a drawer under her counter for waste paper which she<br />
used for wrapping up rough articles. No one ever saw her wastefully tear<br />
a piece off a large sheet of new paper, to wrap up a pound of candles, or<br />
soap, or a red herring; in short, she was an economical woman, and<br />
though she certainly did not make large profits out of her little shop, she<br />
made a comfortable living, and was enabled to keep her children<br />
decently clad and to give them a suitable education, which was the height<br />
of her ambition. She could get credit at more than one wholesale house in<br />
Sydney; but she had a wholesome dread of going far into debt, and<br />
usually bought her little stock with ready money; consequently she often<br />
got better bargains than some of the neighbouring shopkeepers, who<br />
bought on credit, and were not very punctual in their payments.<br />
Widow Giles was careful, though not parsimonious; she was fair and<br />
just in all her dealings, and her neighbours had confidence in her. She
lost one or two customers soon after she began business, through her<br />
firmness in refusing to open her shop door on Sundays; but she gained<br />
many others, who respected her consistency; and, what was better still,<br />
she had the consciousness that she acted uprightly, and she had faith in<br />
the promise of the God of the widow and fatherless, that, “He would<br />
never leave them nor forsake them.”<br />
If my readers have patience to follow my simple story, they may learn<br />
how Widow Giles got her nice little grocery shop.<br />
Peter Giles, her late husband, was a joiner, and a very good hand at his<br />
trade. He worked for one of the best masters in Sydney, and always got<br />
full wages. But Peter never saved money, and friends often wondered<br />
why he could not do so, for his wife was a very thrifty body, and he was<br />
by no means an idler or a drunkard. The fact of the matter was, Peter had<br />
never studied that fundamental principle of domestic economy — viz.,<br />
“taking care of the pence.” He would have shrunk at wasting a pound,<br />
but pennies were of little value in his eyes, and he recklessly parted with<br />
small sums, which in the aggregate represented a tolerably large sum at<br />
the year's end. For instance — he usually spent three or four “threepenny<br />
bits” every day, for beer; and on Saturday nights he thought he was<br />
moderate in allowing himself two shillings or half-a-crown to “stand<br />
treat” to his shop-mates. Still, he never got drunk; he would have scouted<br />
the idea of thus disgracing himself in the eyes of his family and his<br />
neighbours. Then he liked good clothes for Sunday wear, and he would<br />
have the best tools; but he had not an economical way of buying them,<br />
for instead of saving his small money until he had sufficient to buy what<br />
he needed, he generally bought on credit, and paid by instalments; thus<br />
he doubtless paid a higher price than he otherwise would have done. To<br />
describe his character in the briefest manner, he was not a thoughtful or a<br />
provident man, though he was an affectionate husband, and an indulgent<br />
father.<br />
On the afternoon of a public holiday some years ago, Peter was sitting<br />
on a form in Hyde Park, watching his children, who were sporting about<br />
on the green sward, when an old gentleman seated himself on the same<br />
form to rest, for he looked weary. Presently little Bobby Giles ran up to<br />
the stranger, and, child-like, began to play with his walking-stick, which<br />
had rather an attractive top to it.<br />
“Bobby, come here, sir,” said his father; “you mustn't be rude.”<br />
“Let him alone, sir, if you please,” said the gentleman, kindly. At the<br />
same time, he produced a few lollipops from his coat pocket, and gave to<br />
the curly headed little fellow, who soon proved that he liked lollipops.<br />
Then the gentleman asked Peter how many children he had.<br />
“I have five, sir — these four, and a baby at home with its mother.”<br />
“May I ask if you have made any provision for the poor little things if<br />
it should please God to take you from them?” said the gentleman, after a
short pause, and in a tone which plainly evidenced that he was not<br />
making the inquiry in an inquisitive or meddling spirit.<br />
“Well, I've never thought much about it, and that's the truth, sir,”<br />
replied Peter. “I'm a strong healthy man, thank God, I haven't had a day's<br />
sickness for the last ten years, and I don't think I am in danger of dying<br />
yet awhile. The young ones will grow bigger, and by-and-bye they'll be<br />
able to shift for themselves, as thousands of other children have to do.”<br />
“That is true to some extent,” said the gentleman. “But you look like a<br />
sensible man, so you don't want me to remind you of the uncertainty of<br />
life, even with the strongest of us; and you know, too, that thousands of<br />
poor children make very bad shifts for themselves. You heard of that sad<br />
accident to the workmen on the railway line, last week, I dare say.”<br />
“Yes, sir, I did. Ah, that was a bad look out for those poor navvies, and<br />
for their wives and families too.”<br />
“They were men of the strongest class, and yet you see death passed by<br />
many weaker men to clutch them. I fear their families will be very badly<br />
off.”<br />
“Yes, that they will, sir,” said Peter, “and these are hard times for poor<br />
lone women to struggle along, and support young families. I pity them,<br />
poor things!”<br />
“I hope you will excuse me for putting such a plain question to you,”<br />
said the gentleman, “but if you were taken off by death, as suddenly as<br />
those navvies were, would it not be a hard struggle for your wife to bring<br />
up your young family comfortably?”<br />
“Ay, that it certainly would,” said Peter, with a sigh, “but I hope she<br />
will not have to do it, poor lass, for she is not one of the strongest women<br />
in the colony.”<br />
“I hope she will not, indeed,” said the gentleman, “but as it is awfully<br />
possible, would it not be humane of you to provide as far as you can,<br />
against such a calamity?”<br />
“There is no doubt about that, sir, and I'd do it too if I knew how; but I<br />
can't work harder than I do, and I don't know that I am over extravagant<br />
in anything. All the money that I could put in the savings bank wouldn't<br />
be much good to them, I'm afraid.”<br />
While Peter was speaking, the gentleman took a piece of paper and a<br />
pencil from his pocket, and began to jot down a number of figures.<br />
Presently he said, “Will you excuse me asking your age?”<br />
“I shall be thirty-six next August,” replied Peter, who was rather<br />
puzzled to conceive what the old gentleman was doing with his pencil<br />
and paper, and had some idea that he was making his will, and was going<br />
to leave little Bobby a good legacy. In a few minutes he handed the slip<br />
of paper to Peter, remarking as he did so, “You will see by these simple<br />
calculations, that for £8 11s. 3d. a year — which is less than sixpence a<br />
day — you may insure £300 to be paid to your wife and family at your
death, let it happen when it may. If you cannot spare so much you may<br />
insure for £100, by paying £2 17s. 1d. a year, which is less than<br />
twopence a day. Did you ever think of making a provision for them in<br />
that way?”<br />
“Never, sir. I joined a benefit club when I was in England, but I have<br />
never thought of anything of the sort since I came here. I have heard tell<br />
of assurance societies, but I don't understand them; and I haven't much<br />
time to bother my head with such things; for when I have done work I'm<br />
generally pretty tired, and don't care to think about things that are<br />
troublesome.”<br />
“I am a stranger to you,” said the gentleman, “but I assure you I have<br />
no other object in offering you advice than your good, ‘and the interest of<br />
your family. Take that little slip of paper home with you, and think over<br />
it to-night, as you will not be tired from hard work to-day. I am sure you<br />
can afford to pay the premium on a life assurance policy; and it will<br />
afford you great comfort to know that your wife and children will not be<br />
left in poverty, as well as sorrow, if it please God to take you from them<br />
suddenly. There are profits of the assurance association or bonus<br />
additions, which you would share in if you became a member, so that the<br />
longer you lived the more valuable your policy would become, if you<br />
chose to allow the bonuses to be added to your policy instead of drawing<br />
them periodically as they are declared. I have not time to explain all that<br />
to you thoroughly, but I advise you to apply at the office of the Mutual<br />
Provident Society, in Pitt Street, or to any other assurance office for<br />
further information. I will only add my strong recommendation to you, to<br />
lose no time in insuring your life, ‘For you know not what a day may<br />
bring forth.’ ” The old gentleman then arose, wished Peter good<br />
afternoon, and went on his way.<br />
After tea that evening, Peter sat down in his armchair, lighted his pipe,<br />
and began to look over the paper which the chatty old gentleman had<br />
given him. His wife was sitting opposite him darning the children's<br />
socks. Presently Peter looked at her seriously and said, “Jenny, do you<br />
think we can save sixpence a day?”<br />
“Sixpence a day!” exclaimed Jenny, opening her eyes and dropping her<br />
needle. “What do you want it for?”<br />
“Never mind, Jenny: can you spare it? that's the question,” said Peter,<br />
with a half-comical, half-serious look.<br />
“No, my dear, I am sure I can't spare it. You have no notion how I have<br />
to cut and contrive, to keep the children tidy, and to get a good dinner for<br />
you every day. I shall want a warm shawl or a cloak for winter; but I<br />
don't know how I can get it without going on trust, and I would rather not<br />
do that if I can possibly help it. I really cannot save sixpence a day, Peter,<br />
and that's the truth.”<br />
“Well then, I can,” said Peter, starting up like a man who had decided
upon doing something noble. “I can spare sixpence a day from my beer<br />
money, and if I go without beer altogether, I dare say I shall be none the<br />
worse — indeed Tom Bevil is always trying to persuade me that I shall<br />
be very much better in every way if I adopt his plan, and drink nothing<br />
stronger than tea. He has managed to save money enough to build a snug<br />
little house for himself. I can and will spare sixpence a day, Jenny; and<br />
I'll tell you next week what I want it for, but not before then, so don't ask<br />
me there's a dear.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
About ten days afterwards, Peter Giles handed his wife a large printed<br />
paper, in an envelope, and told her to put it away carefully in her<br />
drawers. It was a policy of assurance on his life for £300.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Boxing Day of 186 — was a sorrowful day for poor Mrs. Giles and her<br />
young family. Peter went out that morning, in company with several of<br />
his shopmates, to spend the day on the harbour in a boat. That afternoon<br />
a furious squall of wind from the south did much mischief to the small<br />
vessels in port, and, amongst other distressing casualties, Peter's boat was<br />
upset, when he and two of his companions were drowned.<br />
I need not try to depict the grief of poor Widow Giles and her five<br />
young children, when the lifeless body of her husband was brought to her<br />
home the next day. It was a very sad trial for her; but, happily, she had<br />
not to bear poverty in addition to her intense grief, for Peter had kept his<br />
premiums punctually paid to the assurance office, and in a short time she<br />
received about £320, being the amount assured for, with bonus additions.<br />
That was the capital which enabled Widow Giles to stock her nice little<br />
grocery shop.<br />
Instead of speculating on the forlorn condition which Widow Giles<br />
would have been placed in, if her late husband had not made that<br />
fortunate provision for her, I will close this chapter with the following<br />
quotation from a London journal (which I read some years ago), on the<br />
“moral duty of Life Assurance.” The writer in question, says, “It may be<br />
felt by many, that their income is insufficient to enable them to spare<br />
even the small sum necessary as an annual premium for life assurance.<br />
The necessities of the present can in their case so great, that they do not<br />
see how they are afford it. We believe there can be no obstacle which is<br />
apt to appear more real than this, when an income is at all limited, and<br />
yet it is easy to show that no obstacle is more ideal. It will be readily<br />
acknowledged by every one who has an income at all, that there must be<br />
some who have smaller incomes. Say, for instance, that any man has
£400 per annum; he cannot doubt that there are some who have only<br />
£350. Now if these persons live on £350, why may not he do so too,<br />
sparing the odd £50 as a deposit for life assurance? In like manner, he<br />
who has £200 may live as men do who have only £175, and devote the<br />
remaining £25 to have a sum assured upon his life? And so on. It may<br />
require an effort to accomplish this, but is not the object worthy of an<br />
effort? And can any man be held as honest, or any way good, who will<br />
not make such an effort, rather than always be liable to the risk of<br />
leaving in beggary the beings whom he most cherishes on earth, and for<br />
whose support he alone is responsible?”
Commercial Hobgoblins.<br />
IN the course of a recent ramble in the city, I called at the countinghouse<br />
of a mercantile friend, whom I found intently poring over his billbook.<br />
I briefly apologised for intruding upon his studies, and as I had no<br />
business to transact, I was about to retire, but the cordial tone in which he<br />
said, “I am glad to see you; take a seat,” reassured me, so I took a seat,<br />
and silently waited till he had totted up a long column of figures.<br />
Presently he raised his eyes from the book, and sat abstractedly gazing at<br />
nothing for two minutes. Fearing that he would soon miss his beard, for<br />
he was unconsciously pulling the bristles out two at a time, I ventured to<br />
ask him “if he found that reading his bill-book was a refreshing mental<br />
exercise?” My question aroused him. He shut up the book, pushed it into<br />
an iron safe and turned the key, with the grim look of a gaoler who had<br />
just locked up a thief, then, rubbing his hands to warm them, he replied,<br />
“I would rather read Hervey's ‘Meditations among the Tombs.’ Still,<br />
there are moral lessons to be learned in bill-books, and I believe that if<br />
they were studied a little more, it would be beneficial to the world at<br />
large, and be especially gratifying to bank managers.”<br />
By degrees my friend's face grew solemnly smooth, and with true<br />
philosophy, worthy of imitation in these exciting times, he remarked,<br />
“Scanning over my bill-book is not an exhilarating pastime just now; far<br />
from it. It is a stern duty, which requires no small amount of courage to<br />
perform; still, I dare not neglect it, or I should soon get as bemuddled and<br />
panic-stricken as some of my neighbours. There are figures enough in<br />
that book to frighten me if I were to yield to despondency; but I hope for<br />
the best, while I prepare to meet reverses with courage, energy, and<br />
patience. Most of my bills receivable may turn out as good as gold; so I<br />
will cling to that comforting hope till I am obliged to relinquish it; but if<br />
they should all prove bad, it would be folly for me to make myself bad<br />
too, by fretting over them. Depend upon it, sir, nothing wears a man out<br />
sooner than worry of mind. It impairs his digestion, disturbs his sleep,<br />
sours his temper, destroys his vital energy, and makes a coward of him;<br />
aye, and it will soon make a dry skeleton of him too. Bother it all! I won't<br />
yield to it,” he added, with a shrug, as though he were dislodging a toad<br />
from the nape of his neck. “I'll tell you a tale of the times, Mr.<br />
Boomerang, just to divert my thoughts; then I hope you will tell me<br />
something sprightly; and don't be afraid to laugh loudly, for it will cheer
up my clerks who are growing dyspeptic for want of work, and if the<br />
folks outside hear that we are merry in here, it may help my trade, and do<br />
them good too; for mirth is as contagious as melancholy. It's my belief,<br />
sir, that if something could tickle all the business men in Sydney, and<br />
make them roar with laughter, even for ten minutes, that the banks would<br />
relax their hold upon their hard cash, and be glad to accommodate all<br />
their customers, except ‘kite-flyers’ and bubblemongers.”<br />
My friend reclining in his arm-chair, stroked his beard tenderly, and<br />
related the following queer little story (which I have slightly varied), and<br />
if it did not tend to encourage his mercantile hope, it evidently helped to<br />
make him forget his doubts for a while, and to look as waggishly<br />
independent as a man who had neither money nor merchandise to worry<br />
him.<br />
He said that a short time ago a merchant was issuing from his store,<br />
when he met a doubtful customer from the country. “Good morning, Mr.<br />
Linsey; I am just going in to make up a parcel,” said the countryman.<br />
“Humph! a — a — good morning, Mr. Mopus,” stammered the<br />
merchant, who was ruminating on the most delicate way of refusing to<br />
give him a parcel on credit, for he suspected the man was a schemer,<br />
because his competitors in trade said that he sold goods much cheaper<br />
than they could buy them.<br />
“I'm going to pay half cash,” continued the countryman, without<br />
appearing to notice the other's hesitation.<br />
The little word “cash” was as welcome as “whoa” to a jaded cart-horse.<br />
At the magical sound the merchant's eyes glistened like pearl buttons,<br />
while a tinge of yellow happiness overspread his care-wrinkled face, and<br />
he excitedly said, “Pray walk in, sir; we'll do the thing well for you.”<br />
Skipping up three steps at a stride, he preceded his rustic customer to the<br />
wareroom, and, with a look full of honest earnestness, said to his head<br />
salesman, “Mr. Mopus is going to make up a good parcel with us this<br />
morning, Mr. Tabb, so put things in to him at the lowest figure, cut<br />
everything as fine as you possibly can.”<br />
“Yes, sir, certainly,” replied the salesman; and forthwith he began to<br />
draw his customer's attention to some attractive piles of soft goods in the<br />
front warehouse, and to expatiate on the large quantity of scarce articles<br />
“they had in the harbour.”<br />
Mr. Mopus made line upon line, with a pleasant boldness most<br />
cheering to the salesman, for it put him in mind of the golden times,<br />
when everybody was independent; and as his ever-watchful ears had<br />
caught the glad echo of the word “cash,” when it softly floated up the<br />
stairway, he naturally thought that Mr. Mopus was a man of metal. Mr.<br />
Tabb loved his master; so his joy was proportionate, as the countryman<br />
bought package after package of well-paying goods, with a child-like<br />
confidence in the recommendation of the salesman, which, alas, few
good customers display in these distrustful days; and after Mr. Mopus<br />
intimated that he had bought enough, and Mr. Tabb's gentle pressure had<br />
ceased to be operative, he escorted his customer to the front door as<br />
affectionately as a father, and while he grasped his hand at parting,<br />
assured him that the invoices should be quite ready and all the goods on<br />
the drays by the following day at noon.<br />
The last dray was loading as Mr. Mopus entered the store next day,<br />
with cheque-book in hand, and, according to agreement, paid for onehalf<br />
of his purchase by cheque, and the other half by bill at four months.<br />
“Now,” said Mr. Mopus to the merchant, “I think you ought to make me<br />
a present of something handsome for my wife, considering that I have<br />
left you £500 this morning. Times are hard, you know. Money is scarce,<br />
and you don't get such a customer as I am every day. Come, now, be<br />
liberal, Mr. Linsey: give me something good to take home to Mrs.<br />
Mopus; a blessing, as the old ladies say in my part of the country.”<br />
“Hum — a — em — I don't see how I can do it. We have put<br />
everything in very low, and I can't afford to — a — a — however — I'll<br />
see — em — Mr. Tabb, fetch that parcel of shawls from the back store;<br />
the lot marked P ses Q, you know,” said the merchant, musingly, while<br />
he gazed at the cheque with affectionate interest. Soon Mr. Tabb returned<br />
with the parcel, when his master selected a shawl worth a few shillings,<br />
and handed it to Mr. Mopus, remarking as he did so, “that it was rather<br />
against his practice — in fact, he could not afford to be generous these<br />
times.”<br />
“Woogh! Do you think I would take my wife such a thing as that?”<br />
said Mr. Mopus, with excitement. “Blow it all! she hasn't come to that<br />
yet. It might suit her servant Biddy, but — — ”<br />
“Don't be vexed, sir,” said the merchant, with a quizzical smile. “I did<br />
not mean to slight Mrs. Mopus in the least, and I would rather give five<br />
hundred pounds than you should think so. Here is something handsome;<br />
suppose I make her a present of this bill which you have just given me;<br />
what will you say to that?”<br />
“Give me the cheque,” said Mr. Mopus, “and I will say that you have a<br />
becoming respect for my good lady.”<br />
“I can't spare the cheque; but you had better take this,” said the<br />
merchant, holding the bill for £500 before his customer's eyes.<br />
“No, no!” said Mr. Mopus, with a roguish wink, which made Mr.<br />
Tabb's face turn as blue as book muslin. “Ha, ha, my boy! Walker! Keep<br />
the bill; I don't want it; give me the shawl — that is worth something.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
I will not further describe my interview with my friend, the<br />
philosophical merchant; but after an hour's pleasant chat I left his office,
strongly impressed with the idea that if business men in general would<br />
face their perplexities as cheerfully as he did, there would be far less<br />
commercial depression than there is at present. I had better state that I do<br />
not vouch for the accuracy of the foregoing story, though I can solemnly<br />
declare that I have both seen and felt “bills at four months,” which were<br />
quite as valueless as Mr. Mopus's. Though it be apocryphal, it may help<br />
to clear up the mystery which has perplexed many simple ones, and<br />
explain how certain traders can afford to undersell their honest<br />
neighbours, and live in furious style too.<br />
Soon after leaving my friend's office, I saw a man hurrying down the<br />
street towards me, with his head down, his clenched hands swinging<br />
rapidly, and his whole mien as fierce as if he were in chase of a rogue<br />
who had run away with his wife. I had known the man slightly for a long<br />
time. Formerly he was a thriving mechanic, but of late years he had<br />
called himself a “wholesale man.” It was supposed that the bulk of his<br />
merchandise was kept in bond, for he displayed very little in his business<br />
premises, and the piles of cases near the doorway echoed very<br />
suspiciously if struck with a stick.<br />
“What is the matter, Mr. Fluff?” I asked, as he stopped to speak to me.<br />
“Matter, sir? why, everything is going to the dogs, and I am almost<br />
bothered out of my wits,” he replied.<br />
“That is very likely. Excuse me for speaking plainly, Mr. Fluff, but I<br />
am sure it would be better for you to resume your trade; you will then<br />
have less anxiety, and better health than you now have, and you will be<br />
doing your part towards remedying the present commercial depression,<br />
which is mainly owing to overtrading. The continual excitement of<br />
carrying on a business such as yours with insufficient capital is wearing<br />
your constitution much faster than the hardest work at your trade would<br />
do. But what special trouble have you just now? if it is right for me to<br />
ask the question.”<br />
“I want to get this bill done, to take up another which falls due tomorrow.<br />
Do you think you could find a friend who would oblige me, sir?<br />
It is drawn by Bladders and Co. — first-rate marks — for £223. I will<br />
take £200 for it. It has only sixty-nine days to run, and is perfectly safe.”<br />
I told him that I should probably have to run sixty-nine days, or<br />
perhaps seventy-nine, before I found any one to do his bill; and my<br />
reputation would not be very safe while running on such an errand. I was<br />
certain that no person, whom I could call my friend, would lend money<br />
at such exorbitant interest, or have any bill transactions with Bladders<br />
and Co. Moreover, I said that money jobbing was quite out of my line,<br />
and advised him to get his bankers to discount the bill for him, if it<br />
represented, as he said it did, an honest business transaction; but of<br />
which I was more than doubtful, having had some experience of Mr.<br />
Bladder's financial talents.
“I did put it in my bank yesterday, and they threw it out,” said Mr.<br />
Fluff, with a dreadfully injured look. Then he belched out a volley of<br />
invectives, which would have made the board of directors uneasy, had<br />
they heard him. Fearing that I might be supposed by the passers-by to be<br />
conspiring with Mr. Fluff to cause a run on the said bank, I bade him<br />
good-bye, and pursued my way homeward, reflecting on the vast amount<br />
of misery some men suffer for the sake of keeping up a false appearance.<br />
* * * * *<br />
“There is a great depression visible in the city,” remarked a nervous<br />
neighbour, who soon afterwards overtook me, and who was homeward<br />
bound too.<br />
“There is a good deal of excitement,” I replied, “but there is more<br />
dread than danger. It puts me in mind of the commotion that I once<br />
witnessed on board a ship, at a false alarm of fire. The passengers were<br />
all running about, looking as scared as a lot of sheep with a dog amongst<br />
them; but not one of them coolly investigated the cause of the smoke,<br />
which was merely the cook putting out his galley fire with a bucket of<br />
water; so it was nearly all steam after all.”<br />
“But there is real commercial distress at present, and no doubt about<br />
it,” said my sombre neighbour.<br />
“It would be unreasonable to dispute that, Mr. Croke,” I replied. “In<br />
fact, the colony is suffering from a periodical bill-ious disorder,<br />
accompanied with an extraordinary tightness in the chest. But some of<br />
the causes are palpable enough for any one to see, who wants to see<br />
them. I have long held the opinion that there are far too many persons<br />
engaged in the mere business of exchange, both in town and country;<br />
from merchants down to street hawkers. Sellers multiply much faster<br />
than buyers, and trade is too much divided: an unhealthy competition is<br />
the result, which honest traders heavily feel. I have just now given a little<br />
advice to a pseudo-merchant, which I should like to give to a thousand<br />
others who, like him, are struggling to get a living by buying and selling,<br />
instead of working at their trades. The man I refer to has no capital<br />
beyond some accommodation paper of his friend Bladders, who is in a<br />
similar pecuniary position. His bankers have, I suppose, at last<br />
discovered the doubtful character of Mr. Fluff's paper capital, and have<br />
very properly refused to discount it; so he is, commercially speaking,<br />
‘smashed up,’ and I think he is trying his utmost to raise a panic and<br />
‘smash up’ some of his neighbours, in the hope that his own downfall<br />
may be less noticed in the general wreck. Had not poor Fluff been<br />
tempted by that accomplished old schemer, Bill Bladders, to throw aside<br />
his tools and go into business upon a fictitious capital, he would probably<br />
be now, what he was a few years ago, a contented, industrious mechanic,
and would be of material benefit to the country as a producer of<br />
something tangible, instead of being a drag on our commercial<br />
machinery, as all such traders are.”<br />
“It's my opinion that the colony is going to ruin,” said Mr. Croke, with<br />
a grimace, ending in a sigh.<br />
“My opinion is quite different to that, sir,” I replied. “This monetary<br />
panic, as you call it, will doubtless cause loss and inconvenience to a<br />
good many persons, but it will not last long, and it will be as beneficial to<br />
our commercial atmosphere as a ‘southerly burster’ after a hot wind;<br />
which, though it makes a great dust, and begrimes a good many of our<br />
smartly-dressed citizens, it nevertheless rids the air of an accumulation of<br />
noxious vapours, and we all breathe more comfortably after it is past. I<br />
could give you more of my views on the causes of the present<br />
commercial excitement, but here is your gate; good day, Mr. Croke: keep<br />
your spirits up, sir. Though times look bad at present, there is far more<br />
reason to hope they will mend, than to anticipate the national ruin which<br />
you have just predicted.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
It is my deliberate opinion that bills are the main-springs of mercantile<br />
disasters in general. I do not mean honest trade bills, but kites, windbags,<br />
blow-flies, or by whatever other nicknames they are known to the<br />
initiated. They are most treacherous things to handle, hazardous as<br />
nitroglycerine, blasting-powder, or any other combustible that is likely to<br />
blow your house up, or rather to blow it down, and damage your<br />
neighbour's houses too. They are as deceitful as will-o'-the-wisps, and<br />
have inveigled many good, simple men into a moral bog, where their<br />
reputation has been bedaubed with indelible dirt. They encourage<br />
idleness, extravagance, reckless trading, lying, cheating, and a host of<br />
other evils too ugly to print. They are the commercial hobgoblins that<br />
breed panic and distrust, knock poor men out of work, and make their<br />
children go hungry and shoeless. They have caused more sleepless nights<br />
than gout, lumbago, painter's colic, and “cats on the tiles” combined; in<br />
short, they are a curse to a community, and I heartily wish I could warn<br />
everybody against being lured into having anything to do with them.<br />
I do not altogether sympathise with my broken-down friend Stumps,<br />
who refused to humour his wife by calling her little son “William,” after<br />
his maternal grand-sire, lest the boy should by-and-bye be called “Bill.”<br />
Neither do I go so far as the other over-scrupulous man, whom I heard<br />
of, who, “on principle,” declines to accept even a handbill from a<br />
draper's boy in the street, still I have a wholesome dread of bills in<br />
general, and if they savour in the least degree of accommodation, I would<br />
almost as soon handle a bagful of detonating powder, or anything else
that would certainly damage me.
“Why Don't You Speak to Him?”<br />
ONE dreary afternoon, I was pacing the quarter-deck of a beautiful<br />
little brig, bound to some of the evergreen islands of Polynesia. A fresh<br />
south-east gale was blowing, and the white curling billows ran high,<br />
while the little stormy petrels, on their rapid wing, whirled about in the<br />
wake of our wavebeaten vessel — now lost for a moment in the hollow<br />
of the seas, and again mounting to the foaming crests — standing, as it<br />
were, on their very summits, and dipping their black bills into the water<br />
to pick up some precarious morsel of food.<br />
“Up and down, up and down;<br />
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown;<br />
Amidst the flashing and the feathery foam,<br />
The stormy petrel finds a home.”<br />
Pity the luckless passenger who should kill, or in any way maltreat, one<br />
of those ominous birds! — he would be sure of the scowling looks and<br />
illwill of the sailors for the remainder of the voyage, and would be<br />
blamed for every casualty that occurred. I have met with but few seamen<br />
who have not had a superstitious regard for stormy petrels, or “Mother<br />
Carey's chickens,” as they are more commonly called. They are supposed<br />
to be the harbingers of bad weather, and may generally be seen, in some<br />
latitudes, whirling over the troubled waters with surprising velocity, and<br />
apparently in high enjoyment.<br />
Our little vessel was under double-reefed topsails, reefed courses, and<br />
storm staysail, and trembled from keel to truck, as she struggled through<br />
the heavy seas, which presented formidable barriers to her rapid<br />
progress; while she would occasionally plunge her bows deep into the<br />
hissing waves, and send a shower of spray as far aft as the mainmast. The<br />
flag at the mainmast head, bearing the figure of a dove with an olive<br />
branch, denoted the peaceful character of the vessel, which was then on<br />
her way to various mission stations, with annual supplies, and a hearty<br />
welcome awaited her from many anxious ones, who were daily looking<br />
for her over the sea with straining eyes.<br />
My sea legs have been pretty well drilled; and I was never afraid of a<br />
little spray; so I buttoned on my overcoat, and continued my unsteady<br />
promenade. As I did so, I could not help noticing the ghastly look of the<br />
man at the wheel. Though tall and well-made, he was terribly emaciated,
and had scarcely strength enough to steer the ship. There was a peculiar<br />
wildness in his manner; and when the vessel plunged her bowsprit under<br />
water, he seemed to lose nerve, and looked actually terrified.<br />
Such an unusual exhibition in a “Jack Tar” aroused my curiosity to<br />
know the cause of the infirmity which the poor fellow was suffering.<br />
“Haul up that mainsail and furl it,” cried the captain, as he stepped out<br />
of his cabin on deck and addressed the officer of the watch; then added,<br />
while he joined me in my walk: “It's no use trying to force the ship<br />
against this heavy head sea; we shall only tear and chafe everthing to<br />
pieces. I think I'll close reef the topsails before dark, and make all snug<br />
for a dirty night. There's mischief in those clouds to windward; and the<br />
glass has fallen two-tenths since eight bells. It will blow blunderbusses<br />
before midnight.”<br />
“Well, captain,” I replied, “we have a good tight vessel under us, with<br />
plenty of sea room, and above all, we know whose Almighty hand can<br />
control the winds and waves, so we need not fear. But tell me, if you<br />
please, sir, what is the matter with that poor man at the wheel? He looks<br />
as fierce as a heathen Fijian; and that terrible knife in his belt makes me<br />
almost shudder to look at him.”<br />
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the little captain; “I'll warrant he won't eat you,<br />
while he has got a full allowance of salt junk and yams; for you don't<br />
look very tender! Why, that fellow is one of the best sailors on board the<br />
ship. I'll match him for a day's work against the best man that ever<br />
handled a fid, or a palm and needle. He's been ‘bousing up his jib,’ lately,<br />
as sailors say, and now he's suffering from the tail end of the horrors, or<br />
delirium tremens; that's what makes him look so shaky and scared, but<br />
he'll be all right again in a week or two. He was drunk all the time we lay<br />
in Sydney, that is to say, all the time he was out of the watch-house — so<br />
it's no wonder he looks wild. I paid three grog scores for him just before<br />
we sailed, and I think he left one score unpaid after all. I never came<br />
across such a grog-thirsty ragamuffin before, in the whole course of my<br />
cruising.”<br />
“Poor fellow!” I exclaimed, “but did you never try to persuade him to<br />
keep sober, and not run up grog scores, captain?”<br />
“Pooh! what would be the use of doing that,” said the captain, with an<br />
incredulous curl of his lips. “I might as well try to coax that Samoan pig,<br />
under the long-boat there, not to eat cocoa nuts when he can get them! I<br />
know too much about drunken sailors to waste my wind in talking to<br />
them. That fellow will be sober enough, I dare say, until he gets back to<br />
Sydney, for he can't get any liquor to get drunk with; but you watch him<br />
as soon as the voyage is ended, and an hour or two after we are at our<br />
moorings, and the sails are stowed, if he's not dead drunk come and tell<br />
me, and I'll give him a certificate to that effect, or else none of his<br />
acquaintance will believe it. Louis has been too long a lushington to be
cured by teetotalism, or any other sort of moral suasion, as you call it<br />
— take my word for it. He is as incurable as a decayed tooth.”<br />
“I am of a different opinion, captain,” I replied. “There is something<br />
honest and good-natured in that poor fellow's face, now I look at him<br />
calmly. I do not think he is so incorrigible as you imagine; and I believe<br />
a few kind words would influence him, as I have known them to<br />
influence scores of persons in his state.”<br />
“Why don't you speak to him, then?” asked the captain.<br />
“Your question has suggested itself to my mind several times, captain,”<br />
I replied; “and I intend to speak to him the first favourable opportunity.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
One afternoon, Louis was sitting on the spars amid-ships, mending his<br />
clothes; it being his “watch below;” so I sat down beside him, and<br />
commenced a conversation on some subject, foreign to the one which I<br />
intended to introduce. He replied to me in imperfect English (he was a<br />
Swede), but in a respectful tone, which contrasted strongly with the wild<br />
expression of his emaciated face. He evidently felt that I had a kind<br />
motive in speaking to him, and in a short time he voluntarily gave me a<br />
few shreds of his history, which were horribly interesting.<br />
He had been educated for a chemist and druggist, but was wild, and<br />
had run away to sea. He had passed through many dangers, peculiar to a<br />
sea life, and had fallen into many disasters, owing to his fondness for<br />
strong drink. On one occasion, he told me he woke up from the effects of<br />
a debauch, and found himself in a ship bound for America; he had no<br />
recollection how he got on board, but afterwards learned that he had been<br />
smuggled on board, as a substitute for one of the crew, who had<br />
deserted — but whose name he was obliged to take, as it stood on the<br />
ship's articles. He said he had had delirium tremens, or horrors, several<br />
times; and the last time he was in Sydney, as the vessel lay alongside a<br />
wharf in Darling Harbour, “de teevil came on board, and roused him out<br />
of his bunk, and chased him on shore.” He then went and lay down<br />
beside a lime kiln in the vicinity of the wharf, when “de teevil came<br />
again, and roused him out of that, and chased him up into George Street,”<br />
where the constables caught him, as he was running and shouting<br />
murder, and put him in the watch-house. “But I vos not drunk then, sir,”<br />
he said, “I vos mad, that vos it. Oh! it vos terrible, terrible! My head vos<br />
full of red-hot vorms; my blood was burning with blue fire and<br />
brimstone; my heart vos boiling and bubbling like de pitch pot. I could<br />
not sleep, I could not eat, I could not be quiet; I could only howl, and<br />
shout, and vont to cut my throat; but I had got no razor, nor no knife, dat<br />
vos a good job. Oh, my Got! vot I did suffer, I never can tell. I vould vish<br />
to be in de Fijian oven; or I vould vish de alligators to eat me up
altogether, sooner than suffer such dreadful tortures any more.”<br />
“I am better now, sir,” he added, “but I am very veak, and I cannot<br />
vork properly, because I shake like as if I had de palsy: and ven I go aloft<br />
I'm afraid I fall off de yard. Ough de grog! it close up killed me dis time.<br />
I did suffer dreadful agonies! oh! vot a fool I vos to spend all my money,<br />
to buy such teevilish torment.”<br />
Poor fellow! the tears coursed down his rough face, as he finished his<br />
horrifying narration. He had nearly wrecked a naturally robust<br />
constitution with his excesses, and had brought upon himself remorse<br />
and poverty, and, in addition to present suffering, he had laid up in his<br />
enfeebled body, the seeds of future pain and misery.<br />
I gave him some advice, and a little medicine, and the next day, when<br />
he was off duty, I had another conversation with him. I endeavoured to<br />
cheer him up and stimulate his hope, by showing him that many others<br />
who had sunk even lower than himself had been reclaimed, and had risen<br />
to positions of eminent usefulness. I gave him my own pocket Bible, also<br />
a copy of the thrilling autobiography of the celebrated John Gough, and<br />
several useful and entertaining magazines, for which he expressed<br />
thankfulness.<br />
On many subsequent occasions, I spoke to Louis, both in private, and<br />
also when assembled with all the other sailors on board, and I often had<br />
the pleasure of seeing him sitting on the booms, when off duty, reading<br />
the books which I had given him.<br />
On New Year's Day, being then on our homeward passage, I was much<br />
gratified at seeing Louis in company with every one on board — officers<br />
as well as crew — (except two), come aft and voluntarily sign the<br />
Temperance pledge! I did not fail to briefly direct them to the Divine<br />
source from whence alone they could obtain strength to keep their<br />
pledges. I could give some interesting facts from the subsequent history<br />
of several of those seamen, but I should too much digress from my<br />
present subject.<br />
A little more than six months afterwards, I was sitting one day alone in<br />
my study, when a servant informed me “that a gentleman wished to see<br />
me;” and in another minute Louis entered the room. He was so much<br />
improved in appearance that I did not know him, until he spoke to me;<br />
when I recognised his voice. He was really a fine-looking man, and as<br />
upright as a soldier. He informed me that he had just come off a voyage,<br />
and although there was plenty of spirits on board the ship, he had<br />
remained stanch to his pledge of total abstinence, and had tried to induce<br />
some of his shipmates to follow his example. He was in good health, and<br />
was happy and cheerful. Since I had last seen him, he had bought some<br />
good clothes, also a watch and chain, and sent a small sum of money to<br />
his mother, in Sweden. He expressed his gratitude to me for speaking to<br />
him when he was in such a miserable condition; and assured me that
since that time he had daily read his Bible; adding emphatically, while<br />
the tears started from his eyes, and he grasped my hand with affectionate<br />
warmth, “I vill never part vid dat Bible!”<br />
* * * * *<br />
A few weeks afterwards, on looking over my newspaper one morning,<br />
I was startled by seeing Louis's name in a paragraph, detailing a casualty<br />
at sea. While stowing the jib, in a gale of wind, on board a ship bound for<br />
New Zealand, poor Louis, in company with another sailor, was washed<br />
overboard, and drowned.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Reader, you perhaps know some poor fellow who is groping his<br />
miserable way to ruin! if so, “Why don't you speak to him?”
How the Knipps Family Kept “Merry Christmas.”<br />
“I DON'T see why I should cook our Christmas goose for the Boozems<br />
to gobble it all up,” remarked Mrs. Knipps to her husband, as they sat at<br />
their tea-table, an evening or two before last Christmas Day.<br />
“Well, mother, please yourself,” replied Mr. Knipps carelessly. “For<br />
my part, I don't care whether we have a goose and plum pudding, or<br />
corned beef and doughboys for dinner; but the young ones will expect<br />
something extra, and I should like them to have it too, for custom's sake.”<br />
“You need not be afraid that I will neglect the children; they shall have<br />
their Christmas treat,” said Mrs. Knipps, “but the idea of having the<br />
house full of hungry Boozems, makes me downright cross. I have been<br />
thinking, Knipps, how we may get rid of them without telling fibs. It<br />
would be easy to say that we were going out for the day; and we could go<br />
out for a picnic somewhere, and save the bother of cooking at home. I am<br />
sure we are under no obligation to the Boozems, though we did spend<br />
last Christmas at their house; for they have had favours enough from us<br />
since then, in all conscience. They borrowed your bullock team several<br />
times, and you broke-in two colts for them for nothing, so I don't think<br />
we owe them anything. Their great ravenous boys and girls are enough to<br />
breed a famine in the district. I never did see such children to eat in all<br />
my born days.”<br />
“It's a sign they are healthy,” said Mr. Knipps. “There is one thing<br />
certain, Missis, if we stay at home on Christmas Day we must entertain<br />
them, for they are coming as surely as next winter; Joe told me so last<br />
week, and I said we should be very glad to see them all.”<br />
“That's just like you, Knipps,” said his spouse pettishly. “You don't<br />
consider who has all the work and bother of preparing for a houseful of<br />
folks. It is all very fine for you and Joe to sit in the verandah smoking<br />
your pipes, and talking about horseflesh — as you call it — but it is no<br />
joke for me to stand frizzling before the kitchen fire all the morning<br />
cooking dinner for a lot of selfish gormandisers. I won't do it, Knipps, I<br />
tell you plump and plain; I won't do it, so you may get rid of the<br />
Boozems the best way you can. Bother the people! If I could have my<br />
way, I would lock up the house, and when they came they would see we<br />
were not at home. Then we should get quit of them without a quarrel.”<br />
“No, no, Missis, that will never do,” said Mr. Knipps. “That ain't<br />
manners, you know. If you don't want the people here on Christmas Day,
I will ride over this evening and tell them we are going out to spend the<br />
day, and ask them to come some other time; that is the most<br />
straightforward way of doing it. Then, if you like, we will take some<br />
provisions with us, and go in the boat down the river to Bandicoot Brush,<br />
and dine under the green bushes. What do you say to that, Billy,” added<br />
Mr. Knipps, addressing his hopeful son of six years old, who sat at the<br />
table opposite to him, eating a thick slice of bread and treacle.<br />
“O my! that will be fun! won't it, Polly? May I take my fishing-line,<br />
father?” said Billy, his face brightening up like a new pannikin.<br />
“And may I take my doll's cradle, mother?” asked Polly, a merry<br />
looking little girl, a year younger than her brother.<br />
“Yes, yes, if you are a good girl: and baby shall have his new rattle,”<br />
said Mrs. Knipps, looking quite pleased at the success of her opposition.<br />
“Baby shall have his new pelisse too, bless his heart!” she continued,<br />
speaking to a chubby-faced infant, who was lying on his back on the<br />
floor, sucking a pewter spoon, and showing his utter contempt for<br />
drapery. Yes, and Billy and Polly shall have their new clothes too, if they<br />
are good: and we will spend such a merry Christmas, under the shady<br />
trees. Yes, we will, so we will, chucky, chucky, chucky! Hey diddle<br />
diddle!” As Mrs. Knipps gave vent to the last expressive sentiments, she<br />
seized her baby and tossed and tickled him, until the little fellow crowed<br />
with infantile ecstacy, while his brother and sister cut all sorts of merry<br />
capers, in the overflowing of their joyful anticipations; and made father<br />
laugh till he dropped his pipe from between his teeth, whereupon they all<br />
laughed in chorus.<br />
Mr. Knipps owned a small farm on one of the rivers to the north; but,<br />
somehow or other, as he himself expressed it, he could not get on in the<br />
world. To be sure he had had three consecutive seasons of disaster. Once<br />
he had been flooded out, and twice his crops were ruined by rust; still, he<br />
could see that some of his neighbours, who had been equally unfortunate,<br />
and who had rent to pay, were far better off than himself, and he could<br />
not comprehend it at all, for he thought he worked as hard as any of<br />
them. He had given Mr. Gritts, the storekeeper, an equitable mortgage<br />
over his farm, and that circumstance troubled him very much, for he had<br />
inherited the homestead from his late father, who, good, honest, old man,<br />
had a greater dread of liens and mortgages than he had of floods or<br />
droughts.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Soon after breakfast, on Christmas morning, Mr. Knipps baled his boat<br />
out, and spread some empty corn-sacks in the bottom of it, while Mrs.<br />
Knipps packed into a bushel basket, sundry creature comforts,<br />
comprising a piece of pickled pork, and some cold cabbage; a boiled
chicken and a brown loaf; a plum pudding, a pumpkin pie, a tincan full<br />
of new milk, and a bottle of Colonial rum. Half-an-hour afterwards they<br />
had all embarked in the boat, and Mr. Knipps was steadily pulling down<br />
the river with the tide, while his wife was singing “hey diddle diddle” to<br />
the baby, and Polly and Billy were towing little toy ships from the stern<br />
of the boat.<br />
In course of time they arrived at Bandicoot brush, where they landed,<br />
and fastened the boat to a mangrove bush. It was a very retired place, and<br />
the thick vines overhead formed a pleasant shade from the sun's fierce<br />
rays. Mrs. Knipps first of all spread a blanket on the ground, and laid her<br />
baby down to amuse himself with his new rattle. She then spread a tablecloth<br />
on the ground close by, and placed the contents of the bushel basket<br />
upon it. In the meantime Mr. Knipps had uncorked the bottle of rum, and<br />
refreshed himself with a strong dram after his long pull. They then all<br />
squatted in Turkish style round the table cloth, and made a hearty meal;<br />
the young ones paying special court to the plum pudding, and the new<br />
milk.<br />
After the feasting was over, Mr. Knipps mixed himself some more rum<br />
and water in a pannikin, then lighted his pipe, and seated himself with his<br />
back to the trunk of a wild fig-tree, and began, as he said, to make<br />
himself happy. Mrs. Knipps sat down on the blanket, and played bo-peep<br />
with the baby. Billy went fishing from the boat, and Polly rambled about<br />
the brush, picking wild flowers and native gooseberries. The greatest<br />
drawbacks to their comfort were the myriads of grey mosquitos, and<br />
soldier ants; the latter waggish little insects more than once made Mr.<br />
and Mrs. Knipps suddenly jump up and dance, without music; and the<br />
former raised innumerable lumps on the baby as large as grey peas.<br />
Nevertheless, so far from regretting their position, Mrs. Knipps smilingly<br />
observed “that she would rather be tickled by all the insects in the bush,<br />
than be bothered with the Boozems,” and she ever and anon chuckled out<br />
her satisfaction, that she had so cleverly managed to give her hungry<br />
neighbours the cut, without appearing to be mean.<br />
Mr. Knipps's eyes twinkled, and his nose glowed with gastric glory, as<br />
he sat beneath the fig-tree, puffing his pipe. Under ordinary<br />
circumstances, he was a man of few words and slow of action, but rum<br />
usually made an alteration in him. On this occasion it wrought an<br />
extraordinary change — perhaps it was extra strong — for he grew quite<br />
funny, and after his third pannikin he got up and danced the “nervous<br />
cure,” while his wife (who had some musical talent) played an<br />
appropriate air on one of her side combs with a piece of paper over it. In<br />
the midst of his comical fandango, which astonished the baby, he was<br />
suddenly struck serious by the shrieks of Polly in the adjacent brush. He<br />
hurried away, as fast as he could stagger, in the direction of the cries,<br />
when he was shocked at seeing his daughter hanging head downwards
from a native cherry-tree. The poor girl had been climbing to catch a<br />
locust, and had slipped her footing; but a friendly branch caught her<br />
crinoline, and saved her from bruises of fractures. She was speedily<br />
extricated from her unnatural position; and after receiving a good<br />
“scatting” from her mother for tearing her new frock, she was told to sit<br />
down and not to stir a peg, under certain penalties, which Polly thought<br />
were very arbitrary.<br />
Ere they had recovered from that shock, and before Mr. Knipps could<br />
stimulate his merry mood to return, their boy Billy came into the camp,<br />
covered with mud, and in inconsolable grief at the loss of his new<br />
Christmas cap, which was drifting away to sea, with wind and tide in its<br />
favour. It appeared from Billy's blubbering explanation, that he had<br />
hooked a fine toad-fish, and in his haste to secure the prize, he had fallen<br />
head foremost over the stern of the boat into the mud. Billy's wet clothes<br />
were stripped off instanter; and while he was in that favourable condition<br />
for appreciating correction, his father administered the rod with an<br />
unsparing hand, then delivered him over to his mother, who rolled him in<br />
the baby's blanket, and seated him beside his disconsolate sister,<br />
remarking, in angry tones as she did so, “that no woman in the known<br />
world was ever so tried with children as herself;” being quite forgetful at<br />
the time of the great cause she had for rejoicing that one of her children<br />
had escaped a broken neck, and the other a watery grave. But such<br />
anomalies are of common occurrence, and many a poor child has<br />
received a severe beating from an excited parent, for its good fortune in<br />
escaping a fatal disaster.<br />
The most annoying part of Billy's mishap was, that it necessitated their<br />
returning home at once to get dry clothing for “the young monkey, lest<br />
he should catch his death of cold.” The fragments of the feast were then<br />
hastily tied up in the tablecloth, and the party re-embarked, with<br />
disappointment beclouding each face. Those of my readers who have<br />
experienced the peculiar difficulty of launching a boat from a bed of soft<br />
mud, would have readily sympathised with Mr. Knipps as he pushed first<br />
at the bow, then at the stern, of his stranded boat; and sometimes pushed<br />
himself so deeply into the yielding mud, that he had grave doubts if he<br />
should ever be able to work his way out of it again; in which case his<br />
name would become as unpleasantly familiar in colonial history as the<br />
celebrated cockney “Billy Barlow.”<br />
At length the boat was afloat; but navigating it back to Chickweed<br />
Farm was not so easy as gliding down with the stream to Bandicoot<br />
Brush, for two strong reasons, viz., adverse wind and tide, and the<br />
weakening influence of strong rum on Mr. Knipps's powers of sculling.<br />
The boat was heavy, and the oars were not light, still Mr. Knipps worked<br />
with spirit, sometimes standing up and pushing the oars, sometimes<br />
sitting down and pulling them; now and then lying on his back, after
catching a crab, with his heels in the air, and his hobnails glistening in<br />
the sunbeams. After working in that way for an hour, and finding that he<br />
had scarcely gained half a mile, he naturally enough began to feel<br />
discouraged, so he took some more rum to sustain him, and tugged away<br />
again for another hour with all his might. Never before had he felt his<br />
boat pull so heavily, even when he had two tons of potatoes in it.<br />
Something was the matter for certain, for he had not pulled it a quarter of<br />
a mile during the last hour. Her bottom must be dirty, he thought, though<br />
Daub, the boatman, had given it a coat of coal tar only a month before.<br />
Were the tides always stronger on Christmas Day? he wondered, or what<br />
could the matter be? The boat was as hard to move as a brewer's vat.<br />
As he was pushing away at the oars, and pondering over the mysterious<br />
cause of his slow progress, he perchance looked round, when he saw that<br />
Polly and Billy were towing the empty bushel basket behind — by a long<br />
line affixed to the handles — and were enjoying the fun of their mimic<br />
water-logged ship, in childish ignorance of the hard labour they were<br />
inflicting on their perspiring father. Mr. Knipps dropped his oars,<br />
dragged the basket into the boat, and slapped Polly and Billy's heads<br />
until their ears were as red as lobsters' legs. He then lighted his pipe, spat<br />
on his hands, and resumed the oars; but by the time he had done all that,<br />
the boat had drifted back nearly opposite to Bandicoot Brush.<br />
It would make a very long chapter were I to follow that dolorous<br />
Christmas party on their tiresome homeward passage, and describe all<br />
that they said, did, and suffered. Were I to tell how Mr. Knipps pushed<br />
and tugged against wind and tide, and gradually got weary, cross, and<br />
drunk. How he profanely cursed his wife, for persisting in hoisting a<br />
large gingham umbrella, which, he said, stopped the boat's way more<br />
than the bushel basket had done; and, finally, how he threw the umbrella<br />
overboard and the basket too. How Mrs. Knipps thereupon got spiteful,<br />
and nagged at her husband until he grew uproariously wrath, and<br />
threatened to pull the plug out of the boat, and drown them all together.<br />
How a fierce recrimination was kept up after they reached their home,<br />
until it got to fighting pitch; and after beating his wife with his bridle<br />
reins, and receiving in return a stunning knock on the head with the<br />
tongs, Mr. Knipps, in a paroxysm of drunken frenzy, smashed every<br />
portable article in the house, from the Dutch clock in the corner, to his<br />
grandmother's old-fashioned china tea-pot on the mantel-piece.<br />
It would be tedious, too, to record all the minor miseries of Mrs.<br />
Knipps and her children, consequent upon their day's pleasure. How the<br />
poor baby cried all that night (despite every attempt to soothe him, with<br />
rattle and spoon, and every article in the toy way that could be procured),<br />
until Mrs. Knipps, in tracing the cause of such unusual grief, discovered<br />
two Ticks in a tender part of her infant's person; and how she soon<br />
afterwards found two more Ticks on herself. How Polly and Billy's faces
were blistered by the sun, and all their new clothes were spoiled with salt<br />
water and mud. My readers may reflect, if they choose, over the<br />
summary of disagreeables in these last two paragraphs, and draw their<br />
own deductions therefrom; and however much opinions may vary on the<br />
merits of the story, there will doubtless be a unanimous conclusion that<br />
the Knipps family did not spend a very merry Christmas.<br />
* * * * *<br />
On New Year's-eve, Mr. and Mrs. Knipps were sitting in their parlour<br />
in moody silence; indeed, they had scarcely exchanged half-a-dozen<br />
words since their fracas on Christmas-day. At length Mr. Knipps rose<br />
from his seat, and walking over to his wife, kissed her affectionately; and<br />
with a look which showed that he felt more than he could express in<br />
words, asked her to forgive him for his late unmanly conduct, of which<br />
he felt thoroughly ashamed.<br />
“I have been fretting for the last five or six days, Polly; and I have been<br />
thinking very seriously all that time too. I can see plainly enough that I<br />
have been a downright fool for many years past, and I have resolved to<br />
mend. I know the reason why I cannot make my farm pay; why I am in<br />
debt and difficulties, and why I am so often in bad health and in bad<br />
temper. The bills on the file will show that I have had the rum keg filled<br />
ten times during this year, which is enough to make any man ashamed of<br />
himself. The cost of that stuff would have kept us all in clothes, or have<br />
bought half-a-dozen good cows; but the actual price of it is not, perhaps,<br />
the worst part of the evil; I have wasted hundreds of hours this year in<br />
squandering my strength and my money, and in acquiring pernicious<br />
habits. That is why I'm so much worse off than some of my steady, sober<br />
neighbours. Yes, Polly, the rum keg has been the blighting cause of our<br />
unhappiness, and has filled our home with discord; it is that which has<br />
withered the tender love we once felt for each other; which has<br />
mortgaged our farm, and made me miserable. It is strong drink which has<br />
so often made me surly to you and the poor children, and which tempted<br />
me to beat you, and smash all our little bits of things on Christmas-day.<br />
But it shall do so no more, Polly; for, with God's help, I am determined<br />
to put that curse out of my house entirely. Here, I give you my hand,<br />
Polly, and the word of a man who loves you dearly, that I will never taste<br />
grog again as long as I live. To-morrow is New Year's-day, and I hope to<br />
begin a new life altogether, and to set a Christian example to my<br />
children. May God help me to do so, for I am too weak to do it of<br />
myself,” added Mr. Knipps, bursting into tears.<br />
Polly's tears gushed forth too, as she returned the warm embrace of her<br />
repentant husband; and she sobbed out with a tenderness which she had<br />
long forgotten to exhibit:
“It is not all your fault, Bill, my dear! I feel I am very much to blame<br />
for not striving to make your home more happy, — for you always loved<br />
your home. I have often given way to a bad temper, and have said sharp<br />
things to you, when I, ought to have said soothing things, or have been<br />
silent altogether, and wore a smiling face. I have often, too, taunted you<br />
with running us into difficulties, when I ought to have tried to help you<br />
out of them, or to have borne our trials with patience.<br />
“I own how foolish and unkind I was, Bill, in refusing to entertain the<br />
Boozems on Christmas-day, after you had invited them; for I know you<br />
are fond of a chat with old Joe, now and then. You have a right to invite<br />
who you please to our house, of course; and I showed great disrespect to<br />
you when I objected to your doing so. I am sure I grieved you, for which<br />
I am very, very sorry.<br />
“I have done wrong, dear,” added Polly, throwing her arms round her<br />
husband's neck, “but pray forgive me, and I will promise never to grieve<br />
you in a similar way again. It cheers my heart more than I can express to<br />
hear you say you mean to make a fresh start, and I intend to start afresh<br />
with you. I will begin the new year in a new way of life, and, with God's<br />
help, I hope henceforward to see our home the abode of love, peace, and<br />
joy.”
Two Noisy Boys in a Belfry.<br />
AN old gentleman, whose varied experience has furnished me with<br />
many subjects for my pen, has supplied me with the following authentic<br />
incident, which I narrate for the special advantage of my youthful<br />
readers. Of course, adults can read my narrative, if they are inclined; but<br />
I trust they will kindly bear in mind that it is written to please and<br />
instruct young minds.<br />
“When I was a boy, which is a good many years ago, Mr. Boomerang,”<br />
said my venerable friend, who was reclining in an old arm-chair in my<br />
study. “When I was a curly-headed little boy, nine or ten years of age, I<br />
went one Sunday afternoon, as usual, to our village church, in company<br />
with my brother, who was about two years younger than myself. The<br />
church was a moderate-size building, and was graced with a small bell<br />
tower, surmounted by a conical spire, like the extinguisher of a kitchen<br />
candlestick.<br />
“On that afternoon, my brother and I seated ourselves in one of the<br />
galleries, instead of our accustomed place in the lower part of the church.<br />
Soon our attention was attracted to an open doorway, into a narrow space<br />
behind the organ, where a tall youth was pulling a bell-rope with great<br />
vigour, and with an evident sense of the importance of his work.<br />
Instantly I conceived a strong desire to have a pull at the bell — for I had<br />
never tested my skill in that kind of music. Upon communicating my<br />
longings to my brother, I found that he was anxious for a pull too; so we<br />
left our pew, and introduced ourselves — in boys' unceremonious<br />
style — to the youthful bellringer, who condescendingly allowed each of<br />
us to have a pull at his bell for a few minutes; but finding that we did not<br />
keep correct time with our ding-dong, and fearing that he might get into<br />
disrepute through our imperfect tolling, he declined our eager offers of<br />
further assistance at the rope, but consented to our going aloft to see the<br />
bell at work. Accordingly we ascended a dusty ladder, which led to a<br />
square wooden turret, just above the roof of the church, where a large<br />
bell hung on an oaken frame, with a wheel at one end of the axle, and a<br />
rope attached thereto, the end of which was in the hands of the lad below,<br />
who was apparently using extra exertions just then to astonish us — for<br />
the bell was in full swing, or ‘sallee,’ and shook the steeple so much that<br />
we could scarcely stand without holding to the bell-frame or to the bars<br />
of the windows.
“The noise was stunning, and at first positively startling; but we soon<br />
recovered our senses, and began to make our observations, and to<br />
communicate them to each other in unstudied phraseology, plain, though<br />
perhaps not polite — for boys are seldom remarkable for strict attention<br />
to etiquette.<br />
“ ‘Isn't it a big un, Jack?’ remarked my brother, with his eyes full of<br />
wonder. I saw his lips move on full stretch, and his countenance express<br />
awful admiration, as he nodded at the clanging bell, but I could not hear<br />
a word he uttered; so I replied at the top of my voice, ‘I can't hear you,<br />
Bob! you must squall like an upstairs lodger in a house on fire.’<br />
“ ‘Isn't it a big un, Jack?’ repeated Bob, with the utmost emphasis, and<br />
with his hands to his mouth in boatswain's fashion, so that I heard him<br />
plainly above the deafening din.<br />
“ ‘Yes, a regular whopper,’ I replied; and then we commenced a<br />
dialogue (which I need not detail) in the same elevated key, and shrieked<br />
and hooted like a couple of owls, in order to fully satisfy ourselves that<br />
our voices could sound louder than the labouring bell. At the same time,<br />
we were innocently unconscious that we were creating a sensation<br />
beneath us, or we should have certainly chosen some other occasion and<br />
some other place for trying the strength of our lungs. We had no idea of<br />
making a disturbance in a church, above all other places — for, though I<br />
say it, Mr. Boomerang, we were too well-bred to be wilfully guilty of<br />
such ill manners, nay, such gross wickedness, as to desecrate God's Holy<br />
Temple.<br />
“In the meantime, however, there was quite a commotion in the church,<br />
almost amounting to a panic. The minister had ascended to his pulpit,<br />
and the clerk to his desk, when our shrill voices startled them and their<br />
congregation too. The mysterious question, ‘Isn't it a big un, Jack?’ and<br />
the equally mystical reply, ‘Yes, a regular whopper,’ sounded through<br />
the ventilators in the ceiling, almost as plainly as if we had been shouting<br />
in the body of the building itself, while our loud hooting and howling<br />
was heard even more distinctly, and which the trembling old sexton<br />
believed was a break-out among the ghosts in the vaults.<br />
“Some of the congregation looked at each other in amazement while<br />
the extraordinary riot was at its height, and others looked gravely<br />
comical. The parson looked at the clerk, and the clerk looked at the<br />
beadle, who looked as fierce as a Fijian warrior; then grasped his<br />
or rather his cane — as if fairly resolved to wreak vengeance upon the<br />
heads of those enemies to peace and concord as soon as he could find<br />
them, and waddled down the aisle as fast as he could move his ponderous<br />
body. It was some minutes before he could divine from whence the<br />
heathenish yells proceeded — for they were unlike the disturbances<br />
which he was so frequently called upon to quell. He had, alas! to his<br />
sorrow, and to the disgrace of some of the unruly boys of the parish,
often been obliged to exercise his authority to keep order in the church<br />
porch, and to flog some of those thoughtless triflers who had so little<br />
veneration for the sanctity of God's House, as to create noises and<br />
disturbance during Divine Service, to the annoyance of the congregation,<br />
as well as to the distraction of the minister in the pulpit.<br />
“When Mr. Budd, the beadle, got outside the churchdoors, he soon<br />
ascertained that the objectionable sounds came from the bell-turret. So<br />
upstairs he hastened, and with difficulty squeezed his big body through<br />
the little door-way behind the organ, gave a terrible scowl, in passing, at<br />
the tall youth, who was still tolling the bell (which signified that he owed<br />
him a caning, and would not forget to pay him when he came down), and<br />
began to ascend the dusty ladder, which was not a very easy or dignified<br />
job for a bulky parish beadle with his best gold-laced Sunday coat on.<br />
“Just as my brother and I were singing with all our might, ‘How doth<br />
the little busy bee,’ the fat head and shoulders of Mr. Budd appeared<br />
through the trap opening of the turret, which put a stop to our music in a<br />
moment, and made us shrink into our humblest dimensions — for we had<br />
a wholesome dread of beadles, as most little boys have, or had, in those<br />
good old times, when beadles were men of more importance than they<br />
are now-a-days. In another moment or two my terrified brother Bob and<br />
myself were hopping about the shaking turret like scalded frogs, and<br />
humbly begging the irate functionary to have mercy upon us; but he<br />
totally disregarded our petitions, or our loud screams (which further<br />
astounded the congregation below), and flogged us until he was satisfied<br />
he had given us sufficient, or else was thoroughly winded and not able to<br />
cane us any more. While Mr. Budd was taking a rest and wiping the<br />
perspiration from his red face, my brother and I descended the ladder<br />
faster than lamplighters, and rushed out of the doorway behind the organ,<br />
receiving a savage kick each from the bellringer as we departed; then we<br />
made the best of our way downstairs, and out of the church, with<br />
hundreds of flashing eyes following us, and with more marks than we<br />
had ever before received in one day, some of which were plainly<br />
traceable seven weeks afterwards.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
Some readers may be inclined to think that there is nothing in the<br />
foregoing incident very creditable to my old friend's young head, or his<br />
heart either. So I think; and my old friend is of the same opinion himself.<br />
He did not tell the story exultingly — far from it; but he is especially<br />
anxious for the welfare of young people; and in his endeavours to<br />
instruct, as well as to amuse them, he sometimes refers to his own<br />
youthful follies or foibles — not for the imitation of others, but for the<br />
purpose of warning them of the treacherous by-paths, from the highway
of virtue and wisdom, which he has incautiously taken on his life's<br />
journey, and which have invariably led him into a labyrinth of briars and<br />
nettles.<br />
This incident could be applied to a good many persons and positions in<br />
every-day life, and a useful moral drawn therefrom; many analogous<br />
cases are before my mind as I write. I can picture a multitude of<br />
thoughtless youths who are now shouting and hooting (like my friend<br />
and his brother Bob in the belfry) in the feverish excitement of sensual<br />
pleasures, and are unconscious that their riotous revelry is heard above<br />
the discord by which they are surrounded. But Mr. Budd will visit them<br />
very soon, in the shape of aches and pains, and shattered nerves — for<br />
they may be assured they will not transgress Nature's laws with impunity.<br />
They had better cease their uproar, and come down from the belfry to<br />
their proper seats, like good boys, before the beadle mounts the ladder<br />
with his rattan, and makes them smart.<br />
And those two half-tipsy youths, whose fresh, ruddy faces, and<br />
wrinkled coats indicate that they have just come on shore from the<br />
London ship, which dropped anchor last night in Sydney Cove. They reel<br />
along George-street, wildly exulting in their new-found liberty, in being<br />
able to indulge their long pent-up propensities without dread of<br />
admonitions from parents or guardians. They fancy, too, that as they are<br />
far away from home, in a strange place, where no person knows them,<br />
their debauchery will not attract attention to their prejudice. But they are<br />
egregiously mistaken, poor fellows! Mr. Budd, or his representative, will<br />
visit them by-and-by, and sadly they will feel the stripe of his castigatory<br />
cane. If they escape the talons of the birds of prey which are constantly<br />
on the watch for such green goslings, they will not wholly escape the<br />
notice of the respectable portion of our community, which they will,<br />
perhaps, soon discover to their great disadvantage. Many a young man<br />
has injured his prospects in the colony by indulging in riotous excesses<br />
on his first arrival with some of his fellow-passengers, under the foolish<br />
idea that he could do so with impunity in a place where he was a<br />
complete stranger; whereas, the fact of his being a new arrival had<br />
attracted special attention to his intemperance and his swaggering<br />
impudence.<br />
Examples — not among young folks only — might be multiplied of<br />
persons who are “wasting their substance in riotous living,” disturbing<br />
their peaceable neighbours, wrecking their health and their reputation<br />
too, and, worse than all, perilling their immortal peace; while they<br />
seem — like the boys in the belfry — unconscious of their folly and<br />
danger, or else utterly careless about it. Alas! we often see Mr. Budd<br />
come to such in the form of grim death, to startle them in their revelry,<br />
and to hurry them off to their doom which they have been preparing for<br />
throughout their lives.
“The path of duty is the path of safety” for either young or aged<br />
travellers. Had my friend and his brother attended to that maxim they<br />
would have taken their usual seats in church, like good boys, on the<br />
afternoon referred to, and thus saved themselves the subsequent disaster<br />
which befel them. In order clearly to perceive the path of duty at all<br />
times, it is necessary to ask for Divine light; and if we ask aright we shall<br />
receive plain direction and guidance for every day's journey.
Influenza Season.<br />
Scene: Sydney, King Street corner, on a drizzling day. Two friends<br />
(Minton and Timmins) meet, and shake hands; they are both suffering<br />
from the prevailing epedemic.<br />
Minton: Good bording, Bister Tibbids! How are you? I thought you<br />
were off to Boretod Bay — ha teez — ha teez! (sneezes.)<br />
Timmins: How are you, Bidtod? Dasty bordid, this. I've bid laid up with<br />
this confounded influedsa, ad bissed the steaber. How is Bissis Bidtod,<br />
and Biss Baria? ha teezer? ha teez? (sneezes violently.)<br />
Minton: They are all very bad at hobe. By-the-bye, Tibbids, what<br />
rebedy do you use for this epedebic?<br />
Timmins: Why, by bedical bad gave be sobe dasty bixture; I dod't dow<br />
what it is bade of, but I think it has dode be good. Whighezm! ha<br />
teezum! (sneezes hysterically.)<br />
Minton: You bust have bid precious bad, thed, if the bedicine has dode<br />
you ady good at all; for you — pardod me — you look just dow like a<br />
frost-bitted ghost. But dod't stadd there id the raid, Tibbids. Cobe with be<br />
to the Betropolitad Hotel, add have a basid of buttod broth.<br />
* * * * *<br />
If the above brief colloquy has the least resemblance to a joke, it is a<br />
very grim one, and thousands of folks in Sydney will confess that the<br />
influenza is as foreign to fun as a fly in your eye, or a splinter up your<br />
thumb-nail. Its peculiar effect upon the powers of speech of its victims is<br />
well understood, though that is the least distressing symptom of the<br />
malady, which oppresses both body and mind in a manner which no pen<br />
in the world could describe.<br />
I was recently in company with a gentleman, whose brain contains<br />
perhaps as extensive a variety of lore as any cranium in the land, and<br />
while trying to indite an ordinary letter, he passed his hand across his<br />
capacious brow, and confessed “that he had the greatest difficulty in<br />
drawing a single rational idea from his bemuddled organs.” While<br />
afterwards reflecting on that admission of a great mind, I was constrained<br />
to sympathise with all those persons whose professions demand the<br />
constant exercise of their intellect; and as I did so I wondered how far<br />
that fellow-feeling was general. How many readers of the morning
papers would soften their criticisms, in these suffering times, if they<br />
missed the usual force, sparkle, and point in the leading columns; and<br />
how many would sigh commiseratingly over the probability of those<br />
ideas having flowed from the aching brains of the writers as vapidly as<br />
mouldy ink from a rusty pen? How many persons in that sneezing<br />
congregation, yesterday, pitied the poor suffering parson in the pulpit, as<br />
he laboured to make his misty syllogisms as clear as sunlight. How many<br />
considerate souls sympathised with their worthy pastor's swollen nose,<br />
and awed down their smirks when he called “Moses” Boses, or when he<br />
languidly told them “to udite id siggig the didty-didth psalb.” And what<br />
proportion of the hearers went home complaining that the sermon was<br />
“not up to the mark,” compared with those who generously reflected how<br />
arduously their dispirited minister had toiled, for the last few days, to<br />
urge his flagging brain to its duties, and to think out that forty-five<br />
minutes sermon.<br />
Then again, I wondered if sympathy was active enough in mercantile<br />
circles? Whether that merchant would pardon his drowsy clerk, for<br />
making a few blunders in that complicated account-current? and whether<br />
that master draper, (who was rather cross because customers had been<br />
scarce lately,) would debit Influenza with the failure of his shivering<br />
shopman to persuade that strong-minded old lady to buy a “shepherd's<br />
plaid scarf,” instead of a “M'Gregor tartan shawl,” which was not in their<br />
stock? I thought a little too, about milliners' girls, and hard-working girls<br />
in general; many of whom have to please ill and irritable mistresses, and<br />
to look pleasantly at troublesome customers, while their interesting little<br />
noses look as mottled as blighted mazarine cherries. Then I began to<br />
commiserate schoolmasters and mistresses, and to wonder how they<br />
preserved their patience, amidst their hosts of little snifflers; but I<br />
suddenly remembered that it was holiday season, and that all those<br />
liberated ladies and gentlemen would probably be in bed; so I began to<br />
envy them, until I was seized with a fit of sneezing, which made me<br />
forget everything but my own discomfort, and created a mental<br />
uneasiness lest I should sneeze my hat off into the muddy street, and<br />
have a long chase after it; for the wind was gusty, and running after my<br />
hat is an exercise to which I am not at all partial.<br />
During one of the brief intervals of sunshine, last week, I ventured out<br />
of doors again, for an hour — muffled up to the nose like a Norway<br />
skipper — and in that short time I saw enough to keep my sympathies in<br />
exercise to the present moment. Of course I condoled with the two<br />
unlucky ladies, who slipped down, opposite to the celebrated Doctor's<br />
door, and woefully bedaubed their dresses and their kid gloves with<br />
whity-brown mud. Though I was not near enough to help them up again,<br />
I felt for their discomfiture, but I could not indorse their ungenerous<br />
insinuation, “that the doctor aforesaid, had pipeclayed his pathway to
increase his surgical practice,” for doctors in general have more than<br />
enough legitimate work at the present time.<br />
I took warning by the downfall of the two ladies, however, and picked<br />
my way along very warily, for a tumble in the mud is decidedly<br />
unpleasant to my taste. To say nothing of the risk of sprains, broken<br />
bones, and bruises, a person never looks so well, directly after he gets up,<br />
as he did before he fell down, and he always loses dignity, in proportion<br />
to the number of spectators around him, and the quantity of mire which<br />
may be sticking to his apparel. Besides, if he were to be unfortunate<br />
enough to dislocate his hip, or break half his ribs, five minutes would at<br />
least elapse before he saw signs of genuine sympathy among the byestanders;<br />
for it seems as natural for one person to laugh at another's<br />
downfall, as to laugh under the influence of tickling fingers. I observed<br />
as I went along that pipeclay footpaths are common in the eastern<br />
suburbs of the city; and if I confess that I wished two aldermen had<br />
slipped down, instead of the two ladies before mentioned, I hope it will<br />
not be supposed that I bear ill-will to the worthy civic dignitaries of that<br />
ward. On the contrary, I have great respect for them; but I thought it was<br />
probable, if such a mishap occurred to them, that they would take it as a<br />
reminder of neglected duty, and would forthwith send a few Corporation<br />
carts, and labourers, to sprinkle a little sand over those glycerine<br />
pathways. It is not likely that those poor ladies would have influence<br />
enough to effect so much public good; besides, I think that either<br />
pipeclay or clay pipes are less distasteful in the hands of the male sex,<br />
than in the gloved hands of delicate females.<br />
As I continued my walk, I noticed an unsavoury steam rising from the<br />
damp, mouldy dwellings in several of the narrow lanes of the city, where<br />
the sun's rays slanted down on them; and I wished that some <strong>Australian</strong><br />
“Peabody” would come nobly forward, and erect model-dwellings for the<br />
poor, and do his own heart good at the same time. Then I began to<br />
speculate whether any of those persons who have lately found the<br />
influenza so terrible to bear, even when surrounded by all the comforts<br />
which wealth can produce, ever thought of their poor sick neighbours in<br />
some of those grimy hovels, who have to suffer amidst poverty and a<br />
lack of common necessaries. How acceptable a few old clothes, a few<br />
bags of coal, and a little delicate food would be to some of those<br />
unhappy ones, I thought; and how easy it would be for those rich folks to<br />
spare such trifles.<br />
The wild, murky clouds soon began to wrap up the sun, and to damp<br />
my spirits at the same time, so I hastened home again to my snug<br />
fireside, thankful indeed that I had those comforts, and heartily wishing<br />
that everybody else had a home and a fireside. Anon, the wind began to<br />
roar round my chimney-pot again, and the hard rain to patter on my<br />
window-pane; the gloom of night gathered around, and the lighthouse-
keeper at South Head had lit up his lantern. Ah! a dismal night for poor<br />
sailors on the lee shore, I soliloquised, while I gazed through my dormer.<br />
I hope all those who have not got a “good offing” have got good tight<br />
vessels under them; that they are not overladen, and that their rigging and<br />
sails are sound, otherwise we shall hear more sad news of wrecks in a<br />
day or two. Then I thought how miserable it must be for poor sailors who<br />
have the influenza, to stand shivering at the wheel in such a rough night<br />
as that. At the same time I pictured a drenched shepherd, hobbling home<br />
to his lonely hut in the far bush, after being out all day in the rain,<br />
watching his sheep; and I decided at once that I would rather be a sailor<br />
than a shepherd; for I should at any rate have my messmates to speak to,<br />
and there would be comfort even in hearing a fellow creature sneeze. But<br />
to go home to an empty hut, to make my own fire, and cook my own<br />
supper; then to sit moodily nodding at the back log in the chimney, and<br />
picturing “old bogies” in the smoke, until drowsiness drove me to my<br />
solitary couch; ugh! I shouldn't like that at all. I pity poor shepherds, for<br />
they have so few social privileges. Though I don't wish to make them<br />
discontented with their lot, I do wish they had a few more civilised<br />
comforts and conveniences, and the disposition to prize them; that they<br />
had plenty of nice books to beguile their many hours of loneliness.<br />
Perhaps some kind master or mistress, who may read this sketch, will be<br />
induced to look over their libraries, and send a box of books to their<br />
station, for the use of the shepherds, the next time the team goes up.<br />
At length I withdrew from my dreary look out at the window, and<br />
stirred my fire into a cheerful blaze; then I began to cogitate on brighter<br />
subjects. As my hope became stimulated, I soon perceived that although<br />
much mischief, misery, and inconvenience had been caused by the late<br />
inclement weather, that those evils are insignificant, compared with the<br />
blessings which the timely rain will confer upon this erst thirsty land.<br />
Happily the temperature has been genial for the season, and grass has<br />
sprung up rapidly where it was much needed. Sharp frosts will doubtless<br />
injure it, but only partially, and there will be plenty of fresh feed for the<br />
flocks and herds. The sun will acquire additional power each day, and we<br />
may reasonably anticipate a thriving spring, a luxuriant summer, and a<br />
plentiful harvest. In a few months the whole face of nature will be<br />
blooming with flowers, and new verdure; the orchards will be teeming<br />
with fruit, and the birds will fill the air with melody. Then this sneezing<br />
season of influenza will be forgotten, by most of us, for we shall have<br />
warm sunshine around us, and, it is to be hoped, we shall have health in<br />
our homes, and “summer in our souls.”<br />
“Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;<br />
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;<br />
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall.<br />
Some days must be dark and dreary.” — Longfellow.
Don't Forget Your Poor Old Mother!<br />
ONE afternoon, nearly twenty years ago, a young man was actively<br />
engaged behind the counter of a general store, in the interior of New<br />
South Wales. The day was wet, and customers were scarce; so Mr.<br />
Bustle, who was a careful economist of time, as well as of his means,<br />
employed himself in dusting and re-arranging the scanty assortment of<br />
goods on his shelves — for he wisely endorsed the old adage, “that<br />
goods well kept are half sold.” If rats and mice were not entirely<br />
excluded from his premises, it was not the fault of Benjamin Bustle; and<br />
they had not a very peaceable time therein. They were not allowed to<br />
nestle their mischievous brood among the prints and calicoes on his<br />
drapery shelves, nor to burrow undisturbed into the cheeses, packages of<br />
starch, or other favourite commodities on the grocery side of his shop.<br />
Mr. Bustle was an industrious man, and, although but a young beginner<br />
in business, with a very small capital, at a time of almost general distress<br />
and commercial stagnation throughout the colony, he was, nevertheless,<br />
a thriving man, because he managed to live below his income. Thus he<br />
gradually increased his stock, which, as I before stated, he took care to<br />
keep in good saleable condition.<br />
Mr. Bustle had just given the finishing touch to his haberdashery<br />
shelves, on the afternoon referred to, and was standing gazing on his<br />
little stock-in-trade (which he knew was all paid for), and wondering<br />
whether he would have sufficient cash, by the ensuing week, to enable<br />
him to replenish his store from the Sydney market, when in walked Mr.<br />
Dubbs, a gentleman who resided in the neighbourhood.<br />
“I have called to asked you, Mr. Bustle, if you will buy a bank draft on<br />
London for £25,” said Mr. Dubbs. “I received it a day or two ago, and,<br />
commercially speaking, it is of no use to me, for, you know, I am not in<br />
business. I shall be glad if you will cash it for me. You shall have it for<br />
£24.”<br />
“If I bought it, I should have to resell it in Sydney,” said Mr. Bustle;<br />
“and I do not know the present rate of exchange. I have no use for it<br />
myself, for I am not in a position to import goods from England, though I<br />
hope to do so some day. I am much obliged to you for offering the draft<br />
to me, but I must decline purchasing it.”<br />
* * * * *
“Is anything troubling you, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Bustle, when her<br />
husband sat down to tea, an hour or two afterwards, in an unusually<br />
thoughtful mood.<br />
“No, love; nothing is actually troubling me,” replied Mr. Bustle, “but I<br />
cannot remove an impression from my mind that I ought to buy that bank<br />
draft which Mr. Dubbs offered me this afternoon, and send it to my<br />
mother. Since the lamented death of several members of my family I<br />
have been uncertain as to her pecuniary position; and I feel a strange<br />
uneasiness on the subject to-night, nor can I reason it away.”<br />
“Well, my dear, buy the draft, and send it by the first ship that sails to<br />
England,” replied Mrs. Bustle. “If you think your mother wants it, send it<br />
by all means; it is a positive duty.”<br />
“I do not see that I can afford it,” said Mr. Bustle, musingly. “I want to<br />
go to Sydney to buy goods next week, and the purchase of that draft<br />
would take nearly half my stock of ready money. You know it is useless<br />
to ask for credit, now that failures are so frequent, and almost every<br />
person is viewed with distrust. No, I cannot afford to be over liberal just<br />
now. I will, however, write and ask my mother how she is<br />
circumstanced; and if I learn that she requires pecuniary aid from me, I<br />
will send it at once. A few months' delay will not matter much to her, and<br />
I shall be able to spare money more conveniently by-and-bye. I could<br />
turn that £24 twice over in the interim. Yes, that is the best plan,” added<br />
Mr. Bustle decisively; and then he began to converse upon some other<br />
subject, and tried to banish the bank draft from his thoughts altogether.<br />
That night, after he retired to bed, he was unusually restless, and in<br />
some unaccountable way his thoughts persistently dwelt upon the<br />
purchase of the draft. There he lay, rolling about as restless as if he had a<br />
heavy draft to pay, and no money to pay it with. Vainly he tried to woo<br />
“Nature's soft nurse;” she would not be wooed by him. At length he felt<br />
so strongly the desire to send the draft home, that he resolved to do it,<br />
and very soon after he had thus decided he fell asleep.<br />
The next morning he informed his wife of his resolution, and she<br />
kindly commended it. That same day the draft was purchased, and<br />
enclosed in a long loving letter to his dear mother, far over the sea; and<br />
then Mr. Bustle went about his usual occupations, cheerful and happy,<br />
under the sense of having performed an imperative moral obligation.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Reader, please to let your fancy fly forward a few months from the date<br />
of my story, and then take a long leap with me over the vast expanse of<br />
ocean, which rolls its rugged waves between this great continent and the<br />
dear little island almost beneath us, whither our hearts' fond affections so
often wander in rapture, tinged with melancholy. Accompany me, in<br />
imagination, into a humble, though comfortable cottage, in one of the<br />
rural parts of old England. 'Tis a cold winter's day; the leafless<br />
hedgerows are white with rime, and the north-east wind is howling<br />
through the tree-tops, like the weird voice of famine. Inside that cottage<br />
we see an aged widow bowed down with grief. She is sitting all alone,<br />
mourning for dear ones recently gone to the grave. She is sighing, too,<br />
for an absent son, far away — one whose manly arm she at one time<br />
fondly hoped would be the stay of her declining strength; whose youthful<br />
energy would be exerted to minister to her wants, when age and infirmity<br />
precluded all active efforts on her part. “Ah!” she sighs, “I once had a<br />
devoted son beside me, whose fond embrace often cheered my widowed<br />
heart, and whose endearing words often lightened my heavy burden of<br />
anxiety. Frequently in his boyhood days has he hung about my neck, and<br />
whispered in my comforted ears — dear mother!<br />
‘When thou art feeble, old, and grey,<br />
My healthful arm shall be thy stay!’<br />
“Yes, he sincerely meant it too; and, were he near me now, he would<br />
shield me to the utmost of his power from aught that threatens my<br />
comfort and peace. But ah, dear boy! little does he know my present<br />
indigence, or, far as he is from me, he would find means to succour me. I<br />
will not doubt his affection. How can I? But he is far away from me, and<br />
months must elapse before I can let him know my position. Meantime, I<br />
am here alone — bereaved, and overwhelmed with sorrow. Gaunt<br />
poverty is at my door, and my threadbare purse contains my last shilling.<br />
Very soon my little household comforts, and all those treasured<br />
mementoes of happier days must be sacrificed to supply my actual<br />
necessities. My lot is hard, and I cannot but weep over it.<br />
“But, praise God! though cast down, I am not in despair,” says the<br />
widow, as a gleam of heavenly sunshine makes her smile through her<br />
tears. “I am not alone, for the ‘God of the widow’ hath promised never to<br />
leave me, nor forsake me. ‘I will trust and not be afraid.’ ” She reaches a<br />
book from a shelf beside her — the Bible — whose sacred pages her late<br />
beloved husband had often bedewed with tears of joy and gratitude<br />
during long years of sickness. “This precious book abounds with<br />
comforting promises,” says the widow, “and they are all as sure as the<br />
glories of Heaven.” She opens the book, and reads a text specially<br />
marked by the pencil of her late afflicted husband. “I have been young,<br />
and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed<br />
begging bread.”<br />
But look outside the cottage again for a moment, reader! See the<br />
village postman hastily approaching with his letter-bag strung before
him. Scarcely has the poor widow read the comforting passage just<br />
quoted, when she is startled by the sharp rap-tap of the postman at her<br />
door; she hastens to open it, and receives into her trembling hands a<br />
registered letter from her absent son, containing the bank draft for £25,<br />
and an affectionately worded promise that he will henceforward supply<br />
her with the means of procuring every material comfort she needs, as<br />
long as she shall live.<br />
* * * * *<br />
That promise was faithfully kept; and so far from growing poorer, Mr.<br />
Bustle rapidly grew rich. I have often heard him say, that it was one of<br />
the happiest reflections of his life, that he did not forget his poor old<br />
mother.
A Rustic Love Story. Jonathan Sprouts and Phoebe<br />
Skimmer.<br />
Chapter I.<br />
JONATHAN Sprouts loved Phoebe Skimmer, as fondly as schoolboy<br />
ever loved almond hardbake: and Phoebe loved Jonathan a little bit, but<br />
not a soul knew the delicate secret, except her bosom companion Betsy<br />
Brown, who lived within call of a shrill cooey.<br />
Jonathan was a roundheaded, honest young rustic, and at the time my<br />
story commences, had not been long out from the quiet little village of<br />
Dumplyn, in Devonshire. He was hired immediately after his arrival by<br />
Mr. Murphy, the market gardener, to drive a horse and cart, and to make<br />
himself generally useful. Phoebe was a dairyman's daughter, a buxom<br />
lassie of twenty-two, whose principal duties were to help milk her<br />
father's cows, polish the milk cans, and ride in a yellow cart with her<br />
brother Bob, twice a day, round their milk-walk. In addition thereto, she<br />
superintended the domestic affairs of the household, for her mother had<br />
been dead some years.<br />
Jonathan used to blush like a mangel-wurzel whenever he met Phoebe,<br />
and Phoebe used to feel as funny as if she had a live mouse in her pocket<br />
whenever she met Jonathan; but not one word had been exchanged by<br />
them on any other subject than the state of the weather, although they<br />
had passed each other daily for five months or more.<br />
Jonathan was a smart sort of fellow in his way; he could handle a<br />
spade, or a pitchfork, or any other farming tool with any man in his<br />
county, and could beat his master in loading a cart for market. He knew<br />
how to make the bunches of carrots and turnips look most tempting, and<br />
to turn the heads of the cauliflowers and the hearts of the lettuces to the<br />
best advantage: but he was puzzled how to turn the heart of Phoebe<br />
Skimmer in his favour; or to make known to her the tender state of his<br />
own heart; for he knew no more about love making than he did about<br />
making air balloons, or steam-engines. Long he had silently admired the<br />
pretty dairy-maid, and had spent many sleepless hours on his stretcher,<br />
making abstruse calculations on the amount of capital required for a start<br />
in the milk line himself, with Phoebe for a partner. I do not say that he<br />
had selfishly counted upon any direct advantages, from a union with<br />
Phoebe, in the shape of cows, or cow-keeping plant; or that he
contemplated taking away her father's customers, as well as his daughter,<br />
for he believed the maxim “Better is a portion in a wife, than with a wife;<br />
and he who marries for wealth sells his liberty;” but as it is not<br />
uncommon for mercenary motives to influence the minds of young wifeseckers,<br />
in other grades of society, it is just possible that Jonathan may<br />
have encouraged such greedy speculations; though I must, in justice, say,<br />
I think the humbler class of mankind are seldom chargeable with<br />
meanness of that sort. His castle-building was, however, usually brought<br />
to a dead stand — by the puzzling question, how was he to woo and win<br />
the fair object of his daily thoughts and nightly dreams, who was almost<br />
as shy as himself? He had worn out two new magnum bonum pens in his<br />
efforts to compose a love letter, but had never got beyond the first fond<br />
sentence, “my dear Feeby;” there his pen stuck fast, like a cart in a boghole,<br />
and all his ideas were as powerless to help it out as a dead horse.<br />
Had he only been scholar enough to add but those two sentences, “I love<br />
you! Will you have me for your husband?” his doubts and suspense<br />
might have soon given place to the realisation of his tenderest wishes; for<br />
Phoebe understood plain English.<br />
I have heard of a similar laconic love letter being sent to a young<br />
Cornish lass by a love sick shepherd in the far bush, who sadly wanted a<br />
wife to comfort him, as many honest bushmen do at this present time.<br />
The girl was delighted with the straightforward declaration “I love you!”<br />
and was anxious to reply to the plainly put question, “Will you have me<br />
for your husband?” in the affirmative; but how to do it she scarcely<br />
knew, for unfortunately she could not write, and she was unwilling to<br />
entrust her secret to a hired scribe; so after some consideration, she had<br />
recourse to a symbolic correspondence. Having procured an eye from a<br />
sheep's head, she carefully cleansed it, and wrapping it in a lock of wool,<br />
sent it to her admirer, who of course rightly interpreted it to signify eyewool,<br />
or I will. That was enough for him, it was an unmistakable assent<br />
to his proposition, and the consummation of his happiness soon followed.<br />
I have seen many lengthy and highly elaborated love letters, which did<br />
not contain so much honest meaning as the comical correspondence of<br />
the shepherd and the Cornish lass: and I may add, for the edification of<br />
puzzled lovers like Jonathan, that a frank, common sense avowal of their<br />
feelings and wishes is all that is necessary in such circumstances.<br />
Had Jonathan added those two important sentences to “my dear<br />
Feeby,” although it is not probable that Phoebe would have had recourse<br />
to sheep's eyes and fleece, for she could write tolerably well, her reply<br />
would doubtless have been the same in effect, “I will,” and Jonathan<br />
would have been a rejoicing man at once. But the ideas never entered<br />
into his round head, so how could he get them out of it? Though he was a<br />
little man he had a big heart, and as it expanded with the increasing force<br />
of his pent-up passion, he felt, to use his own expressive words, as if he
had a big, boiling hot cabbage inside his breast pocket. It is difficult to<br />
conjecture what the consequence would have been, had not the wheel of<br />
fortune suddenly turned in his favour, in a way which I shall briefly<br />
relate.<br />
One very warm afternoon, Jonathan was returning home from Sydney<br />
market, sitting on his cart laden with stable refuse, whistling “The maid<br />
with her milking pail,” and thinking as usual about pretty Phoebe<br />
Skimmer and the probability of her one day being Phoebe Sprouts. When<br />
as he rose to the top of a little hill in the road, he saw the well-known<br />
yellow cart coming towards him, with his charmer in her straw hat and<br />
cream-coloured ribbons, sitting beside her brother Bob, who was beating<br />
the old white horse with the butt end of the whipstick, in full assurance<br />
that there were no friends of animals near to remind him of “Martin's<br />
Cruelty Act,” or to give him in charge to a constable, to be punished as<br />
all such savages deserve to be. As the milk cart rapidly drew near,<br />
Jonathan's practised eye saw in an instant, by the eccentric rotation of the<br />
off wheel, that the linchpin was broken; consequently he judged that the<br />
wheel would soon be off altogether, and his beloved Phoebe would<br />
probably be upset, and her milk cans too. With a promptness which love<br />
alone can stimulate in such an emergency, Jonathan shouted at the top of<br />
his voice: “whoa! stop! Dang it young un! hould hard cant ee? Doan't ee<br />
see yer off wheel a wobbling about loike an old grindstone?” at the same<br />
time he slid down from his perch on the load of litter, as hastily as if it<br />
had suddenly become dangerously hot, or he had just discovered a nest<br />
of soldier ants beneath his seat. The boy Bob, however, mistook the<br />
meaning of the friendly outcry, and under the impression that Jonathan<br />
had some felonious design upon the milk cart and its passengers, instead<br />
of stopping or holding hard, he whipped the white horse into a gallop, in<br />
order to escape from the supposed bushranger.<br />
“Drat thee emperence! Thee art be-wattled, I do believe!” grumbled<br />
Jonathan, as he left his own horse standing in the road and ran after the<br />
yellow cart, throwing out his arms to denote danger, like an excited<br />
signal master, and shouting “whoa! stop! hould hard!” but with no other<br />
effect than to make the terrified Bob beat his horse harder. Presently the<br />
off-wheel parted company with the cart, and rolled into a dyke by the<br />
roadside, and simultaneously Jonathan saw, to his great dismay, the<br />
vehicle itself descend to the ground, and the next moment his charming<br />
Phoebe and her savage brother Bob were sprawling in a pool of spilt<br />
milk.<br />
With his blushing countenance covered with pity and perspiration,<br />
Jonathan ran to the rescue; gently raised the prostrate maiden, and<br />
stammeringly inquired whether she had hurt herself.<br />
“Not at all, thank ee,” said Phoebe, while her rosy face, bedewed with<br />
new milk, looked as glowing as her bashful lover's red plush waistcoat,
with pearl buttons. “I'm much obliged to you for helping me up, but I'm<br />
sorry to trouble you.”<br />
“Doan't ee zay a word about that now,” said Jonathan, gallantly. “I<br />
wanted to stop en from tumbling down, but that young un there wouldn't<br />
whoa when I told en to do it. I be nation glad thee bean't killed, that I be,<br />
sure enough. Drabbit it! what a great gorbey thee must be, to ha druv'd<br />
along like mad, when I tould en to whoa, as loud as I could yell,” he<br />
added, with an angry glance at Bob, who was rubbing his grazed head<br />
and groaning dismally. “Coom an help un to get the wheel out of the<br />
dyke, an put en on again. Doan't ee stand there paking an rubbin all the<br />
hair off yer head. Dang it! thee beant half a man to go walloping that<br />
poor owld bony knacker so mortal hard: thee moight a smashed thee<br />
sister up, loike a basket of eggs, and it's a marcy thee didn't doot.”<br />
After putting on the straying wheel securely, and picking up the<br />
battered milk cans, and again telling Phoebe he was awfully glad her<br />
worn't murdered, Jonathan wished her good-bye, and returned to his cart,<br />
while she and her brother Bob retraced their way homeward for a fresh<br />
supply of milk for their afternoon customers. As she jolted along before<br />
her empty cans, her heart was quite full of affection for Jonathan, who<br />
had manifested such tender concern for her personal safety.<br />
Jonathan quickly remounted his elevated seat on the load of litter, and<br />
after gently waking up his horse with the whip, and telling it to “gee up,”<br />
he resigned himself to a delicious contemplation of the late occurrence,<br />
and the happy contingencies which might accrue therefrom. He<br />
recollected a thrilling story, which he had read in his boyhood, of a<br />
gallant young soldier, at great personal risk, stopping four runaway<br />
horses affixed to a carriage, in which was a young lady as beautiful as<br />
Phoebe Skimmer. The terrified steeds were about to take a flying leap<br />
from the top of some lofty cliffs into the sea, when the young soldier<br />
stopped them, by some means (not very clearly defined), and saved the<br />
young lady's life. The sequel of the story was, that the gallant young<br />
soldier married the grateful young lady, who was the only daughter of a<br />
wealthy baronet.<br />
It was not difficult for Jonathan to draw a pleasing analogy between<br />
that case and the one in which he had lately taken so conspicuous a part.<br />
Phoebe was certainly not the daughter of a wealthy baronet, but she was<br />
the daughter of an honest dairyman, and was perhaps worth a carriage<br />
full of titled ladies as far as domestic qualities and working powers were<br />
concerned. He regretted of course that he had not succeeded in stopping<br />
the milk cart, before the wheel wobbled off into the drain: there the<br />
analogy was again interrupted, still his kindly intentions were evidently<br />
understood by Phoebe, and he tickled his heart by believing that she<br />
would by and by show her appreciation of his zeal for the preservation of<br />
her life and limbs in a similar way the rich young lady did to the poor
young soldier. On the whole, he regarded the incident as a fortunate one<br />
for him: the runaway wheel had given a favourable turn to his prospects,<br />
for he now had a reasonable pretext for calling upon Mr. Skimmer, to<br />
inquire if the graze on the white horse's hip was healing, and whether the<br />
hair was beginning to grow over the wound on his boy Bob's head, and to<br />
explain to the dairyman his experienced views of linchpins and leather<br />
washers for cart wheels. At the same time he intended to keep a keen<br />
look out for an opportunity of declaring his love for Phoebe.<br />
Mr. Murphy was one of those good-natured employers who gave their<br />
men Saturday afternoon for recreation; so on the next Saturday after the<br />
above recorded event, Jonathan greased his boots and oiled his hair, and<br />
put on a clean shirt; then shouldering a gunny bag, in which he had put a<br />
newly-cut water melon, nearly as big as a milking pail — a present for<br />
Phoebe — he set off for Mr. Skimmer's farm, which was about two miles<br />
distant across the country.<br />
Mr. Skimmer was sitting on the top rail of a pigsty smoking his pipe,<br />
and watching some snubby-nosed pigs at their supper trough, as Jonathan<br />
drew near with the bag on his back.<br />
“Good evening, neighbour,” was Mr. Skimmer's salute to Jonathan,<br />
with whom he had previously a nodding acquaintanceship.<br />
“Good evening, Master Skimmer,” said Jonathan. “A foine evening<br />
this, only plaguey warm, and the skeeters are real spiteful across the<br />
swamps yonder, they do poke their horns into a fellow loike cranky<br />
young steers. How's the old horse's hip? and how's Bob's head?”<br />
“Nicely, thank ee,” said Mr. Skimmer. “You are the man who picked<br />
my girl up the other day, after she got spilt. She told me all about it, and<br />
I'm much obliged to you.”<br />
“That's naught, measter; doan't ee speak about it,” said Jonathan,<br />
modestly; at the same time he was about to ask if Phoebe was all right,<br />
but his heart suddenly seemed to shrivel up like a sunburnt mushroom, so<br />
he asked how the cows were getting on?<br />
“Capitally! they are as sleek as young rats in a barn,” said Mr.<br />
Skimmer, with a smirk of professional pride, like an encored fiddler,<br />
“there's a nice bit of feed in the paddocks after the last week's rain, and<br />
the cows look uncommonly well; put your bag down and take a look at<br />
them.”<br />
“There,” said Mr. Skimmer, holding up his hands in admiration as they<br />
entered a long shed. “There's as fine a lot of milkers as ever kicked a<br />
bucket. Look at their tails! thin as a stockwhip. There's breed in those<br />
cows, I can tell you. Whoa, Daisy! stand over. Now just look at this;<br />
pretty creature, ain't she? a regular pet, too. She belongs to Phoebe. Get<br />
up, Strawberry! Here now, take a good look at this one's flank, a perfect<br />
picture! She gives close up three barn gallons of milk a day, a regular<br />
gold mine for a poor man, that cow is.”
Jonathan made many admiring comments on the cattle, for he was a<br />
judge, and knew all their best points better than a butcher. They were a<br />
well bred and well fed lot of cows, so he could honestly say a good deal<br />
in their praise: but he was most eloquent on the qualities of Daisy, which<br />
was certainly a handsome animal. In thus expressing his opinion, he was<br />
not insensible to the fact, that he was on the most direct road to the<br />
dairyman's good graces, and before they had finished their survey, Mr.<br />
Skimmer thought Jonathan was a nice sort of young fellow, who knew a<br />
thing or two about cattle and dairy feeding.<br />
As they emerged from the cow shed, Jonathan's anxious ears caught the<br />
sound of cart wheels, accompanied by the jingling of tinware, which was<br />
sweeter music to him than the chords of a grand piano, for he knew that<br />
Phoebe had returned from her afternoon's milk service, and on turning a<br />
corner of the dairy, he saw her descending from the yellow cart, her<br />
pretty face blushing beneath her little round hat, like a ripe love-apple in<br />
a strawberry basket.<br />
“Hallo! welcome home, my girl,” said Mr. Skimmer, then he added,<br />
nodding towards Jonathan, “here's Mr. What's-his-name come to see us.<br />
Please to tell us your name, mate.”<br />
“Jonathan Sprouts,” was the modest reply.<br />
“Thank ee. Well, Mr. Sprouts will stop and take a cup of tea with us,<br />
Phoebe, so get the kettle boiling quickly, there's a good girl.”<br />
Chapter II.<br />
“WALK this way, Mr. Sprouts,” said Mr. Skimmer, proceeding<br />
towards the house. “What have you got in your bag? Excuse me for<br />
asking; but if it is anything that can run away, bring it inside.”<br />
“It's a foine ripe water melon. I carr'd an over from our garden, 'cos I'd<br />
a notion Miss Phoebe ud like to have en. I loike em uncommon; they be<br />
rate noice things to eat in warm weathur loike this,” replied Jonathan,<br />
turning up the bag as he spoke, and rolling the green monster to the feet<br />
of his deary, who smiled and said, “thankee, Mr. Sprouts, I am very fond<br />
of melons.”<br />
“Take a seat on the sofa,” said Mr. Skimmer, when they had entered a<br />
snug little parlour, neat as hands could make it. “I'll just go and have a<br />
wash, and put on my coat. I'll be with you again in a few minutes; make<br />
yourself happy.”<br />
Accordingly Jonathan seated himself, and while his host was at his<br />
toilet, and Phoebe was helping the handy little maid-of-all-work in the<br />
kitchen, he busied himself in taking stock of the comforts around him.<br />
The house, though small, was very convenient, and scrupulously clean in<br />
every part. There was not an atom of dust, or cobweb to be seen, and all<br />
the furniture shone like a black fellow's face.
“Her be's a tidy wench, sure enough,” muttered Jonathan to himself, as<br />
he gazed around in smiling admiration on the tokens of good<br />
housewifery, which were everywhere apparent, “I believe her do amost<br />
bate my dear ould mother, and sister Suke. I wish they could see this<br />
room. They wouldn't bother me any more to send for Dolly Daysel, I'll<br />
warrant.”<br />
Though it is commonly reported that “love is blind,” I doubt if it would<br />
have blinded Jonathan to the reasonable deduction, that he could have<br />
very little domestic comfort with Phoebe for his wife — however comely<br />
her person — had he seen evidence of slovenliness, wastefulness, and a<br />
lack of cleanliness, which is too often seen in country homes, and in<br />
town homes, too. Jonathan, though as shy as a wild turkey, was<br />
nevertheless shrewd enough in his quiet way, as most Devonshire boys<br />
are — and much as he had admired Phoebe Skimmer's neat appearance<br />
out of doors, had he seen anything to indicate that she was a “dolly”<br />
indoors, he would have resigned her to some lover less mindful of such<br />
important matters, and would have tried to subdue his passion, like a<br />
sensible man, while he looked elsewhere for a suitable wife.<br />
An intimate friend of mine — many years ago — fell suddenly in love<br />
with a young lady whom he had met at a picnic. She was the belle of the<br />
party; and in her flowing riding habit and feathery hat, she looked like<br />
Diana, or some other goddess. The first glances of her love-striking eyes<br />
went through his susceptible heart, like silver skewers; and her lisping<br />
tongue and sonorous laughter tickled his ears like cuckoo's feathers. For<br />
nine days his heart was in a simmer of adoration for Miss Birdy; and all<br />
the world seemed sad and dreary without her. On the tenth day he called<br />
at her mother's villa, in the forenoon, and found his Dulcinea en<br />
deshabille, lolling on the drawing-room couch, sighing over a sensational<br />
novel, entitled the “Blighted Heart, or the Midnight Vow,” while<br />
everything around her evidenced slovenliness, disorder, and genteel dirt.<br />
“How are you to-day, Miss Birdy?” asked my friend, as he entered the<br />
room, with a fluttering heart.<br />
“I'm very poorly,” replied the young lady, languidly raising herself into<br />
a sitting posture, and hiding the book beneath the sofa cushion; gasping<br />
the while with the exertion, like a little gosling trying to swallow a frog:<br />
then in a die-away drawl she began to describe the aches and pains which<br />
she was doomed to endure, but which my friend — who was rather a<br />
sagacious youth — at once saw were whims and fancies, produced by<br />
want of proper exercise of body and mind. He felt inclined to<br />
recommend her to put on her morning wrapper, and rub the dust and<br />
candle spots off her piano, and put the otherwise untidy room to rights:<br />
then to go into the kitchen and exercise herself with the rolling-pin and<br />
pastry board, while she heated the oven with the “Blighted Heart,” and<br />
scores of similar books, which littered her boudoir. He was too
courteous, however, thus plainly to express his sentiments to the young<br />
lady, but he wisely acted upon the judgment of her character, which that<br />
interview afforded, and did not in any way express his feelings. In a short<br />
time his hastily-formed attachment succumbed to the sober reasonings of<br />
common sense; at a month's end his love for Miss Birdy had flown away,<br />
and his heart was again his own. In due course he married a sensible<br />
young lady, accomplished and domesticated, and has since enjoyed many<br />
years of conjugal happiness. Miss Birdy married too, and although her<br />
husband's income was sufficient for a stylish establishment, her<br />
extravagance and want of management — in less than seven years<br />
— involved him in pecuniary difficulties.<br />
In a short time Mr. Skimmer returned to the parlour and put an end, for<br />
a time, to Jonathan's speculations. Soon afterwards, Phoebe — in a neat<br />
afternoon dress — took her seat at the tea table, which was garnished<br />
with a ham of her own curing, a loaf of her own baking, and some nice<br />
fresh butter of her own churning; which interesting facts Jonathan<br />
adroitly ascertained in the course of the social meal. Many were the<br />
loving glances which stole out of the corners of his eyes towards her, as<br />
she sat behind the big tin tea-pot; and when she asked him if his tea was<br />
agreeable, he was going to say, “that it would be as sweet as mead, even<br />
if she had only looked at it, and had forgotten to sugar it,” but he was<br />
afraid to attempt such a long speech.<br />
After tea, Mr. Skimmer and Jonathan smoked a pipe together, and<br />
chatted about cattle and cart wheels, and many other topics which they<br />
mutually understood, while Phoebe sat and listened, and at the same time<br />
nimbly plied her needle and thimble in the necessary repairs to some of<br />
her father's working shirts. About nine o'clock Jonathan bade farewell to<br />
his kind friends, and trudged homeward in the face of the full moon, with<br />
his heart full of love and pleasing anticipations, for he had ascertained, in<br />
a way unmistakably plain, though difficult to explain, that he had found<br />
favour in Phoebe's eyes; and he had also satisfied himself that she was an<br />
industrious and domesticated young woman; just the wife for him, and<br />
the very identical girl that his mother and sister Suke would have chosen.<br />
Jonathan had been scarcely twelve months in the colony, yet he had<br />
saved nearly thirty pounds (out of his pound a week with board and<br />
perquisites), besides sending ten pounds to his mother; which is a pretty<br />
good proof of his steady habits. As he went on his way, he was busy in<br />
forming plans for the future, for he was too wise even to think of rushing<br />
into matrimony, before he had the means of providing a comfortable<br />
home; he had seen too much misery ensue from such indiscretion. His<br />
master had promised him an advance of wages after Christmas, and he<br />
estimated that by the end of another year he would be worth seventy<br />
pounds, at least. Then he went into a calculation on the cost of a<br />
domestic outfit, and by the time he had arrived at his master's gate, he
had arrived at the conclusion that he might reasonably hope to marry<br />
Phoebe in twelve or fifteen months. How to enter upon the love-making<br />
preliminaries was the next subject of his cogitation, which he had not<br />
decided before he was fast asleep on his little bachelor bed.<br />
Soon after Jonathan left, Phoebe put on her hat, and skipped across the<br />
paddock to Betsy Brown's back gate, and in confidential whispers told<br />
her friend the particulars of Jonathan's visit, and all the encouraging<br />
things her father had said about him, after he had gone. She furthermore<br />
said that “she had made up her mind to take him,” for better or worse, if<br />
he offered himself; for he was the nicest man she had ever seen, except<br />
poor Barney, who had broken his neck on the Homebush Racecourse five<br />
years before.<br />
All the ensuing week, Phoebe Skimmer was constantly in Jonathan's<br />
thoughts, and no matter how or where he was engaged, her pretty image<br />
was ever before his eyes. Day and night he cudgelled his brain to devise<br />
some means for making known his love for her; and to get an<br />
acknowledgment from her that it was reciprocated. But he was an utter<br />
stranger to all conventional forms and phrases. He knew how he felt, but<br />
he lacked the power to explain his feelings. He could ride a kicking colt<br />
without a saddle, and could do many other things requiring nerve and<br />
energy to effect; but he could not even look at Phoebe Skimmer without<br />
feeling shaky. It was not fear, however, that made him shake; he was not<br />
a coward, but it was an unaccountable sensation which came over him,<br />
and which he was powerless to conquer or to control. Many bashful boys<br />
will understand his feelings without any further explanation.<br />
One morning, as he was hilling up some young cauliflowers and<br />
chipping out the couch-grass between the rows, an idea struck him all at<br />
once, and he began to think it out. “Nation hard stuff to get out of the<br />
ground, is this couch-grass,” thought Jonathan. “It's just like love; when<br />
it gets into a fellow's heart, it creeps all over him, with its thousand roots,<br />
and burned if he can get it out any how.” Then he resolved upon using<br />
that familiar figure to convey the state of his mind to Phoebe. She knew<br />
what couch-grass was, he was sure, for he had seen lots of it choking the<br />
marigolds in her little front garden; and he thought she knew what love<br />
was too, so she would readily understand his parabolic addresses. He<br />
would go over to her house next Saturday, and trim her garden beds, and<br />
then tell her that his heart was overgrown with love, and was in danger of<br />
being stifled, like her marigolds, with couch-grass, if she did not promise<br />
to be its keeper for life. Pleased with the happy concoction, Jonathan<br />
composed a few sentences, embodying the idea in his own vernacular,<br />
and rehearsed them as he prosecuted his varied duties day after day, until<br />
he felt assured that he had learnt them off, and could say them to Phoebe,<br />
without a stammer.<br />
Directly after dinner, on the following Saturday, he trimmed himself up
extra smart, and putting (with his master's permission) a large bunch of<br />
turnip radishes and some prime young cucumbers into the gunny bag, off<br />
he set with hasty steps towards the dairyman's house. As he approached<br />
it, he saw his precious Phoebe, with a bucketful of frothing new milk,<br />
walking from the stock-yard to the dairy, and looking like a bright star in<br />
the “Milky Way.”<br />
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sprouts,” was Phoebe's cheerful salute as he<br />
drew near, ruddy with health and the effect of his quick march across the<br />
swamps, with the bag on his back.<br />
“Good afternoon, Miss Phoebe, — I bean't used to be called Mister,<br />
and it sounds queer loike. I do wish thee'd call me Jonathan, stead of<br />
Mister Sprouts.”<br />
“Do you? Very well, then, I'll call you Jonathan,” said Phoebe, with a<br />
smile and a blush, “it's a very nice name.”<br />
Jonathan was just about to begin his prepared address, but checked<br />
himself by the recollection that it would be premature: he must trim up<br />
her garden-beds before she would see the full force of the grassy figure,<br />
with which he hoped to strike her into yielding tenderness, and ease his<br />
own breast at the same time. So, after presenting her with the contents of<br />
his sugee bag he offered — if she would furnish him with a hoe and a<br />
rake — to trim up her bit of garden, while she was gone into town with<br />
her milk. After a pleasant interchange of protests, against giving trouble,<br />
and taking trouble, Phoebe brought the hoe and rake, and Jonathan went<br />
to work with a will, among the marigolds, sunflowers, and other flowers,<br />
which were sadly overrun with weeds and couch-grass. Phoebe looked<br />
admiringly on for a minute or two, and then went into the dairy to<br />
prepare her milk for market; which process I am not able to explain.<br />
About five o'clock — nearly an hour earlier than usual — Phoebe<br />
returned, with the old white horse covered with lather and bruises, and<br />
her brother Bob looking quite fatigued with his exertions. Jonathan had<br />
wrought a surprising change in her garden during her absence, and was<br />
still busy weeding, when she walked up the centre path, and expressed<br />
her satisfaction at his handiwork.<br />
“Now's my time,” thought Jonathan, who had been muttering his<br />
prepared address all the afternoon. “Now's the time to clinch the nail.”<br />
“Phoebe, dos't thee see this couch-grass!” he asked, striking his rake<br />
vehemently into a heap of weeds just beside him; “dos't thee see this<br />
tough wiry stuff, lass?”<br />
“Ye — yes — Jonathan,” said Phoebe, rather puzzled at his sudden<br />
change of manner, “I see it,” of course, she replied, gazing at him,<br />
inquiringly. “What is the matter with it?”<br />
“Couch-grass, is — is a — wiry weed — my — stom — no — my<br />
breast is chock full of it — no, no, I don't mean that, burn it! It's nation<br />
ugly stuff: a — a — choke a pig — a — couch-grass — um — aw.
Blained if I know what I was going to say at all. I'm dazed, sure<br />
enough!” stammered poor Jonathan, colouring to the tip of his ears, and<br />
shaking like a frost-bitten sailor: then added in an excited tone, “Dos't<br />
thee loike artichokes, lass?”<br />
“I don't know,” replied Phoebe, timidly, shrinking back a few paces, as<br />
the idea that her lover was drunk, filled her mind with disgust and<br />
surprise; for she had a natural horror of drunkards; and she had<br />
previously entertained the belief that Jonathan was a thoroughly sober<br />
man; so she replied, rather sharply, “that she did not know anything<br />
about artichokes;” then hurriedly withdrew to the house, and whispered<br />
her suspicions to her father, while her eyes filled with tears.<br />
“Drunk, girl!” exclaimed Mr. Skimmer with warmth. “Pooh! nonsense!<br />
The lad is as sober as old Daisy in the shed yonder. Hasn't he been<br />
working away there all the afternoon, as if he were earning double<br />
wages, while I have been sitting beside him? Not a drop of anything<br />
stronger than skim milk has he tasted since he came here; that I'll<br />
warrant. Drunk indeed! what next will you fancy, girl?”<br />
“Well then, I'm afraid he is crazy, father,” said poor Phoebe, wiping<br />
her eyes with her little white apron.<br />
“Bother you, girl! I shall believe you are downright mad directly,” said<br />
Mr. Skimmer, pettishly. “The lad is hungry, that's what is the matter with<br />
him, I'll be bound; so go and get the supper ready, as soon as you can.”<br />
Then, putting on his hat, he went into the garden, where Jonathan was<br />
busy giving the finishing rake to the flower-beds; and having in a<br />
measure recovered from the terrible perturbation which his bungling<br />
failure and the sudden flight of Phoebe had caused him, he looked<br />
tolerably collected.<br />
“Well, mate, are you pretty nearly knocked up?” asked Mr. Skimmer,<br />
at the same time looking very closely at him.<br />
“Not a bit, not a bit, measter. This ground is as easy to work as a sandy<br />
flat, only there be's a plaguey lot of weeds and couch-grass in it, and it<br />
wants a few barrowfuls of dung.”<br />
“Crankey, eh! humph! He's as sensible as a judge's clerk, every bit,”<br />
muttered Mr. Skimmer to himself. Then, addressing Jonathan, he added,<br />
“Come inside, mate, and get a wash before supper. You've done a day's<br />
work in four or five hours, that you have. There, that'll do; heave your<br />
rake down, and come along; I smell eggs and bacon, and hot scons.”<br />
Without farther pressing, Jonathan put away his tools and scraped his<br />
boots, and in a few minutes more he was seated at the supper table, with<br />
his cleanly-washed face as rubicund as an earthenware flowerpot.<br />
Chapter III.<br />
HAD Jonathan been aware of the suspicion which Phoebe entertained
to the prejudice of his sobriety, or his sanity, his embarrassment would<br />
doubtless have been overwhelming, and instead of appearing at the tea<br />
table, he would probably have run away home as fast as he could, and<br />
hidden his diminished head in his nightcap. Fortunately, however, he was<br />
spared that poignant addition to the self-reproach and confusion, which<br />
his late love-making had caused him; still he felt as ill at ease as a dandy<br />
who had just slipped down in the mud.<br />
An incident, somewhat analogous, in the experience of an old friend of<br />
mine, just occurs to my mind. In his youthful days he had, one summer<br />
afternoon, engaged to take a young lady and her mamma for a sail in his<br />
smart little yacht; and being very anxious to make an impression on the<br />
tender heart of Miss Clara, a fascinating girl of seventeen, he dressed<br />
himself with extra taste in a blue blouse and white trowsers — the tout<br />
ensemble of a yachtsman of those times. His boat was dancing at her<br />
moorings, with sails hoisted and flags gaily flying from both masts, and<br />
his crew of merry-faced black-fellows, in blue shirts and red caps, were<br />
singing “Cree-an-dobbria.” The ladies were waiting on the jetty close<br />
by, when my friend — who by the way was rather a retiring youth<br />
— walked up in happy consciousness that he was looking rather striking,<br />
and that he was exacting the admiration of the groups of spectators<br />
— young and old — who were waiting to see him get underway, with the<br />
fresh breeze which was then blowing. While gracefully lifting his straw<br />
hat with one hand, and extending the other to grasp the pretty little<br />
gloved fingers which were held out to greet him, he put his foot into an<br />
unlucky hole in the jetty, and down he fell flat at the feet of his charmer;<br />
when almost simultaneously, his ears were assailed with the giggles of<br />
the grinning crowd, and the loud guffaws of his black crew. Of course he<br />
did not lie very long in that undignified position, but when he got up he<br />
discovered, to his inexpressible confusion, that he had damaged his<br />
apparel to such an extent, that common propriety at once prompted him<br />
to run away to the nearest cover, without stopping to look after his straw<br />
hat, which had rolled into the river, or to pick up the stray shillings which<br />
had rolled out of his waistcoat pocket.<br />
Although twenty-four years have elapsed, my friend still has a vivid<br />
recollection of his miserable feelings on that occasion, and of his<br />
blushing trepidation, when he re-appeared shortly after he had changed<br />
his dress, and limped on his scraped leg towards the ladies to receive<br />
their sympathy, while their lips were visibly twitching with suppressed<br />
laughter. He never enjoyed a cruise in his boat less than he did that<br />
afternoon, although the weather was most favourable, and his fair<br />
passengers professed to enjoy themselves very much; for he fancied that<br />
everything they said or did to provoke a smile, was but an excuse for<br />
venting their pent-up mirth at his luckless downfall; and every outburst<br />
of merriment amongst his black crew, he regarded with a scowling
suspicion that it was at his expense; like a greedy miser listening to the<br />
drawing of corks in his kitchen.<br />
Jonathan felt in a similarly comfortless condition, as he sat, solemnly<br />
looking at his plate, or picking up the stray crumbs on the table cloth,<br />
like a half-tamed robin; and scarcely daring once to lift his eyes to<br />
Phoebe's face, lest he should see a scowl, or a contemptuous smile. He<br />
was not sorry when the meal was ended; and when Mr. Skimmer asked<br />
him to smoke a pipe in the chimney corner, it was a relief as welcome to<br />
him, as the lowering of the prop-stick is to a jaded horse in a dray. His<br />
embarrassment, however, wore off after his pipe was fairly alight, and he<br />
was soon eloquently discoursing upon the comparative merits of English<br />
and Colonial systems of farming, and in so doing he displayed so much<br />
common sense and practical knowledge of the subject, that long before<br />
he left, Phoebe's misgivings had all vanished before the direct evidence<br />
of her senses, and Jonathan stood higher than ever in her estimation,<br />
while Mr. Skimmer had encouraged serious thoughts of proposing a<br />
partnership with him, and taking the adjoining farm to his own; which<br />
was to be had on easy terms, because no tenant had yet been able to<br />
make a living off it. About ten o'clock Jonathan said good night and<br />
departed, after receiving a pressing invitation from his host to come and<br />
see them as often as he could, and after observing at the same time an<br />
unmistakable love token in Phoebe's eyes, which plainly meant “I shall<br />
be very happy to see you too.”<br />
Love lords it over all, and has done so from time immemorial. From<br />
the prince to the peasant, from the lofty duchess to the tinker's pretty<br />
daughter Polly; few hearts are untouched by the torch of the ambrosial<br />
though inexorable little ruler: few are so crabbed and crusty in their<br />
nature as utterly to scare him from their breasts, lest their icy hearts<br />
should extinguish his torch and spoil his trade. An old song says: “ 'Tis<br />
love that makes the world go round.” Whether or not the little urchin has<br />
that mighty influence, it is certain there would soon be numberless empty<br />
houses in the world, if love were less active. But without stopping to<br />
analyse that sentiment or any other sentiment contained in the thousand<br />
of songs, old and new, on the same touching subject, I may record that<br />
love held full sway in Jonathan's heart, and influenced all his thoughts<br />
and deeds, whether he was bundling up greens, radishes, and rhubarb, for<br />
market, or digging, dunging, raking, or hoeing in the garden; whether he<br />
was greasing his cart wheels, grooming his horse, or oiling his harness,<br />
driving to town with a load, or driving home again without a load in his<br />
cart, he had always a load of love in his breast, heavier than a bushel of<br />
broad beans. Phoebe Skimmer's image was in his eye and in his heart<br />
too; and it would take a waggon load of artists' material and brushes, to<br />
paint all the bright pictures which his fancy conjured up, of home and<br />
happiness, with groups of little darling appurtenances in the back ground.
The magpies, which perched on the swamp oaks at the back of his house,<br />
and awoke him at morning dawn with their wild music, whistled Phoebe<br />
Skimmer, Phoebe Skimmer! as plainly as magpies could articulate: the<br />
curlews, which sometimes flew high over his dwelling at midnight, when<br />
a gale was brewing in the eastern sky, screeched Phoebe Skimmer,<br />
Phoebe Skimmer! The frogs on the flats that skirted her home, croaked<br />
the same sweet name, as musically as hurdy-gurdies; and even the sharp<br />
nosed mosquitos, which hovered about his ears just as he was dozing off<br />
to sleep, seemed to chant Phoebe, pretty Phoebe!<br />
“Phoebe must be moine,” quoth Jonathan, in a positive mood one<br />
evening, just as the six o'clock bell began to ring; at the same time he<br />
flung down his spade, and walked towards the house to partake of his<br />
solitary meal. “Phoebe must be moine, or my heart wull pretty soon split<br />
open loike a ripe apricot; barn'd if it woarnt. A notion has wriggled into<br />
my head whilst I a been diggin up them kidney tatees; and dash my<br />
buttons if I doant think it wull just settle the thing roight off, without any<br />
more bother. At all events, there bean't no harm in trying, as the<br />
Lancashire chap said when he took a job at mowing beans, and cut his<br />
toe big off the first stroke.”<br />
Lest I should make my story tedious, I will not detail Jonathan's<br />
cogitations in his own provincial dialect, but briefly explain that the plan<br />
which he had been pondering in his little spherical skull, was in the first<br />
place to ask Phoebe to accompany him on an excursion the following<br />
Friday — which was a general holiday — to “Kissing Point.” He had<br />
never been there, but had heard that it was a romantic place; indeed, there<br />
was something in its very name which suggested enjoyment, such as he<br />
sighed for; and he hoped that when there, he might be inspired with<br />
courting ideas, and also with courage to declare them like a man, and<br />
thus end his suspense, and set his love-laden heart at ease. After a hasty<br />
supper he put off his hobnailed boots, put on his best kangaroo bluchers,<br />
and away he went in the cool of the evening towards Syllabub Swamp,<br />
which, by-the-bye, was the name of Mr. Skimmer's location.<br />
He met with the usual cordial reception from the dairyman and his<br />
daughter; to the latter he presented a pocketfull of Jerusalem artichokes,<br />
and directed her how to cook them. While smoking a pipe in the kitchen<br />
half-an-hour afterwards, he asked Mr. Skimmer to allow Phoebe to<br />
accompany him on the ensuing Friday for a little bit of a jaunt in the<br />
country, as he hadn't had a holiday since the day he first landed in<br />
Sydney. Mr. Skimmer offered no objection, and Phoebe was most<br />
willing, provided her father would manage her milk properly, and serve<br />
her afternoon customers, which he cheerfully promised to do; so the<br />
matter was soon settled, and after a little more friendly gossip, Jonathan<br />
returned home highly pleased that his happy plan had so far succeeded.<br />
On Friday morning he was up before the magpies began to sing; and
after attending to his horse's wants for the day, and sundry other<br />
indispensable duties, he began to dress himself with extraordinary care;<br />
and when he had completed his toilet, he looked thoroughly satisfied<br />
with himself. His worsted cord trousers were faultlessly clean; his red<br />
plush vest was as bright as a king parrot's plumage; his velveteen jacket<br />
was as sleek as his horse Billy's black coat; and when he stuck his bran<br />
new cabbage-tree hat on the back of his head, so as not to hide his honest<br />
face, he looked a likely lad to smite the heart of any milk-maid in the<br />
world. After breakfast he took another look at himself in the glass,<br />
combed his hair down smooth and straight, stuck a flower in his buttonhole,<br />
then put on his hat again, a trifle inclined to the left side, and off he<br />
set for Syllabub Swamp, with a quick step and a hopeful heart.<br />
Phoebe had returned from the early morning calls on her friends in<br />
town, and was busy at her toilet, with flushed face and fluttering heart,<br />
when Jonathan arrived at her house. Very soon she emerged from her<br />
chamber, in her best attire, and shily welcomed her admiring swain, who<br />
remarked that it was “a foine morning;” at the same time he mentally<br />
remarked, that “she was the finest maid he had ever ventured to look at;<br />
as much superior to Dolly Daysel, as a spring cauliflower is to a common<br />
curly cabbage.”<br />
After giving some final directions to her father, her brother Bob, and to<br />
the maid in the kitchen, Phoebe opened her sky-blue parasol and said she<br />
was quite ready. Away they went side by side, like Darby and Joan, and<br />
half-an-hour afterwards they were on board a smart little steamer, which<br />
was fast paddling up the Parramatta River.<br />
“Be's this Kissing Point, Phoebe?” asked Jonathan, when the steamer<br />
had moored alongside a jetty, about seven miles from Sydney.<br />
“No, Jonathan,” said Phoebe, “this is Bedlam Point. The next one is<br />
Kissing Point; a famous place for fruit.”<br />
“I'll trouble you for your fare, if you please,” said a tall, good-looking<br />
man, just then stopping before Jonathan, with a blue ticket-book in his<br />
hand. “Are you going to Ryde?”<br />
“Noa, I be going for a walk, as soon as I get ashore at Kissing Point,<br />
captain, thank'ee all the same.”<br />
A comical smile played about the mouth of the merry looking captain,<br />
as he handed a couple of tickets, and at the same time explained to<br />
Jonathan that Kissing Point is now generally called Ryde, being a more<br />
fashionable name.<br />
“I loike the owld name better than the new 'un, captain, a moighty deal;<br />
and I believe the old 'un is more fashionable, after all. I'd a rayther walk<br />
to Kissing Point any day, than ride on a thorough-bred racer, to any other<br />
point you could tell of,” said Jonathan, with a laugh and a shy glance at<br />
Phoebe, to see if she understood the point of his joke.<br />
In ten minutes more they had landed at Ryde, in company with a
number of genteel residents of the place. After clearing the fruit-boxes<br />
and firewood on the jetty, the courting couple walked slowly towards the<br />
charming little village on the hill. As they went along, with all their<br />
senses active, the warm bright sun shining upon such varied loveliness,<br />
had a remarkably mellowing effect on Phoebe's feelings, such as she had<br />
never before experienced. Her heart got as soft as a boiled turnip with<br />
loving sentiment; her eyes were swimming in tender emotion, and she<br />
occasionally glanced at the beaming face of her doting lover beside her,<br />
with Kissing Point on her pretty pouting lips.<br />
“Well, well, dash my wig! this is a nation noice place sure enough!”<br />
said Jonathan in a transport of admiration, as he suddenly stood still in<br />
the middle of a green paddock, and gazed at the rare blending beauties of<br />
hill and dale, and meandering stream around him, and sniffed in the<br />
salubrious air, rich with scents of orange blossom and sweet brier.<br />
“Blaimed if this bea'n't the prettiest place I've seen since I left Devon, an'<br />
no mistake! It minds me of the bank of the river Dart, a few miles below<br />
Totness, just avore ye come to Dittisham, where the plums grow in<br />
galores. Dost thee loike ripe plums, Phoebe?”<br />
Jonathan's tongue was now fairly loosened, and he was waxing warm<br />
while he was keeping as cool and collected as a fireman. He knew what<br />
he was talking about this time, and was careful not to make another<br />
blunder, and thus risk all his hopes; so when Phoebe said she did like<br />
ripe plums very much, he said her lips were like plums, and he liked<br />
them uncommon; and was just about to say something else equally<br />
poetical, when his eloquence was interrupted by Phoebe's calling his<br />
attention to the eccentric behaviour of a cow, with a young calf by her<br />
side, a short distance from them.<br />
“Drat the beast, what does her mean?” quoth Jonathan, as the cow<br />
elevated her tail, and began to bellow in a very ominous manner. “Stand<br />
still, Phoebe, and poke the parasol at 'un, whoile I run an' cut a stick; I'll<br />
soon settle the cranky owld creetur,” saying which he ran towards a tree,<br />
about a hundred yards distant, to cut a cudgel, but had scarcely got halfway<br />
there, when he heard a shrill cry, and on turning round he beheld<br />
Phoebe lying on the ground, and her hat and parasol blowing before the<br />
breeze, in the direction of a water-hole, while the cow was making<br />
towards him full speed, with head down and tail straight up, like a millet<br />
broom.<br />
“Whoa! drat 'ee, what be thee about, nasty toad!” shouted Jonathan,<br />
with uplifted hands, trying to strike respect into the cow by waving his<br />
cabbage-tree hat, but she paid not the slightest heed to his hat; onward<br />
she rushed with fury streaming out of her nostrils, and her glaring eyes<br />
looking like railway lanterns denoting danger. When he saw it was<br />
hopeless to try to stop her, either with arguments or antics, he promptly<br />
decided that it was the wisest plan to run for his life; so he turned and ran
very fast, but not quite so fast as the cow, for she overtook him before he<br />
got to cover, and tossed him up, ten feet at least, in a direct course<br />
towards the noonday sun. After turning a summer-sault and a half, down<br />
he came again head foremost, into a sweet brier bush, and there he stuck<br />
as fast as if he had grown up with the bush itself, and all that could be<br />
seen of him were his kangaroo boots, his pepper and salt socks, portions<br />
of well-developed muscles of his legs, and the bottom hem of his<br />
worsted corduroys; but that he was not dead was soon evidenced by his<br />
loud shouts to Phoebe, “to stand clear of that spiteful owld varmin, or she<br />
wud toss her into the hedge too.”<br />
Phoebe soon picked herself up, then picked up her appurtenances and<br />
re-arranged her straggling tresses. She was not at all injured, for the steel<br />
bars of her skirt rendered her as invulnerable to cow's horns, as iron-clad<br />
frigates are to the attacks of sword-fish. Moreover knock-down butts, or<br />
ill-tempered kicks from cows, were regarded by her as professional<br />
incidentals, so she was not much terrified by her sudden upset. She had<br />
seen Jonathan turning heels over head in the air, and had seen him<br />
rapidly descend into the hedge; but as she had not seen him make a<br />
struggle to get out of the hedge again, her anxiety for him was quite<br />
natural. It was very brief, though, for his loud words of warning assured<br />
her in a moment that his neck was not broken, and that no other vital<br />
organ was seriously injured, so she joyfully hastened to his assistance.<br />
Chapter IV.<br />
PHoeBE, though a courageous girl, was not fool-hardy; so, instead of<br />
rushing straight towards her disabled lover, and thus incurring the risk of<br />
again being tossed by the surly cow, she trotted across the paddock, crept<br />
through a fence, and arrived in a short time at the back of the bush,<br />
where Jonathan was stuck fast, with his head where his heels should be.<br />
Her proximity was known to him immediately; for he could see her<br />
plainly enough, although she could see no more of him than I have<br />
described in the preceding chapter.<br />
“Jonathan, I hope you are not hurt,” said Phoebe, in her softest tones of<br />
commiseration. “Can't you get out?”<br />
“Noa, Phoebe, I can't move half an inch, if I try; these prickly thorns<br />
push me amazing sharp. I bean't hurt much, but I be stuck in here as<br />
toight as if I wor rammed in with a pile driver. I must be cut out, loike a<br />
buzzy in a horse's tail. You can't get me out any other way as I can see;<br />
for if you pull me up by the legs, I shall be scratched all to rags and<br />
tatters.”<br />
“I'll run and get some help,” said Phoebe decisively, “I won't be long<br />
away. Poor fellow! keep your spirits up.”<br />
“Stop; don't ee run away from me, Phoebe,” cried Jonathan, “sit thee
down beside the hedge, I want to say summat to thee very particular; and<br />
I can say it best now thee can't see my face. Phoebe, I tell thee what it is,<br />
I love thee loike a man, an' no mistake about it. If thee wull have me for<br />
a husband one of these days, I'll do all that a true heart and honest hands<br />
can do to make thee happy, and to keep a good whoam for thee. Say the<br />
word, will thee have me, Phoebe? Dos't thee love me? Now's the time to<br />
own it; don't ee be ashamed. Speak up, lass! One word from thee will<br />
make me as proud as the governor, though I be standing on my head in a<br />
brier bush.”<br />
“Oh, Jonathan! I can't say anything about it just now; I feel so flurried<br />
and tusselled. Don't ask me now, there's a good man,” said Phoebe,<br />
looking as confused as if the cow was coming again full gallop.<br />
“Then doan't ee try to get me out of this hedge, lass. I doan't want to<br />
coom out if thee won't have me. Just go straight whoam, like a good girl,<br />
and let the magpies eat me. Give me love to thee feyther and brother<br />
Bob. Send my money that's in the Savings' Bank home to my mother,<br />
and thee may have all my traps, lass. Don't forget to tell measter that<br />
Billy's off hind shoe be's loose; and that Mr. Nackrum, the omnibus<br />
owner, owes for the last load of green barley.”<br />
“Oh, Jonathan!” said Phoebe, softening to tears, “how can you talk so<br />
strangely. Let me help you out; I'll soon cut away these sticks. Do for my<br />
sake come out of the hedge, there's a dear man! Don't stand there on your<br />
head any longer; it will curdle your brain like sour milk, and turn your<br />
heart upside down.”<br />
“Wull thee have me then, Phoebe?” asked Jonathan, in a more lively<br />
tone, “say the word, lass; yea or nay; out with it honestly.”<br />
“Ye — yes, I will, Jonathan,” said Phoebe, tremulously. “I will have<br />
you for ever; for I love you dearly. If father doesn't say nay, I will be<br />
your wife by-and-by, and love you as long as I live.”<br />
“Bravo, Phoebe! I'll kiss thee as soon as I get out of this trap. Go to<br />
work, lass, and cut away some of this outside wood; but mind thee<br />
doesn't prick thee fingers. Here's my pruning knife close beside my nose,<br />
it tumbled out of my pocket; hook en' out with summat. Thee be'ist a<br />
brave girl sure enough! Codlins! how I love thee!”<br />
Phoebe hooked out Jonathan's knife from the bush, with the handle of<br />
her parasol, and went to work like a skilled hedger, while he plied her<br />
with compliments and promises of future payment. In a short time she<br />
had cut a great gap in the hedge; then taking hold of her lover's boots, she<br />
gently lowered him to the ground, when he wriggled himself out safe and<br />
sound except a few scratches on his hands and face, a thorn in his nose,<br />
and some trifling damage to his hat.<br />
“Phoebe, thee beest the prettiest maid I ever see'd,” said Jonathan,<br />
warmly, as soon as he had straightened himself up, “I love thee better<br />
than I love my life. Bless thee, lass, give us a buss! Never mind if them
folks yonder be looking, it's real honest courting with us; give us a hearty<br />
smacker, to bind the bargain, and show that thee bee'st in earnest. Lor<br />
love ee lass! thee'st made my heart as light as a yeast dumpling.”<br />
Phoebe might have borrowed the language of Shakespere's King Henry<br />
the Eighth, and said: —<br />
“Sweetheart:<br />
I were unmannerly to take you out,<br />
And not to kiss you.”<br />
But though she did not use such courtly words, her actions were in<br />
effect warmly expressive of the sentiment; for she heartily kissed<br />
Jonathan, or what amounts to almost the same thing, she allowed him to<br />
salute her plummy lips, with a smack like a small stock-whip, without<br />
even saying “don't.”<br />
Having thus extracted the thorn from his heart, she next volunteered to<br />
extract the brier from his nose, with the pin of her gold brooch; and after<br />
she had done that cleverly, Jonathan kissed her again for her services;<br />
then she dusted his jacket, and straightened his hat, and away they<br />
walked towards the hills of Ryde, talking as they went of their future<br />
plans and prospects, and looking as happy as the little birds which filled<br />
the air with harmony.<br />
It would be tedious to follow them and try to depict their joys; suffice<br />
to say it was a delightful day to them, notwithstanding their ups and<br />
downs. They rambled about, arm in arm, and talked freely of their future<br />
home and happiness, while their hearts were as glad as honest love could<br />
make them.<br />
“I tell thee what it is, lass, I'll vind out who owns that cow what tossed<br />
me head over heels, and I'll buy 'en. Her is a real likely-looking beast,<br />
and got some mettle in her too; if it hadn't been for her heaving me into<br />
the hedge, I'm veared I shouldn't have had the face to tell thee I loved<br />
thee to-day; I was so mortal shy and timid like. What a great gorby I be<br />
to be sure, to have been sighing and grizzling so long, and scared to look<br />
at such a pretty face as thee has got, Phoebe. Why, making love is as<br />
easy as sticking peas, when a man means what he says; he needn't be<br />
ashamed to speak out plump and plain, in his own simple way, when he<br />
means to do what is right and straightforward. That's my notion, lass.<br />
Those great, lazy, chuckle-headed schemers, who whisper soft lies into<br />
the ears of silly maids, on purpose to lead them astray; those are the
fellows who ought to be ashamed of themselves. Egad! shouldn't I like to<br />
leather them all with my horsewhip, or pelt them with swede turnips!”<br />
The blithesome pair returned to Sydney by the afternoon steamer, and<br />
at the usual time for tea they were sitting at the table in Syllabub Cottage.<br />
Any observer might have seen a marked alteration in Jonathan's looks<br />
and demeanour, and Phoebe looked as pleased as if somebody had given<br />
her a new bonnet. After tea, as he and Mr. Skimmer smoked their pipes<br />
together, Jonathan briefly explained the state of his feelings, and received<br />
a cordial recognition from the good-natured milkman, who at the same<br />
time looked sadly serious.<br />
“It isn't every young man that I would approve of for my daughter, I<br />
can tell you,” said Mr. Skimmer, emphasizing his words with his pipestem.<br />
“I have seen some parents who have thought less about parting<br />
with a daughter than they would about selling a favourite horse, or a<br />
prime milking cow: and that's why we so often see miserable homes.<br />
Such parents are shamefully neglectful of their duties; there is no mistake<br />
about that. I have been studying your character for some time past,<br />
Master Jonathan; for you know I had a notion what you were coming<br />
here so often for, with your water-melons and artichokes. I've had my<br />
day at that sort of fun — Ha, ha, ha! I have satisfied myself that you are a<br />
healthy, God-fearing, sober young fellow, and no nonsense about you;<br />
such as you are sure to make headway in the world, and not shame me. If<br />
you had not all those good qualities, I would not let you have Phoebe, if<br />
you owned a row of houses in the best part of Sydney, for I should be<br />
certain you would not care for your wife and home very long.<br />
Unprincipled men never do. They take a sudden fancy to a girl (they may<br />
usually find some one soft enough to be caught by their blarney, worse<br />
luck), and a few months after marriage they neglect them for the billiard<br />
table and the bottle, or even worse things still. My poor old heart aches<br />
when I think of the many neglected young wives that I know, who are at<br />
this very time pining their lives out in poverty and drudgery; while their<br />
lazy, sottish husbands are wasting their time and means without caring a<br />
flip for their wives and children. Excuse me for getting rather warm; but<br />
I can't help giving a little bit of my mind on that subject. You say you<br />
love my girl, and I believe you, for I have always found you truthful and<br />
straightforward. I know she loves you too, so take her, my lad, and may<br />
God bless you both. Here Phoebe, shake hands over the bargain.”<br />
Phoebe timidly entered from the adjoining room, and tenderly kissed<br />
her father. “There she is,” said Mr. Skimmer, with emotion, “and though<br />
she is my girl, I will say that you would not match her every day in the<br />
year. Her poor mother, who is now in Heaven, trained her from<br />
childhood in the right way; that is saying a good deal; and she has turned<br />
out a credit to her teacher. Treat her well, and she will prove the best<br />
friend you ever met in the world.”
Jonathan seized her hand, and pressed it warmly, and as her loving<br />
eyes met his, he drew her to his heart, and kissed her again. How could<br />
he help it?<br />
It is not necessary to describe the smooth course of their courtship for<br />
the next few months, or to notice the numerous preparations made by<br />
Phoebe and Betsy Brown for the coming event, so important in the<br />
history of Phoebe, and which most young girls look forward to with<br />
peculiar heart fluttering. Neither is it expedient to record all the<br />
preparations which Jonathan made to set himself off to the best<br />
advantage: his injunction to Mr. List, the tailor, about the cut and quality<br />
of his wedding suit; or his cautions to Mr. Welt, the bootmaker, about the<br />
shape of his wedding cossacks; those are minor matters, still they were<br />
all carefully studied. Their household furniture, too, was selected with<br />
taste and judgment; everything was good, serviceable, and consistent<br />
with their means and their station in life; and when their little cottage<br />
was ready for them, it centained everything that was necessary for<br />
comfort and convenience, and was quite free from gaudy trumpery<br />
— made for show and not for use — which is often seen in cottage<br />
homes, to mock the bad taste of the owners, and their extravagance, too,<br />
in lavishing money for what is wholly unserviceable, or, at all events, for<br />
what they could easily do without.<br />
The long anticipated wedding day at length arrived, and a bright<br />
sunshiny day it was. The bride and bridegroom, with brother Bob and<br />
Mr. Skimmer, rode to church in the yellow cart (without the milk cans),<br />
while Betsy Brown and her sweetheart, Sandy White, with three young<br />
lasses and three young lads, dressed in their best, and decorated with<br />
nosegays, followed in a furniture van belonging to Sandy. A casual<br />
observer might have fancied from their gladsome looks that they were all<br />
going to be married that morning except Bob and his father, who were<br />
evidently feeling rather sad at parting with Phoebe. When the solemn<br />
ceremony was over, they all returned to Syllabub cottage, where a<br />
luxurious luncheon awaited them. On the centre of the table, in the midst<br />
of some choice bouquets, some one had waggishly placed a miniature<br />
sweetbrier bush, the sight of which so excited Jonathan, that as soon as<br />
the guests had laid down their knives and forks, he told them all about<br />
his courtship at Kissing Point, and his being tossed up “head or woman”<br />
like a pieman's penny, and how he made his love declaration to Phoebe,<br />
while standing on his head with a thorn sticking in his nose, at which<br />
they all laughed long and heartily; and none more so than Phoebe herself.<br />
“Now just listen to me a minute or two, friends,” said Jonathan, as soon<br />
as he could control his risibility, “and I'll give ye a little bit of advice for<br />
nothing. If either of ye lads loves a young woman, dontee go moping and<br />
sighing for months, as I did, aveared to speak up; or somebody else<br />
might pop in and take her from thee, and serve thee right too. But first of
all vind out whether her be's a fit wife for ye; doantie judge by her pretty<br />
face merely, but just notice if her be's clean and tidy about her house, as<br />
well as about her person; if her knows how to cook a poor man's dinner,<br />
and how to wash and mend his clothes. Ye'll soon vind that out, if ye<br />
keep your eyes open; and ye may tell, too, by the way her treats her<br />
parents, and brothers, and sisters, if her be's a good-tempered, soundprincipled<br />
girl. If her be's all that, and thee has the favour of feyther and<br />
mother, pluck up courage and pop the question at once. Speak out like a<br />
man. ‘Lass, I love thee,’ that's enough, if thee can't say any more; her<br />
will understand thee, I'll engage; and if her doesn't answer thee all at<br />
once — which it is not reasonable to expect — thee will know what her<br />
means, by the look of her eyes. Of course I don't advise ye to get married<br />
right off; I know ye have too much good sense, lads, to think of doing<br />
that, until you have a comfortable home in prospect; take my word for it,<br />
that sort of love which is in such a hurry, is too hot to last long. Get a<br />
good home before thee get yer wife; but doantee go and spend all yer<br />
money in filling yer house with jimcracks that you doant want; because a<br />
little ready money may be handy for extras by and by. Then I advise each<br />
one of ye to do as I did last week. Insure your life, so that if ye should<br />
die, your wife would not be left destitute. Some pumpkin-headed<br />
sawneys choose a wife with as little study and forethought as they would<br />
buy a ready-made monkey-jacket. The fit beant of much consequence say<br />
they: but they soon find out their mistake, and if they are misfitted with a<br />
wife, they are as plaguey uneasy all their days, as a carthorse in chafing<br />
harness. Look well, my lads, before you leap into matrimony; in justice<br />
to yourselves, as well as in justice to the lasses of your choice: and if ye<br />
all vind such a jewel of a wife as I've got, ye'll be nation lucky fellows:<br />
that's all I've got to say.” Jonathan then sat down, amid the loud applause<br />
and congratulations of the company.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Jonathan had taken the neglected farm adjoining Mr. Skimmer's; and,<br />
by dint of hard labour and skill, turned it into a profitable market garden.<br />
His home was the abode of health and happiness; of smiles, and kind<br />
words; not a note of discord was ever heard within its walls. “He and his<br />
house served the Lord,” humbly and faithfully, and they abode in peace.<br />
Twelve months after their marriage, they were blessed with a little<br />
daughter, to complete their joys; and in the overflow of his heart,<br />
Jonathan wished to name it Sweet-brier. Phoebe, however, objected to<br />
the “brier” in her baby, but by way of compromise, called the little<br />
darling Eglantine, and their homestead Sweetbrier Lodge; in happy<br />
remembrance of “Kissing Point.”<br />
In a few years Mr. Skimmer died, when Jonathan let his market garden
and took to the dairy, because Bob had turned out wild. Jonathan now<br />
owns some of the smartest carts and brightest cans that are to be seen in<br />
Sydney, and is a prosperous man; but he is troubled in mind because his<br />
trade necessitates Sunday labour the same as on other days. If his<br />
customers would but consent to take their Sunday's supply of milk in the<br />
early morning, it would enable him and his servants to attend Divine<br />
service, and give his poor horses rest. Phoebe has tried to cheer him up<br />
by pointing out how the plan could easily be adopted, for she says, in<br />
winter their milk will keep good for more than a day, and in summer<br />
time, by scalding what is to be kept till afternoon, it will keep quite sweet<br />
and good. She is sure when that is carefully explained, none of their<br />
customers will refuse to dispense with their afternoon milk, if they are<br />
respectfully solicited.<br />
Jonathan intends to follow his good wife's suggestion, to go hat in hand<br />
to his customers, and ask them to grant that great boon, “a day of rest,”<br />
to himself, his servants, and his horses. Reader, if he comes to you, don't<br />
refuse him!
Shrugs.<br />
“OF course you know Mr. Abel Goodenough!” said a merchant in this<br />
city, to a trader who had just come from the country to purchase goods.<br />
“I suppose you mean Goodenough the storekeeper, of Midgyborough!”<br />
“Exactly. What sort of man is he?”<br />
“He is a little man with a big nose, a bald head, and a — ”<br />
“Yes, yes, I know all about his physical peculiarities; but is he a safe<br />
man? or in commercial phraseology, is he a good mark?”<br />
An expressive shrug was the only reply to the questions. “Ah, I see:<br />
you would advise me not to trust him. I am much obliged to you for the<br />
hint.”<br />
“It is not safe to express opinions about one's neighbours; besides, I<br />
make it a matter of conscience never to do it,” said the countryman, with<br />
another grimace more portentous than the last. “Goodenough, you know,<br />
is my strongest competitor in the district, and that is a special reason why<br />
I decline to say anything about him, for he might hear of it again.”<br />
“I understand you. It is well to be cautious,” said the merchant. “The<br />
fact is, he has written to ask for a renewal of a bill, due on the 4th. Now I<br />
know what to say to him.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
A fortnight afterwards, Mr. Goodenough was in the Insolvent Court,<br />
and his sinister neighbour was enabled to secure some rare bargains at<br />
his clearing-out sale, while he chuckled over his successful ruse to get<br />
rid of a hated rival in trade. Thus an honest, plodding man was<br />
victimised, without knowing who had been the treacherous instrument of<br />
his ruin. Two shrugs and a wink had broken up his business, and made<br />
his family homeless, for a time.<br />
To record all the mischief and misery that I have known to be caused<br />
by such silent scandal — to tell of young maidens stigmatised, of wives<br />
made desolate, and husbands driven mad through causeless jealousy,<br />
would make a big book, and such a one as I have no desire to make. I<br />
notice the foregoing solitary specimen of commercial shruggery, to<br />
denounce such contemptible expedients which are especially dangerous<br />
in seasons of embarrassment and misgivings.<br />
It will not be thought very remarkable, that in my occasional rambles
through the city of late, I have met with many gloomy faces, and have<br />
listened to some saddening recitals of real hardship. Passing by certain<br />
defaulters (the bare sight of whom makes me cross, and whose<br />
deservings cannot be mentioned in civil terms), I have had to sympathise<br />
with some industrious, honest men, who from sheer misfortune have lost<br />
the results of the toil and economy of years. Perhaps harder still, is the<br />
helplessness of their employés, who have been suddenly thrown out of<br />
work. Scores — or I may safely say hundreds of persons are thus<br />
circumstanced, through the mercantile disasters which have lately<br />
occurred, and they are now suffering, in many cases, far more severely<br />
than their late masters are doing. The failure of a business house, either<br />
in town or country, is productive of more misfortune than a mere surface<br />
glance will reveal. The more extensive the business ramifications, the<br />
wider spread is the mischief, and there are few persons in our community<br />
who are not either directly or indirectly affected, to a greater or lesser<br />
extent. The downfall of Simon Squash and other great shams have<br />
caused me no regret, for their sakes; on the contrary, I am glad to see the<br />
reckless career of such men brought to a close; but it is a real sorrow for<br />
me to know that their clerks and porters are thrown out of work, at a time<br />
when steady employment is very difficult to obtain. These contingencies<br />
are not so often calculated as they should be, but a very little reflection<br />
will show their reaction upon a community; hence self-interest — to say<br />
nothing of moral principle — binds every man to use all honourable<br />
exertions to counteract the present mistrust, much of which is as<br />
groundless as the alarm which is raised by the false cry of “powder!” at a<br />
fire.<br />
“But what can I do to quell this popular excitement!” asked a talkative<br />
person, to whom I expressed that opinion, a few days ago.<br />
“Though it be merely a negative duty,” I replied, “you can keep your<br />
tongue quiet. You can avoid raising or propagating mischievous<br />
rumours, such as those I have just heard from you, that certain<br />
persons — whom you named — are ‘shaky.’ ”<br />
“Well, I only told you what I heard: I know nothing about their affairs<br />
myself.”<br />
“It would be more prudent to be silent upon such matters, at any rate,”<br />
I answered, “but it is positively wrong to repeat statements that you do<br />
not know to be authentic. If those persons are really ‘shaky,’ as you say,<br />
prejudicial reports are likely to make them shake more, and perhaps to<br />
topple them down altogether, and involve others in loss or<br />
embarrassment. The wealthiest firm in the world may be brought to a<br />
stand, if public rumour assails its reputation: in fact it would only have<br />
been necessary for a few persons to shrug at a Bank of England note,<br />
some months ago, to have caused ‘a run’ upon that institution; and had<br />
the Londoners began to run in that direction, urged on by that powerful
stimulus, the dread of losing their money, it would have taken a good<br />
many knowing ones to have stopped them, and world-wide mischief<br />
would have resulted.”<br />
I was in the midst of at least a thousand dupes, on Blackfriars Bridge,<br />
one moonlight night many years ago. We were all intently gazing at the<br />
muddy water below, not one of us knowing what we were looking for.<br />
The most absurd speculations passed from one to another, though<br />
nothing tangible could be seen but the dark river, dotted with coal barges<br />
and dredging machines. I remember I caught cold, and had my pockets<br />
picked; and I dare say many pockets were picked besides mine. In a day<br />
or two it transpired, that some practical joker had made a large wager,<br />
that he would collect a crowd on three of the bridges of London within a<br />
given time; and he won triumphantly. The scheme he adopted was<br />
wonderfully simple, so were the people who were attracted by it.<br />
Stationing himself on a conspicucus part of the bridge, and looking over<br />
the parapet, he exclaimed in a loud key, “Hallo! there it is!” at the same<br />
time pointing to the river. After a minute's pause, he shouted with<br />
increased gesticulation, “Look, look! There it is again!” The passengers<br />
stopped to gaze and wonder, and a crowd soon gathered, each one<br />
eagerly inquiring of his neighbour “what was to be seen,” while all sorts<br />
of rare objects were suggested, from mudlarks to mermaids. In the<br />
meantime the joker slipped away, got into a cab, and drove to another<br />
bridge, to repeat the trick. He succeeded in attracting three immense<br />
crowds within the specified time — a few hours — thus strikingly<br />
exemplifying the old adage, that “One fool makes many.”<br />
Not much wiser than those gaping crowds, were some of the<br />
inhabitants of a certain suburb, who were recently deluded into the belief<br />
that one of our local banks was going to break. The rumour — I am<br />
told — was raised by certain panic-mongers, who hoped to make a little<br />
money by buying up the notes at a discount, regardless of the widespread<br />
mischief that might ensue. The growing uneasiness was, however,<br />
quickly allayed, by a tradesman of influence in the neighbourhood<br />
offering to give twenty shillings for every pound note of the said bank;<br />
for which timely exhibition of sound sense, and good feeling, he<br />
deserves a general vote of thanks.<br />
A few days ago a nervous gentleman brought me some startling reports<br />
about another banking establishment in this city. After he had calmed<br />
down a little, I ascertained that his fears had been aroused by overhearing<br />
the defamatory conversation of two persons in an omnibus, one of whom<br />
was drunk.<br />
“Now tell me candidly, Mr. Boomerang, if you had £500 in that bank,<br />
what should you do?” asked my fidgetty friend, his eyes looking like bad<br />
shillings, for want of sleep.<br />
“I should be very glad,” I replied.
“But seriously; in the present unsettled state of affairs, would you not<br />
be anxious to draw it out?”<br />
“If I had no stronger reason for doing so than you have, I should<br />
certainly not touch it. It is possible that those persons in the omnibus<br />
knew that you have money in that bank, and they were trying to alarm<br />
you, either from love of mischief or from more selfish motives. My<br />
advice to you is to let your money remain where it is, and avoid<br />
expressing anxiety about it, or making suspicious inquiries respecting the<br />
condition of the said bank, or you will soon gather an excited crowd<br />
around you, like the joker on London Bridge. I have good cause for<br />
believing that your bank is perfectly safe; in fact I believe that all the<br />
banks in Sydney are quite safe, unless, indeed, everybody should make a<br />
sudden rush at them, as you were inclined to do just now; which would<br />
indicate a total want of confidence; and without confidence all the<br />
relations of the civilized world would be paralyzed, commercial<br />
enterprise would be at an end, and general distress would ensue. I have<br />
no direct interest in any bank, or mercantile firm in the land,” I added,<br />
“so you may believe that the opinion I have expressed is free from<br />
personal bias, whatever else may be said of it.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
It is a pitiable fact, that unprincipled persons are very busy just now,<br />
trying to make bad times worse, to serve their own selfish or vindictive<br />
purposes: and it behoves right thinking men to use their influence to<br />
frustrate the base designs of such persons, and thereby prevent much<br />
suffering. Shrugs and winks are commonly used, because they are safer<br />
than libellous words, and quite as effective in such times as these. It is a<br />
small consideration to those incendiaries that the downfall of each<br />
mercantile house entails loss upon many persons besides the direct<br />
creditors, and it would be as vain to appeal to their sense of right, as to<br />
try to touch their feelings by pathetic descriptions of the domestic<br />
wretchedness which they are creating.<br />
I have been drawn to this subject by my interest in the public weal; and<br />
I would warn all my readers against being influenced by shrugs; and also<br />
to beware lest they catch the hateful infection, which is as contagious as<br />
cholera morbus.
“Joy Cometh in the Morning.”<br />
THERE are doubtless many persons in Sydney at the present time who<br />
can recal the rage for land jobbing which prevailed about twenty-five<br />
years ago; and many, too, will sorrowfully remember the disastrous<br />
reaction which soon followed that unhealthy desire for speculation. The<br />
land mania was not confined to Australia, but extended to neighbouring<br />
places, especially to New Zealand, which had not then been formally<br />
proclaimed a British colony, and was only partially known to Europeans.<br />
About that time, however, a current of emigration set that way. Many<br />
persons went there from Sydney, in the hope of making good bargains in<br />
land from the natives, before the British Government took possession of<br />
the islands, and put a stop to the one-sided traffic, while others went with<br />
a view of being foremost in the field of enterprise which a new country<br />
always offers. Numbers of young men went in the expectation of being<br />
employed as surveyors, or getting appointments, of some kind, under the<br />
new Government which was to be shortly established there. The<br />
majority, however, were sadly disappointed in their projects; and if the<br />
disclosure would be beneficial in any way, I might adduce some<br />
lamentable example of ruin.<br />
It would be difficult for me to offer a satisfactory explanation why I<br />
gave up a lucrative position to pursue an indefinite object. I had heard<br />
exciting stories of lucky men buying as much land as they could see from<br />
the top of a kauri pine tree for a few muskets, or a keg of tobacco; and I<br />
thought I should like to buy a nice little estate of half a million acres or<br />
so, upon some such easy terms. Perhaps, seeing so many others going to<br />
Maori-land, stimulated me to hasten away too, lest I should be too late<br />
for the prizes, which the Maori chiefs were distributing so lavishly. It is<br />
certain that many older and more experienced men than myself could<br />
give no better reason for going to New Zealand at that time than that they<br />
saw many of their neighbours going; and it is not the only time that I<br />
have seen multitudes of men following each other to misery, led away by<br />
the force of example.<br />
In the year 1840, I took my passage in a bark of three hundred and fifty<br />
tons, for the Bay of Islands, New Zealand. I shared the port stern cabin<br />
with a friend, named Archy Weedle, an astute gentleman, much older<br />
than myself, with whom I had planned that my future fortunes should in<br />
some measure be united. In the hold of the ship were sundry packages of
merchandise, our joint property; and in the cabin were several hundred<br />
pounds in gold and silver coin, which chiefly belonged to my friend. In<br />
those days the rates of insurance to New Zealand were very high, so we<br />
sailed from Sydney without effecting an insurance on our shipment.<br />
The first part of the voyage passed pleasantly enough: the captain was<br />
an intelligent and sociable young man; our fellow passengers were very<br />
agreeable, and our little party at the table was as united as a home circle.<br />
On the twelfth day out, we rounded the North cape of New Zealand, and<br />
that same night it began to blow hard from the north-east, with thick<br />
weather. Sail was reduced from time to time, as the wind increased; but it<br />
was necessary to keep a press of canvas on the ship, in order to claw off<br />
the shore, which was dead to leeward. The anxiety and discomfort on<br />
board the ship that night can only be comprehended by those who have<br />
been in similar exciting straits. The vessel plunged, and strained, and half<br />
buried herself in the waves, which rose higher and higher, as the wind<br />
increased to a strong gale. I was too anxious to sleep, and as I preferred<br />
the deck to the close cabin, and the companionship of my sea sick friend,<br />
I took my place beneath a tarpaulin in the mizen rigging; and there,<br />
throughout the night, I watched the struggles of the weatherly little bark,<br />
and also watched the faces of the captain and chief mate, which plainly<br />
indicated that their hearts were far from being merry, though they strove,<br />
with becoming manliness, to hide their anxiety from their passengers.<br />
Still I could tell by their frequent glances at the binnacle, their low-toned<br />
conferences, and their endeavours to gaze through the murky darkness to<br />
leeward, that they were conscious of danger. Neither the captain nor his<br />
officers had been to New Zealand before, and their charts could give<br />
them but little reliable information about the coast, which, up to that<br />
time, had not been properly surveyed. They were ignorant, too, of the<br />
currents, and could only guess the extent of our offing, which was less<br />
than five miles.<br />
Some of my readers can perhaps recall to memory a dismal night at<br />
sea, when the wind howled through the rigging of their tempest-tossed<br />
ship; when wave after wave has rolled on to the deck overhead, and the<br />
thunder's roaring has been heard above the noise of the flapping sails.<br />
They can recollect how eagerly they scanned the features of their trusty<br />
captain, as he entered the well-lighted saloon from the deck, with his<br />
oilskin over-clothing dripping with rain and ocean spray; and how much<br />
their troubled hearts were re-assured by the composure of his weatherbeaten<br />
face, or comforted by a few cheerful words from his manly voice,<br />
telling them that “he had made all snug for the night,” or that “he hoped<br />
to see a favourable change soon.” And with what pleasure did they see<br />
him seat himself at the table, and smile as placidly as if he had just been<br />
enjoying a moonlight scene, with a tropical breeze kissing the sparkling<br />
wavelets, instead of having been close reefing topsails and setting storm-
staysails, exposed all the time to the dangerous forked lightning, and<br />
fierce driving rain. Persons who have such recollections can understand<br />
why I so often gazed into the faces of the captain and chief mate<br />
throughout that anxious season of peril. Who can over-estimate the value<br />
of a cheerful look or a hopeful word in such depressing times!<br />
The next day the gale continued with unabated violence, and the seasickness<br />
of my friend, Weedle, was painful to witness. He had not left his<br />
cabin since the commencement of the bad weather, nor could he be<br />
prevailed upon to go on deck, even for a minute. He seemed to have<br />
given up all hope of our ship weathering the storm; and every time a sea<br />
broke on board he thought we were among the breakers. I tried to<br />
comfort him, for being quite free from that nauseating malady, seasickness,<br />
and being full of youthful vigour, my spirits were seldom very<br />
depressed from physical causes. Although I really had not much hope<br />
that the ship would be saved, the fear of death did not paralyze my<br />
efforts to escape from it. We had two Macintosh life preservers in our<br />
outfit, and my suffering friend lay in his berth, and eyed me with a<br />
ghastly curiosity as I sat on the cabin deck and inflated the belts. I then<br />
made the gold and silver coin into two packages, which I lashed together<br />
by a strong cord, and assured Weedle that if the ship went on shore, I<br />
would make a desperate effort to save his money, whether he helped me<br />
or not. I advised him to screw up his courage, and if the ship should<br />
strike, to put on his life belt and hasten on deck. With a promise that I<br />
would give him immediate notice of any fresh danger, I went on deck<br />
again, and took my old station under the tarpaulin in the mizen rigging;<br />
and there I stood, anxiously watching the bending spars, the loss of one<br />
of which would inevitably have sealed the fate of the ship in a very short<br />
time.<br />
Night came on again, and a wild-looking night it was. The ship had<br />
been wore round four times during the day, and each time we had lost<br />
ground (the ship would not stay in such a heavy sea, under the small sail<br />
which we could spread), and we had also drifted to leeward while the<br />
crew were replacing a close-reefed foretopsail, which had been blown<br />
away. About ten o'clock I overheard the captain say to the chief mate,<br />
“We must give her the reefed mainsail, Mr. Blocks.”<br />
“She won't stand up to it, sir; and if we spring a spar just now, we are<br />
done for, to a dead certainty,” replied the mate, who, by the bye, was an<br />
older man than the captain.<br />
“We'll try what she will do,” said the captain. “It does not blow so hard<br />
as it did an hour ago. Lay aft, all hands, and set the main course,” he<br />
added, in a stentorian voice, to his crew.<br />
The sail was set with difficulty, and the spray flew over the ship from<br />
stem to stern, as she plunged into the heavy head seas, under the<br />
additional pressure of canvas, and at the same time heeled over to such
an extent, that I had hard work to keep my post in the rigging, and I<br />
sometimes feared she would capsize altogether.<br />
“I would advise you to go below and turn in, sir,” said the captain,<br />
good naturedly addressing me. “You can do no good by stopping on<br />
deck, and you may get hurt. I will rouse you out smartly enough if<br />
anything happens; but I think the weather is breaking.” Just at that<br />
moment a heavy sea broke on board, which smashed all the weather<br />
bulwarks, and did other damage on deck, besides nearly knocking me<br />
overboard. Soon afterwards another green sea tumbled on board, and if I<br />
had not previously lashed myself to the rigging I should probably have<br />
been lost; so I went below, and, without undressing, turned into a berth in<br />
a spare cabin near to the companion way, and being wearied out with<br />
long watching, I was soon fast asleep notwithstanding the violent<br />
pitching of the vessel.<br />
I had had but one nap, and it did not then appear to me to have been a<br />
very long one, when I was awakened by a noisy kicking at my cabin<br />
door, and the captain, in excited tones, calling upon me to hasten on<br />
deck.<br />
“Heave out, Mr. Boomerang; quick, quick,” cried the captain, “bear a<br />
hand, sir; jump up on the deck, directly!”<br />
I was out of bed in an instant, and scrambled up the companion ladder,<br />
on my hands and knees, urged onward by extreme anxiety, and a<br />
resolution to save my life if possible. Never shall I forget the gushing<br />
emotions of my heart, as I stood on the quarter-deck and gazed around<br />
me, with a bounding joy which language can but feebly express. Of<br />
course I had expected to see the ship struggling in the breakers, and I was<br />
preparing to battle for dear life, amid the roaring of the surges and the<br />
blackness of death. Instead of which, my dazzled eyes beheld the<br />
morning sun, rising into a cloudless sky; illumining the rolling ocean,<br />
and tinging the wooded shores in the distance with golden light. It was a<br />
Sabbath morning, and ever shall I remember the holy calm which reigned<br />
around, and seemed to fill my spirit with feelings too deep for utterance;<br />
with a solemn sense of mercies experienced from God, for which my<br />
tongue could not utter my heart's gratitude. Suddenly the feeling changed<br />
to almost a delirium of transport, which tried to vent itself in extravagant<br />
outbursts. I rushed up to the smiling captain, seized his hand and uttered<br />
a rhapsody of thanks and compliments; then I turned to the mate, who<br />
laughed heartily as I shook his hand with true fraternal warmth; and I<br />
was almost running forward to hug every Jack tar on the forecastle, for I<br />
loved the brave fellows, who had worked so willingly during the late<br />
gale. Like a poor felon reprieved under the gallows, I felt rescued from<br />
the jaws of death. It was a transition from the darkness of the night of<br />
death to the brightness of a sunny, life-breathing morning; and the joyous<br />
emotion it wrought cannot be conveyed by ordinary figures.
I was glad, too, for the safety of my friend Weedle's money and<br />
merchandise, which I knew were all he possessed in the world, so I<br />
hastened below to gladden him; but I thought I would first shock him a<br />
little before I overwhelmed him with happiness.<br />
“Weedle! Weedle! Jump up on deck directly,” I exclaimed as I entered<br />
his cabin, after knocking loudly at the door; but my heart was so full of<br />
joy that I could not carry on the little harmless deception which the<br />
captain had so successfully practised on me, in order to increase my<br />
rapturous surprise. Neither could I bear to see my poor sick friend's<br />
woeful face, as he turned round in his berth, and declared that “he had<br />
not strength left to save his life, and must just die in his bed;” so I opened<br />
the stern windows to let in the sunshine, and the effect on his yellow face<br />
was like French-polish on an old stool. Archie Weedle was a living man<br />
again in two minutes; and in less than two minutes more he was standing<br />
on the deck with me, enjoying the glad prospect, and watching the many<br />
native canoes which were paddling off to the ship as she lay becalmed<br />
about midway between the outer headlands of the Bay of Islands.
Dropping in at Dinner-Time.<br />
A BULLOCK'S head suddenly thrust through the side window of a<br />
crowded omnibus, could not have caused more commotion amongst the<br />
astonished insiders, than did the announcement of a visitor by Mary the<br />
maid-of-all-work, just as Mr. and Mrs. Tiddle and the five young Tiddles<br />
were sitting down one day to dine off a roasted rabbit, which had been<br />
sent to them by a friend in the country, and which they all regarded as an<br />
extraordinary treat.<br />
“Please, sir, Mr. Grubb wants to see you,” said the maid, “but he says<br />
he will wait in the shop till you have done dinner.”<br />
“Patience me! that horrid old fellow has come again,” exclaimed Mrs.<br />
Tiddle, with a sort of farewell glance at the rabbit, and a vicious look at<br />
her spouse, as if he had been directly instrumental in bringing the<br />
dreadful nuisance into the house; while the children looked as scared as<br />
though there was a wolf under the table. “What are you going to do,<br />
Tiddle? You will not ask him in, surely! There is barely enough dinner<br />
for ourselves, and he usually eats as much as three of us. If he comes in<br />
here I shall be mad enough to snap off his legs. It's downright provoking,<br />
to think that greedy fellow should poke his nose in here at dinner time<br />
two or three times a week; and he always smells when we have anything<br />
hot and nice, that's the worst of it, he never comes on cold meat or stew<br />
days. What are you going to do, Tiddle? Why don't you speak to me, and<br />
not sit there like one of your shop dummies?”<br />
“Hem — I scarcely know what to do, my dear. You see how<br />
awkwardly I am situated. Grubb has recommended me to three<br />
customers, and he has promised to do all he can for me.”<br />
“Yes, indeed! and one of them run away in the suit of colonial tweed<br />
you made for him, and never paid you sixpence, the shabby cheat. You<br />
are much obliged to Mr. Grubb for that customer, certainly! Yes — give<br />
him all the rabbit, and let your wife and children go hungry! Ask him in<br />
of course!”<br />
“Oh, don't bother me, Becky, pray don't, my head's mithered. I won't<br />
ask him in, dear, if I can help it, but I don't want to offend him, I can't<br />
afford to lose customers these hard times. O dear, dear, there is so much<br />
ruinous cutting, and so many tricky people in trade now a days, that it is<br />
a hard matter for an honest man to get along and pay his way. I'm<br />
perplexed, Becky, but have patience, there's a dear.”
The poor little tailor certainly looked perplexed; the dread of his wife's<br />
frown and the fear of offending Mr. Grubb, added to the prospect of a<br />
short meal, made him look as dim as a rusty goose.<br />
“Don't stir, Tiddle — don't stir,” said his friend Grubb, putting his head<br />
in at the doorway, “excuse my intrusion, I am not coming in. How are<br />
you, Mrs. Tiddle, I hope the baby's better. Don't move, Tiddle, I've<br />
merely called to give you the address of another customer, and I'll wait in<br />
the shop till you've done dinner. I'll sit and look at your pattern books.”<br />
“Hem — a — won't you pick a bit with us?” asked Mr. Tiddle, in<br />
faltering accents, and with a timid glance at his spouse, who was looking<br />
knives and forks at him.<br />
“No thank you, no — a — I don't care much about dinner to-day. There<br />
is something the matter with me, I ate a hearty supper last night, perhaps<br />
that's it. Go on with your dinner, friends, I'll wait till you are done.”<br />
“We've just got a little rabbit, which a friend sent us as a rare treat,”<br />
remarked Mr. Tiddle, in an apologetic tone. “It's a tiny little thing,<br />
”<br />
“Rabbit, did you say? well, that is a rarity in this country. I haven't<br />
tasted rabbit since I left home, and it used to be a favourite dish of mine;<br />
I think I will be tempted to pick a bone with you after all,” said Mr.<br />
Grubb, walking in and putting his hat and stick in a corner. “It smells<br />
nice. I see you know how to cook a rabbit, Mrs. Tiddle.”<br />
“Ta — ta — take a chair, Mr. Grubb,” said the tailor, trembling from<br />
head to foot, “Becky, will you tell Mary to bring another hot plate?”<br />
Mrs. Tiddle called “Mary” in such a savage key that her husband<br />
turned pale, his appetite forsook him, and he mentally wished he were on<br />
Shark Island, dining off raw cockles. He eased off some of his feeling in<br />
a quiet sigh, then said to his second boy, “Say grace, Bobby; put your<br />
knife down, sir.” Bobby said grace, then his father took up the carving<br />
tools, and asked Mr. Grubb what part he preferred.<br />
“Ladies first, ladies first, always, sir,” said the guest, with a jocose<br />
smile at Mrs. Tiddle, who looked as sour as a green lemon.<br />
“I like to serve visitors first,” said Mr. Tiddle, helping his guest to a<br />
tolerably large portion of rabbit, for the meek little man had determined<br />
to dine off potatoes and salt, in order to save his wife and children from<br />
short allowance.<br />
Mrs. Tiddle coughed sharply, but her unhappy husband did not look<br />
up. He knew it was not a bronchial affection, for it was not the first time<br />
that he had heard that telegraphic sound. He knew very well that her<br />
cough meant to say “why did you give old Grubb such a big bit of<br />
rabbit?” But he was a conscientious tailor and a thorough man, though he<br />
was afraid of his wife's frown. He could not bear to ask any one to his<br />
table and act niggardly; in fact his heart was much larger than his means,<br />
for he would gladly have given everybody in the land a dinner every day.
“I have just a lee-tle bit of pickled pork here, will you take a thin slice,<br />
Mr. Grubb?” asked Mrs. Tiddle, with hidden meaning in her words,<br />
which touched her husband's feelings like tailor's needles.<br />
“If you please, ma'am; I am very partial to pickled pork and peaspudding,”<br />
said Mr. Grubb, passing his plate.<br />
“It is a nice dish,” groaned Mr. Tiddle, trying to smile, but looking as<br />
ghastly as a pig's cheek overcooked. “We have no peas-pudding, but we<br />
have a taste of broad beans, will you take a spoonful, sir?”<br />
“Broad beans? O yes, by all means, they are my favorite vegetable,<br />
next to fried onions. My poor wife too was very fond of broad beans and<br />
melted butter, though they always made her peevish, poor thing.<br />
Thankee, Tiddle — plenty; I can come again, you know, thankee — I<br />
really begin to feel I have an appetite after all.”<br />
“Mary Ann, how dare you come to table in that dirty pinafore, Miss?”<br />
vociferated her mother, at the same moment giving her, what is generally<br />
mis-called a good box on the ear, and a peremptory command to go into<br />
the kitchen and stay there till she was called or sent for.<br />
“Poor Mary Ann!” sighed Mr. Tiddle, with a sympathising glance at<br />
his weeping daughter. “What part do you prefer, Becky?”<br />
“I don't want any,” said his wife sharply, “my appetite is clean taken<br />
away by that girl's dirty pinafore.”<br />
“Nonsense, love! Here's a nice cut with a kidney in it, and a lump of<br />
stuffing.”<br />
“It's the tenderest rabbit I ever tasted,” remarked Mr. Grubb, with his<br />
mouth full and his plate half emptied. “I really enjoy it. I wish my poor<br />
wife were here, she doted on rabbit dead or alive, — I'll trouble you for<br />
another spoonful of gravy, Tiddle.”<br />
“Billy, what are you poking your brother with a fork for? I see you,<br />
you young monkey. What do you mean?” shouted Mr. Tiddle, whose<br />
hungry ire was beginning to master his philosophy. The last fierce<br />
question to Billy was accompanied by a thump on the head, hard enough<br />
to knock him stupid for life if it had happened to have struck a soft spot.<br />
“Go into the kitchen to your sister, this very minute, sir! I'll give it you<br />
after dinner, you wicked boy.”<br />
The tender-hearted tailor almost immediately repented of his wrath, but<br />
the knock on Billy's head could not be rescinded, and that young<br />
gentleman was in the kitchen roaring bass to his sister's treble, so he did<br />
not hear his recall to his seat at the board. There he sat sobbing, and<br />
spitefully wishing that one of the rabbit bones which old Grubb was<br />
vulgarly fingering would slip from his grasp and stick in his throat; while<br />
his sister was making a variety of ugly faces and menacing gestures in<br />
cannibal fashion to mark her contempt for the greedy man who was<br />
eating up their nice dinner, and upsetting the peace and comfort of their<br />
home, by making mother cross and father miserable.
Angry and hungry boys and girls are in general prone to disagree, so it<br />
was not wonderful under the circumstances that Billy and his sister<br />
should begin to quarrel. They soon began to fight too, and Mary Ann,<br />
who inherited her mother's spirit, being aroused by her rude brother<br />
pulling her round the kitchen by her back ringlets, pushed him over a<br />
chair with his head in the bread-pan, which was broken to pieces by the<br />
collision.<br />
The noise of the affray reached the dining-room, when out rushed Mrs.<br />
Tiddle — glad of a chance to vent off her wrath upon some one — and<br />
gave her daughter a “good-dressing” with the handle of the hearthbroom.<br />
Mary Ann thereupon set up a squall equal in volume and effect to<br />
the strains of some amateur singers, while Billy dodged his mother round<br />
the kitchen to evade his just share of the broomstick. Stimulated by the<br />
sight of the broken bread-pan, Mrs. Tiddle resolutely vowed she would<br />
skin him when she caught him. But in order to catch nimble Billy to skin<br />
him it was necessary for her to put her best foot foremost; in doing so she<br />
put it into a hole in the oilcloth, and down she went in the narrow dark<br />
passage with a thud like a falling tower. Out flew Mr. Tiddle to see what<br />
all the noise was about, when he innocently tumbled over his prostrate<br />
wife, kicking the crown of her head with the toe of his boot, and grinding<br />
the tip off his own nose on the rough stone step of the kitchen.<br />
In the meantime Mr. Grubb, who had finished his dinner, rose up and<br />
departed, lest he should be called upon to arbitrate upon the complicated<br />
quarrel, and he dreaded family brawls worse than cold dinners. Two of<br />
the young Tiddle brats, who were left at the table, began to wrangle for<br />
the possession of a backbone which they had filched from their father's<br />
plate, while little Teddy, the infant, seized the favourable opportunity for<br />
helping himself to a red pepper pod from the mixed pickle bottle; but<br />
before he had finished eating it, he began to raise his voice in the horrible<br />
belief that his head was on fire.<br />
Never was heard a greater hubbub in any quiet tailor's house in this<br />
colony or elsewhere; but I must leave my readers to imagine the<br />
confusion and to put things to rights again according to their own<br />
fancies, while I admit that my fancy has helped me to colour the<br />
foregoing picture from every day life.<br />
I venture to think that few, if any, of my old friendly readers will<br />
mistake my meaning in the brief comments. I am about to make on the<br />
foregoing little episode in domestic life. Not one of them, I hope, will<br />
believe that I would grudge a meal to a friend let him drop in when he<br />
would, or that I would commend such a niggardly spirit in any one. It is<br />
those strong-nosed, systematic spongers that I dread at all times, men,<br />
who — as Mrs. Tiddle remarked — always smell when there is a good<br />
dinner on the table, and slide themselves in uninvited for the mere sake<br />
of “getting a good feed” as they vulgarly call it. Men with blarneying
lips, but with souls as scrappy as devilled bones. Who invariably praise<br />
everything on the table, play with the baby and talk nonsense to its<br />
mother, but who really care more for the cook than for any other member<br />
of the household — and if your bill of fare is reduced in consequence of<br />
a corresponding turn in your circumstances, they will never enter your<br />
door at all. Those are the creatures to whom I allude when I say that I<br />
dislike such droppers in at my table more than I do cold potatoes<br />
— which by the way is the sole diet I would prescribe for all such<br />
domestic marauders.<br />
Some time ago I went by invitation to dine on board a ship which was<br />
lying at one of the quays in Sydney harbour, when the worthy captain<br />
remarked to the mate in tones of surprise, that there were no “one o'clock<br />
boys on board that day.” On my asking what he meant by “one o'clock<br />
boys,” he said there was a host of persons of Mr. Grubb's class, who<br />
made a practice of foraging for a dinner almost every day, and they were<br />
a nuisance to him as well as to many other skippers in port. “Ay, and<br />
they are a pest to many good-natured housewives on shore too,” I<br />
remarked, with a shrug which old reminiscences stirred up.<br />
I would not wantonly annoy any one with my remarks, but I cannot<br />
here resist offering a word or two of friendly counsel to those who<br />
choose to take it. [In general, those dinner hunters cannot plead poverty<br />
as an excuse for their sponging habits, indeed a poor man with a manly<br />
spirit would rather dine off a brown biscuit any day than wheedle himself<br />
into a needy household if there was the least risk of upsetting their little<br />
domestic arrangements.] I would say to the Grubbs and the “one o'clock<br />
boys” of Sydney, go to some good restaurant, and get ninepenny-worth<br />
of dinner, or more if you want it, and go to your friends' tables only when<br />
you are invited. Try that manly method for twelve months or so, and you<br />
may probably regain your reputation, or at any rate lose some of your<br />
notoriety as mid-day nuisances. Then you may occasionally drop in at<br />
dinner time and your friends will not consider you are intruding but will<br />
perhaps be really glad to see you. But don't go exclusively for what you<br />
can get to eat or drink — bah! such selfishness is only worthy of the big<br />
monkey in the Government Gardens and his tribe in general.
“Shove It on Board.”<br />
“LET go the bow-line, and haul the stage ashore,” shouted the captain<br />
of a steamer, on board of which I was a passenger some time ago.<br />
“Hould on a bit, captain dear! Don't lave this little lock of corrn in me<br />
carrt, and good luck to yez,” said a farmer on the wharf, looking up<br />
imploringly at the captain on the paddle-box.<br />
“I can't take it,” said the captain, decisively, “my decks are lumbered<br />
up already, so that fat passengers can't get aft without climbing over the<br />
bridge.”<br />
“Arrah, captain, take this small lot; there's a dear man. Shure it won't<br />
make much odds to yez; there's ony tin bags, an' it's mighty light corrn<br />
too. I fetched it all the way from the farrm, onst afore, an' shure yer agent<br />
her tould me it shud go this trip, anyhow. What'll I do at all if yez lave it<br />
behind? Och captain, do take it, an I'll be everlastingly obliged to yez,<br />
I'm going down wid it meself, an me bhoy Teddy for-bye. Shpake the<br />
worrd now, honey, an long life to yez.”<br />
“Shove it on board,” said the captain, “and bear a hand about it, or we<br />
shall lose the tide, and be stuck on the flats all day. In with it — in with<br />
it.”<br />
While that colloquy was going on, I saw two men, in a boat alongside,<br />
pushing a coop of fowls on board at the after gangway, unobserved by<br />
the captain. In a short time we were paddling down the river, and the<br />
crew were busy stowing the deck cargo, and extemporising a pen, or sty,<br />
for a score or two of pigs, which would persist in making a noise,<br />
although the sailors were using strenuous efforts to soothe them, by<br />
beating their greasy backs with ropes' ends. Presently the steamer<br />
stopped to take in an old lady from a boat, which had put off from one of<br />
the farmsteads on the river bank.<br />
“I can't take any cargo,” said the captain, as the boatman began to hand<br />
up sundry packages.<br />
“Bless my heart alive! I have only two small boxes of eggs, and a little<br />
pig, and a keg of butter. You surely don't mean to say you won't take<br />
them on board, captain? What room will they occupy? Tut, tut, can't take<br />
them, that's all nonsense!”<br />
“Shove 'em on board, missis, shove 'em on board,” said the second<br />
mate, who was rewarded with a grateful glance from the old lady, while<br />
at the same time she made some pettish remarks about the captain's ill
manners, in wanting to send her pig and her boxes on shore again. Soon<br />
the steamer was under weigh once more, and anon we called at another<br />
wharf, when the captain had an altercation with a miller, who finally<br />
succeeded, by sheer clamour, in shipping the cylinder of his steamengine,<br />
and sundry other heavy pieces of machinery, which he said he<br />
was taking to Sydney for repairs, as his mill was standing still, and it was<br />
full of grist from bottom to top. We scraped over the flats without<br />
sticking, and in due course arrived alongside the old wharf at Newcastle,<br />
when the usual scene of bustle ensued, and all the idlers in the City were<br />
active, for a season.<br />
“I can't take any cargo this morning,” said the captain to the agent's<br />
clerk, who was making entries in his manifest.<br />
“You will take my luggage, I suppose?” said a snappish-looking old<br />
gentleman, with a barrow full of boxes behind him, and who was<br />
evidently determined to have his luggage taken on board, or “know the<br />
reason why not.”<br />
“Well, I suppose I must take that; shove it on board,” said the captain;<br />
then he shouted to a fisherman with a sugee-bag on his back, “Hey,<br />
Mister Squidd, I can't take any oysters this trip.”<br />
“They'll stow anywhere, captain; put 'em on the sponson; there are only<br />
five bags,” said Mr. Squidd, appealingly.<br />
“I'll heave 'em overboard if you put them on my deck, so I give you<br />
notice; can't you see that I am loaded down to the port-holes? Confound<br />
it all! do you want to sink me at my moorings?”<br />
“The captain ought to be ashamed of himself,” said an old grumbler,<br />
who was usually to be seen on the wharf when the steamer was<br />
alongside, “it's scandalous to take a ship to sea in that trim. Why, she is<br />
nearly a foot below her loadline. If anything happens to that steamer, I'll<br />
kick up a row about it; mark my words.”<br />
“I should like to know what right the captain has to load his ship in that<br />
disgraceful way, and risk valuable lives?” said another bystander, who,<br />
like his friend beside him, gloried in grumbling, but very rarely helped to<br />
reform evils which he was so quick at discerning. Meanwhile, a<br />
consequential-looking gentleman was severely scolding the agent's clerk<br />
for promising to keep room for his horse, and failing to do so.<br />
“Where am I to put your horse, sir?” asked the captain, who had been<br />
appealed to. “Just look at my decks, fore and aft; there isn't standing<br />
room for a monkey.”<br />
“He won't take up more room than a bale of hay, captain,” said the<br />
gentleman. “You can tie him to the fore rigging, if you like; he is as quiet<br />
as a cat; passengers may rub against his legs, and I'll warrant he won't<br />
kick. You will much oblige me, captain, if you will take him — in fact I<br />
have right to — — ”<br />
“Shove it on board,” said the captain, who looked thoroughly
perplexed, and muttered that he “would rather be drowned than be jawed<br />
to death.” After taking in a number of empty beer barrels, a Bath chair,<br />
sundry bundles of cabbage-tree, and other “odds and ends,” (which — in<br />
the estimation of the owners — ” weighed nothing,” the ropes were cast<br />
off, and we slowly proceeded to sea. I saw that my luggage was safely<br />
stowed, with other passengers' effects, on the after skylight, then went<br />
upon the bridge and sat beside the captain, who had the reputation of<br />
being one of the most careful and experienced seamen on the coast.<br />
“You have a large cargo to-day, captain,” I remarked.<br />
“Ugh, cargo! we are smothered with it. They'll sink us altogether one<br />
of these fine days,” replied the captain, with a shrug; then he shouted to<br />
the crew forward, to “haul the chain-box over to starboard.”<br />
From my elevated position, I could scan the ship fore and aft, except<br />
under the bridge, where I had previously taken stock of four horses,<br />
sundry coops of poultry, a stack of wet hides, and some casks of tallow.<br />
The quarter deck was crowded with bales of wool and luggage, with a<br />
right-of-way left for thin passengers. One quarter boat was pretty well<br />
filled with dead wild ducks and wallabies, and live cockatoos in cages;<br />
the other contained vegetables, sofacushions, swabs, and other useful<br />
articles. In the forepart of the ship was a travelling carriage, sundry<br />
machinery belonging to the pertinacious miller before-mentioned, bales<br />
of hay, bags of grain, several fat calves, the pigs, and the horse aforesaid,<br />
and an assortment of odds and ends not worth particularising, including<br />
the five bags of oysters, which Squidd, the fisherman, had smuggled into<br />
the starboard sponson. The steerage passengers were sitting or standing<br />
wherever they could find room. Four men were lounging in the travelling<br />
carriage, smoking their pipes, and seeming as unapprehensive of danger<br />
as if the travelling carriage were on the Paramatta Road. The steamer<br />
lurched heavily from time to time, and the crew were obliged to shift the<br />
chain-box about, to help to steady her, at which extra work they did not<br />
fail to grumble, in sailors' peculiar fashion. Altogether the prospect was<br />
enough to frighten any one whose imagination was at all active, whose<br />
organs of caution were not concave, and who, moreover, had not a<br />
settled belief that he “was born to be hanged.” Fortunately the sea was<br />
very smooth, and by degrees my qualms subsided into a calm submission<br />
to my lot.<br />
“I think we shall have a light north-easter to-day,” I remarked to the<br />
captain, as he reseated himself, after he had given an order to his mate to<br />
send the topgallant yard on deck.<br />
“I don't think the wind will hold long in that quarter,” he replied, while<br />
his experienced eye scanned the horizon. “We shall have a ‘southerlyburster’<br />
before long. It will blow like thunder before sundown, or I am<br />
very much mistaken.”<br />
I thought so too, (notwithstanding I could see a ripple on the water, far
away on our port-quarter), for in the south-western sky there were some<br />
ominous looking clouds rising, and the air was sultry and oppressive.<br />
However, I took a hopeful view of our surroundings, and said I thought<br />
we might get to Sydney before the “burster” met us; adding, “we shall be<br />
in a dilemma if we are caught in bad weather, with all this deck lumber.”<br />
The captain merely shrugged his shoulders, by way of reply, which<br />
affected me like a shovelful of snow on my head. One can form an idea<br />
in a moment what an Englishman would imply by that kind of<br />
movement, though it is not easy to interpret a Frenchman's shrugs. After<br />
a few minutes' reflection on my future prospects, I asked the captain<br />
what he would do, if we met with a southerly gale.<br />
“Why heave our deck load overboard,” he replied. “we must do that or<br />
go down. You see I have a difficulty in keeping the ship upright at the<br />
present time; she is rolling about like an old water-butt in a tide-way. I<br />
am expecting every minute, too, that some of those passengers forward<br />
will get their toes under the wheels of the chain-box, and then there will<br />
be a hullabaloo and the doctor to pay. Overboard goes Paddy's corn, and<br />
everything else on deck except the live stock, if we fall in with a hard<br />
gale — that's certain.”<br />
“What troubles me most, is the dread that you will not begin to clear<br />
your decks soon enough, captain,” I replied; “I have been in bad weather<br />
with you several times, and I never saw you throw anything overboard,<br />
though you have sometimes been lumbered up almost as much as you are<br />
now.”<br />
“Well, you see, sir, it isn't a pleasant job to heave away cargo; no<br />
seaman likes to do it if he can anyway help it. I always hang on to it as<br />
long as I can, for I know there would be a pretty row when I went up the<br />
river again, if I were to throw it overboard. All the deck cargo is at the<br />
risk of the shippers, and most of them are poor, struggling men, who<br />
could very badly bear the loss. But there are lots of fellows who would<br />
make more noise about it than the poor shippers; and it is them that I<br />
most dread, for their tongues fidget me worse than thunder and lightning.<br />
You heard those two old fogies on the wharf at Newcastle abuse me for<br />
overloading my ship; and if we met with any mishap, they would<br />
exonerate the winds and waves, and blame me for all.”<br />
“That would certainly be unfair,” I replied, “for I have observed the<br />
difficulties you have encountered this morning; and that you had cargo<br />
thrust on board, in spite of your appeals, or your emphatic protests.”<br />
“Shippers actually force cargo upon us at every stopping-place; and<br />
they each think that their ‘little lots’ can't make any odds to a big<br />
steamer; like the old woman with her pig and her butter-tub, and the<br />
blustering miller with his iron-work. You saw, too, that I had to stow<br />
three bales of hay above the rail, to make room for Mr. Bang's horse.”<br />
“It was very unreasonable for him to wish you to take it, captain; and I
wonder that you did so.”<br />
“Well, you see, sir, he is managing-man for Messrs. Codger and Bloke;<br />
and as they are large shippers by our boats, I didn't wish to offend him;<br />
besides, he would have stormed my ears, worse than great guns, if I had<br />
refused. We are not always so jammed up as we are to-day; but there is a<br />
great rise in corn and hay just now, so all the farmers are anxious to get<br />
their stuff to market; and our agent up above has not very quiet times, I<br />
can tell you, for he can't ship everything and please everbody.”<br />
“But the shippers themselves ought to know that they run a great risk in<br />
putting their goods on board in this unconscionable manner,” I remarked.<br />
“Phoo! what do the bulk of them know about loading a ship?” replied<br />
the captain, with a faint smile. “Look at happy old Paddy Murphy, sitting<br />
on the fore-hatch, smoking his pipe; do you think you could persuade<br />
him that his little ‘lock ov corrn’ made any difference in the trim of the<br />
vessel? Not you, indeed; he would tell you it was only like a butterfly on<br />
a bullock's back. He is, perhaps, thinking how lucky he was to get it on<br />
board, and of the good price he will get for it to-morrow; but he has<br />
never once thought of the probability of its going overboard. And I'll be<br />
bound that that miller, who is fast asleep in the bath chair, is not<br />
dreaming that his cylinder, and cog-wheels, are in danger of going down<br />
to Davy Jones's locker. If I had not taken them on board, he would now<br />
be at home blessing me for keeping his mill idle, and all his hungry grist<br />
customers would have cried shame upon the captain, who wouldn't be so<br />
obliging as to take three little bits of iron to Sydney, to save a whole<br />
district from a potato diet.<br />
“The captain of a coasting steamer has more anxiety than most persons<br />
are aware of, Mr. Boomerang, and the ordinary risks of the sea are not<br />
the main cause of it. Do you think I should be so fidgetty about those<br />
clouds that are rising yonder, if my ship was in seaworthy trim? Not a bit<br />
of it, sir. If I had no deck-load I shouldn't be afraid to face any weather,<br />
for this is as good a sea-boat as ever floated; but what can a man do with<br />
a whole farm-yard on his deck, and a flour-mill and a cab-stand beside?”<br />
“I don't wonder that you feel anxious, captain; but pray, what remedy<br />
would you suggest for this reckless system of overloading vessels, at the<br />
imminent risk of life and property?”<br />
“Why, the best remedy that I can see is to take no deck cargo at all; that<br />
is a matter for the Legislature to look after, and the sooner they begin<br />
about it the better. It would be easy enough for agents and captains, and<br />
all concerned, to do their duty, if steamers were not allowed to take cargo<br />
except under hatches; for the most unconscionable shipper could be<br />
convinced, in a minute, when a ship was full below. Then passengers<br />
might travel in safety and comfort; but it is plain enough they cannot do<br />
that in my ship to-day.”<br />
“But there is a law regulating deck cargo in steamers, captain,” I
emarked.<br />
“Is there, sir? well, you can see how much it is respected,” replied the<br />
captain, with a grim chuckle; then he shouted to the crew, “Haul the<br />
chain box over to port: and stop those pigs from crowding up to the<br />
hawse holes.”<br />
The dinner bell soon afterwards rang, so I went below and seated<br />
myself at the bottom of the table. Next to the advantage of being out of<br />
danger altogether, is perhaps the happy unconsciousness of its proximity;<br />
that is to say, when one is powerless to avert it. Thus I silently reasoned,<br />
as I glanced along the table at the double row of gentlemen eating ox-tail<br />
soup. I could not discern the merest tinge of anxiety on a single face; and<br />
the extended angles of each mouth were expressive of gastronomic joy,<br />
for the soup was rich. It was evident that the fear of death or personal<br />
damage, was remote from the minds of those happy diners; and that the<br />
pleasures of the present time were not marred by apprehensions of future<br />
famine, or any other troublesome contingency. Probably not one of them<br />
had even the slightest foreboding, that in a few short hours he would be<br />
as helpless and undignified as a swaddling infant; that he would be —<br />
but I am anticipating my story.<br />
Soon after the cloth was removed I went on deck, and remounted the<br />
bridge. The captain was standing on the starboard paddle-box, gazing<br />
alternately at the gathering storm and at his struggling vessel, while his<br />
face bore evidence of intense anxiety, though not alarm or trepidation,<br />
for he was a thorough sailor. I did not speak to him, though I longed to<br />
put a question or two to him, and I wished he would speak to me. I<br />
usually try to observe a prudent reticence in seasons of peril on<br />
shipboard; and it would be well if all passengers would adopt that course.<br />
I have seen a captain perplexed with silly questions at times when his<br />
mind was anxiously engaged on some important duty, and I have heard<br />
him miscalled “a surly man” for giving sharp answers to the thoughtless<br />
querist. Presently the captain stepped down from the paddle-box, and<br />
laconically remarked, as he nodded his head towards the southwest,<br />
“There's dirt there.”<br />
“There is a heavy storm gathering,” I replied, “but I hope we may fetch<br />
abreast of Broken Bay (which was about twelve miles distant) before it<br />
comes on.”<br />
“No such luck for us to-day, sir,” said the captain. “It will be down<br />
upon us in twenty minutes; don't you see how fast that long, bolsterlooking<br />
cloud is rolling along? That is not scudding before a gentle<br />
zephyr, I can tell you.” Then he called to the chief mate. “Send that<br />
foretopsailyard on deck, and house the topmast. Bear a hand about it.”<br />
In rather less than half an hour I hastened below, to escape the heavy<br />
rain which began to descend, accompanied with a violent squall of wind,<br />
and thunder and lightning. Some of the passengers were still seated at the
table, when I re-entered the saloon, and one of them exclaimed, “Halloa!<br />
is there a shift of wind?”<br />
“Yes, sir, there is indeed,” I replied, “and I think we shall have a very<br />
rough night.”<br />
“Dear, oh dear! I'm sorry for that,” said Mr. Bang, “I shall be awfully<br />
sea-sick. Steward, bring me a couple of pillows.”<br />
Before I had equipped myself in my waterproof overalls, for the deck,<br />
nearly all the gentlemen had taken up positions on the sofas, and were<br />
being supplied with pillows, et cetera. With much difficulty I regained<br />
my post on the bridge, and the scene around me was terrifically grand,<br />
with a dash of the ridiculous in it too. The sea was white with foam, the<br />
lightning played about the masts in dazzling streams; the thunder and the<br />
wind seemed to be arguing which could roar loudest, while the thick<br />
glots of rain descending on the backs of the pigs, made them squeak loud<br />
enough to be heard above the warring elements. The four steerage<br />
passengers had discovered a leak in the roof of the travelling carriage,<br />
and were hurrying out of it; at the same time the miller woke up from his<br />
nap, in the Bath-chair, and ran below faster than any invalid could have<br />
done. Poor Paddy Murphy saw his bags of corn covered up with a<br />
tarpaulin, then took his little boy Teddy under his arm, and descended to<br />
the fore-cabin, where, I imagine, the inmates were rather too closely<br />
packed to be comfortable. The sailors, in their oilskin jackets, were<br />
wheeling the chain-box about (their sick baby, as they called it), and<br />
were deprecating the exercise in solemnly quaint ejaculations. The<br />
steamer seemed to have merely steerage-way, still she was kept head to<br />
the wind, and nobly she struggled against the contending elements. In<br />
about an hour the worst of the storm was past, but a strong gale set in and<br />
the sea rose very fast.<br />
The captain stood and watched the curling waves with steady nerve;<br />
and every now and then gave orders to ease the engines, when an<br />
unusually heavy sea rose ahead of us. By that precaution the steamer<br />
rode over the waves more easily, but her onward progress was<br />
considerably retarded; in fact, at times she scarcely appeared to make any<br />
headway. When the tea bell rang I again went below, and a moving scene<br />
of noisy misery presented itself. Nearly all the late hearty diners were<br />
hors-de-combat, and looked almost as despairing as a ward full of<br />
patients in a blazing hospital. I pitied Mr. Bang least of all the prostrate<br />
ones; and whenever I heard his “Yaawk” which smothered all the<br />
whoops of his neighbours, I called to mind his bilious attack upon the<br />
polite clerk on the wharf at Newcastle; and I mentally muttered, “Ah,<br />
Mr. Bang! it is plain that you wanted a short sea voyage, sir. After this<br />
day's extensive delivery you will perhaps be in a better temper for a<br />
while. So yaawk away, sir; your wife and children will be gainers by<br />
your present exertions; and nobody here has life enough to notice the
ugly faces you are making. Yaawk away, sir, you will be better tomorrow,<br />
if you live till then.”<br />
Several of the gentlemen made sombre inquiries of me as to our<br />
position, and if I could see Sydney lighthouse? To which I replied, that I<br />
could see nothing but black clouds and white-headed waves; as to our<br />
position, I could only tell them that we were not far from Broken Bay.<br />
After partaking of a cup of tea, I again went upon the bridge, and there I<br />
stood for some time beside the captain without speaking a word, but<br />
longing for him to speak to me. Presently he said, “There is an awful<br />
ugly sea on.”<br />
“There is, indeed, captain; may I ask if you have any idea of running<br />
back to Newcastle?”<br />
“Back, eh?” he replied; “I dare not put her round; she would almost<br />
certainly capsize with all this load on deck.”<br />
“Why don't you begin to throw it overboard?” I muttered rather<br />
pettishly, but I did not let him hear me. I cannot depict the anxiety I<br />
endured for the next hour as I sat upon that melancholy bridge in silent<br />
meditation, and watched the seething waves which tossed and tumbled<br />
around like monsters preparing to swallow us; while the wind roaring<br />
over the top of the big funnel sounded like grim death playing a funeral<br />
dirge. My mental calculations as to the consequences of a heavy sea<br />
breaking on board (which I momentarily expected), were by no means<br />
encouraging, but I could not school my mind to any more cheerful<br />
exercise just then. There were about fifty bales of hay and wool on deck;<br />
and assuming that each bale would soak up a quantity of water equal to<br />
its weight, and allowing three or four hogsheads for the Bath-chair and<br />
the carriage; I inferred that the vessel would founder before we could<br />
sufficiently lighten her. My second calculation was as to the result, if the<br />
pigs should break down their temporary barrier, and crowd together<br />
under the topgallant forecastle, and thus bring the steamer down by the<br />
head; but I had not quite completed that sum when I was aroused by the<br />
captain calling me. I staggered towards him, and stood holding on by the<br />
fore shroud of the funnel. “Do you see land on the starboard beam?” he<br />
asked.<br />
I gazed into the darkness till my eyes ached, then replied, “No, captain,<br />
I can't see it. Can you?”<br />
“Yes; I see the North Head of Broken Bay.”<br />
“Bless me! what extraordinary eyes you must have. I can see nothing<br />
but thick darkness, like a wall of pitch built up to the sky. Are you going<br />
into the bay, captain?”<br />
“I'll try for it, if I see a chance of putting her round smartly,” he<br />
replied. “Ease her!”<br />
In about half an hour he gave orders for the chain-box to be wheeled<br />
over to port, and lashed there; and soon afterwards he shouted, “Haul the
fore sheet aft! Port the helm!”<br />
It was a critical time, and a month's anxiety seemed to be concentrated<br />
into those few minutes. The vessel slowly paid off, and floundered into<br />
the trough of the sea, where a huge mountain of water rose on our port<br />
beam, as if about to fall on us and crush us.<br />
“Hold on, Boomerang! here's a sea coming on board!” cried the<br />
captain. I held on instinctively, while I commended my soul to my<br />
Maker. The heavy combing wave came hissing towards us, and struck<br />
our port paddle-box; the vessel lurched violently over on her beam ends,<br />
and some of the cargo rolled overboard. I thought of my loved ones at<br />
home; I muttered a prayer for them, and I bade the world good-bye. In<br />
another moment I heard the captain shout, “All right! all right!” and I<br />
whispered, “Thank God!” The sea did not break on board; and soon<br />
afterwards we anchored in Pitt Water.<br />
“There you see, I've saved my deck load again, Mr. Boomerang,” said<br />
the captain, rubbing his hands with glee, after the last of the cable was<br />
paid out. “It's a blessed good job we are safe and sound in here, but we<br />
had a narrow escape in rounding to, and I made sure that big topper of a<br />
sea was going to swamp us altogether.” Then he called to his mate,<br />
“Hoy! Mr. Keel, get a lantern and see what's the matter with that horse; I<br />
think he's griped.”<br />
A light was procured, and Mr. Bang's horse was found with his fore<br />
legs over the rail and his hind legs stretched apart on the deck. It was<br />
supposed that when the vessel had given the heavy lurch, the poor beast<br />
had tumbled halfway overboard; and in his struggle to right himself, he<br />
had received some serious internal injury, for he was dead. Several of the<br />
pigs were dead too, and all the deck cargo was more or less damaged.<br />
* * * * *<br />
“What would have been the probable result if that heavy sea had<br />
tumbled broadside on us?” I asked the captain, as he was sitting at the<br />
supper table, an hour afterwards, looking as composed as if he had just<br />
come from church.<br />
He shut his eyes, drew down his features, and laconically replied,<br />
“Down among the dead men.”<br />
“That is precisely my opinion, captain,” said I, as I instantly interpreted<br />
his ominous gesticulation. “It would have been too late to throw your<br />
deck cargo overboard, and we should have gone to the bottom of the sea.<br />
Well, thank God, we are safe,” I added, solemnly. “But had we capsized;<br />
with my last breath I should have denounced deck loads, and it is very<br />
likely that my ghost would have hence-forward been seen, in the wake of<br />
overladen steamers, screaming ‘Murder!’ ”
* * * * *<br />
Some of my readers may impatiently ask, “What is the use of making a<br />
long story about a common-place event, which took place years ago?” In<br />
anticipation of such an inquiry I explain, that a sense of duty impels me<br />
to help, as far as I can, to remedy a systematic abuse, which I believe is,<br />
alas, too common all over the world; and I have written this sketch to<br />
illustrate the discomforts and dangers which passengers are frequently<br />
subjected to, in these present times, and on our iron coast. I have no facts<br />
to warrant me in stating, that the causes of the late melancholy disasters<br />
were other than the act of God; but I can state as a fact, that the last<br />
steamer I voyaged in, not long ago, had not less than from twenty to<br />
twenty-five tons of butter and coal on her deck. And I can state, as<br />
another fact, that the last sailing vessel I voyaged in, the registered<br />
tonnage of which was only 198, had 304 tons of coal on board. By whose<br />
authority it was put on board I know not, but certainly it was not the<br />
captain's. He took his ship to sea, though he admitted to me that she had<br />
at least forty tons more cargo than she could carry with safety. He hoped<br />
to have had a smooth passage to Melbourne, but had a very rough one,<br />
lengthened to twelve days; and during most of that time the sea broke on<br />
board in such a dangerous manner, that to take the hatches off to attempt<br />
to lighten her, would have been to sink her in five minutes; and it is<br />
firmly impressed on my mind, that if she had not been a remarkably<br />
strong vessel, and well found, and withal very skilfully managed, that she<br />
would have foundered with all hands.<br />
Those are two facts which I can vouch for. I could give many more<br />
from personal experience, equally striking, but those are sufficient, and I<br />
would respectfully commend them to the consideration of our legislators.<br />
It might be thought invidious to appeal to them through the strongest law<br />
of nature, and remind them that they themselves sometimes travel in our<br />
fine coasting steamers, and that their families, and their friends,<br />
sometimes travel in them, too; a sense of their duty, as guardians of the<br />
public safety, will surely be sufficient to stimulate their zeal in this<br />
important matter, especially as we have lately had so many mournful<br />
reminders of the perils which beset “them that go down to the sea in<br />
ships.”<br />
If any person should say, “there is a law regulating the deck lading of<br />
steamers,” I would reply, that stringent measures are necessary to insure<br />
its being obeyed; for that it is very frequently evaded is a glaring fact,<br />
which I challenge anyone to confute. *<br />
I believe that such a measure would be hailed with gladness by the<br />
agents and officers of steamships in general; for, from causes which I<br />
have glanced at, those gentlemen are not always able to control the<br />
eagerness of persons to ship goods, in certain states of our markets; and
in these days of active opposition, agents and officers are doubtless<br />
anxious to please their customers, the bulk of whom are as unconscious<br />
of extra hazard, when sending their shipments, as Paddy Murphy was<br />
with his “little lock of corrn,” or the old lady with her pig and her butter<br />
tub.<br />
With earnestness I repeat my conviction, that if immediate measures<br />
are not adopted to insure the safe lading of steamers and sailing vessels<br />
out of our port, it will not be very long before more brave seamen are<br />
sacrificed, and more broken-hearted widows are seen sorrowing over<br />
their helpless children.<br />
* A gentleman has recently been appointed to the important office of<br />
Inspector of Steamboats, and I believe that he efficiently discharges his<br />
onerous duties.
How Goliah Trump Cured Widow Blunt's Lazy Donkey.<br />
MR. GOLIAH TRUMP was a man of his word, and if he promised to<br />
do a good turn for a friend, it was not his fault if it were not done in due<br />
course. He was not a highly polished man, and at first sight did not<br />
always make a favourable impression; still he was a good-natured fellow,<br />
and that quality compensated for his minor defects and peculiarities with<br />
those who knew him intimately.<br />
Though Goliah moved in a good position, was a thriving merchant, and<br />
a good mark in a mercantile sense, his nativeborn idiosyncrasies did not<br />
alter with his improved circumstances. He very lightly esteemed the<br />
conventionalities of refined life, and rather prided himself on the<br />
provincial idiom, the honest bluntness, and the eccentric manners of his<br />
worthy old sire, who was as jovial an old English gentleman as ever<br />
enjoyed a mug of sharp cyder or a squab pie, or rode after a pack of foxhounds.<br />
Goliah was a portly man approaching to middle age, with rather a<br />
handsome face, and eyes full of fun and frolic. There was a dash more of<br />
the latter in his manner than thoughtful persons would approve of, but he<br />
would not try to alter his nature to please the taste or fancy of any one;<br />
indeed, I doubt if he could have done so for more than five minutes, had<br />
he been promised a prize medal for the exertion. It would take too much<br />
space to detail the virtues of Mrs. Trump, so I simply say she was one of<br />
the excellent of the earth, “respected most by those who knew her best.”<br />
Goliah was a man of impulse. He rarely thought long or deeply on any<br />
subject, so when he conceived an idea of going home to see his “dear old<br />
daddy,” he was not long in deciding to do so, as the “ways and means”<br />
were within his compass. In three weeks' time his comfortable<br />
establishment was broken up, and he was on shipboard with his loving<br />
wife and family bound to old England. After enduring the blasts of Cape<br />
Horn and other inevitables of the long homeward voyage, he arrived<br />
safely in the land of his birth.<br />
Previous to leaving Sydney, Goliah had promised his friend Sam Blunt<br />
to go and see his widowed mother, who lived in a rural village less than a<br />
hundred miles from London. But an afflictive event prevented his<br />
fulfilling his promise for several months. At length he wrote Widow<br />
Blunt that she might expect to see him on the following Tuesday.<br />
Some of my readers will easily conceive the widow's joy and gladness
at the idea of soon seeing a living person who had so recently conversed<br />
with her dear boy Sam. There are fond mothers in Australia too, who<br />
would hail such pleasure as the happiest holiday they could have, and<br />
would sit and listen to good news from their absent sons or daughters<br />
with far more delight than they would listen to a grand concert.<br />
On the appointed day Marigold Cottage looked extra stylish, and the<br />
widow's cap was unusually prim and stiff starched. The savoury odour<br />
which floated from her little kitchen, and the snow-white table-cloth<br />
spread in her front parlour, indicated that some one was coming out of<br />
the common circle of her visitors, and the good old lady's face was<br />
beaming with happy satisfaction. Many longing glances did she cast up<br />
the lane for signs of the approach of her expected guest as the hours<br />
dragged lazily on; and many gentle bastings did she bestow upon the<br />
poor birds before the fire, which had long since been done brown. It was<br />
two hours past dinner-time, and her sharp appetite had given place to the<br />
peculiar faintness produced by dinner delayed, while her heart was<br />
beginning to grow sick with “hope deferred.” The ducks were<br />
overcooked, and as dry as stuffed shags in a museum; the green peas<br />
were boiled to green paste, and the batter pudding was getting hard as<br />
beeswax; in fact, the nice dinner was spoiled and not fit to set before her<br />
son's friend, who she imagined was a particularly prim and stately<br />
gentleman. The widow was just going to sit down and have a good<br />
cry — as she called it — when suddenly she began to laugh, for she saw<br />
a gig stop at her gate, and heard a strange, comical voice shout out,<br />
“Hallo, there, be's that Mrs. Blunt's cottage?”<br />
“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” exclaimed the widow, hastily toddling along the<br />
garden path. “Are you Mr. Trump?”<br />
“E'es, sure enough I'm he, come to see thee at last. How be'est thee,<br />
then?” said bluff Goliah, shaking hands with the widow till he nearly<br />
shook her cap off, and made her sneeze. In another minute he was sitting<br />
in the best parlour, telling in his broadest style all the interesting news he<br />
could think of about her son Sam, his devoted wife, and their boys, Dick,<br />
Tom, and Harry. Oh, what a happy afternoon that was for Widow Blunt!<br />
she will never forget it. How she sat and laughed and cried alternately, as<br />
her loquacious visitor poured out his budget of news from the far-off<br />
land, and told her all the pleasing things he knew concerning the loved<br />
ones who were as dear to her as her life. All her late troubles about her<br />
shrivelled ducks and waxy pudding were forgotten in the joy she felt at<br />
the good tidings which Goliah had brought her, and which his fertile<br />
fancy assisted to make highly amusing, while his occasional outbursts of<br />
laughter made the cuckoos in the adjacent woods wag their tails.<br />
Oh, ye restless seekers after new sensations, did you ever try the<br />
refreshing excitement of raising up a down-crushed spirit? or ever sit and<br />
see a poor old widowed mother cry for joy over some little bit of good
news which you had communicated from her absent boy or girl? Did you<br />
ever try that luxury? If not, look out for an opportunity of doing so, and I<br />
promise it will yield you a pleasure immeasurably surpassing the<br />
excitement of the most improbable love or ghost story, and a delightsome<br />
relish such as M. Soyer and all his fry could no more imitate than they<br />
could make a live turtle.<br />
Next morning, after breakfast, Widow Blunt expressed a desire that<br />
Goliah should see her dear relatives, the Goodwins, who lived at a farmhouse<br />
a few miles off, but she added hesitatingly, “I really don't know<br />
how you will get there, unless I can send a messenger to cousin Peter to<br />
bring his gig for you.”<br />
“How be'est thee going, then?” asked Goliah, in his own peculiar tone,<br />
and with a comical twinkle in his eye.<br />
“Oh, I'm going in my little donkey chaise; I have a nice quiet beast that<br />
I can drive myself, but I should not like to ask you to ride behind an ass,<br />
you would not like it, I am sure, for we shall meet a lot of people by the<br />
way.”<br />
“Bless thee heart, mother, I'm not so grand as thee thinks, though I<br />
come from a golden land. Where's the animal? I'll harness 'en up in no<br />
time. Not ride behind a donkey, indeed! Why, your son, Sam, wouldn't<br />
speak to me if I was too proud to ride with his mother. I don't care a flip<br />
who sees me do anything that isn't wicked — that's the way to say it.<br />
Where's the moke?”<br />
The donkey was soon put into a two-wheeled gig, which was perhaps a<br />
size too small for Goliah and his rather stout companion; however, they<br />
wedged themselves in with a little exertion, and off they set, Widow<br />
Blunt taking the reins. “Gee up, Jacky! gee up, my boy!” she exclaimed,<br />
mildly, and gave the reins a gentle jerk at the same time. Jacky looked<br />
round at his extra load, then moved his long ears to and fro, and shuffled<br />
along at the rate of four miles an hour, which was the pace the widow<br />
usually travelled at, for she was fearful of driving fast; indeed, Jacky<br />
would not have moved faster had she tried to persuade him with her<br />
kindest words, and she was afraid to whip him lest he should damage the<br />
dash-board with his hoofs, and perhaps injure her at the same time.<br />
“Won't he move along faster than that?” asked Goliah, who was<br />
probably thinking of the fine paces of his mettle-some prad in the colony.<br />
“No, he won't go faster,” said the widow. “He is very obstinate<br />
sometimes, and won't mind a word I say to him; still he is a good<br />
donkey, he never offers to run away with me, and he only kicks when I<br />
begin to beat him.”<br />
“Oho, Mister Jacky! a pretty character I hear of thee! That's the way<br />
you behave to your kind missis, is it? Now let me tell thee, thee'st got her<br />
son, Sam's friend, Goliah Trump, behind thee, so the sooner thee begin'st<br />
to mend the better, I can tell thee. Drabbit it, let me drive 'en,” added
Goliah, taking the reins from the widow. “I'll make 'en jump, I'll warrant.<br />
Hallo, there! barn it, what dost thee mean by poking along at this pace,<br />
like an old cow with a sore leg? Ods dampers and doughboys! what do'st<br />
thee mean, eh? Lazy rogue, come up! Hallaballoo! hobgoblins and<br />
blunderbuses! get along, or I'll cut thee into catsmeat!”<br />
Goliah shouted thus in very loud and gruff tones, and at the same time<br />
threw his gigantic arms in the air in a manner formidable enough to<br />
frighten the stubbornest donkey in the world. The effect upon the poor<br />
brute was marvellous, and perhaps it is worth noting for the advantage of<br />
those who are fond of assinine studies, or who have to do with other<br />
obstinate animals. When Goliah first addressed him, Jacky laid his ears<br />
flat aback in token of astonishment, and looked out of the corners of his<br />
eyes, as though he were taking the measure of his strange driver. Then he<br />
showed his teeth — as marks of opposition, he also slightly elevated his<br />
hind part, revineing contempt, and at the same time a disposition to kick.<br />
But as Goliah poured out the torrent of hard-sounding words, Jacky's tail<br />
began to twitch in a peculiar manner, then to stand up as straight as a<br />
boat's jigger-mast, plainly indicating extreme fear and a desire for peace,<br />
by hoisting an apology for a flag of truce. After uttering three heavy<br />
sighs and a grunt, his pace improved into a quick trot, hence it was quite<br />
clear that Jacky was subdued, his stubborn will was broken, and much as<br />
it may have annoyed him to be thus humbled before the good old lady,<br />
who had been the victim of his lazy tricks for many years, it was<br />
nevertheless a fact, which he could not deny, that he was mastered,<br />
thoroughly cowed, as most donkeys are when spoken to by men of spirit.<br />
A good moral lesson may be learned by a consideration of the<br />
metaphysical aspect of that sudden surrender of the donkey's will. It is a<br />
striking example of the power of mind over mere animal propensity<br />
— but I must go on with my story. The widow was highly delighted, and<br />
laughed like a merry maiden. “I do think you have cured his obstinate<br />
temper,-Mr. Trump,” she remarked; “indeed, there is a surprising change<br />
in him all at once; I declare I did not fancy he could trot so fast. Well,<br />
well, who'd have thought it? Well done, Jacky, my boy! you shall have<br />
some beans by-and-bye.”<br />
“I'll show thee what he can do in a minute,” said Goliah — then,<br />
addressing the donkey, he roared out more furiously than before, “Hallo!<br />
get along, thee lazy scamp; dos't think I'll see thee impose on my friend<br />
Sam's mother in this way? Barn it all, I'll skin thee in a minute, I will.<br />
Halla-balloo! bullseyes, and blowpipes! get away with thee good-fornothing<br />
rascal! I'll let thee see what's o'clock, I'll warrant. Come up thee<br />
sleepy-headed rogue!” at the same time he stamped with his big boots on<br />
the bottom of the gig, which shocked the donkey to such an extent, that<br />
he trembled while he tore along with the gig at a mad gallop. Never<br />
before was a donkey seen to go at such a racing pace by the oldest
parishioner. Out ran the astounded villagers from their homes — men,<br />
women, and children — to gaze at the passing phenomenon. They<br />
shuddered for the fate of widow Blunt, and turned pale as they whispered<br />
the name of the person whom they supposed was driving her; while<br />
Goliah continued to roar and shout, and stamp his feet purposely to<br />
increase their wonderment, until all the children ran indoors again and<br />
hid themselves under their beds from the “terrible old Bogy who was<br />
flying away with poor old Mrs. Blunt.”<br />
“Oh, for goodness gracious sake, Mr. Trump, stop the donkey; we shall<br />
be upset! O dear, dear me, do stop him, pray do, sir! The wheels will<br />
come off, I'm sure. Woa, Jacky,” said the widow, in a state of intense<br />
trepidation.<br />
“Barn him, I'll give it him!” roared Goliah, louder than ever. “Lazy<br />
jackass, I'll let thee know thee'st got a Sydney man behind thee, and I'll<br />
teach thee to shew better manners to a Sydney man's mother. Hoogh!<br />
Hoogh! Hoogh! get along thee lazy rogue! Blurr — r! I'll blow thee into<br />
beanskins.”<br />
The poor donkey was scared into a perspiration, and he had never been<br />
known to perspire before. As he had no winkers he could see the furious<br />
antics of the burly man beside his mistress, and he flew along at a rate<br />
that he had never even dreamt of, and which made all the old superannuated<br />
asses that were grazing under the hedges “hee hau” with<br />
astonishment. Onward he sped with outstretched head, and his tail as stiff<br />
as a crow-bar, and not an effort did he relax till his eccentric driver<br />
pulled him up, or rather pulled him down on his hind quarters at the gate<br />
of cousin Goodwin's farm, then began to laugh till the joints of the old<br />
gig rattled again, and all the little Goodwins ran out to see “what was the<br />
matter.”<br />
“O lawk a mercy me! how you have frightened me, Mr. Trump,”<br />
exclaimed the widow, jumping out of the gig with unusual agility for a<br />
lady of seventy-two. “I declare I'm all of a shake. But I'm thankful we are<br />
not killed. Dear, deary me! I shall never forget this terrible ride, never.”<br />
“Bless thee dear old heart, mother! there was no danger. I could have<br />
pulled him down in a second. Don't thee believe I'd have risked thee<br />
neck, not I, thee son Sam would shoot me when I got back to Sydney, if I<br />
had only hurt his darling mother's little finger nail. That dose will do<br />
master Jacky more good than a bundle of sticks would do about his back.<br />
That's what I call moral suasion. Thee saw I didn't beat him a bit, I only<br />
spoke out like a man, and that's the right way to deal with asses of all<br />
sorts, for barn em, they haven't got more courage than goslings.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
Prior to getting into the gig to return home, after spending a merry day
at cousin Goodwin's, the widow made Goliah promise not to speak a<br />
word to Jacky, and to let her drive. But the donkey evidently knew that<br />
his late tormentor was behind him, for he trotted along like a butcher's<br />
cob. If he showed the slightest symptom of relaxing his speed, Goliah<br />
would merely cough — he did not speak — and Jacky's tail seemed<br />
electrified in a moment, and he began to gallop till the widow pulled him<br />
into a trot again.<br />
* * * * *<br />
That extraordinary occurrence served for many an evening's chat<br />
around the firesides of the wonder-stricken villagers. Some of the<br />
unsophisticated natives still dispute about the human identity of the<br />
roaring donkey driver, and others shudder to this day at the bare mention<br />
of Australia; for they imagine that Goliah Trump, as he flew through<br />
their streets in the widow's gig, is a fair specimen of the inhabitants of<br />
this famous continent, consequently they infer that we are an awfully fast<br />
and furious nation.<br />
Widow Blunt has not forgotten her exciting ride, and the recollection<br />
of it has made her laugh away many a melancholy moment. In her<br />
subsequent letters to her son Sam, she has often alluded to the comical<br />
affair, and has told over and over again how that funny Mr. Trump<br />
frightened her poor old donkey to death; for he died three years<br />
afterwards.<br />
But Jacky never forgot the lesson to the last day he dragged the gig;<br />
and if it were not a perfect cure for his laziness, it was a wonderful<br />
corrective. Ever after that, if he showed symptoms of his old habits<br />
returning, it was only necessary for the widow to shout through her eartrumpet<br />
“Ods dampers and doughboys!” when Jacky's tail would begin to<br />
work like a pump-handle — for the bare idea of those <strong>Australian</strong> edibles<br />
was as terrifying to him as bombshells. But if his mistress at the same<br />
time put on her clogs and made a clatter on the bottom of the gig, his ears<br />
would fall flat aback, and his tail would point to the moon, and off he<br />
would gallop as though he thought Goliah had come again; for of course<br />
his stupid head did not know that that worthy colonist had returned to the<br />
other side of the world.<br />
* * * * *<br />
I am not quite sure that Goliah's “moral suasion” would be effective on<br />
lazy asses of another sort, and I fear he would be impatiently disposed to<br />
substitute material “dampers and doughboys,” and to aim them at the<br />
heads of his subjects, as boys apply snowballs, which of course would<br />
not be commendable. I think, however, that he might make a trial of his
system on a small scale, without giving himself much trouble to find<br />
fitting subjects, and if he were only moderately successful, there would<br />
be plenty of scope for his peculiar gift, which by diligently exercising he<br />
might greatly ADVANCE AUSTRALIA.
Mr. M'Faddle's Pic-Nic Party.<br />
THAT Port Jackson is a delightful place for boating excursions, few<br />
persons deny who know anything about it. For my part, I cannot think of<br />
a more agreeable way of spending a holiday, or a more efficient way of<br />
rallying vapours from a wearied brain, than a trip in a carefully handled<br />
sailing-boat, with a fresh breeze, in and out of the lovely bays and coves,<br />
or round the many green islands, which grace our matchless harbour.<br />
Away from the excitement and jostle of city life, with nothing but the<br />
smoke in the distance, and the softened din of cart wheels, to remind one<br />
that mankind were not all asleep, the mind finds rest and quietude; while<br />
the physical senses are refreshed with the uncontaminated air of heaven.<br />
Often have I started from home with mind and body impaired by<br />
sedentary duties and cares which increased with indoor nursing, like<br />
fungus on the mouldy walls of a vault. Sometimes I have been favoured<br />
with the company of a congenial friend, who needed gentle out-of-door<br />
exercise as much as myself, and was equally disposed to relish an aquatic<br />
trip. After selecting a boat to our mind, from the well-kept fleet at the<br />
Subscription Boat Club, we have hoisted our sails to the breeze, and<br />
bounded over the billows, as rejoiced at our liberty as a couple of<br />
seagulls just released from a week's confinement in a ship's hen coop;<br />
and a few hours afterwards to have seen us seated on a rock, eating hot<br />
mutton chops (which we had cooked al fresco on a wooden gridiron) and<br />
roasted potatoes, would have astonished a gourmand, and made him long<br />
for such an appetite as we displayed. I have pleasing recollections of<br />
many such invigorating trips, and can with confidence recommend an<br />
occasional treat of that sort (with such extemporaneous meals) to persons<br />
suffering from dyspepsia, a disorder which is frequently laughed at — as<br />
an imaginary old bogy, by persons who, fortunately for themselves, do<br />
not know what they laugh at, or they would confess that a man with<br />
fractured ribs, might with equal reason be made the subject of ridicule.<br />
But while I so heartily recommend aquatic pleasures, I would at the same<br />
time remark, by way of caution, that there is necessity for using<br />
judgment in choosing favourable weather, and securing efficient boats'<br />
crews, or your excursion may be anything but enjoyable; as the following<br />
little story will exemplify.<br />
Mr. M'Faddle loved fresh air, and rightly appreciated its invigorating<br />
influence; but he was not able to enjoy so much of it as he wished, for he
was only a journeyman tailor, and as he had a large family he was<br />
obliged to sit pretty closely to the shopboard, in order to support them<br />
comfortably, without running into debt.<br />
Happily for the working classes of Sydney, holidays are numerous<br />
during the summer months; and that they are thoroughly enjoyed<br />
— especially in fine weather — is apparent from the rosy-faced folks of<br />
all ages, who may be seen thronging the steamboats and railway trains,<br />
or lining the rocky shores of the harbour in various parts, with their<br />
provisions spread out on grassy tables in holiday profusion. There fathers<br />
and mothers, and their adult friends, sit and enjoy a little pleasant social<br />
chat beneath the shady trees; and old grandfather, who is fond of fishing,<br />
throws out his long line from the top of a rock, then lights his pipe and<br />
sits down patiently to wait till he gets a bite; and dear old grandmother,<br />
in her best bonnet, has a merry romp on the soft sward, with little Beckey<br />
and Billy; while the elder boys and girls frolic about in the sunshine like<br />
young Wallabys. Thousands of happy maidens anticipate those<br />
periodical treats for weeks or months, and eagerly their half awakened<br />
eyes peep through their bedroom windows at the signs of the weather,<br />
when the first blushes of their holiday morning tinge the horizon. If the<br />
sun is about to rise in a clear blue sky, what gladsome faces are reflected<br />
by their dressing-glasses, but how sad they look if a drizzling mist hides<br />
the sunshine. I always share in the general sorrowful feeling, if heavy<br />
rain clouds appear on such days, to cast a pall over the recreations of so<br />
many hopeful ones, and spoil their holiday apparel. May no grudging<br />
soul ever try to curtail those seasons of healthful enjoyment to the<br />
humbler classes of Sydney! But I am digressing from my story, with my<br />
reflections on homely joys.<br />
Mr. M'Faddle and his family had looked forward to one of those<br />
holidays, in the early part of the present year, as a day for a special treat,<br />
i.e., a pic-nic to Rose Bay. Mr. M'Faddle loved boating, and fancied he<br />
could pull an oar with anybody; but he seldom enjoyed that pleasure. On<br />
the present occasion, Archy Twist, a fellow-workman, had been offered<br />
the loan of a boat by his cousin, who was mate of a coasting schooner; so<br />
an excursion was arranged for the following Wednesday. Mr. and Mrs.<br />
M'Faddle, with their two adult daughters, and two half-grown daughters<br />
in short frocks, two big boys in jackets, and one little boy in<br />
knickerbockers; Mr. and Mrs. Twist, and their two grownup girls, with<br />
their cousin Jane, made in all fourteen souls; and considering that nine of<br />
them were ladies, in holiday skirts, it will be inferred that the boat was<br />
not a mere dingy.<br />
On the day fixed, which had been eagerly anticipated, and plentifully<br />
provided for in the victualling way, the whole party assembled at a jetty<br />
in Darling Harbour, at nine o'clock exactly; and soon afterward they had<br />
safely embarked in the boat, taking with them two large baskets of
provisions, a keg of water, and sundries. After all the ladies were<br />
comfortably seated, and Mr. M'Faddle had scraped his way through a<br />
mass of muslin and steel bars to his seat at the helm, the boat was pushed<br />
off, and away they went right merrily, though slowly, with the two young<br />
M'Faddles at the paddles, and Archy Twist sitting, tailor-fashion, in the<br />
head sheets, smoking his pipe, and joking the boys on their pulling.<br />
The morning was warm and sunny, with a light puffy breeze from<br />
north-west; and not one of the excited pleasure seekers had the slightest<br />
misgivings about the weather, for the sky above them was blue, the<br />
rippling water around them was flashing with sun beams, and their hearts<br />
were all full of holiday thoughts and hopes. What if they had left empty<br />
cupboards at home, had they not two full baskets in the boat? Let care of<br />
to-morrow wait till to-morrow, they were going to enjoy themselves today.<br />
So thought every leaping heart, as away splashed the boat under<br />
Pyrmont Bridge, and along the eastern shore, Archy Twist keeping a<br />
good look out for ferry steamers and mooring buoys. As the tide was at<br />
strong flood, and the boat was bluff bowed and heavy, the young<br />
M'Faddles soon began to show symptoms of distress, and by the time<br />
they had pulled abreast of Blue's Point, they were purple with over<br />
exertion, and perspiring like stokers raking out clinkers.<br />
“That's richt, tak it easy, laddies,” said Mr. M'Faddle, as the boys<br />
stopped to examine the gathering blisters on their hands. “Take it easy,<br />
my sons; we are nae in haste; there's naebody expects us to dinner in any<br />
of yon big hooses doon the harbour; but I think we maun try to mak' the<br />
sail do some wark, for the wind is wi' us if there's nae muckle of it. Rig<br />
the mast, Archie, ma freend! rest yersels a wee bit, boys.”<br />
The mast was rigged, and the sail set, with some difficulty, for Twist<br />
knew less about boats than about broadcloth and buttons, and the boat<br />
glided along at the rate of two knots an hour. The sun, as it rose higher in<br />
the sky, began to glow fiercely upon their heads, and to tinge their<br />
cheeks and noses with crimson. However, they were out for a holiday,<br />
and were evidently resolved that minor inconveniences should not put<br />
them out of humour; so the ladies opened their parasols and said they<br />
were very happy; whereupon M'Faddle said he was very happy to see<br />
them happy; and, to give vent to the pressure of his high spirits, he<br />
volunteered a Scotch song with a lively chorus, and after that was over,<br />
Twist gave an Irish song, with plenty of racy humour in it, which<br />
provoked a laughing chorus. Then they all sang “Cheer boys cheer,” and<br />
“Row, brothers, row,” until they re-echoed with a row, which must have<br />
astounded the crabs, and made the periwinkles ready to jump out of their<br />
shells. After they had finished singing, they chatted, and joked, and<br />
laughed and giggled, until the boat's topsides groaned with the shaking of<br />
the seats. A happy holiday-group were they! A merrier lot never<br />
crammed themselves into a collier's jolly boat.
“Phoo! poo, poo! What on earth is that?” squealed Mrs. Twist,<br />
suddenly, and at the same time twisting her face into expressive crinkles,<br />
as the boat was passing the red buoy off Fort Macquarie. “Patience me!<br />
what a wicked smell. Did you ever!”<br />
“It is only the main sewer,” said Twist, who, having been accustomed<br />
to work in a London cheap tailoring establishment, was not unacquainted<br />
with peculiar odours. “It is a fine place for fishing, just here, only the<br />
stench is apt to knock one up, especially on warm days like this.”<br />
“Knock one down, I should think,” said Mrs. Twist, with her nose<br />
tightly compressed between her fore-finger and thumb, “It is enough to<br />
kill a currier: and I mean to say it is shocking bad manners of the sewer<br />
makers to empty out their nuisances directly in front of Government<br />
House, and right into the mouth of the main cove in Sydney harbour. For<br />
pity's sake, let us get away from this horrible fume, or I shall faint.”<br />
The wind being now scarcely strong enough to make the boat stem the<br />
tide, the sail was rolled up, and M'Faddle and Twist began to pull, while<br />
one of the boys took charge of the tiller. A discussion then began, as to<br />
where they should land to spend the day. One of the ladies said her<br />
favourite spot was Rose Bay, another said she liked Milk Beach, and a<br />
third preferred Vaucluse. Mrs. M'Faddle had tender recollections of the<br />
first three days she spent in the colony, at the Quarantine Station, and<br />
proposed to go to Spring Cove; but Mr. Twist said it was no joke to pull<br />
that heavy boat nine miles against tide, which opinion Mr. M'Faddle<br />
instantly endorsed, and wanted to land on Garden Island.<br />
“Ha, ha, ha! You are tired already, mate,” laughed Twist, “and I have<br />
been thinking for the last ten minutes that the boat would go just as fast if<br />
you were fast asleep. But you can't land on Garden Island, because the<br />
Government has taken possession of it, more's the pity, for it was a nice<br />
place for picnic parties, and so near home too.”<br />
After a good deal more discussion, it was decided that they should call<br />
at Clark Island, to rest for half an hour, then cross the harbour to<br />
Bradley's Head, there to boil the kettle, cook the potatoes, and make<br />
other preparations for their feast. The two tailors then threw their full<br />
power into the paddles, and at about half past eleven o'clock, the boat<br />
bumped on the rocks of Clark Island, which stopped her instantly. The<br />
whole party then landed, and leaving Johnny M'Faddle to look after the<br />
boat, the others ascended to one of the caves at the northern end, where<br />
they seated themselves, and gave voice to their appreciation of the<br />
refreshing shadow of the rock above them, and the charming natural<br />
grotto which held them all comfortably.<br />
Had any of them possessed even ordinary powers of observation, they<br />
might, an hour before, have seen a heavy bank of storm clouds gathering<br />
above the south western horizon; and had one of the older colonists<br />
reflected a minute, he would have remembered that hot puffs of wind
from north west are usually the precursors of hard squalls from the<br />
opposite point of the compass. But neither of them observed, or thought<br />
of anything that was disagreeable until a strong blast of wind whirled<br />
into the cave, and caused a scramble to secure the bonnets and mantles<br />
from being blown into the water.<br />
“Ma goodness! it's gaen to bloo, I'm thinking,” said Mr. M'Faddle,<br />
while the wind roared like thunder among the rocks and caverns, and<br />
made the previously glassy surface of the harbour seethe and foam like a<br />
boiling fish kettle. “Wha on earth wad he thocht it wad a ben sae rough,<br />
all in a minute like? Hey! deeckins! luke at the boatie, it's ganging off<br />
without us; as true as my name's Mac,” he added, pointing to the boat,<br />
which was fast drifting away from the island, with the sail flapping, and<br />
shaking the mast furiously. “Archie, what's to be done, mon? Why dinna<br />
ye speak? Why do ye stand there gaping like a swine?”<br />
“Can't you swim after it?” asked Twist, with a bewildered look.<br />
“Toot mon! are ye daft althegether? The sharks wad bite the legs aff<br />
me, before I had kicked out thrice: besides I could na mair catch the<br />
boatie, by swimming, than I could catch a Jew fish. What in the warrald<br />
shall I do now?”<br />
As Mr. M'Faddle asked that unanswerable question, he raced down to<br />
the rocks below, and the first thing he did there was to well baste his boy<br />
Johnny with the leg of an old Chinese chair — which was unluckily<br />
lying close to hand — and at the same time scolded him soundly, in<br />
broad Scotch, for being “such a gowk as to let the boat gang adreeft.”<br />
Johnny acknowledged the basting with a series of howls, louder than<br />
the wind, then hobbled away as fast as he could to a stump, where he was<br />
sitting rubbing his bruises, when the rest of the party came down to the<br />
shore to learn the facts of the case, which were simply this, the boat<br />
having been imperfectly fastened, had broken adrift with the first puff.<br />
“I say, Sally, what part of the harbour does Johnny most resemble just<br />
now?” asked Nick M'Faddle of his sister, as he pointed to his discomfited<br />
brother in the distance. “Do you give it up, Sally? Well, I'll tell you; he is<br />
like Sirius cove (serious cove). Ha, ha, ha! that's good, isn't it? I made<br />
that out of my own head.”<br />
“That's good, too, see what you can make out of that,” exclaimed his<br />
mother, crossly administering a big box on Nick's ear, which sounded<br />
like a cracker. “I heard your impudence, you young monkey. You<br />
deserve the leg of the chair as much as your brother every bit. Now what<br />
cove do you look like?”<br />
It would lengthen my story into a volume, were I to detail all the<br />
misadventures of the unlucky islanders. How Mr. M'Faddle scolded his<br />
wife for boxing Nick, and Mrs. M'Faddle abused her husband for basting<br />
Johnny. How Mrs. Twist's satin bonnet blew into the water, and Mr.<br />
Twist tumbled in head foremost, in his vain attempt to recover it, and at
the same time frightened his wife into a fit. How Peggy M'Faddle slipped<br />
down on a slimy rock, and went limping the rest of the day, although she<br />
declared that she had not even scratched herself. How Miss Twist's<br />
parasol was blown inside out and ruined; and her cousin Jane cut one of<br />
her best boots, and one of her big toes with an oyster shell. How the<br />
infant M'Faddle swallowed a periwinkle, and grew black in the face,<br />
until his mother succeeded in curing him by thumping him on the back.<br />
How Nick and Johnny while walking round the island, in search of stray<br />
edibles, found a cocoa-nut, and began at once to fight for the ownership;<br />
but after boxing each other until they were winded, they discovered that<br />
the nut was rotten, which incident, if they remember it, may teach them a<br />
good moral lesson for after life; it would also be useful — if calmly<br />
studied — to older persons than they, who are fighting for rotten nuts, or<br />
snarling over matters equally worthless.<br />
I might also describe the vain struggles of the party to “cloy the hungry<br />
edge of appetite,” with native oysters, of the smallest size and the most<br />
obstinate tenacity for their rocky beds. But I pass over all these details,<br />
and briefly record that hungry, jaded, cold, and cross, they all<br />
reassembled in the cave about three o'clock, there to confer upon the best<br />
thing to be done to avert impending starvation. Twist moved the first<br />
impromptu resolution (as he sat shivering in his wet garments beside his<br />
bonnetless wife), which was, “that Mr. M'Faddle should swim over to<br />
Darling Point, with his clothes on his head; then walk to Rushcutter's<br />
Bay, and borrow a boat from somebody.” The motion was not seconded,<br />
but somebody moved that Twist was a brute for wanting to drown his<br />
neighbour. Numerous other suggestions and objections were made, and<br />
ill temper was beginning to show itself in the senior ladies, when,<br />
perhaps luckily for their caps and curls, one of the boys suddenly called<br />
out, “Oh crikey! here comes a boat! Hoorah!”<br />
Every neck was stretched, and every eye directed towards the welcome<br />
boat, which was off Shark Island, plunging her way up the harbour under<br />
double-reefed canvas. I may here remark that, in consequence of the<br />
tempestuous state of the weather, there were very few boats afloat that<br />
afternoon.<br />
“Coom awa, coom awa, doon on the rocks,” said Mr. M'Faddle,<br />
starting up in exciting haste. “Stand althegether, an when I tell ye to<br />
skreel, skreel like bogles every ane of ye.”<br />
Down the whole party hastened to the water's edge, and as the boat<br />
came abreast of the island, Mr. M'Faddle gave the word of command to<br />
skreel.<br />
Never was heard such a chorus on Clark Island since the last<br />
corroboree of “Old Gooseberry,” and her maids of honour: the caves<br />
behind them echoed back the sounds, like the cries of tormented, water<br />
sprites. In an instant they were answered by loud shouts of the six sailors
in the boat (which was a man-of-war's launch), but they did not change<br />
their course.<br />
“They hear us plain enoo, but they are na cooming to our help,” said<br />
Mr. M'Faddle; “skreel again, girls, an wave yer linen.”<br />
Another screeching chorus shook the island, accompanied by a<br />
fluttering of white handkerchiefs in the wind, when all the sailors stood<br />
up in the boat, whirled their hats in the air, and shouted hurrah! hurrah!<br />
hurrah! until their cheers died away in the distance. The jolly tars<br />
evidently mistook the cries of distress, for an enthusiastic salute to their<br />
pennant.<br />
The discomfiture of the hungry excursionists for the next three hours<br />
was trying in the extreme. A little before sundown they attracted the<br />
notice of a boat bound to Sydney with a cargo of fish. The humane<br />
fishermen quickly embarked the shivering party, who huddled together<br />
among the schnappers and flathead, which furnished very cool seats,<br />
although rather slippery. Soon afterwards they all landed at Soldiers'<br />
Point, looking as weather-beaten as shipwrecked sailors. The next day<br />
their boat was found on the rocks in Mossman's Bay, badly damaged, and<br />
with sails blown to pieces; their provisions, also, were damaged by the<br />
combined influence of saltwater and sunbeams.<br />
It will probably be long before those sufferers forget that day's treat, or<br />
before Twist's cousin will again lend his ship's boat. Mr. M'Faddle,<br />
however, gained wisdom by the mishap, for he declares he will in future<br />
“keep his weather eye open,” but especially when he goes into a boat. I<br />
heartily commend his resolution to all novices who venture on to the<br />
tempting, though somewhat treacherous waters of Port Jackson; and I<br />
also advise them, in sultry, north-west winds to “look out for squalls.”
Change of Scene, and Fresh Air.<br />
MR. MOANS was as difficult to move as a dead elephant, when he had<br />
a job in hand, as he called it. He was a busy old man, in his way, though<br />
some of his neighbours wondered what trade he followed, for he made<br />
no more noise with his tools than an old matron darning stockings. Long<br />
after many folks in the city were asleep, a light was usually to be seen in<br />
Mr. Moan's laboratory; and if any curious person had mounted to the<br />
roof and peeped through his dormer window, they would have seen him<br />
setting up specimens of various sorts, and looking as weary and worn as<br />
most men do who sit up late at sedentary work.<br />
His friends often advised him to try a change of scene and fresh air, to<br />
recruit his diminishing strength, though they seldom persuaded him that<br />
he needed a change. “Phoo!” he would exclaim, with a smile, “where in<br />
the world can I find fresher air than is wafted through my window, from<br />
the north-east? and where can I behold more enlivening scenes than the<br />
verdant domain and the sparkling harbour afford, without the trouble of<br />
moving from my bamboo chair? Only just peep out of my window, to<br />
your right hand, and if you have a poet's or a painter's eye, you must be<br />
charmed with the picturesque view of Darling Point, and the villacrowned<br />
hills beyond; with Craig-end windmill in the foreground, and<br />
St. Mark's church in the distance, with the light-house far away on the<br />
cliffs! Change of scene indeed! Fiddle-dee-dee! ‘You'll find no change in<br />
me,’ as the old song says.”<br />
One day — not long ago — Captain Gimble called to see Mr. Moans;<br />
and being an intimate friend, he was shown at once into the laboratory.<br />
The captain, (who was a fine robust specimen of the bracing virtues of<br />
fresh air, and salt water,) had been away on foreign voyages for several<br />
years, so the pleasure of seeing him was proportionately great, and Mr.<br />
Moan's yellow face shone with gladness. After a long and pleasant chat,<br />
the captain pressingly invited his debilitated friend to spend a few days<br />
on board his ship, before he sailed for Hong-Kong.<br />
“My good friend!” whined Mr. Moans, passing his hand across his<br />
brow, “I cannot spare time to go anywhere, for several months to come.<br />
Besides, I have not so much faith in changes as some folks, who would<br />
try to persuade me that moving about in strange places will put flesh on a<br />
wooden leg. But, if I could take my work with me, I should very much<br />
like to spend a few days on board the ‘Wild Duck,’ before you sail, for
the pleasure of your society, and to hear more of your interesting<br />
accounts of foreign travels.”<br />
“Never mind your work when you are going to play,” said the hearty<br />
skipper. “Heave all your curiosities into the locker, and forget them for a<br />
time; you may find some funny specimens to study on board my ship.<br />
Come, rouse up, my friend! Let me take you in tow, and I'll engage you<br />
shall return to Sydney in a few days, with your nerves braced up as tawt<br />
as weather backstays. Now then, get your monkey-jacket, and come<br />
away with me at once.”<br />
A few days afterwards, Mr. Moans might have been seen walking the<br />
deck of a fine rakish-looking bark, which was lying at anchor, in a busy<br />
port not far from Sydney; and as he gazed up at the tapering masts, and<br />
down again at the graceful hull of the vessel, his old roving desires<br />
awoke, and he wished he could take a voyage in her; but his work at<br />
home rose before his mental vision, and checked his longings. Just then<br />
Captain Gimble came alongside in his boat, and after nimbly stepping on<br />
board, he said, “What do you say to a trip to Melbourne, Mr. Moans?”<br />
“Melbourne, Captain! — hem — I thought you were bound for Hong-<br />
Kong!”<br />
“Well, you see, sir, we are far too deep for a long voyage. While I have<br />
been away in Sydney, some of those folks on shore there have loaded my<br />
ship down to the scupper-holes; and I cannot take any coal out of her,<br />
without trimming the whole cargo fore-and-aft, which would be<br />
expensive, as I am short-handed, so I intend to go to Melbourne with this<br />
lot; then to return here and load for China.”<br />
“But I imagine, captain, if the ship is too deep to go to Hong-Kong, she<br />
is not light enough to go to Melbourne, or elsewhere,” said Mr. Moans,<br />
with a look of concern for the safety of his friend, and his smart ship.<br />
“That's true enough,” replied the captain; then, after a minute's<br />
reflection, he added — “It is only a short run to Melbourne, and it's the<br />
fine-weather season, so ‘I'll chance it,’ as the colonial boys say, and as<br />
lots of collier-skippers are obliged to do all the year round, poor fellows!<br />
Let me persuade you to go with me. The trip will rouse up your digestive<br />
organs, and make your brains as bright as my anchor buttons.”<br />
I need not trouble the reader with all Mr. Moan's arguments, or his kind<br />
friend's characteristic replies. He longed for the trip, but all his<br />
specimens seemed to speak up together and urge that if he wished to<br />
complete them in time, he must work as long hours as a druggist, or<br />
journeyman tailor. On the other hand the charms of a cruise in such a<br />
smart clipper, with such agreeable captain and officers, presented<br />
themselves with irresistible force. He glanced at the cosy little cabin on<br />
deck, he thought of the benefit his brain might derive from the rest and<br />
relaxation, he thought too of the probability of meeting with some rare<br />
specimens in his travels, and finally he resolved to go; at which decision
Captain Gimble smiled complacently, then hastened on shore to clear his<br />
ship at the Custom House, and to get a few extra stores for his passenger.<br />
Early next morning, a steam tug was alongside, and before Mrs.<br />
Moans, in Sydney, was aware of her erratic husband's movements, he<br />
was at sea, rolling along with a fair wind towards Melbourne, and<br />
looking as pleased as an Irish piper.<br />
“Well, this is really delightful!” muttered Mr. Moans, as he paced up<br />
and down the clean flush deck; now and then stopping to give the sailors<br />
a pull up with a sail — as the ship was short-handed — and fancying<br />
what an agreeable promenade he had, and how pleasantly he could walk<br />
up and down, and think about nothing; and thus exercise his legs, rest his<br />
head, and at the same time refresh his lungs with pure saline air. The<br />
“Wild Duck” dashed along in gallant style, passing every other vessel in<br />
company with her, and as the wind increased Mr. Moan's rapture<br />
increased, till he began to wish he was a sailor. Suddenly, however, his<br />
ardour was damped by an intrusive wave, which dashed in at the waist on<br />
one side, and out at the other side, filling his boots in its transit, and<br />
convincing him directly that he could not walk the deck dryshod; indeed,<br />
he soon discovered that no one on board expected to do so, as was<br />
evidenced by “all hands” wearing diggers' long-boots.<br />
“This is rather a moist ship,” said Mr. Moans, walking up to Captain<br />
Gimble. “I wish I had brought my goloshes, — but, lack-a-day! now I<br />
come to remember, I have brought nothing with me but my red nightcap,<br />
and a toothbrush. Of course I did not anticipate taking this voyage, or I<br />
should have attended to my outfit. What shall I do, captain?”<br />
“Never mind,” said the good-natured skipper, smiling at his friend's<br />
concern about his scanty wardrobe. “I will lend you a pair of sea-boots,<br />
and anything else you want; but you had better get on top of deck-house<br />
if you want a walk, for you will find the main-decks all awash, as the sea<br />
gets up.”<br />
“I have found that already,” said Mr. Moans, with a a glance at his wet<br />
legs. “As for a walk on that house, as you call it, — which is not much<br />
bigger than a spring-cart — I think a dance on top of a sentry-box would<br />
be almost as rational, and much safer exercise. I am afraid I shall grow<br />
giddy and tumble overboard, if I get up there; so I will have a quiet<br />
ramble round the cabin table instead. But bless me, captain! I had no idea<br />
that your smart-looking ship was so wet. Your main-deck is a regular<br />
duck-pond.”<br />
“Did you ever see a vessel, deeply laden with coal, that was very dry<br />
on deck?” asked the captain, with a comical look.<br />
“No, I cannot say that I ever did, for the fact is I have never sailed in an<br />
overladen collier before, though I have been in a good many craft since I<br />
first smelt bilge water.”<br />
“Then depend on it you have something to learn, Mr. Moans; and I
hope you will make a valuable use of your experience on this voyage.<br />
Hold on, Sir, here is a sea coming over the quarter.”<br />
“Hold on, indeed!” ejaculated Mr. Moans, while he ran away as fast as<br />
if the water were boiling, and just escaped into the little deck cabin as the<br />
wave curled over the taffrail. “I think I had need to hold on and never let<br />
go, if I don't want to be washed overboard amongst the sharks. Well,<br />
well, this is something entirely new to me,” he added, throwing himself<br />
on a couch. “This change is as unsatisfactory as getting twenty bad<br />
shillings for a new sovereign; or a shocking bad hat for a good one at any<br />
evening party. I have change of air now, and plenty of it certainly, but it<br />
is too strongly seasoned with salt water to be agreeably fresh. If the<br />
‘Wild Duck’ ship seas at this rate in fine weather, I am afraid she will<br />
duck us under altogether, if we fall in with foul weather.”<br />
The moon rose punctually at its appointed time that night, but Mr.<br />
Moans could only gaze at it through the cabin window; for the flying<br />
spray precluded his going on deck with a dry skin, so he soon turned into<br />
bed, and there he lay thinking of his specimens at home, and thinking<br />
too, what a rare specimen of a disappointed man he was; for instead of<br />
the delightful moonlight walks on deck with his friend Captain Gimble,<br />
which he had anticipated, the only chance he had of having a dry chat<br />
with his friend, was by mounting to the top of the house like a prowling<br />
tom cat. About midnight he was aroused from an uneasy doze by the<br />
well-known whistle of a “southerly burster” among the cordage; and then<br />
began the most extraordinary night in his sea experience, which he is<br />
anxious to have recorded, for the special study of certain shipowners who<br />
may never have had the advantage of a night's lodging in one of their<br />
overladen colliers in a southerly gale; and in the hope of arousing their<br />
sympathies for the perils to which their seamen are exposed.<br />
In a short time the sea began to boil and bubble, or to tumble about in a<br />
very confused manner, owing to the sudden shift of wind. Wave after<br />
wave leaped on the deck of the “Wild Duck;” and as she wallowed from<br />
side to side, they had no chance to escape overboard again, except by the<br />
small scupper holes; so they met amidships, and knocking their heads<br />
together, like fighting goats, sent fountains of spray flying upwards, to<br />
descend in cooling cataracts on the heads of the shivering crew; while<br />
heavier billows thundered against the ship's side, like breakers on the<br />
rocks at Bondi. Mr. Moans had often heard poets warble about “dancing<br />
waves;” but he never before completely realised the pretty idea; and he<br />
thought he would like to see the poet who could make a pleasant song<br />
about those waves, which were dancing on the deck of the “Wild Duck.”<br />
He had never seen or heard such a strange corroborree before. They<br />
hissed and seethed like a thousand fryingpans full of eggs and bacon, and<br />
seemed madly resolved to tear the tarpaulin off the main hatches, and<br />
drown the coals. None but a stone deaf person could sleep amidst such a
hurley-burley; at least so thought Mr. Moans, so he got out of bed, and<br />
watched the commotion of the elements through the cabin window, and<br />
wished he had a poet's fancy that could be tickled with the scene. But<br />
even the grim satisfaction of gazing on that strange “meeting of the<br />
waters” was denied him, for a lively little wavelet — as though in playful<br />
mockery of his plaintive singing, “What are the wild waves saying”<br />
— flew directly at his face, dashed through the cabin window, and<br />
deluged the sofa and the cabin floor, while an extra lurch at the same<br />
moment caused a select library of books to descend about his ears, from<br />
a shelf in the corner; two weighty volumes of “Good Words” giving him<br />
some bad blows on the head. Thankful that the wave had not invaded his<br />
berth, Mr. Moans hastily jumped into bed again, and there he lay and<br />
tried to calmly contemplate the sublimity of the storm without, to<br />
calculate his chances of ever seeing his quiet little dormitory again, and<br />
to reason with his doubts about his intellectual faculties ever finding their<br />
way back to their proper bumps after being shaken and jostled up with<br />
the subordinate organs in his cranium like gingerbread nuts in a tin<br />
canister.<br />
Presently he heard a clanking noise like a fire-engine, and he soon<br />
ascertained that all hands were at pumps, so he reasonably concluded that<br />
the ship had sprung a leak, and he began to estimate how long it would<br />
be before she sunk, as she had scarcely more than six inches of a side.<br />
But before he had satisfactorily worked that problem out, a thumping sea<br />
struck the deck-house, close to his ear, making the ship shudder from<br />
stem to stern. His mind was thereby diverted into the fidgetty<br />
anticipation of a sudden launch over the lee rail in his berth. He had often<br />
read of deck-houses being knocked off the deck, and had seen a cook's<br />
galley, full of coppers and saucepans, washed overboard; and while<br />
gloomy recollections of those casualties helped him to draw a mental<br />
picture of his deck-house being swept away by the next heavy sea that<br />
struck it, the contemplation of the event was even less composing than a<br />
view of his next door neighbour's blazing house would be while looking<br />
out of his own attic window. The most favourable speculations on such a<br />
mishap yielded him no comfort, for even should the deck-house be<br />
toppled upside down in its transit over the rail — to say nothing of the<br />
bruises he would probably receive by being toppled upside down too<br />
— the house would be sure to leak at the doors and windows, and he<br />
could scarcely expect to navigate it to Sydney without sails, oars, rudder,<br />
or other nautical convenience. But if it should happen to go overboard<br />
with its roof uppermost, of course he would be as badly off as a man in a<br />
diving bell, without an air-pump. As sea after sea continued to strike the<br />
deck-house, he felt his tenure to be peculiarly uncertain, and was wishing<br />
that he could spread his blankets below upon the coals, and at the same<br />
time haul those gentlemen with him who had put too many coals on
oard, when Captain Gimble, glistening with spray, entered the cabin,<br />
and smilingly asked him “How he was getting on?”<br />
“I am not happy, Captain,” replied Mr. Moans, sitting up in his bed.<br />
“The fact is, I am frightened, and fear terribly interferes with a person's<br />
enjoyment, either on sea or on shore. I have seldom, if ever before,<br />
experienced such a feeling on shipboard, but really this ‘dreadful noise of<br />
waters in my ears’ makes my flesh creep. The clanking of those pumps<br />
sounds like a horrible mill, grinding up the bones of drowned sailors to<br />
make putty for worm-eaten planks; and the creaking jaws of the maingaff<br />
seems to me like Satan laughing approvingly at his friends, who, for<br />
the sake of a few pounds of freight-money, imperil the lives of all on<br />
board. Have you stopped the leak?”<br />
“Not yet: the spear of one of the pumps is disabled; but we will soon<br />
get it to work again. The carpenter was laid up sea sick; so I went down<br />
to his berth just now, and gently hinted to him that the ship was sinking,<br />
and that he had better turn out and mend the pump spear. Ha, ha! my<br />
blocks! he roused out as smartly as if there was a buck rat in his bunk! I<br />
never before saw such a prompt cure for sea sickness.”<br />
“Pray what is your real opinion of our present position, Captain?”<br />
asked Mr. Moans. “Don't scruple to tell me the worst, for after all I am<br />
not afraid of death, let it come in whatever shape it may. Thank God I<br />
know that before the ship got to the bottom of the sea, if she sank just<br />
now, my soul would be far beyond the influence of storms and tossing<br />
waves. But it has never been my disposition to lie down and die. ‘Never<br />
let the ship sink for want of pumping’ is an old maxim of mine: so I will<br />
turn out and take a turn at the pumps, if you like, Captain.”<br />
“There is no necessity for your doing that,” said the Captain; “our<br />
present position is not very enviable certainly; still we might be much<br />
worse off, under bad owners. Our ship is only leaking in her top sides,<br />
through baking so long in the sun, and her seams will probably take up in<br />
a few hours. Then our hull is sound and strong, our rigging and sails are<br />
good, and we have plenty of sea room. Our shipping so much water, and<br />
making such bad weather of it, is of course owing to our being<br />
overloaded; but we cannot help that now, it would not be safe to take off<br />
the hatches, to lighten her. Fortunately she is not straining at all, and<br />
though it is certainly disagreeable for you, there is not much danger if we<br />
don't lose our masts. That is my candid opinion, as you have asked me<br />
for it. But if any of those old leaky coasting colliers have got caught in<br />
this breeze,” added the Captain with a shrug of horror, “there will be<br />
more sailors' orphans, and sorrowing widows and mothers, to remember<br />
this night's fatal work; for a rotten ship could not weather it out.”<br />
“Tell me, Captain, why are owners permitted to send rotten vessels to<br />
sea?” asked Mr. Moans, with earnestness.<br />
“Ah, why indeed!” said the Captain, “but there is no law to prevent
them, or if there is it is considered obsolete. An unconscionable owner<br />
could send any old clumbung to sea; in fact he might rig out a<br />
weatherboard barn, and no one would stop him. There was an old hooker<br />
lying abreast of us this morning; her crew had been pumping her nearly<br />
all night; all her sails were as patched as Paddy's breeches; and there was<br />
scarcely a fathom of her running gear strong enough to hang a monkey;<br />
yet she put out to sea as deep as a sand-barge.”<br />
“But how is it that owners find crews for their old clumbungs, as you<br />
call them, Captain? Sailors love their lives, I suppose, as all other mortals<br />
do.”<br />
“Why, sir, sailors don't always know the character of ships before they<br />
get to sea, and then it is pump or sink, of course. But there are always<br />
men hard up, and glad to earn a crust; and hunger sometimes blinds men<br />
to hazards. Hope is a strong trait in a sailor's character, and he has much<br />
need of it, too. I was talking with the skipper of a little schooner the other<br />
day; he was waiting for a change of wind, with his vessel loaded almost<br />
to sinking point. I asked him why he loaded so deep? when he told me<br />
that his owner insisted on it that his vessel would carry one hundred tons,<br />
and if he did not take that quantity on board — though she could only<br />
safely carry ninety tons — he would be walked ashore as soon as he got<br />
to Sydney, and another master would be put in his place, while he went<br />
whistling for another ship; and very likely he would be tauntingly told he<br />
was no sailor, simply because he valued his own life and the lives of his<br />
crew.”<br />
“But is there no remedy for those monstrous evils?” asked Mr. Moans,<br />
looking very fierce, and dashing his red nightcap on deck as though he<br />
were hurling an imaginary anchor and cable on the toes of the niggardly<br />
owner just alluded to.<br />
“Of course there is if it were applied,” said the captain, “and that is a<br />
nice little job for a philanthropic legislator to take in hand; but I can't<br />
stop below any longer, I must go on deck and shorten sail again. Take<br />
care of yourself.”<br />
“Humph! Take care of yourself indeed! that's what Paddy said to his<br />
wife, just before he dropped a sack of potatoes on her head,” mumbled<br />
Mr. Moans, then he lay down again, and amused himself, considering<br />
what he would do to the owners of “old clumbungs” if he were “monarch<br />
of all he surveyed.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
After a stormy passage of twelve days, he arrived safely in Melbourne;<br />
and though he had had such an extraordinary tossing about, he was glad<br />
of it when the danger was past, for it had wonderfully added to his<br />
nautical experience, and opened his eyes to the risks which many of our
coasting seamen are mercilessly exposed to.<br />
Mr. Moans derived much benefit from the trip; and can feelingly<br />
recommend change of scene and fresh air for all overworked students;<br />
though he certainly would not advise delicate men to take a voyage in an<br />
overladen collier.
Mr. Moans' Visit to Melbourne.<br />
IN the preceding chapter I have explained how Mr. Moans was induced<br />
to go to Melbourne for “change of scene and fresh air.” I am not about to<br />
chronicle all he did, said, and saw there, or I should far exceed ordinary<br />
limits, and it would probably be uninteresting to the general reader; but I<br />
purpose taking a cursory glance at a few of his movements, and noting<br />
some of his observations in that metropolis, and its populous suburbs.<br />
“Pray what is your opinion of Melbourne compared with Sydney, Mr.<br />
Moans?” asked an intelligent friend, who very kindly acted as cicerone<br />
through that surprisingly busy city.<br />
Mr. Moans was an old Sydney man. All his dearest social interests<br />
were centred therein. He venerated even its crooked streets and narrow<br />
pathways — for they were crowded with happy recollections of youthful<br />
days; in short, his home was there, and he loved it; and he was prepared<br />
at all times to maintain the credit of the good old city. Moreover he had,<br />
on several occasions, observed a disposition in some “fast” Victorians<br />
when in Sydney, to underrate that mother-city, in their enthusiastic desire<br />
to extol the magnificence of their own colossal capital; so, (though he<br />
well knew he need not expect such an exhibition of bad taste in his friend<br />
beside him) he cautiously replied to the question — “Melbourne is<br />
undoubtedly a very fine city, sir.”<br />
“You will of course admit that it is much larger than Sydney?”<br />
“It would be absurd to deny that, sir,” said Mr. Moans. “Your harbour<br />
too, is very much larger than ours, and has larger waves in it when the<br />
wind blows fresh; as I observed during the two days that I was stormstaid<br />
on board the ‘Wild Duck,’ at the anchorage off Sandridge. Those<br />
are facts which I must admit; still, for beauty of scenery, apart from other<br />
considerations, your harbour would suffer as much in comparison with<br />
Port Jackson, as a large potato-field would beside a choicely-stocked<br />
parterre; and the Yarra Yarra is a mere dyke compared with our romantic<br />
Paramatta River.”<br />
“Stay, sir,” said Mr. Titler (the name of his cicerone). “Have you seen<br />
the Yarra above Princes Bridge?”<br />
“Not yet, sir; that is to say, I have not been far up it; but I allude to the<br />
lower part of the river, where your bone-boilers, tar-refiners, and other<br />
fume-raisers combine to suffocate every little indigenous flower that<br />
struggles to open its petals to the sunshine; and where the water is
usually as thick as tanner's refuse, or Thames mixture.”<br />
“You must see the Upper Yarra before you leave, sir,” said Mr. Titler,<br />
smiling. “Though I fear it will make poor Paramatta River appear to your<br />
fancy, in future, as unromantic as its mud oyster banks at low tide. That<br />
is our new General Post Office, or rather a part of it,” he added, stopping<br />
short and gazing exultingly before a magnificent building in course of<br />
erection, large enough — in the opinion of one patriotic old Victorian<br />
lady — to hold all the letters in the world. “What do you think of our<br />
new Post Office, sir?”<br />
“It is much finer than our old one; but how it will compare with our<br />
new one I cannot positively say just now,” replied Mr. Moans, who could<br />
not fail to be struck with the extent and the ornateness of the structure.<br />
“Have you a building in Sydney to equal it?” asked Mr. Titler, with more<br />
Victorian pride than he had before exhibited.<br />
“Yes, I think our University excels it. But, as I am not an architect, my<br />
judgment may be at fault. When you come to Sydney, I will show you<br />
some private buildings which will surprise you.”<br />
“Humph! — have you been to our Public Library, Mr. Moans?” said<br />
Mr. Titler, looking like a rifleman who had just hit the bull's-eye.<br />
“I have, sir, and was very much pleased with my visit. In all my travels<br />
I have not seen a Public Library equal to it, out of London; and I wish we<br />
had one only half as good in Sydney. It is an honour to your colony, as<br />
well as an inestimable boon to the population, and your statesmen have<br />
shown wise foresight in thus caring for the moral and intellectual<br />
improvement of the people. Vast as must have been the cost of that noble<br />
institution, it is money well laid out, and will probably save a hundred<br />
times that amount to future rulers in the gaol and police estimates; while<br />
in a higher point of view, the blessings it may confer on this young<br />
nation are incalculable.”<br />
“You have not such fine wide streets in Sydney as these, Mr. Moans,”<br />
said Mr. Titler, who was evidently pleased at the last observations of his<br />
friend.<br />
“We have not, sir; nor yet such wide gutters to cross in wet weather,<br />
and to crack our carriage springs at the street junctions. I suppose it to be<br />
on account of the low level of your city that you have these gaping drains<br />
in every street. But I cannot say that the sewerage of our City of Sydney<br />
is as perfect as it might be made, considering our natural facilities for<br />
drainage.”<br />
“If we had such facilities in Melbourne,” said Mr. Titler, “we should<br />
have had underground sewers in every street long ago. But we have<br />
plenty of Yan Yean water to flush our gutters in dry weather, so we are<br />
not much inconvenienced by foul odours.”<br />
“I wish I could say the same of our Sydney gutters,” said Mr. Moans.<br />
“In many parts the citizens are very much annoyed by the effluvium from
stagnant drains, in warm weather especially; and I state on the authority<br />
of a clever medical neighbour, that the public health is periodically<br />
affected thereby. Pray, what is that new building?” added Mr. Moans, as<br />
they suddenly sighted a stylish-looking edifice, near the foot of Prince's<br />
Bridge.<br />
“That is our new Fish Market,” said Mr. Titler. “It belongs to the City<br />
Corporation.”<br />
“Fish Market!” exclaimed Mr. Moans, with as much surprise as though<br />
the whole tribe of peripatetic fish vendors of Sydney had suddenly<br />
shouted ‘all alive O’ in his right ear. “That a fish market! why it is<br />
handsome enough for a town hall. I must take a good look at it<br />
tomorrow. We sadly want such an establishment in Sydney; for though<br />
our coasts and harbours abound with fish, the supply to the citizens is<br />
scanty and precarious; and, in general, it is too high in price for poor<br />
persons to luxuriate in. Such a market in Sydney would do away with the<br />
monopoly which has long been enjoyed by a score or two of barrowmen,<br />
and certain middlemen or agents, who, I am told, make large profits<br />
by giving the public small quantities of fish, while the poor fishermen,<br />
who have all the perils and certainly the largest share of the labour, have<br />
but a minimum portion of the gains. Fish market! Hail Victoria! I feel<br />
quite enthusiastic, and inclined to shout out the matutinal song of our<br />
Sydney piscators, ‘Here's your fine fresh fish!’ A slice of Murray River<br />
cod, fresh from the slate tables of your model Billingsgate, would be a<br />
treat.”<br />
“I think you mentioned the Town Hall, just now, sir,” said Mr. Titler;<br />
“I will show it you, presently; you had better take a look at the Town<br />
Hall at Prahran, too, before you leave.”<br />
“And you had better come and take a look at our new Town Hall at<br />
Sydney, when it is finished,” drily remarked Mr. Moans.<br />
“That is a fine church, sir,” said Mr. Titler, pointing to a tall handsome<br />
spire in the distance; “I doubt if you have an ecclesiastical edifice in<br />
Sydney to equal that.”<br />
“Then it is plain to me that you have not seen our Anglican Cathedral<br />
in George Street,” said Mr. Moans, in a pleasant mood.<br />
“Oh! yes, beg pardon — that unfinished building near the old burial<br />
ground. I forgot that — by-the-bye, have you seen the Melbourne<br />
General Cemetery?”<br />
“I have, sir, and a beautiful place it is too. There is much taste<br />
displayed in laying out the grounds, and they are kept in admirable<br />
condition. Among many good rules for the management of the cemetery,<br />
I remarked one in particular, which is worthy of being adopted<br />
elsewhere. It is that no inscription shall be made on a tomb or headstone,<br />
that has not been submitted for the approval of two of the trustees. That<br />
is an admirable way of preventing the exhibition of questionable taste or
eccentricities which often interfere with our serious reflections when<br />
rambling through grave-yards. You are perhaps not aware, Mr. Titler,<br />
that we have a general cemetery now, situate off the line of railway,<br />
between Sydney and Paramatta.”<br />
“I am glad to hear it, sir,” said Mr. Titler, “for crowding the dead<br />
among the living is an evil which cannot be too carefully guarded<br />
against. You have not yet seen our public parks and gardens, I suppose,<br />
Mr. Moans? I should like to hear what you will say to them.”<br />
“I have visited some of them, sir; and while I honestly tell you I have<br />
not seen anything to equal our picturesque domain in Sydney, I must say<br />
your government is very liberal in granting land for public purposes. You<br />
Melbourne folks are admirably provided with recreation grounds; and<br />
you apparently spare no labour in improving them. I very much approve<br />
of your taste in rearing trees wherever there is room for them. The<br />
advantages of their refreshing shade and fragrance in this warm climate<br />
are inestimable, and grateful pedestrians will doubtless often bless the<br />
men who planted those trees, which I have observed growing on the<br />
sides of some of your suburban roads. We Sydneyites are certainly<br />
behind you in exhibitions of taste in that way, though we are improving,<br />
as anyone may observe, who will make an inspection of our public<br />
grounds.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
I shall not further follow Mr. Moans and his communicative friend, Mr.<br />
Titler, or detail his dialogues with other Victorian friends, upon moral,<br />
social, sanitary, and political subjects; as the foregoing specimen will<br />
show, that while candidly admitting the excellences and the grandeur of<br />
the precocious city of Melbourne, he was not slow in defending his own<br />
honoured capital from invidious comparisons or ungenerous<br />
depreciation.<br />
During his stay he enjoyed some pleasant rural drives in Mr. Titler's<br />
carriage; and though he could not be persuaded that any scenery he saw<br />
was comparable to that between Sydney and South Head, there was<br />
much that was undoubtedly beautiful, and evidenced the highest artistic<br />
skill and taste. While driving through some of the suburban towns, he<br />
noted many things which he thought might with advantage be imitated<br />
by the suburbanites of Sydney, more especially the wide streets and<br />
roads, the extensive public reserves, and the prevailing disposition for<br />
planting shrubs therein. Mr. Moans had also many agreeable saunters<br />
through Melbourne proper, and noted many more things than I have<br />
space to enumerate. Among other striking objects, he observed more men<br />
walking about with their hands in their pockets, than he expected to have<br />
seen, with the numerous avenues for steady labour in that busy
metropolis; and considering, too, the facilities for getting into the<br />
interior, and the liberality of the Victorian land law: moreover, where<br />
there was such a splendid free library, accessible to the humblest classes,<br />
at all hours of the day, and till a late hour at night. But it was explained<br />
by a lively friend, that hands in pockets was not regarded as an idle<br />
symptom; for since “peg-top pantaloons” had become fashionable, the<br />
practice was general; indeed it was considered the “correct thing” by all<br />
grades and ages of Melbourne males. At the same time he admitted that<br />
there were many men who had unfortunately no remunerative<br />
employment for their hands; but he thought, in a majority of instances,<br />
the causes might be traced to their own indiscretion, or incapacity; and<br />
notwithstanding all that had been said and written by interested persons<br />
and grumblers to the contrary, he believed there was still ample room in<br />
the land for tens of thousands of honest industrious men and women, for<br />
the resources of the country — apart from its gold — are almost<br />
unlimited.<br />
* * * * *<br />
“If any man, who had the free range of a choice flowergarden, chose to<br />
go sniffing among the African marigolds in preference to inhaling the<br />
balmy fragrance of moss roses and violets, his taste might be justly<br />
questioned.” Thus reasoned Mr. Moans to himself, as he quietly rambled<br />
through some of the well-paved streets of Melbourne. “And instead of<br />
choosing to look at the many beautiful objects around me,” he<br />
soliloquised, “if I preferred to turn into some of the back lanes for the<br />
express purpose of finding disagreeable subjects to talk about when I<br />
returned home, I should be lacking in taste.” Mr. Moans preferred the<br />
moss roses and violets, or, in other words, he chose to employ his limited<br />
time in observing matters and things which are most pleasant and<br />
profitable to contemplate, and to converse with men of corresponding<br />
minds. Still he was not wholly unobservant of other things; and the<br />
sombre walls of the Gaol, the Refuge, the Hospital, and other receptacles<br />
for crime and suffering, and the haggard looks of many poor besotted<br />
loungers at public-house doors, often reminded him that all was not<br />
coleur de rose around him.<br />
He met with much hospitality and kindness from old friends, and from<br />
new friends too; and he left the monumental city of Melbourne, strongly<br />
impressed with the indomitable spirit of advancement displayed by its<br />
inhabitants in general. He had remarked, however, that there was rather<br />
more commercial steam or gas introduced into private life than is<br />
observable in Sydney society. He noticed, too, that a few of the<br />
mercantile men looked fidgety on Sundays, and while they gazed round<br />
at the clock in sermon time, he fancied they were longing for Monday to
come again, that they might be looking out “for lucky specs.” He met<br />
with two or three light-hearted men too, (who were as inflated with civic<br />
pride, as smoke-dried cockneys showing their country-cousins the<br />
wonders of London from the top of St. Paul's), and he felt constrained to<br />
reduce their jubilant boasting by gently reminding them that “after all, it<br />
was a Sydney man who planned their grand city — except the<br />
sewerage,” and he added “that if the Victorians were richer and more<br />
influential than some of their neighbours, they should be thankful, and<br />
remember that it would be very discreditable to them if it were otherwise<br />
with their enormous revenue, and the million of spirited men and<br />
women, whom the Victorian gold mines had attracted from all parts of<br />
the world.”<br />
On the whole, Mr. Moans is of opinion that Victoria is a great land, and<br />
that it is destined to become still greater; and as modesty is a<br />
concomitant of true greatness, he expects that quality to increase. While<br />
congratulating that sister colony on her good fortune, and recognising her<br />
claim to the respect of the world, he does not yield a jot of the honour<br />
due to his own part of the continent; nor does his admiration for his<br />
neighbour's excellences lessen his fealty to his own adopted colony, or<br />
wean his affection from its old associations. Friendly emulation is<br />
commendable, and he thinks a better acquaintance with each other will<br />
tend to foster that feeling, and at the same time uproot or retard the<br />
growth of envy, from which would eventually spring hatred and all<br />
uncharitableness. With that desirable end in view, Mr. Moans would<br />
recommend all the good folks in Melbourne to visit Sydney now and<br />
then; the well-bred citizens of Sydney will return the calls, of course; and<br />
if they all enjoy their visits as much as Mr. Moans enjoyed his, they will<br />
heartily join him in the glad shout, “Advance, Victoria!” while the<br />
Melbournites will stroke their beards, and smilingly reply, in their<br />
Columbianized phraseology, “Go ahead, Sydney.”
“Stone Blind.”<br />
SOME years ago, a fine vessel owned by my friend Simon Guldman,<br />
was stranded, in a gale of wind, within a hundred miles of Sydney. She<br />
was laden with flour and maize, and was uninsured. Though much<br />
strained, the vessel held together; and when the weather had sufficiently<br />
moderated, my friend succeeded, with much labour and expense, in<br />
hauling a considerable portion of the cargo through the surf on to the seabeach,<br />
and eventually in getting the vessel afloat and safely moored in an<br />
adjacent harbour.<br />
Mr. Guldman had camped near to the wreck for several nights and had<br />
undergone no small amount of hardship, as well as annoyance from<br />
volunteer helpers, some of whom were most anxious to spare him the<br />
pain of ever again beholding such mementos of his misfortune as were<br />
not too heavy for them to carry away. He therefore resolved upon<br />
offering the vessel and salvage of cargo for sale, while any salvage<br />
remained; so he employed a respectable auctioneer; and, at the time<br />
appointed, a crowd assembled on the Queen's Wharf, where samples of<br />
the damaged cargo were exhibited, and opposite to which the battered<br />
ship lay moored, with the crew on board singing cheerily, as they worked<br />
at the pumps.<br />
Mr. Guldman soon discovered that the majority of those present were<br />
neither bidders nor buyers, but were perhaps attracted to the spot by the<br />
craving desire, which is almost everywhere manifested by a certain class<br />
of persons, to investigate disasters; generally with a keen eye to<br />
contingent personal advantages.<br />
“Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “you have heard the terms and<br />
conditions of sale, and you must admit they are very liberal; favour me<br />
with an offer to commence with, at per bushel, for all the maize now<br />
spread on the ship's sails, on Misery Beach. At per bushel, favour me<br />
with a bid, gentlemen. Don't delay now; what shall I say? Start me a bid,<br />
gentlemen, at per bushel.”<br />
“If you please, sir, do you warrant it sound corn?” enquired a lisping<br />
little man in spectacles, whose occasional waggish winks and<br />
whisperings to his neighbours, made my jaded friend doubt if the little<br />
oddity were really as simple as he appeared to be. “I'm very particular<br />
about my pig's diet. Is it sound, sir, do you think?”<br />
“There it is, Mr. Spikes,” replied the auctioneer. “You ought to be able
to see if it is sound; look at it and judge for yourself; taste it if you like.<br />
Now, gentlemen, with all faults, favour me with a bid, at per bushel;<br />
don't wait. At per bushel, what shall I say; favour me with a bid. Mr.<br />
Phungus, what do you say? it would suit you as a speculation; corn is<br />
worth five and ninepence in Sydney just now; come, gentlemen, fav —<br />
— ”<br />
“If you please, sir,” interrupted the little lisping man again, speaking<br />
with his mouth half-full of maize, “it tastes like bad nuts, soaked in sour<br />
beer. I don't think my pigs would like it.”<br />
“If you give your pigs that corn, Spikes, it will give 'em the measles,”<br />
said a greedy-looking man, who was afterwards observed to be the only<br />
person who really made a bid for the cargo, which was not badly<br />
damaged. “You had better be careful, or you won't save your bacon,<br />
Spikes, that musty corn would physic your swine, and make 'em squeak<br />
like bagpipes.”<br />
“Ah, I think I'll take your advice,” replied Mr. Spikes; “I shouldn't like<br />
to make my pigs unhealthy. You had better send it to Sydney to make<br />
coffee, sir,” he added, addressing the auctioneer, “it would make very<br />
good corffee, sir, I think.”<br />
Numerous sallies of wit, about equal to the above samples, were<br />
indulged in by one or other of the grinning group, to the prejudice of the<br />
salvage, and to the discomfiture of my crest-fallen friend, who felt as<br />
fidgety as an old lady in a menagerie, with all the monkeys loose; and,<br />
notwithstanding the auctioneer exerted his lungs to the utmost, and<br />
flourished his hammer most peruasively, only the man, beforementioned,<br />
bid for the cargo, a less sum than it had cost to get it on<br />
shore. Feeling certain that there was a combination among some of the<br />
bystanders to cheapen his corn, Mr. Guldman, much to their<br />
disappointment, withdrew the sale of it, and instructed the auctioneer to<br />
offer the vessel.<br />
“Ay, put up the ship,” roared a burly sea captain, with a head like a<br />
rock-cod; “put up the ship; she'll do for a coal hulk, if her back isn't<br />
broken, and if it is, she'll make a mud punt; I'll bid fifty pounds to start<br />
yer, I sha'n't lose much, if I am forced to break her up; though she's an<br />
old craft, with iron fastenings.”<br />
“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Mr. Guldman, excitedly, “she is only a<br />
five-year-old ship, and is copper-fastened throughout; she is well found,<br />
and is one of the fastest vessels on the coast.”<br />
“Yes, I'm sure she's a very nice ship, Captain Swob,” lisped little Mr.<br />
Spikes, with a look of virtuous reproach at the burly sailor for his<br />
depreciatory remarks. “She'd be a very pretty ship, indeed, if she was<br />
mended; I only wish my old uncle Bartimeus could see her, he'd give a<br />
thousand pounds, ready money, and be glad of the chance.”<br />
Amidst the depressing jibes and banter, the least exhibition of rational
feeling was to some extent comforting. Mr. Guldman felt half-grateful to<br />
the little goblin in spectacles, despite his dubious remarks about the<br />
maize. After a minute or two's cudgelling of his excited brain, Mr.<br />
Guldman decided to ask Mr. Spikes whether his uncle lived in the<br />
neighbourhood, and if so, to invite him to go on board the ship and<br />
inspect her. He thought possibly Uncle Bartimeus was a capitalist,<br />
desirous of being a ship-owner, and might be glad to buy a smart vessel<br />
cheap. In fact, my friend was very anxious to sell, and like vendors in<br />
general in such cases, he eagerly hailed the prospect of a buyer.<br />
“Will you oblige me by informing me where your uncle lives, sir?”<br />
politely asked Mr. Guldman of Mr. Spikes, who was in the middle of the<br />
crowd, looking as sedate as a parson sitting on a hearse.<br />
“Oh, yes, sir, certainly,” said the little man; “look there, sir, you see<br />
that long white thing, on top of the hill yonder, like a little lighthouse<br />
without a lantern. Well, sir, if you go just behind that, and look down,<br />
you'll see a great big gully; uncle's house is right at the bottom. He calls<br />
it Bat's Hole. He'd be precious glad to see you.”<br />
“Do you think he would like to come and see the vessel?” asked Mr.<br />
Guldman; while the auctioneer ceased his vociferous appeals to his<br />
company, to listen to the result of the private negotiations, which every<br />
one present seemed interested in.<br />
“Ah, he just would like it, and no mistake, sir,” replied Mr. Spikes; he'd<br />
give a thousand pounds if he could see her; for he's been stone blind for<br />
five years.”<br />
A loud burst of laughter from the assembled company followed the<br />
little man's rejoinder; while his face at once altered to an expression of<br />
shrewdness and waggery, at which my friend could not help laughing,<br />
despite his chagrin at having been so befooled. After whispering to the<br />
auctioneer to stop the sale altogether, Mr. Guldman quietly withdrew<br />
from the spot, and was half-way towards his dilapidated ship before the<br />
noisy crowd had finished laughing at Mr. Spike's wit.
Gone to Heaven.<br />
A BELOVED friend of mine, was sitting near the couch of his dying<br />
infant, about midnight. It was the second night of his painful vigil, and he<br />
was weary and depressed in body and mind. He had listlessly opened an<br />
illustrated volume of Longfellow's poems, which lay on a table: and just<br />
above an engraving, representing an angel soaring to Heaven with an<br />
infant, were these lines —<br />
“She is not dead — the child of our affection —<br />
But gone unto that school,<br />
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,<br />
And Christ Himself doth rule.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
At that moment the nurse exclaimed “baby is gone!”
“Call Again.”<br />
“HERE, Jerry,” said a decent, hard-working tradesman in Sydney, to<br />
his son, one Saturday morning, “put on your best hat and coat, and try if<br />
you can collect a few accounts, for I must have some money to pay the<br />
man's wages to-night. You know I have been working early and late<br />
since Monday, binding those music books and manuscripts for Madam<br />
Twangit, of Woolloomooloo, and when I took them home just now, she<br />
told me that she would call and settle with me in a few days. I was afraid<br />
to be too pressing lest I should lose her future custom; though she might<br />
have seen, by my disappointed looks, that I wanted the money. O dear,<br />
dear! what a terrible inconvenience this credit system is to poor,<br />
struggling tradesfolk. Some persons do not know it though, or I think<br />
they would be more considerate. Now, Madam Twangit has plenty of<br />
money, and could just as well pay me to-day as a few days hence; and I<br />
dare say, too, she would be sorry if she knew the worry and trouble<br />
which will accrue to many persons to-day for the lack of those few<br />
pounds, for she is really a kind-hearted lady. In the first place, there will<br />
be the loss of your time, Jerry, in running about collecting, or trying to<br />
collect money. Then our butcher's, baker's, and grocer's weekly bills will<br />
not be paid to-night, and our credit may suffer, and they, too, in their<br />
turn, may be inconvenienced, for they have their payments to make to the<br />
wholesale traders. Then I heard your mother promise Betsy a new bonnet<br />
for Sunday. Poor girl! she will be disappointed, and perhaps will not be<br />
able to go to church to-morrow; and I intended to have given you a new<br />
waistcoat to-night, Jerry. But it's no use grumbling; I must have some<br />
money, however, to pay our man, for he had only half his wages last<br />
Saturday night; and the poor fellow wants his money, so go away, my<br />
boy, as fast as you can, and try your best to collect some. Here's a long<br />
list, and some of the accounts have been a long time owing. Tell the<br />
parties they will oblige me very much by paying you to-day, for I really<br />
want the money.”<br />
Poor Jerry took the list, and sallied out as moodily as if he were going<br />
to a funeral. He had good cause for not being over sanguine, for many a<br />
long trudge had he had before in his unsuccessful endeavours to collect<br />
the numerous small accounts, few of which exceeded ten shillings; and<br />
he felt that he would rather turn a grindstone in the back yard all day,<br />
than go collecting. However, there was no help for it, so away he went,
and summoning up his good-tempered looks, he gently tapped at the<br />
office door of Mr. Putemoff, whose name stood first on the list. “Come<br />
in,” said a voice as soft as a flageolet. Jerry's hope revived a little as he<br />
walked in, and making a low bow, began to state the object of his visit.<br />
“If you please, sir, I've called — — ” “Oh, ah, yes,” ejaculated Mr.<br />
Putemoff, interrupting him. “You've come again for that little account, of<br />
course. Bless me! hasn't it been settled yet! It ought to have been paid<br />
before, but I quite forgot it. Yes, ah! I have the account somewhere<br />
amongst my papers,” he continued, musingly, as he opened a drawer, and<br />
began to rummage among a host of small documents. “Um, dear me; I'm<br />
sorry I can't find it, my lad; I must trouble you to ‘call again,’ when my<br />
clerk is in. Yes; just look in again, if you please.” “Very good, sir,”<br />
replied Jerry, as he bowed his way out of the office, pleased that the<br />
stinging words, “call again,” had been uttered in a civil tone.<br />
“What do you want?” enquired Mr. Bluff, the butcher, as Jerry stepped<br />
into his shop with a timid air, as if he owed the butcher a long bill and<br />
could not pay a penny. “If you please, sir, I've called for that little<br />
account for binding your old books — seven and sixpence. My father<br />
says he'll be very much obliged — — ” “You must call again; can't you<br />
see I'm too busy to attend to you?” said Mr. Bluff, as he chopped away at<br />
a bullock's tail. “If you please, sir,” urged Jerry, meekly, “father is — —<br />
” “Call again, I tell you. Don't bother me now!” roared Mr. Bluff,<br />
grinning the while like a shark who is just going to swallow a sailor,<br />
which frightened Jerry out of the shop in a minute.<br />
With a heart as heavy as a bag of shot, he next entered the shop of Mr.<br />
Mull, the mercer, and civilly asked for the payment of nine shillings,<br />
which had been owing for some time. “Where's the account?” asked Mr.<br />
Mull, hastily, as he lifted up the flap of his desk and looked inside,<br />
remarking at the same time that those petty little bills bothered him twice<br />
as much as all his big ones. “I've never seen your account,” said Mr.<br />
Mull, after an apparent fruitless search in his desk for it. “I have left it<br />
twice, sir,” said poor Jerry, with an imploring look. “Ah, then it's been<br />
mislaid. You must call again with it, and don't come here again on<br />
Saturday, d'ye hear?”<br />
“Master's gone to lunch,” said a small boy, who was seated on a butter<br />
tub, eating a saveloy, as Jerry stepped into the store of Mr. Baggs, the<br />
commission agent, in the hope of collecting five shillings and sixpence;<br />
so Jerry stepped out of the store again, wishing that he could go to lunch<br />
too.<br />
His next essay was at Messrs. Braceup, Sharp, and Co.'s, the ship<br />
chandlers. “You've called on the wrong day,” said a little old gentleman,<br />
as stiff as a ship's figure-head. “It's only eight shillings, sir,” said Jerry<br />
with half a dash of warmth, as he reflected upon his previous nonsuccess.<br />
“Yes, yes, that's right enough, my lad,” said the stolid old
gentleman, “it would be all the same to us if it were forty times as much;<br />
but Tuesday's our pay day, so you must call again.”<br />
“Well, well,” muttered Jerry, as he looked over his list again, “I've had<br />
bad luck thus far. I almost wish it were punishable by a fine, to say ‘call<br />
again.’ I'd rather have a tooth pulled out any day than have a job like this;<br />
at least, I think so just now, for I am tired and hungry, and I have not<br />
collected the price of a mutton pie. I'll call upon Dr. Dosem; he knows<br />
the difficulty of collecting small accounts, I'll be bound, and he'll pay me<br />
out of sympathy.” Jerry was again disappointed, however, for the doctor<br />
had gone out to visit a patient.<br />
Obedient to his father's instructions, Jerry went through his list, and at<br />
each place of call got more pathetic in his appeals; but, with two trifling<br />
exceptions, he met with no success. Various were the excuses, most of<br />
them ending with the tormenting words “call again.” Mrs. Phubbs'<br />
husband was not at home; Mr. M'Muffin's wife had gone out, and had<br />
taken the keys with her; Mr. Steddy had no change; and Mr. Screwdup,<br />
whom Jerry met in the street, had unfortunately brought no money out<br />
with him, and had left none at home either. Mr. Gruntall would call and<br />
see his father, as there was an overcharge of ninepence in his bill. Mr.<br />
Doutt was almost sure he had paid the bill before, but would search<br />
through his papers for the receipt; and Mr. Bull couldn't be bothered with<br />
such paltry accounts, they must be taken to his private house at Balmain.<br />
Jerry returned home late in the afternoon, with a sad heart, and with<br />
pockets nearly as light as when he had set out in the morning.<br />
“I am sorry to say I have had plenty of excuses, father, and rather more<br />
scolding than I liked,” said Jerry, “but I've got very little money. Here's<br />
five and sixpence from old Mrs. Rackem, the teacher; and half-a-crown<br />
from Mr. Scrapard, the currier: that's all I've got; and I could have earned<br />
nearly as much if I had been in the workshop all day.”<br />
“Well, it's a hard case, Jerry,” said his father, passing his hand across<br />
his brow. “There is a matter of twenty pounds owing me, in small sums,<br />
and if I had them, I could pay all my debts and be an independent man.<br />
As it is, I see no alternative but to pawn the tools again, so take the<br />
basket to Mr. Balls, Jerry; ask him to lend me £5. The man must have<br />
four pounds to-night, and we must make the best shifts we can at home.<br />
But what we are to do for the tools on Monday morning I don't know.<br />
However, there is no use thinking about that just now; and I hope I shall<br />
be kept from thinking about it to-morrow. Well, well, it's downright cruel<br />
of folks to be so thoughtless. Most of those whom you have called on<br />
could pay their little accounts easily enough, if they chose, for they are<br />
mere trifles to them individually, but in the aggregate a most important<br />
sum to me. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire;’ but it is pretty plain that<br />
he does not always get it. Oh! Jerry, Jerry,” added the poor man with a<br />
sigh, “this is a hard, cold world; or there are too many hard, cold folks in
it, that's what I mean. But cheer up, my boy, I'm sorry I've made you cry:<br />
it's sinful to repine. I have yet the means of paying the man's wages tonight,<br />
and we shall have a trifle to take home besides, so dry up your<br />
tears, Jerry, and don't let mother know we've been obliged to pawn the<br />
tools.”
Woes and Worries of Mrs. Lemonpip.<br />
Chapter 1<br />
“DRAT the door!” grumbled Mrs. Lemonpip, as she bustled along the<br />
passage from the kitchen; her hands and arms bespattered with pancake<br />
paste, and the tip of her strawberry nose garnished with saucepan soot.<br />
“Drat that door, I say! I wish I could make the knocker red hot, and keep<br />
it so, then I'll warrant those cadgers, and costermongers, and other<br />
nuisances, would not be so fond of playing rat-tat-tat, to worrit me till<br />
I'm savage enough to bite everybody. What do you want?” she asked<br />
sharply, as she opened the door just wide enough to show her face, but<br />
not her figure, which was the most comely part of her person. “What do<br />
you want?”<br />
“Con you help a poor mon, missis?” said a poverty-stricken individual,<br />
with a basket before him, filled with boxes of matches. “I coom'd out<br />
from whoam a week or two agone, wi me wife and three young uns, and<br />
they be all zick.”<br />
“Go and nurse them then,” said Mrs. Lemonpip. “You ought to be<br />
ashamed of yourself for leaving them if they are sick. There now be off,<br />
be off: I don't want to hear any more of your grievances, which I dare say<br />
are half sham, I have nothing to give away, and if I had I would not give<br />
it to you for your impudence, in rapping rat-tat at my door as if you were<br />
an alderman. Be off, or I'll call my bull dog.”<br />
“Will you buy a dozen o' matches, missis? you shall have them for<br />
ninepence. Do, mar'm, and God bless you.”<br />
“No, I won't buy a farthingsworth,” shrieked Mrs. Lemonpip, with a<br />
look at the poor fellow almost fierce enough to set fire to his basket. “Go<br />
and work, you lazy lump, and don't come here any more with your<br />
matches or your miserable stories either: I won't encourage hawking,<br />
which is very often a mere blind for begging, and begging means<br />
stealing. I believe it was somebody like you that stole my door scraper<br />
last Monday morning. Be off, I say again!” She then slammed the door in<br />
the poor hungry fellow's face, and bustled back to the kitchen, to peel the<br />
potatoes, and make other preparations for her gude man's dinner; and to<br />
vent from time to time little accumulations of ill-humour upon the head<br />
of the cat, in the absence of any other animate creature, that she could<br />
make uncomfortable.
Mrs. Lemonpip had seated herself on a kitchen stool, and began to<br />
operate on the eyes and skins of the potatoes in her lap, and to knock the<br />
cat's nose now and then with the handle of her knife, when rat-tat-tat<br />
rattled the brass knocker again, in a sort of imperative mood.<br />
“If this is another hawker, or beggar,” exclaimed the little woman,<br />
rising and taking off her kitchen apron, at the same time looking<br />
wrathfully round, as if for some deadly weapon, “I declare, if this is<br />
another of those pests of my life, I'll knock him down with — with this<br />
bar of soap; (which happened to be the most formidable instrument of<br />
torture within her view at the moment,) or kick his basket into the gutter.<br />
Eleven times this blessed morning have I danced along the hall to the<br />
tune of that tormenting knocker, and that's quite enough to wrinkle the<br />
smoothest temper in the world. Confound the knocker, I say, I've a great<br />
mind to unscrew it and throw it down the well, for its clatter annoys me<br />
more than the three pianos in the boarding-school next door.” Thus<br />
grumbled little Mrs. Lemonpip, as she again trotted to the front door, her<br />
puckered face red with the combined influence of wrath, kitchen fire, and<br />
“old tom.”<br />
“Hey day, Betsy, my little pigeon!” shouted a fat, merry-faced old man,<br />
stepping into the passage when the door was opened wide enough to<br />
receive him. “Why what's the matter, ducky? have you scalded your foot<br />
again, or knocked your bad knee, or has the soot choked up the kitchen<br />
stove and spoiled your cookery and your temper too. What ails my little<br />
popgun! cheer up and tell your Jacky all about it,” continued the merry<br />
old man; at the same time lovingly attempting to kiss his wife. But she<br />
looked as combative as a live lobster, and snappishly told him to have<br />
done with his nonsense, and monkey tricks, or she should lose her temper<br />
and perhaps slap his face and then be sorry for it. “I'm fairly mithered to<br />
death with kitchen work and that noisy knocker,” whined Mrs.<br />
Lemonpip, making her way into the kitchen again, closely followed by<br />
Mr. Lemonpip, who was trying his utmost to comfort her, but with<br />
scarcely any perceptible effect, for she was inconsolably cross, and<br />
instead of cheering up, as her hopeful husband advised her to do, she sat<br />
down and rubbed her tearful eyes with a rough roller towel, until they<br />
looked like pickled onions in red cabbage liquor, and as she rubbed, she<br />
vociferously declared that there was not a woman in Sydney so wofully<br />
troubled as she.<br />
“Come, come, Betty, my bird! don't fret, don't fret,” said Mr.<br />
Lemonpip, soothingly, “some of your troubles will soon be over, deary,<br />
and I'll take good care you shall never have this scullery maid's work to<br />
do again, for it spoils your natural amiability, sours your complexion, as<br />
well as besmuts it, and makes me as downhearted as an old buttonless<br />
bachelor, or a bear chained to a post. When is our new maid to be here,<br />
Betsy?”
“To-night, I hope and trust,” said Mrs. Lemonpip, in a very desponding<br />
tone, while she wiped out the frying-pan and put it over the fire; then<br />
wiped the perspiration from her soot-begrimed face, and sighed like a<br />
strong breeze. “She is to come to-night, and I wish I had made her<br />
promise to come this morning, if only to save me from that plaguey<br />
door.”<br />
Rat-tat-tat-tat, went the knocker just then, which made little Mrs.<br />
Lemonpip jump up five inches at least, and at the same moment drop a<br />
pork sausage off the fork among the cinders. “There's that goblin of a<br />
knocker again,” she muttered with closely set teeth. “It has nearly hunted<br />
me to death this morning; rap, tap, tap, like an undertaker's hammer. I<br />
shall do mischief if I go to the door; I am sure I shall. I could skewer a<br />
knocker maker this very minute,” she added, while she made a violent<br />
probe at some imaginary enemy with the carving fork.<br />
“Hush! calm yourself, my pop,” said Mr. Lemonpip, “Go on frying the<br />
sausages, and I'll open the door. Folks must use the knocker you know,<br />
dear, else how should we know that they are at the door? Do you want a<br />
little round table, Betsy?” shouted that complaisant old gentleman, after<br />
he had opened the door.<br />
“Round table, no! What on earth will they hawk about the streets next?<br />
They ought to be punished.”<br />
“Or a step ladder, my dear?” asked Mr. Lemonpip, with something like<br />
a comical curl at the left corner of his mouth.<br />
“No!” vociferated Mrs. Lemonpip, “what the plague do you think I<br />
want with a step ladder? slam the door in that fellow's impudent face; he<br />
was here the day before yesterday with his nuisances. I'll ladder him, if I<br />
catch him here again. These hawkers are ten times worse pests than the<br />
rats and cockroaches in the kitchen.”<br />
Mr. Lemonpip dismissed the ladder merchant, rather more gently than<br />
his wrathy little wife had recommended — and returned to the kitchen,<br />
with a happy smile on his face, and the desire in his heart to make<br />
himself agreeable and useful to the utmost of his ability.<br />
“Now, Betty, my love! only tell me how I can lighten your load, and it<br />
will do me good,” said Mr. Lemonpip, “I'm your humble and most<br />
obedient servant, for any little light job; such as cleaning the knives and<br />
forks, filling the coal scuttle, trimming the moderator, or anything else<br />
within the compass of moderate powers. What can I do for you, my<br />
blackbird? just tell me and I'll jump to do it, as nimbly as a Jack tar in a<br />
squall.”<br />
“Just get out of the kitchen and don't worrit me — that's all I ask you to<br />
do,” snapped Mrs. Lemonpip; “I wonder what in the world has brought<br />
you home an hour before your usual time. I hope you have not been<br />
turned away from Tubbs and Co.'s, I shouldn't wonder if you have<br />
though, for they have treated you lately as if you were of no more
consequence than an old barrow with a broken wheel — something's the<br />
matter, I'm sure, and I should like to know what it is.”<br />
“I will tell you all about it, my pet, if you will let me sit down quietly<br />
and hold the frying-pan while you look on and rest a bit. I like to see<br />
pork sausages frizzle in the frying-pan, and I like to smell them, too, so<br />
long as I can keep my imagination within wholesome bounds. I fancy too<br />
they have such a pathetic look, after you have pricked them with a fork,<br />
just like fat lovers fretting.”<br />
“Stuff and nonsense! now be off out of the kitchen, Lemonpip, unless<br />
you want to get your best coat splashed all over with pork fat and<br />
pancake. I hate to see men making mollies of themselves. I'd as soon see<br />
a woman drive an omnibus or a railway engine. If you will fetch me a<br />
little drop of old tom out of the black bottle in the chiffonier, you will do<br />
me more good than by interfering with my cookery. Get me just a<br />
thimblefull, neat, before I begin to fry the pancakes; I feel my<br />
troublesome spasms coming on again.”<br />
“Oh, Betty, Betty! a thimbleful of gin will do you harm instead of<br />
good — it will increase your irritability, and perhaps increase your<br />
spasms too. However, I won't begin an unpleasant argument, although I<br />
feel that I am paying an awfully dear price for peace.” Away trudged Mr.<br />
Lemonpip to the cupboard for the gin, with as much shrinking reluctance<br />
as if he were going to handle a live badger.<br />
For the purpose of my story, it is not necessary to enter upon lengthy<br />
biographical details; still it would be interesting to the reader to know a<br />
little more of the characters just introduced: so I will briefly describe<br />
them, in order that the subsequent part of my story may be better<br />
comprehended.<br />
Mr. Lemonpip was clerk to an old established mercantile firm in<br />
Sydney; in which employ he had been for many years; and had been<br />
several times stepped over, or superseded, by younger men in the same<br />
employ. He was what is commonly called “a slow coach,” or a “steady<br />
going old stager;” still he was faithful as a mirror, and the personification<br />
of cheerfulness and good nature. He might have risen to a higher position<br />
in the world, or even have become wealthy, had he exercised worldly<br />
wisdom, and studied his own immediate interest a little more, and his<br />
neighbour's a little less. But he did not covet high position nor patronage.<br />
He had in his heart “Godliness with contentment,” and that he proved to<br />
be “great gain.” He knew that he had made “free selection” of an estate<br />
of inestimable value — redundant of “green pastures and still waters,” in<br />
the region of light itself; where the shades of night, and the gloom of<br />
sorrow, are alike unknown; where he would by and by enjoy peaceful<br />
possession, free from the encroachments of litigious neighbours,<br />
bushrangers, floods, droughts, diseases, or ought else that could mar his<br />
immortal joy. He knew, too, that the purchase of his inheritance had been
paid — for he had a receipt in full, and he carried his title in his<br />
a title perfectly free from flaws, clearer than sunlight. He expected the<br />
ancient messenger to call for him, and convoy him to his new possession<br />
very soon; indeed, he lived in daily anticipation of the signal to shuffle<br />
off his mortal clogs, and soar away home. Why then should he let his<br />
heart be troubled because he did not possess a super-abundance of the<br />
world's goods, seeing that he could carry no luggage with him to his new<br />
settlement? He saw occasionally some wealthy neighbour pass away<br />
from commercial scenes as suddenly as if he did not possess a pound<br />
note; one day worth tons of gold, and perhaps toiling with all his might<br />
to make another ton, the next day in his coffin — and not personally<br />
worth one of the brass-headed nails which studded the top of his narrow<br />
tenement. Why then should he overstrain his nerves in the race for riches,<br />
which after all yielded comparatively little solid comfort, and were held<br />
with a very uncertain tenure?<br />
Thus reasoned Mr. Lemonpip whenever he reflected upon money,<br />
which was not often, for he had generally more sterling subjects for<br />
reflection. Still I hope it will not be supposed that he was one of those<br />
moody mortals who are always groaning about worldly vanities (which<br />
are out of their reach), condemning rational appropriation of wealth, with<br />
short-sighted envious policy, expressing contempt for riches, honours or<br />
distinction, and a lugubrious disapproval of innocent recreations! Far<br />
from it; Mr. Lemonpip had a goodly share of common sense in his head,<br />
as well as philanthropy in his heart; and one glance at his honest face<br />
would have sufficed to assure the intelligent beholder that he did not<br />
belong to that mischievous corps of misery-mongers and impostors. He<br />
did not affect to spurn money, for he knew its value, and would gladly<br />
have possessed a little more of it, if he could have got it honestly — for<br />
the sake of helping those who were in need. He properly viewed money,<br />
and the influence it commands, as talents which are bestowed upon<br />
certain honoured individuals, to be appropriated by them to God's glory,<br />
and the welfare of the world; and he pitied those persons whom he<br />
sometimes saw rolling in wealth, and selfishly clutching it as if it all<br />
belonged to them, forgetting that “the silver and the gold are the Lord's,<br />
and also the cattle upon a thousand hills.”<br />
Such was Mr. Lemonpip — or, to give the substance of the foregoing<br />
delineation in a few words, he was a Christian. I wish I could say as<br />
much of his wife, of whom I must give a brief description: it will not be<br />
necessary to say a great deal, however, for the reader has doubtless<br />
formed an opinion of her from the few colloquial extracts I have already<br />
given. The old nursery rhyme is a tolerably apt portraiture of Mrs.<br />
Lemonpip.<br />
“There was an old woman, and what do you think,
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink.<br />
And victuals and drink were the chief of her diet,<br />
But yet this old woman could never be quiet.”<br />
Mrs. Lemonpip lived upon victuals and drink, and not very small<br />
quantities either; but as it is not gallant to refer to a lady's gustatory<br />
affairs, I will touch as delicately on that subject as possible. In person she<br />
was short and stout, with a round, batter freckly face, like a pudding<br />
sprinkled with allspice. Her nose was the most cheerful looking feature<br />
belonging to her, for it was always more or less rubicund, and had a<br />
comical turn up at the extreme tip, as if it were trying to provoke the<br />
sharp grey eyes just above, to cut it off — or pertly challenging the<br />
clamorous mouth below to storm it from its snug position, between two<br />
wrinkles, or rolls of fat face.<br />
Mrs. Lemonpip was forty-six years of age, though she might have been<br />
mistaken for fifty. Her temper was seldom sweet, or even quiet, except<br />
when she was asleep. Her manner was rarely, or never inviting, and at<br />
times she was as unapproachable as a prickly pear tree. Poor old<br />
Lemonpip was always patient under the petticoat despotism of his better<br />
half, and quietly bore nagging and threatening, which would have<br />
provoked many less prudent men to acts of violence, or to run away to<br />
California.<br />
I once heard of a burly Yorkshire farmer who always stood still and<br />
grinned while his choleric little dot of a wife thumped his hips and ribs<br />
(she could reach no higher) with all her might. On being asked one day<br />
by a wondering looker-on, why he did not stop her fierce pugilistic<br />
attacks on his person, the farmer good naturedly replied, “whoy she<br />
loikes it, and it doan't hurt me.”<br />
Mr. Lemonpip, perhaps, made similar generous allowance for his<br />
wife's unamiable weaknesses, but he did not imitate the tantalising<br />
indifference of the Yorkshire farmer. Mrs. Lemonpip was often cross and<br />
disagreeable, but her good husband did not taunt or tease her, on the<br />
contrary, he tried all he could to soothe her. He loved her, as all good<br />
husbands love their wives, and he could not bear the idea of death<br />
separating them for ever, so he earnestly prayed for her reformation; and<br />
at the same time he set her an example of meekness, temperance, charity,<br />
and other Christian virtues (which her every day acts proved that she<br />
sadly lacked), for he endorsed the maxim “that those are the best<br />
instructors whose lives speak for them.”<br />
Chapter II.<br />
THE preceding chapter introduced Mr. and Mrs. Lemonpip, but I may<br />
further inform the reader, that they lived in the centre of a row of three
smart-looking houses, situate within a mile or two of Sydney post-office;<br />
and to help them to pay their rent, they boarded Mr. Dugald McSkilly, a<br />
Caledonian dentist (about nine months out from Dundee), and lodged<br />
him in the back attic.<br />
Mr. and Mrs. Lemonpip had sat down to their dinner-table. The pork<br />
sausages were steaming in a dish before Mr. Lemonpip, and the mashed<br />
potatoes were steaming in another dish before his spouse, whose nose,<br />
by-the-bye, had deepened in colour a shade since she had taken the<br />
thimbleful of gin from the black bottle in the cupboard; and though the<br />
little woman was really anxious to know what had brought her husband<br />
home so unusually early that morning, and what made him look so<br />
mysteriously waggish, she was too much ruffled in spirit to ask any<br />
questions on the subject, but sat and ate her sausages in silence. Presently<br />
Mr. Lemonpip arose, and dipping his hand into his breast-pocket,<br />
produced a small parcel, which he untied, and exultingly held before his<br />
wife's little gooseberry eyes a very chaste gold brooch, with his own<br />
photograph in it, and kissing her most affectionately, he presented the<br />
glittering gem, while his face looked the picture of gladness in a frostcovered<br />
frame.<br />
“Now I'll tell you what has brought me home so early to-day,” said Mr.<br />
Lemonpip, smiling and nodding his head sideways, in the most facetious<br />
style, “I've got a half-holiday, and I'm going to treat you to a trip to<br />
Manly Beach; for don't you know, ducky, this is our wedding-day. The<br />
twenty-fifth anniversary of our happy nuptial morn, when we drove to<br />
church in your father's tilted waggon, with bells on the horses' hames,<br />
and old Godfrey Walloper the waggoner, in his best white smock-frock,<br />
and a bunch of marigolds pinned to his breast. Ha! ha! ha! don't you<br />
remember that delightful day, Betty, my bird? Mr. Docket, our head<br />
wharfinger, with his wife and children, are going to Manly Beach too;<br />
and I have promised to meet them on board the two o'clock boat, at<br />
Woolloomooloo Bay. We will have a nice pleasant afternoon together on<br />
the sea-beach, ‘jolly companions every one,’ as the old song says.”<br />
“Pooh! sea-beach, indeed,” snapped Mrs. Lemonpip, “I shall see no<br />
sea-beach to-day; I've got to clean the kitchen out, and get things straight<br />
for the new girl who is coming to-night. The place is like a pig-sty from<br />
bottom to top.”<br />
“Never mind the kitchen, ducky,” said Mr. Lemonpip, “let the new girl<br />
clean it when she comes, or send for old Mrs. Dudds, round the corner,<br />
and let her do it, she will be glad of the job, poor thing!”<br />
“Ah, poor thing, indeed! you are always thinking of some poor thing or<br />
other, to empty your pockets, and keep you poor. If I wasn't to look out a<br />
little sharper after the main thing than you do, we should have been out<br />
of house and home long ago. Send for Mrs. Dudds, indeed! I shall do no<br />
such thing, Lemonpip. If I help all your poor things, I shall soon be a
poor thing too.”<br />
“Well, well, my dear, don't be vexed; I'm sorry I named it; let us lock<br />
up the house, then, and be off. Come, come, make haste, love, put on<br />
your best bonnet and tippet, and lock up the house — that's the best<br />
plan — nobody will run away with it.”<br />
“Lock up the house, eh? I dare say. Pray, who's to take in the milk, and<br />
open the door for Mr. McSkilly when he comes home to tea at six<br />
o'clock? How thoughtless you are, Lemonpip; I never saw anybody like<br />
you in all my life. Manly Beach, indeed! I'm as jaded as a butcher's<br />
horse, and more fit to go to bed than to go trapesing about a sandy beach.<br />
I won't go outside this blessed door to-day, and you know I mean what I<br />
say, when I speak plainly; but you can go if you like; you are fond of<br />
gadding about, with a tribe of noisy children at your heels, like a Jack-inthe-green.”<br />
“I don't like to go without you, my pop,” said Mr. Lemonpip, with a<br />
sweet glance at his sour little spouse, and then he added, “but you have<br />
not told me how you like your new brooch, nor you haven't admired my<br />
picture, deary: you have surely forgotten that.”<br />
“The brooch is very good, if it is real gold, but I daresay you have been<br />
taken in again, as you were with that brass chain and the gingerbread<br />
watch, which you bought for me seventeen years ago. I think you had<br />
better have saved your money, than fool it away for things we don't want,<br />
or that we can do very well without. As for your photograph, I wouldn't<br />
give fourpence for it, for I don't like it at all, that's speaking the plain<br />
truth. You are too fat to look well in a brooch, and so I should have told<br />
you if you had asked my opinion before you went and wasted your<br />
money. There is far too much waistcoat to look commonly decent. I<br />
wonder that you will persist in going out and doing things without<br />
consulting me.”<br />
Mr. Lemonpip was too well accustomed to that sort of rating to be very<br />
much pained by his wife's ungracious remarks; and he was too patient<br />
and peace-loving to reply to her in her own nagging style, for he well<br />
knew that it would speedily raise a storm, before which he would have to<br />
scud away, like a ship in light ballast trim. Besides, from experience, he<br />
knew that it would be useless to reason with her, when her red-hot nose<br />
and fierce little eyes indicated that her temper was as acrid as gin and<br />
weariness could make it; so after another gentle, though fruitless attempt<br />
to induce her to accompany him, he put on his best hat, and hurried away<br />
to join his friends on board the Phantom steamer. In due course he<br />
arrived at Manly Beach, and there with Mr. and Mrs. Docket, and their<br />
seven children, he enjoyed himself in that thorough style, which only<br />
such simple, honest souls as Mr. Lemonpip can understand. He was a<br />
complete boy among the boys and girls, and entered into their sports with<br />
a genuine zest, which quite delighted Mr. and Mrs. Docket, who sat
under a shady tree, beside their pic-nic basket, and laughed till they<br />
almost cried at the antics of the merry group before them, the merriest<br />
amongst which was their respected friend, Mr. Lemonpip.<br />
In the meantime little Mrs. Lemonpip was as joyless as a pelican with a<br />
broken bill. Never was a woman so teazed and tormented as she, that is<br />
to say, she thought so. Nine times during the afternoon did she answer<br />
that clamorous brass knocker, at the summons of two beggars, four<br />
hawkers, the postman, the milkwoman, and Mr. McSkilly; and as each<br />
time the self-persecuted little body had to apply to the black bottle for a<br />
thimbleful of comfort, by the time the last-named knocker arrived, Mrs.<br />
Lemonpip was, as she herself admitted, as cross as two sticks; or, as Mr.<br />
McSkilly whispered, in his own ears, “The auld body was mair than half<br />
fou.”<br />
“It is half-past six,” exclaimed the wrathy little woman, as she filled up<br />
the tea-pot from the hissing kettle on the hob. “It's half-past six, and<br />
Lemonpip ought to have been home long ago; he very well knows our<br />
tea-time, and I shall not wait another minute, nor yet half a minute,” so<br />
down she sat to the table, with her lodger, and began to pour out the tea,<br />
and to pour into his unwilling ears a dolorous report of her woes and<br />
worries during the day, to which he listened with as much display of<br />
sympathy as she might have expected from a wooden highlander outside<br />
a snuff-shop. After tea, which was hastily partaken of, Mr. McSkilly<br />
went out for a walk, leaving his landlady “to nurse her wrath, and keep it<br />
warm,” until the return of her henpecked husband.<br />
Rat-tat went the knocker again, soon after eight o'clock. Mrs.<br />
Lemonpip thought it was her late-staying spouse, so she hastened to the<br />
door, hissing as she went, like a squib just before it goes bang; but, lo! to<br />
her relief it was her new maid of all-work, with a band-box and bundle.<br />
The next hour was occupied in showing Jemima the holes and corners of<br />
the kitchen, and in explaining to her the routine of her duties, to which<br />
Jemima every minute briefly replied, “Yes, mum.”<br />
About nine o'clock Mr. Lemonpip returned home, very tired, but<br />
pleased with the way he had spent his half-holiday; the only drawback to<br />
his enjoyment was, he said, the absence of his little pop-gun. He soon<br />
saw, however, from unmistakable signs, that the less he said to his popgun<br />
that evening, the less probability there would be of an explosion; so<br />
after explaining that he had taken tea with Mr. and Mrs. Docket, he took<br />
a book and quietly sat down to study it, until Mr. McSkilly returned<br />
home, when they had family prayer, and a little bit of supper, then they<br />
all retired to rest, Mrs. Lemonpip having previously taken another little<br />
drop of Old Tom, as usual, by way of a night-cap.<br />
In a very short time Mr. Lemonpip was performing a sleeping<br />
voluntary on his nasal organ, with open diapason, for he, happy old soul,<br />
had no cares or anxieties to keep him awake, and all his organ pipes were
as sound as new saucepans. He was strictly temperate in his habits, and<br />
had never trifled with his naturally strong constitution; and as he always<br />
lay down in peace with God, and at peace with all the world, he passed<br />
very few sleepless hours in his bed. His wife, on the contrary, seldom<br />
slept throughout the night, and very often her sleepy spouse was aroused,<br />
and pestered with her fidgety “night thoughts,” or her interminable<br />
“curtain lectures.” On the night in question, Mrs. Lemonpip lay rolling<br />
about as comfortless as'a seal in a warm bath, and every stray mosquito's<br />
note sounded like a bugle in her excited ears. Her favourite Old Tom,<br />
instead of soothing her and sending her to sleep, helped to increase her<br />
irritability, and keep her awake. Poor soul! she had been bubbling over<br />
with ill-humour all day, and had not had the satisfaction of pouring the<br />
usual measure of wrath upon her docile partner; moreover, she had had<br />
no servant to scold, which was an additional trial to her patience. She<br />
was by no means pleased that Mr. Lemonpip had spent an agreeable<br />
holiday, and spent a good many shillings too, while she had been so<br />
bothered and overworked at home; and she knew that it would be vain to<br />
try to compose herself to sleap, until she had fully unburdened her mind<br />
of that matter. In fact, she had made up her mind to give him a long<br />
lecture; and having thus resolved, she was not long in framing a pretext<br />
for awakening him from his peaceful slumber; so she administered a<br />
preliminary nudge in his ribs with her elbow (which made him cough),<br />
and exclaimed sharply, “How you do snore, Lemonpip! I should like to<br />
know who can sleep, while you make that noise?”<br />
“Bless me! was I snoring? I beg your pardon, my duck,” said Mr.<br />
Lemonpip, half awaking and turning over. “I'm very sorry I disturbed<br />
you. I suppose I was lying on my back, and I believe I do breathe hard<br />
when lying in that position.”<br />
“Humph! lying on your back, or lying in any other way, it is all the<br />
same with you, after you have been holiday-keeping, for you always<br />
make a noise like an over-fed calf.”<br />
Mr. Lemonpip was dosily conscious that a storm was brewing inside<br />
his wife's breast, so he pulled his nightcap over his ears in silence, and<br />
tried to go to sleep again.<br />
“I smell fire! Are you sure you put that kerosene lamp out, Lemonpip?”<br />
said the little mischief-maker, who was well aware that nothing would so<br />
soon arouse her husband as an alarm, or even a suspicion of fire.<br />
“Eh, what, fire?” exclaimed Mr. Lemonpip, who was thoroughly awake<br />
in a moment, and sitting up in the bed he began sniffing and trying his<br />
utmost to smell the element he most dreaded.<br />
“Lie down, Lemonpip,” said his wife pettishly, “you are letting the<br />
wind into the bed, and making me shiver. Lie down I say, directly.”<br />
“Well, my dear, I don't like to lie down if the house is on fire. I can't<br />
smell anything to be sure, but I've got a slight cold in my head. I'll go
down stairs and see if all is safe, though I think I put that lamp out all<br />
right.”<br />
“Think! that's just like you: you ought to be sure about such a<br />
dangerous thing as fire. You are the most careless man I ever saw,<br />
Lemonpip; you have no more gumption than a donkey.”<br />
“Where are the matches, my dear?” asked Mr. Lemonpip, who had got<br />
out of bed, and knocked his toe against the towel horse.<br />
“Matches! You don't want a light to see if the house is on fire, surely!<br />
if you do, it will be all the same, for we haven't a single match in the<br />
house: I forgot to send Jemima for a box before she went to bed. You had<br />
better get into bed again, and don't be pottering about there in the dark. I<br />
think the fire has gone out, for I can't smell it now.”<br />
But Mr. Lemonpip thought as he was out of bed, he might as well<br />
assure himself that the house was quite safe; (for he was not certain that<br />
he had put out the lamp; though he could not recollect that he had ever<br />
failed to do so one single night since he first owned a lamp,) so he began<br />
to descend the stairs, while his wicked little wife lay still, and further<br />
plotted against his peace. She knew that on his return to bed he would be<br />
as wide awake as an owl, and she resolved to tell him a considerable bit<br />
of her mind before he slumbered again, by way of easing off a heavy<br />
load of ill humour, and at the same time punishing her spouse for being<br />
happy out of her society.<br />
Thump, thump, thump, went Mr. Lemonpip's heavy heels on the<br />
carpetted stairs, until he got to the bottom; when lo! on a sudden, the<br />
house was filled with the most horrible sounds that ever distracted<br />
human ears.<br />
“Waa! Wa-er! Wounds! Woes!” shrieked a terrific unknown tongue, in<br />
the hall (at least so Mrs. Lemonpip interpreted the awful yells, which<br />
nearly drove her frantic,) followed immediately by a frightful cry from<br />
Mr. Lemonpip, who felt himself in the clutches of some evil spirit, which<br />
was clawing his flesh with demoniacal fury. Almost at the same moment<br />
a crash, like the downfall of a brewer's chimney, filled the whole house,<br />
from the coal cellar upwards, with an uproar and clatter alarming in the<br />
extreme. A few low moans followed, then all was silent as an empty<br />
church.<br />
Mrs. Lemonpip sprang out of bed in a moment, though she was rather<br />
stout, — and ardently did she wish for a box of those matches, which she<br />
had abused the poor Lancashire man for offering to sell her that very<br />
morning. She was afraid to go below, lest the evil spirit, or whatever it<br />
was, should catch her too; so she rushed to the head of the stairs, and<br />
cried Lemonpip, in her most authoritative tone; but the only reply was a<br />
rasping guttural sound, which made her flesh creep, and her teeth chatter<br />
with terror. She rang the bell for Jemima, but she might as well have rang<br />
it for Jemima's mother, who lived at Coogee, for the girl was stone deaf
in her right ear, and she was lying on her left side in peaceful<br />
unconsciousness of her mistress's distress, and her master's disaster, or of<br />
the active bell in the kitchen lobby.<br />
To describe the perturbed state of Mrs. Lemonpip's mind at that trying<br />
juncture is too much for my pen: all her cruel persecution of her poor old<br />
man, rushed like a turbid torrent upon her distracted senses, and she<br />
howled with terrormingled grief — ” Lemonpip! my own Lemonpip!<br />
Dear Jacky! speak to your pigeon: only one word, say you are not dead,<br />
and I shall be happy!” But not a single word did her dear Jacky utter, a<br />
stifled death-like groan was the only response, which ascended through<br />
the darkness, and penetrated Mrs. Lemonpip's awakened conscience like<br />
a rusty spike.<br />
Chapter III.<br />
IN a terrible state of excitement, Mrs. Lemonpip hastened up stairs to<br />
the back attic, and called loudly upon Mr. McSkilly for help and counsel,<br />
in the extraordinary trial which had visited her. She had previously<br />
shouted fire! in order to arouse her lodger. Receiving no answer to her<br />
verbal application, she drummed at his door with her knees and knuckles,<br />
loud enough to stun the thickest head in Sydney; and when that appeal<br />
failed to elicit a response, she boldly opened the door and entered the<br />
room, when, to her further bewilderment, she discovered that her lodger<br />
was non est. The window was wide open, and the full moon was shining<br />
into the empty bed, from which Mr. McSkilly had most unaccountably<br />
vanished, she knew not whither. Various articles of wearing apparel were<br />
lying in confusion on the floor, but not even the shadow of the owner<br />
could be seen; and all sorts of supernatural notions flitted through Mrs.<br />
Lemonpip's excited brain, as to the aërial flight of her lodger, and also as<br />
to the horrifying fate of her poor husband; while she intimately<br />
connected Satan himself with the mystery and the mischief, both upstairs<br />
and down.<br />
Alarmed beyond measure, and apprehensive of personal damage by<br />
remaining, Mrs Lemonpip rushed into the front attic, threw up the sash,<br />
and, arrayed merely in her night robe and cap, she slid down the dewy<br />
slates into the leaden gutter, and made the best of her way to the front<br />
attic window of the adjoining house, or number one, which was a young<br />
ladies school, kept by Mrs. Backboard. In that attic were three young<br />
lady boarders, and a pupil teacher. The latter young lady was just about<br />
to put the extinguisher on her candle, preparatory to jumping into bed,<br />
when she heard a tapping at the window, and at the same time saw the<br />
purple nose, and white frilled nightcap of Mrs. Lemonpip, which was all<br />
that could be seen of her, for the window was five feet from the leaden<br />
gutter. But even that was evidently more than the pupil teacher rejoiced
to see; for she uttered a shrill scream, which awakened the three young<br />
lady boarders, and they all screamed too; while they tumbled out of bed<br />
as nimbly as sailors in a sinking ship, rushed out of the attic to the floor<br />
below, and aroused all the other boarders and Mrs. Backboard, with the<br />
startling report that a ghost was in the gutter on the roof, and knocking at<br />
their bedroom window.<br />
An indescribable commotion filled the house, and the utmost efforts of<br />
Mrs. Backboard to restore order and discipline, failed altogether. Threats<br />
of long lessons, and “bad marks,” on the morrow, had no perceptible<br />
effect in quelling the panic, which possessed every fluttering young<br />
heart, and blanched every fair face. The housemaid positively refused to<br />
go for a policeman, and received a week's warning there and then; and<br />
the cook, with insubordination in her eyes, declared that she would not<br />
stir a peg at that time of night, for the best place in the colony. The pupil<br />
teacher suggested that they should all shout together from the drawingroom<br />
windows, and she was sure they would be heard at all the police<br />
stations in Sydney; but she was peremptorily ordered to be silent, and to<br />
go and look for the wooden rattle in the lumber room, which orders she<br />
very reluctantly obeyed.<br />
Mrs. Backboard was a strong-minded woman, and had always<br />
professed a thorough contempt for spirits of all sorts: so she took a<br />
candlestick, and requesting six of the senior boarders to follow her,<br />
boldly ascended to the front attic; but had no sooner entered it, than she<br />
turned round and hastened out again, with her face as white as the wax<br />
candle in her hand; for she had beheld Mrs. Lemompip's night-capped<br />
head at the window, and had heard her bony knuckles knocking against<br />
the glass. The startled school mistress did not wait an instant to see or<br />
hear more, but descended to the second floor, almost as quickly as the six<br />
senior boarders, who had skipped down the stairs in double quick time,<br />
each one believing that the ghost was close behind her.<br />
Meantime Mrs. Lemonpip was shivering on the wet slates, in a state of<br />
mind bordering on despair. She had failed to gain ingress to Mrs.<br />
Backboard's and was unable to regain her own house, for she could not<br />
reach the window unassisted. She was afraid to apply for admission at<br />
number three, as they kept young men lodgers; so in her helpless misery<br />
she squatted down in the leaden gutter, and there indulged in reflections,<br />
bitter as the soot which tattooed her scanty attire. Reverses had befallen<br />
her, sudden and severe, and withal shrouded in a horrible mystery, which<br />
her reason vainly tried to unfold. But a brief hour before she was the<br />
most important member of the house, upon the roof of which she now sat<br />
shivering, like a robin in a hard frost. She was now learning the sternly<br />
practical lesson of the instability and the uncertainty of human positions.<br />
An hour before, she had a superfluity of comforts at her command, and<br />
was in her warm bed, beside her live husband. She was a reverenced
wife, and a respected landlady, in fact, the head of a household; now she<br />
was a poor miserably wet widow, apparently shut out from society<br />
altogether, bereft of her husband, deserted by her lodger, slighted by her<br />
next-door neighbour, scared out of her house by Satan, or some of his<br />
emissaries, and left all alone beneath the treacherous full moon, in that<br />
cold comfortless gutter to bemoan her unprecedented misfortunes, and to<br />
unbosom her woes before those frowning chimney-pots, and creaking<br />
cowls.<br />
But the smallest grains, by attentive culture, sometimes produce a rich<br />
harvest. Adversity often teaches a wholesome lesson, and “he is the man<br />
of power, who controls the storms and tempests of his mind, and turns to<br />
good account the worst accidents of fortune.” It would perhaps be wrong<br />
to give Mrs. Lemonpip credit for much philosophy, but she was not<br />
devoid of feeling. She had a woman's heart in her breast, although<br />
unfortunately it had become rather callous and sour, through long<br />
feeding on imaginary woes and worries, petty grievances and old tom;<br />
and in brooding over her self-made troubles, she had overlooked the<br />
many mercies and comforts with which her lot was crowned. A sensible<br />
scribe says, “Women sometimes do not prize their husbands as they<br />
ought. They sometimes learn the value of a good husband for the first<br />
time by the loss of him. Yet the husband is the very roof-tree of the<br />
house — the corner stone of the edifice, the key-stone of that arch called<br />
home. He is the bread-winner of the family, its defence and its glory; the<br />
beginning and ending of the golden chain of life which surrounds it, its<br />
consoler, its lawgiver, and its king. And yet we see how frail is that life<br />
on which so much depends. How frail is the life of the husband and the<br />
father! When he is taken away, who shall fill his place? When he is sick,<br />
what a gloomy cloud hovers over the house! When he is dead, what<br />
darkness and weeping agony.”<br />
Little Mrs. Lemonpip felt all the loneliness of sudden widowhood; and,<br />
added to her grief for the loss of a kind devoted husband, was the bitter<br />
regret that she had been the indirect cause of his fatal disaster<br />
— whatever it was — and the regret too, that she had so very often<br />
grieved his loving heart by her pettishness, or positive cruelty.<br />
Recollections of the thousand fond acts of her dear lost one rushed into<br />
her mind, and tears simultaneously gushed into her eyes — those eyes,<br />
which for years had never been suffused except by tears of vexation,<br />
began to overflow with genuine contrition. She remembered all his<br />
kindness, and solicitude for her comfort and pleasure, as evidenced even<br />
that very morning — but which kindnesses she had so often slighted, or<br />
indignantly spurned. Then she called to mind his constant example of<br />
gentleness, meekness, patience, — his wonderful forbearance with her<br />
bad manners, and his frequent prayers for her reformation; and her<br />
conscience condemned her, whichever way she viewed her conduct.
As she sat in searching judgment upon herself, she became clearly<br />
convinced of the cause of her irritability and furious temper, which had<br />
not only made her life miserable, but had made her dreaded and disliked<br />
by all her acquaintance — by every one in fact, but the dear, kind,<br />
charitable soul which she had cruelly hunted out of his body. She became<br />
bitterly conscious of the way she had been befooled by the tippling<br />
tempter for years past; and she fancied she saw at the same time the evil<br />
one before her eyes, sitting in the gutter, mocking her misery. Yes, there<br />
sat old tom (the arch fiend, whom she had daily hugged to her bosom, for<br />
many years) in the shape of an immense goggled-eyed toad, croaking and<br />
spitting fire at her. There he sat, with all the malignity of Satan himself;<br />
and as she gazed she hated him, and hated herself too for allowing that<br />
deceitful enemy to tempt her into such shameful neglect of her sacred<br />
conjugal duties; and she there and then resolved, that as soon as she got<br />
her boots on again she would crunch old tom beneath her heels. Never<br />
more should he enter her household, to breed disorder therein, and to ruin<br />
her body, and soul too.<br />
* * * * *<br />
The pupil teacher at number one having found the watchman's rattle in<br />
the lumber room, Mrs. Backboard seized it, and entering the front<br />
balcony as bravely as a fireman, she rattled a rattle, louder than a sackful<br />
of Chinese crackers all alight, which soon brought a posse of policemen<br />
before the house, and a large concourse of excited spectators too.<br />
Considering it imprudent to admit policemen, or any other men, inside<br />
her doors at that hour, Mrs. Backboard explained to the inspector, from<br />
the balcony, that a mysterious white figure was on the top of her house.<br />
“Perhaps it is a white cat, madam,” suggested the inspector politely,<br />
while some of his men were observed to wink.<br />
“It is neither a cat nor a dog, sir,” replied Mrs. Backboard, with stately<br />
emphasis, “I saw it with my own eyes, and I request that you will get a<br />
ladder and catch it, whatever it may be. It has no right to trespass on my<br />
roof, and disturb the peace of my household. I give it in charge.”<br />
A ladder was procured, when a policeman mounted and peeped<br />
cautiously over the parapet, just as Mrs. Lemonpip was vowing total<br />
abstinence for life. As she caught sight of the man's head and shoulders,<br />
she uttered a shriek, which made the multitude in the street shudder, and<br />
made the man on the top of the ladder hasten to the bottom again faster<br />
than he went up.<br />
“What is it? What is it?” asked a hundred voices, as the terrified<br />
policeman regained the roadway.<br />
“It's a great big ghost, sitting on the slates,” said the man, wiping the<br />
cold perspiration from his brow.
“Pooh! a great big goose!” sneered the inspector, with an angry glance<br />
at his shaking subordinate. — “I'm ashamed of you, Wilkins.”<br />
“There's the ghost! There he is, hooray!” roared the excited crowd,<br />
pointing to the roof, where, sure enough, Mrs. Lemonpip was leaning<br />
over the parapet, and with outstretched hands was calling loudly for help.<br />
“Get out of the way,” said the inspector, as he pushed through the<br />
throng to the ladder, with laudable determination in his looks, and<br />
nimbly mounted to the roof just as Mrs. Lemonpip had fainted away,<br />
fairly overcome with terror and fatigue. The inspector summoned two or<br />
three of his men to his assistance, and with their united strength they<br />
lifted the insensible little woman through the window into her own front<br />
attic.<br />
* * * * *<br />
I must now try to explain the cause of the sudden flight of Mr.<br />
McSkilly, which the reader doubtless is anxious to learn. When he was<br />
first awakened by the unearthly yells which had so alarmed Mrs.<br />
Lemonpip, and after he had heard his landlady's loud cries of fire, he<br />
sprang out of bed, scrambled out of the window, and hastened to the<br />
back attic window of number three. But with characteristic caution he<br />
dragged a hair trunk after him, which contained all that he owned in the<br />
house, except the scattered garments on the floor, which he would not<br />
stay to put on his person.<br />
In the back attic of number three lay a little Celtic doctor, who had<br />
recently arrived in Sydney as surgeon of an emigrant ship. He had taken<br />
up temporary lodgings in the house of Monsieur Blowitt, a professor of<br />
music, and on the night in question, there he lay on a curtainless<br />
stretcher, blessing the mosquitos, and other triflers with nocturnal repose,<br />
which are not scarce in Sydney in the summer season, as most new<br />
comers are aware. The doctor had, a short time before, made a vigorous<br />
attack on the mosquitos with his waiscoat, and fancying that he had<br />
driven them all out of the window, he had put his head beneath the top<br />
sheet and began to dose off. He was dreaming that he was crossing the<br />
Line again in the good ship Diver; and that his 340 emigrants were<br />
dancing with Neptune's crew on the deck over his cabin, just as Mr.<br />
McSkilly was dragging his hair trunk along the roof over the doctor's<br />
dormitory.<br />
On arriving at the open window, Mr. McSkilly unhesitatingly inserted<br />
one half of his tall bony body into the attic, without asking permission, or<br />
indeed without knowing whether there was any person there to consult<br />
on the subject; and having thus secured an entry for himself, he was<br />
leaning forward with his long arms trying to drag in his hair trunk from<br />
the leaden gutter below the window, for, next to his life, he valued his
trunk. At that moment Dr. O'Flaherty opened his eyes to behold an<br />
undefinable apparition darkening his chamber window and making a<br />
rumbling noise on the roof, like a barrowful of bricks, so that in far less<br />
time than it takes me to record it, the fiery little Celt decided upon a<br />
course of prompt action to punish the bold invader of the sanctity of his<br />
chamber, and the noisy disturber of his slumbers.<br />
It is said that an Hibernian sire once gave this parting advice to his son,<br />
who was starting out on his travels in foreign lands. “Phelim, me bhoy!<br />
whiniver yez hear of a row hurry to it; an whiniver yez see a head, hit it<br />
wid yer sthick.” Dr. O'Flaherty probably held similar views respecting<br />
the policy of hitting heads; at any rate he was not disposed to allow heads<br />
or bodies either to intrude upon his privacy unmolested, so he sprang out<br />
of bed in a twinkling, seized his shillelah, which was always handy, and<br />
dealt Mr. McSkilly a mighty crack — or rather thud — not on his head<br />
exactly, because his head was outside the window. He hit him very hard,<br />
however, and his head very soon came inside the window to see what<br />
was the matter behind him, and to ascertain who it was that had behaved<br />
so inhospitably; and then commenced an awful fight between the doctor<br />
and the dentist, which I must describe in my next chapter, where I will<br />
also explain the primary cause of all these extraordinary occurrences.<br />
Chapter IV.<br />
DOCTOR O'FLAHERTY was not deterred from hitting Mr. McSkilly<br />
on the head, in the first instance, by any particular respect for that<br />
member, but merely because the head was outside the attic looking after<br />
the trunk. The correctness of that assumption is very clear; for no sooner<br />
had the astounded Scotchman drawn his head inside, than the choleric<br />
little doctor began to rap at it like a volunteer bandsman beating a kettle<br />
drum.<br />
“Hook toot mon!” cried McSkilly. “Dinna be fechtin me, I'll gang out<br />
of yer hoose agen, if I'm na welcome intil it. I wadna fecht for ony<br />
money, I'd rather rin awa ony day.”<br />
“What do you mane by poking your ugly carcase inside my window?<br />
You cat-a-walling thief!” With that the doctor made his stick rattle again<br />
on McSkilly's head, while the poor bewildered fellow stood for a<br />
moment, uncertain whether to fight or flee.<br />
“Don't you know better manners than to come into a gintleman's<br />
apartment in that haythinish fashion? And is this the way you trate your<br />
supariors, in this part of the worrld?” saying which the little Celt<br />
moistened his hand to grip his shillelah again, and hopping round the<br />
astonished Scot, alternately attacked his head and his shins, until his<br />
peaceable spirit was aroused to fighting pitch, in pure self-defence. With<br />
a rapid outpouring of Caledonian compliments, he rushed upon his
unknown assailant, like a kangaroo dog attacking a terrier, and the little<br />
doctor was hors de combat in an instant, being unable to stand against<br />
the resistless force of his tall sinewy antagonist. With a crash, which<br />
nearly shook the house down, the two combatants fell to the floor, and<br />
there they lay rolling about, pommelling each other without mercy; and<br />
anathematising in their own peculiar style, until everybody in the house<br />
was aroused by the extraordinary riot, and jarring medley of epithets.<br />
In the bedroom beneath the combatants lay Monsieur and Madam<br />
Blowitt, the landlord and his lady, quietly enjoying their first nap; until<br />
the grand crash just described, which knocked down half the plaster of<br />
the ceiling on to their bed, which soon awakened them. Monsieur Blowitt<br />
hastily scrambled from beneath the debris of fallen mortar, and with a<br />
revolver in one hand, and a bedroom lantern in the other, he rushed up<br />
stairs to the back attic, with mischief in his flashing eyes, and murder in<br />
his violent gesticulation.<br />
“Morbleu! qu'est ce que c'est donc!” roared the infuriate Frenchman.<br />
“Vat you kick up dis von great big row, you beggers! Vat for you knock<br />
my house down, eh? Morbleu! Vat for you do it: vill you tell me dat? I<br />
vill shoot you dead, and kill you both vid dis fusil.”<br />
A scene of confusion and uproar ensued, equalled only by a sea fight<br />
among a forecastle full of tipsy sailors. Fortunately there were no caps on<br />
the revolver, or it is probable murder would have been committed.<br />
Monsieur Blowitt soon perceived that there was a stranger in the room;<br />
when he, without any formality, allied himself to the doctor, and poor<br />
McSkilly got a woeful beating between them. In vain did he try to<br />
explain the cause of his nocturnal intrusion, and beg for mercy or fair<br />
play; they evidently mistook him for a burglar, and although he warmly<br />
appealed to his trunk on the roof, to attest his honest intentions, and<br />
emphatically asked them, “if they ever kenned a thief to tak his box<br />
o'claes wi him, when he broke intil a hoose?” his furious assailants<br />
disregarded all his appeals, and would not listen to his reasoning, nor<br />
look out of the window to investigate his box, but dragged him down<br />
stairs, and handed him over to the policemen, whom the uproar had<br />
attracted to the spot. Followed by the usual noisy street rabble, the<br />
bruised and bleeding dentist was escorted to the station house, vainly<br />
protesting all the way there against the illegal seizure of his person, and<br />
imploring somebody to look after his trunk.<br />
I must leave Mr. McSkilly to his ruminations in the lock-up, (and his<br />
self-congratulations on his escape from the “deil himsel,”) and return to<br />
Mrs. Lemonpip. I would here remark, that these thrilling incidents<br />
occurred rather quicker than I have been able to record them; for they<br />
occupied but little more than three hours, from the first outbreak to the<br />
dénouement.<br />
Mrs. Lemonpip soon recovered from her swoon, and after borrowing a
ull's-eye lantern from one of the policemen, she hastened to her<br />
chamber to put herself into more becoming attire; while the inspector and<br />
his men, at her request, went down stairs to investigate the cause of such<br />
varied disasters. In a few minutes Mrs. Lemonpip descended the stairs<br />
too, with a palpitating heart, and the first object her gratified eyes gazed<br />
upon was her much prized husband — all alive — sitting upon the hall<br />
mat, replying to the numerous questions of the inspector.<br />
“My dear, dear Jacky!” exclaimed Mrs. Lemonpip, rushing up and<br />
throwing her arms about his neck with a warmth of affection which she<br />
had long disowned. “My own dear Lemonpip; I am so glad you are not<br />
dead! Forgive me, pray forgive me, Jacky, my love! It was all my fault<br />
that you got into this terrible trouble, but I will faithfully promise and<br />
vow, never to grieve you again as long as I live.” The little woman was<br />
here fairly overcome with emotion and gave vent to a flood of tears,<br />
which slightly affected the inspector and all his men. “Oh! I am so glad<br />
you are alive, Jacky! You can't think, and I can't tell you all I have felt<br />
about you; I have had an awful time, I can assure you, I never was so<br />
frightened in all my life before. But do tell me, dear, what has been the<br />
matter with you; you needn't mind these gentlemen, they are all friends.<br />
Tell us all about it, dear, what it was that knocked you down and hurt<br />
you? Where all this blood came from? What it was that made that<br />
frightful noise?”<br />
Thus entreated, Mr. Lemonpip began to explain all he could recollect<br />
of the tragical occurrences of the last three hours. In descending to the<br />
hall in the dark, he had unfortunately trodden upon something soft,<br />
which was coiled up on a dogskin mat at the foot of the stairs. The<br />
goblin, or whatever it was, had very reasonably shrieked out, under the<br />
pressure of Mr. Lemonpip's fifteen stone person, and had at the same<br />
time made violent efforts to claw and bite off the leg which had crushed<br />
it; as witnessed the marks on the limb itself. The unexpected attack of<br />
some unknown, though formidable teeth and talons, and the startling<br />
shrieks too, had naturally enough made Mr. Lemonpip jump — as the<br />
saying is — and in doing so he had knocked his head against the<br />
ponderous umbrella-stand in the hall, and overturned it; then falling<br />
down upon it he so stunned himself, that he had lain for an hour or more,<br />
totally unconscious of what was going on around him. When his reason<br />
returned his nervous system was so shaken, that he had been afraid to<br />
move hand or foot, or his tongue either, lest he should again step upon or<br />
otherwise arouse the dreaded fury of the mysterious enemy, which had so<br />
painfully lacerated his left leg, and so terribly frightened him besides.<br />
There he had lain upon the cold oil-cloth, silently watching for daylight,<br />
and wondering what all the riot was about outside his house, and inside<br />
his neighbour's houses on either side of him. There he lay surmising all<br />
sorts of unpleasant reasons for his cruel desertion, in this time of trial, by
his wife and his attic lodger, until the welcome arrival of the policeman,<br />
and the still more welcome smiles and embraces of his precious little<br />
pigeon, had restored gladness into his looks, notwithstanding his wounds<br />
and bruises.<br />
That was all Mr. Lemonpip could tell them about his mishaps. In<br />
making a search, however, in order further to elucidate the mystery, they<br />
discovered Mrs. Lemonpip's favourite old tom cat, lying on the dogskin<br />
mat, pressed as flat as a volume of acts of parliament. He was quite dead,<br />
of course, but his mouth was wide open, as if he had died in the act of<br />
making that awful noise, which had so terrified Mrs. Lemonpip and her<br />
lodger too, and which she afterwards regarded as the friendly outcry of<br />
the animal against that dangerous rival in his mistress's house, and in her<br />
heart too; as if he with his last outtrodden breath had exalted his voice to<br />
a supernatural pitch, to warn her of the diabolical character of that other<br />
“old tom” in the black bottle; her overweening fondness for which, had<br />
caused the untimely death of one of the best rat-catching cats in the<br />
colony; it being quite clear that it was the mischief-making gin which<br />
had incited her to send her husband down stairs on that disastrous<br />
occasion.<br />
It did not fail to strike Mrs. Lemonpip as a remarkable coincidence,<br />
that at the very time her poor old tom cat was giving his last kick at the<br />
bottom of the house, beside her prostrate spouse, she was sitting on the<br />
top of the house in solitary sorrow, resolving upon the total abandonment<br />
of the old tom in the cupboard, or in figuratively crunching him beneath<br />
her heel. Although she could not but lament the painful end of her<br />
faithful old cat, she was ever afterwards consoled when looking at his<br />
stuffed skin in the glass case on the side board, that tom's dying cries had<br />
been instrumental in arousing her to a sense of her danger of becoming a<br />
downright drunkard, and had led to her totally forsaking the pernicious<br />
and expensive habit of tippling, or taking a “little drop of comfort” every<br />
hour of the day — a habit which had long since sapped the foundations<br />
of all her domestic comfort, had chilled the natural warmth of her heart's<br />
affections, and made her a misery to herself; a dreaded nuisance to her<br />
friends — and, what is infinitely worse than all, had destroyed her hope<br />
of the life to come.<br />
The inspector soon comprehended the whole affair, and smilingly<br />
withdrew with his men to explain as much as was expedient to the<br />
excited populace outside, in order to induce them to disperse. He then<br />
went to the watch house and liberated Mr. McSkilly, and although it was<br />
some time before that honest Scot would accept of his “free pardon,” and<br />
talked loudly of bringing actions for damages against Dr. O'Flaherty,<br />
Monsieur Blowitt, and the whole police corps; after a while, his good<br />
nature prevailed over his litigious disposition, and he laughed heartily at<br />
the seriocomical events, then shook hands with the inspector, said “gude
nicht, freends,” to all the constables, and hastened home to look after his<br />
hair trunk. As he limped along on his bruised legs, he could not fail to<br />
remember Dr. O'Flaherty's shillelah, and, doubtless, he reflected at the<br />
same time that had he but displayed manly courage, and a true friendly<br />
spirit, he would have saved his host and hostess the disagreeable exposé;<br />
and his next door neighbour on either side the annoying disturbance of<br />
that eventful night, and would have saved himself too the beating, and<br />
the ignominious association with the usual nightly denizens of the watchhouse.<br />
* * * * *<br />
“The world rings with answering echoes:” writes a popular authoress,<br />
“they come not alone from braes and hills, but from hearts and lives.<br />
Some are soft and low as the sound of the wind among the leaves; some<br />
wild as the eagle's scream, or sullen as the ocean's roar. Like produces<br />
like is the law. Storm clouds blacken the earth, sunshine brightens it.<br />
Thunder is answered by thunder; bird song by bird song; petulance and<br />
distrust by petulance and distrust; kindness by kindness.”<br />
Mr. Lemonpip understood that law, for he was a philosopher in his<br />
way. He knew “that as a cross word begets a cross word, so will a kind<br />
one beget its likeness;” and that it is by little acts of watchful kindness<br />
that affection is won; the comfort of social life is preserved, and a<br />
softening influence is secured over hearts which an opposite conduct<br />
would repel, or overload with acerbity.”<br />
Mr. Lemonpip had long grieved over his dear wife's infirmities of<br />
temper and habit, and had tried with affectionate solicitude, and by every<br />
means which kindness could suggest, to restore her mind to that serenity<br />
which she once enjoyed, and which had in former days filled his house<br />
with happiness. The accursed thing in his household — the blight of his<br />
domestic comfort, was his wife's fondness for stimulants, which had<br />
gradually increased to a dangerous excess. It was yielding to that<br />
debasing passion which had soured her temper and turned her into a<br />
shrew. Mr. Lemonpip had tried every means, and had used every effort,<br />
both of example and precept, to induce her to abandon that slavish<br />
besetment, but apparently without effect. His kind words and tender<br />
solicitude, however, were not unappreciated by her, and they were<br />
gradually producing their softening effects. That memorable night was<br />
the turning point in her life, for she had resolved to banish “Old Tom”<br />
or the ginbottle — from her house for ever. The resolution was partially<br />
carried out next morning, when the black bottle was smashed, and she<br />
solemnly promised that she would never again taste strong drink.<br />
The joy of Mr. Lemonpip may be imagined at observing from day to<br />
day the thorough change in his wife's habits and temper. The old happy
smiles of bygone days returned to her face, and the silvery gentleness to<br />
her voice. With her head free from the bewildering excitement of strong<br />
drink, she could calmly review her actions for many years past; and the<br />
result was a thorough self-renunciation. She saw with abhorrence the<br />
cruelty and ingratitude of her conduct to her over indulgent husband, and<br />
the disgrace she was bringing upon his fair reputation. Above all, she<br />
saw that she had been sinning against God, and madly rushing to eternal<br />
ruin. She sincerely repented of her sins, and humbly sought pardon<br />
through the merits of Jesus Christ; and as no one ever earnestly sought<br />
for peace in that way without finding it, Mrs. Lemonpip found it, and<br />
from that happy time to the day of her death, a more earnest, zealous<br />
Christian could not be found in the colony. Nor could a happier man be<br />
found than Mr. Lemonpip: indeed they were a blithe old pair, whose<br />
hearts were full of love. Not a jarring word was ever heard in their house<br />
from that time forward, except on one occasion, Mrs. Lemonpip forgot<br />
herself for a minute and began to scold her Jacky, when he looked at the<br />
glass-case on the sideboard with a merry twinkle in his eye, and quietly<br />
ejaculated “poor old tom.” The cloud on Mrs. Lemonpip's brow<br />
disappeared instantly, and she burst into a hearty laugh, in which her<br />
light-hearted husband joined, and declared, while he kissed her<br />
affectionately, that “there was not a man in Sydney who was blessed<br />
with such a loving little pop of a wife as his own darling Betty, who was<br />
worth her weight in diamond rings.”
Sailors' Yarns!<br />
“DID you ever sail from port on a Friday, Mr. Boomerang?” asked a<br />
weather-beaten old skipper, who was walking the deck of his vessel,<br />
smoking his pipe. It is not necessary to mention either the name of the<br />
vessel, or the latitude and longitude of her position.<br />
“Yes, captain, I have often sailed on short coasting trips on Friday; and<br />
I can recollect on two occasions putting to sea on a long voyage on a<br />
Friday.”<br />
“Humph! and did you not get into some unlucky scrape or other before<br />
the voyage ended?”<br />
“We certainly did, sir,” I replied; “for each time we put back disabled.”<br />
The captain chuckled, as though he rather enjoyed mischief, then gave<br />
me a catalogue of disasters which were reported to have been caused by<br />
certain captains recklessly persisting in sailing on that ill-famed day.<br />
“But I should be more disposed to think that the disasters, which I<br />
alluded to, captain, resulted from a desecration of Sabbath days, if I<br />
believed that special days had any influence at all on the events of a<br />
voyage: for on one occasion the ship was coaled on a Sunday, and the<br />
second time we put back, the various congregations of worshipping<br />
Christians in the town, off which we were anchored, were disturbed by<br />
the ringing of blacksmiths' hammers, as they repaired certain machinery,<br />
the breakage of which had obliged us to return to port.”<br />
“Well, sir, there is a smacking of sound sense in your remarks,” said<br />
the captain. “I have seen so many disasters happen to ships after sailing<br />
on Sundays, that I have given up the practice entirely; for I believe illluck<br />
attends it. I don't think I would trip my anchor, on that day, to oblige<br />
my father, unless it were to get my ship out of danger, or some such<br />
emergency. I will tell you what happened to me the very last time that I<br />
got under way on a Sunday, I could give you plenty more examples of<br />
the same sort, but one fact is as good as forty to elucidate the point I am<br />
arguing; and I don't want to spin you too many of these dry yarns, lest<br />
you should scud away below, and leave me to talk to the moon.<br />
“I was once upon a time lying in a certain port to the northward of<br />
Sydney, with a fleet of other vessels, waiting for a fair wind. There were<br />
not so many steam-tugs in those days as there are now, and vessels of<br />
heavy draught of water usually waited for a leading wind out of the<br />
harbour. One Sunday morning I roused out of my berth unusually early,
and went on deck to take a look at the weather. There was a light air<br />
from the north-west, with a clear sky overhead; so I said to the mate, ‘If<br />
the breeze freshens at all, after the tide has slackened a bit, Mr. Shackles,<br />
we'll up stick and be off; so see all clear for a start.’<br />
“ ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ said the mate, but he looked rather dismal at me, for his<br />
wife and children lived in a little house on the hill, just abreast of us, and<br />
I think they were expecting him on shore for the day. However, he didn't<br />
grumble, poor fellow! and I was sorry after a bit, that I had not let him go<br />
on shore to say good-bye to them. Well, away he went forward and<br />
turned the hands to, to hoist up the boats, and secure the deck lumber.<br />
About ten o'clock I saw a lot of other vessels getting ready for sea, so I<br />
gave the orders to heave the cable short, and cast the gaskets off the<br />
yards. Just at that time I saw a boat put off from a rakish-looking<br />
schooner, lying at anchor about a cable's length to wind-ward of me; and<br />
as the boat passed close under the stern of my ship, I hailed the captain,<br />
with whom I was slightly acquainted.<br />
“ ‘Halloa, friend; where are you bound to?’ said I. ‘Arn't you going to<br />
get under way, with this fine leading wind? or are you going for a day's<br />
fishing?’<br />
“ ‘No, sir,’ said he, ‘I'm going to church. I never sail out of harbour on<br />
Sundays, for there is nothing gained by it, and it is not fair play to my<br />
men to deprive them of their lawful day's rest. Besides, my owner<br />
wouldn't allow it.’<br />
“ ‘My blocks and sheaves! that's a superfine yarn, too,’ said I. ‘It's no<br />
wonder you did not stay long in Messrs. Bousem, Tawt, and Co.'s<br />
employ. Now I understand why they so soon unshipped you; for I<br />
recollect hearing old Bousem himself arguing that very point, like a sea<br />
lawyer, with one of his skippers; and proving, to his own satisfaction,<br />
that it was right and proper to sail on Sunday; indeed, he showed very<br />
clearly, that in some cases it was a sin not to do so. For instance, if the<br />
wind was fair, he argued that it would be a contempt of God's<br />
providential favours not to make use of it; consequently, the captain who<br />
would not top his boom and be off to sea, if his ship was ready, was a<br />
wicked sinner. It's a lucky thing for you, my friend,’ said I, ‘that old<br />
Bousem is not your owner now, or you'd nap it pretty smartly for going<br />
to church, and letting this fine fair wind blow to waste.’<br />
“ ‘I have listened to old Bousem's logic,’ replied the little skipper,<br />
smiling, ‘but it never induced me to ignore the Divine command, to keep<br />
holy the sabbath day. My principle is to obey that law, even if I offend<br />
owners. You had better pay out your chain again, captain, and come<br />
ashore with me; and let your hands enjoy a day's rest, which is their due,<br />
and you have neither legal nor moral right to deprive them of it.’<br />
“ ‘Hoist the fore top-sail, Mr. Shackles,’ said I to the mate. My friend<br />
in the boat took that for an answer, I suppose, for he shook his head and
pulled away to church, singing ‘O be joyful.’ In a short time I was<br />
dashing along ten knots an hour, with a fresh breeze and smooth water,<br />
and a regular fleet of coasters astern of me. But I soon met with bad luck;<br />
for just before sundown it came on to blow one of those hard southerly<br />
bursters, which are so frequent on your coast in the summer months; and<br />
before I could get sail off the ship, I carried away the fore-top gallantmast<br />
and jib-boom, and sprung the main-yard, besides splitting some of<br />
the sails. It blew hard from the southward for three days, and an ugly sea<br />
got up, which strained the ship a good deal, for we were coal-laden, and<br />
as deep as a barge. On the fourth day the wind hawled round to the<br />
eastward, and we lay our course, with fresh breezes and fine weather,<br />
which we carried all the way up to Melbourne heads; so we did not make<br />
such a bad passage after all. On the eighth morning, soon after daybreak<br />
I espied — about three miles ahead — a smart-looking schooner, going<br />
through the ‘Rip’ without a pilot; and sure enough it was my little<br />
church-going friend. In he went, with his colours flying, as if he were<br />
crowing over me; and by the time I got up to the anchorage off<br />
Williamstown, there lay the schooner alongside the jetty, all ready for<br />
discharging cargo. I felt a bit nettled, though I didn't say anything to my<br />
mate, for I could see he was mightily pleased at it. Next day I met the<br />
little skipper, in Sandridge, looking as happy as a boy in his first<br />
breeches. He told me that he had spent a very comfortable Sunday on<br />
shore, and had allowed his officers and crew to go to church too; that he<br />
had lain in port, setting up his rigging and titivating his ship off, (and she<br />
really looked as smart as a new fiddle), until the gale had broken; and as<br />
soon as the sea had gone down a bit, he up anchor and away. He had<br />
beaten every vessel bound to Melbourne, which sailed on the Sunday;<br />
and while several of those he had passed had lost spars and bulwarks, he<br />
did not carry away a ropeyarn, or strain a stick; in fact, he scarcely<br />
shifted a sail throughout the run, but carried a fair wind and fine weather<br />
right up to his moorings.<br />
“That yarn is as true as my chronometer, Mr. Boomerang,” continued<br />
the captain, laying down his pipe. “And when you come to think of it, sir,<br />
it is only reasonable to expect good luck when you are doing what is<br />
right. I mean to say it is not acting fair and square to the sailors, if you<br />
don't give them a day's spell once a week. Poor fellows! they get extra<br />
work enough, in all conscience, especially on board some of those old<br />
leaky colliers, or in the coasting steamers. It is a positive injustice to your<br />
officers and men to make them do unnecessary work on Sundays, to say<br />
nothing of the sin and folly of setting at open defiance the laws of God,<br />
who could blow us all to the bottom of the sea in a minute. As for the<br />
risk of putting to sea on Fridays, that is all moonshine, and I was only<br />
joking when I appeared to be talking seriously on that subject just now. I<br />
would as soon set sail on Friday as on Saturday, every bit; but I verily
elieve there is no luck in sailing on a Sunday, — nay, I maintain it is<br />
sinful to do it — except in cases of necessity; — and if sinful, it is<br />
dangerous, and he is a f — a — is not a sensible man, who wilfully runs<br />
into danger. That's a little bit of my logic, sir, and I don't think you can<br />
find many rotten strands in it; at all events, you wouldn't convince me<br />
that it isn't sound and honest, if you wished to try. I have firmly resolved<br />
that I never will again put to sea on a Sunday, to please the best owners<br />
in the world — but avast, that is stupid talk, for the best owners would<br />
not ask me to do it, in fact, they would very soon unship a master who<br />
would have the conscience to do it; except, as I said before, in case of<br />
necessity; and such owners are by no means scarce.<br />
“I am afraid I have wearied you with that long prosy story,” said the<br />
captain, “but don't go below yet, sir. I'll tell you a very lively yarn about<br />
Captain Lindley and the monkey, if you would like to hear it.”<br />
“I should like to hear it, captain,” I replied; “but please to tell me first<br />
about the poor carpenter, to whom you alluded at dinner-time.”<br />
“Ah! that is an awfully tragical story, and always makes me shudder.<br />
You had better let me tell you about the monkey while I am in the<br />
humour. I never can spin a lively yarn just after talking about poor Tom<br />
Gouge.”<br />
“Up goes the monkey, then, but I am sorry you don't know Captain<br />
Lindley, because you will not half appreciate my yarn unless you can<br />
fancy Lindley is spinning it, for none but he can tell his stories with<br />
effect. It was as pleasant to me as a good dinner, any day, to sit and listen<br />
to him for an hour or two, for his coil of yarns was like paddy's rope,<br />
there was no end to it. But it topped all, to hear him tell about Jacko and<br />
the roast beef. There was more fun in his honest face then, than in a cage<br />
full of monkeys; and he would actually thump the table, or hammer away<br />
at the bulk-head with his fists, in his excess of mirth, while he described<br />
Jacko scudding up aloft with a hot carrot in his mouth; and when he<br />
wiped his eyes, after his ecstacy was over, you would almost fancy he<br />
was fretting because he could not laugh any longer. Yes, ‘a merry old<br />
soul was he,’ as scores of his passengers will smilingly testify; and any<br />
man who could sit and look at him while he was enjoying his roast<br />
monkey — I mean his yarn of the monkey and the roast beef — any man<br />
who could even look at him then without laughing till he cried, would<br />
have no more tickle in him than my figure-head yonder. But let us sit<br />
down on the hen-coops, sir, if you please, for it is hard work to walk and<br />
spin a tough yarn while the ship is knocking about in this chopping sea; it<br />
tumbles all my ideas together, like prize-tickets in a lucky bag.”<br />
“When my friend Lindley was third mate of the ‘Billy Button,’ he was<br />
on the watch one afternoon, and was waiting for the steward to bring his<br />
dinner on deck, for the captain and passengers had gone below to dine.<br />
Being always ready for a bit of fun when it did not interfere with duty,
Lindley began to play with a monkey, which was made fast by a chain to<br />
the mizen mast. The poor brute was half killed with the coddling and<br />
petting of his owner, a whimsical old bachelor, who was a passenger on<br />
board; and Lindley, thinking that an hour's run would be a treat to Jacko,<br />
cast off his moorings, when he began to dance about the deck like a<br />
dandy in a ball-room.<br />
“Presently Lindley went aft to heave the log, and after he had finished,<br />
and had made the entry on his log slate, he looked round for his<br />
frolicsome friend, but he was gone from the poop. Fearing he would get<br />
into trouble with the old fogy below, who was as particular about his pet<br />
as if he were his son and heir, Lindley began to hunt for the fugitive; but<br />
he had not to hunt long, for on looking over the break of the poop, there<br />
he was, actually perched on a prime joint of roast beef, which the cook<br />
had a minute before placed on the deck, ready to be put on the cabin<br />
table, after the steward had cleared away the soup-plates. Yes, sure<br />
enough there sat Jacko on the nice savoury roast, with his long tail<br />
floating in the gravy, and evidently pleased with his warm seat, as well<br />
as with the flavour of the carrots, which garnished the sides of the dish.<br />
“ ‘Confound your carcase!’ shouted Lindley, at the same time throwing<br />
a cringle at him, which would have spoilt his appetite, if it had hit him,<br />
but Jacko was off in an instant. Stuffing a long piece of carrot into his<br />
mouth, he bolted up to the mizen top, and there he sat munching and<br />
licking his fingers, like a regular gourmand. Of course Lindley was up<br />
after him pretty smartly, but it was not an easy job to catch him, for he<br />
climbed right up to the mizen truck. Lindley did catch him, though, and<br />
brought him down to his old quarters, and gave him a handsome tickling<br />
with the end of the signal halliards. Then looking over the break of the<br />
poop, Lindley saw that the dish was gone. ‘Why, blow my buttons off!’<br />
said he to himself, ‘the steward has never taken that foul joint into the<br />
cabin!’ As he said that, he hurried down the ladder and peeped through<br />
the cuddy window, and sure enough there was the beef on the table, and<br />
the company were evidently enjoying it too, for it was very tender and<br />
juicy, and they did not get roast beef and carrots every day. The old<br />
bachelor had the outside cut, which he always preferred, because he liked<br />
his meat done brown. Of course, you know, Lindley had much better<br />
have said nothing about the monkey sauce, seeing that the meat was half<br />
eaten, and the gravy had been equally divided amongst them; for I<br />
daresay, sir, we all eat worse tack than that sometimes, without knowing<br />
it. But Lindley was always square and honest, so without thinking twice<br />
on the subject, into the cabin he goes, and began to overhaul the steward<br />
for presuming to carry a joint of meat into the captain's table, after that<br />
mangy monkey had been sitting astride of it, and had bathed his ugly tail<br />
in the gravy.<br />
“My blocks! wasn't there a sudden stir in the cuddy at that instant?”
said the captain, laughing till his eyes watered, “they all jumped up as<br />
though they were poisoned, and ran in various directions. The old<br />
bachelor darted on deck, and after bowing his head humbly over the side<br />
of the ship for a minute, saying his grace, I suppose, he rushed up and<br />
kicked the monkey twice in one place. But you must fancy the rest, Mr.<br />
Boomerang, I cannot spin the yarn as Lindley does, and it spoils a good<br />
thing when it is badly dished.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
“Now you shall hear the story of the drunken carpenter,” said the<br />
captain, after he had ceased laughing at the foregoing yarn. “His name<br />
was Tom Gouge, and he was with me two voyages when I commanded a<br />
barque in the sugar trade; he was a smart tradesman, but an awful fellow<br />
to curse and swear. By-the-way, sir, that is a habit which many lads<br />
acquire when they first go to sea, and, like other vices, it grows upon<br />
them by degrees, till at length it becomes almost as natural to them to<br />
curse as to eat their rations. No doubt they think it makes them look<br />
manly, and sailor-like; but it is a very great mistake, for coarseness and<br />
profanity never can be indications of true manhood, or good seamanship.<br />
Pooh! it would be quite as rational to say that wens and ulcers on a<br />
horse's back are marks of high breeding. I wish all swearers — and<br />
young ones especially — knew how contemptible they look in the eyes<br />
of sensible people, and I'm sure they would set about mastering the bad<br />
habit immediately. I think Tom Gouge must have studied the awful art of<br />
cursing very diligently, for he was the most inveterate swearer that I ever<br />
heard, either on sea or on shore. He could scarcely speak on ordinary<br />
occasions without an oath, and if at any time he were roused out of his<br />
berth to shorten sail, or put the ship about, it was horrible to hear his<br />
blasphemies. He has been heard to say, like a fool, that there was no God<br />
at all; and at other times, in his fits of passion, he has defied all the<br />
powers of light, and darkness too. He got a cutting reproof one day from<br />
a young fellow — a steerage passenger — who had been drying some of<br />
his clothes on the booms, when Gouge came up in a surly humour to pick<br />
out a spar for a new fore-royal yard, to replace one which had been<br />
carried away the night before. ‘Move your duds off the spars,’ said<br />
Gouge, with an oath, of course. ‘Where shall I move them to?’ asked the<br />
young man mildly, at the same time he seemed shocked at Tom's awful<br />
language. ‘Move them to hell, if there is such a place,’ said Tom, with<br />
another curse. The young fellow took up his clothes, and gently said, ‘If I<br />
were to move them to heaven they would be more out of your way.’<br />
Gouge looked rather abashed for a minute, but he was too tough to be<br />
seriously affected, even by such a reproof as that; long persistence in evil<br />
courses had made his heart as hard as a snatch-block.
“Well, sir, we had come home from Jamaica, and were lying off the<br />
West India Docks, ready to go in the next tide. Gouge had been on shore<br />
for an hour or two that morning without leave; and when he came on<br />
board again, I could see he was half drunk. Knowing his foul tongue, I<br />
did not say anything to him, until I saw him take the axe on his shoulder<br />
and prepare to go up the main rigging; when, thinking it was unsafe for<br />
him to go aloft in liquor, I said to him, ‘What are you going aloft for,<br />
Chips?’<br />
“ ‘To knock the stun sail boom irons off the yard arm,’ said he, surlily.<br />
“ ‘You had better find a job on deck,’ said I, ‘for you are not fit to go<br />
aloft just now.’ With that he began to curse and swear like Satan himself,<br />
and vowed ‘he had not drank a sup that day.’<br />
“ ‘That's right, my man,’ said I, ‘out with all the dirty language that's<br />
fouling your heart; you will never be sweet till you get that nasty stuff<br />
out of your limbers. That's right, Chips, bouse it all out at once; it's<br />
horrible rubbish.’<br />
“At that he began to swear worse than ever, and up he went, in the<br />
spirit of defiance, on to the main yard, and began to knock the boom iron<br />
off the starboard yard arm. The iron was rusted on, and was rather hard<br />
to move, so Gouge kept striking with his axe, and cursing at every blow,<br />
on purpose to annoy me. I had logged down a few of his sayings, and<br />
intended to have had a reckoning with him the next day, when he was<br />
sober; but I was spared that duty in an awfully sudden manner. After<br />
many hard knocks Gouge had started the iron, and was slipping it over<br />
the end of the yard, when I called out to him, ‘Make a rope's end fast to<br />
that boom iron, Chips, or it will capsize you.’ Whether he understood my<br />
order or not I am not quite sure, but I heard him utter a fearful oath, and<br />
at the same time he slipped the iron off the yard, when its sudden weight<br />
overbalanced his tipsy brain, and down he fell like a shot seagull. The<br />
yards were braced sharp up, so he fell with his back across the poop rail.<br />
I heard the horrible crunching of his bones, then overboard he went, and<br />
the thick waters closed over his miserable body. Of course I gave the<br />
alarm, and all hands were aft in a minute, but it was impossible to save<br />
poor Gouge. A few bubbles rose to the surface of the turbid stream, and<br />
as I looked at them, I shudderingly wondered whether they were curses.<br />
A few days afterwards his body was picked up in the mud off<br />
Greenwich; and upon examination it was found that his back was broken.<br />
This was the wretched end of the poor swearing carpenter.”
Fire! Fire! Fire!<br />
I HAVE vivid recollections of the cry of fire arousing me on one<br />
occasion from my midnight slumbers, the lurid glare which illumined my<br />
chamber, at the same time alarming me with the belief that the rooms<br />
beneath were in a blaze. After hastily dressing, I rushed into the street<br />
— thankful that I was not roasted — and joined the excited citizens, who<br />
were running to the scene of disaster.<br />
The fire-bells were sending forth their clamorous dingle, dingle, dingle,<br />
through the night air; and the fire engines, with their glaring lamps and<br />
galloping horses, and loaded with brave, helmeted men, were racing<br />
towards the scene of their hazardous labours, with the impetuosity of war<br />
steeds, or express trains.<br />
Soon I arrived at the spot where the fiery element was doing its work<br />
of destruction; and getting, as far as I could, from the jostling noisy<br />
crowd, and the mounted policeman's horses, I stood and gazed upon the<br />
exciting scene before me.<br />
The flames leaped from floor to floor of the devoted building, and<br />
belched out of each door-way and window with the fury of volcanoes;<br />
crackling, hissing, roaring, and sending myriads of bright sparks into the<br />
air, amidst dense volumes of smoke; while the crash of falling beams and<br />
rafters, the clanking of the engines, the loud shouts of the leaders of the<br />
fire brigade, added to the hubbub of the assembled multitude of gazers,<br />
created a din which was awfully distracting.<br />
The firemen, with an intrepidity which I cannot too highly extol, at the<br />
risk of their lives and limbs, mounted to giddy parapets; and there, with<br />
hose in hand, stood and combated with the greedy flames. The<br />
policemen, too, were exerting themselves bravely to keep the crowd from<br />
dangerous proximity to tottering walls; and the rabble, as usual, were<br />
pouring forth indignant protests against the arbitrary encroachments on<br />
their rights and liberties, and loading the persevering officers with slangy<br />
abuse.<br />
Meanwhile, the tenants of houses adjacent to the burning building were<br />
hurriedly removing their stocks and furniture n to the street, aided by<br />
willing volunteers, and further aided by a horde of nimble thieves, to<br />
whom the catastrophe was a joyful “harvest home.” In a short time the<br />
roof of the doomed house tumbled in, and, soon afterwards, floor after<br />
floor tumbled in also. All danger of the extension of the fire being then
over, I hastened home to bed.<br />
For an hour or two next morning. there was a stir in the city among<br />
commercial men; and the enquiry, “Is he insured?” was made by many<br />
anxious creditors — some hoping, others fearing, and perhaps vainly<br />
reflecting upon their want of prudent foresight, in omitting to ask that<br />
important question before allowing Mr. Keen to get so far into their<br />
books, and wisely resolving thenceforward to make that special enquiry<br />
before opening an account with a new customer. Before the day was<br />
over, however, all doubts were dissolved: Mr. Keen was insured to the<br />
value of his stock; and a day or two afterwards it was announced in the<br />
advertising sheets that he had taken temporary premises in — — street<br />
until his old stores were rebuilt. Mr. Keen's creditors were relieved from<br />
anxiety, and his new offices were thronged, from day to day, with<br />
brokers and vendors of various classes, offering tempting bargains to restock<br />
his new stores, and all having a wistful eye to the ready money<br />
— for the insurance offices, in such undisputed cases, always paid claims<br />
in prompt cash; so they inferred that Mr. Keen was pretty flush of<br />
money. Doubtless he was inconvenienced by the disaster; his business<br />
arrangements were unsettled for a time, and he suffered personal<br />
disquietude; but those were very trifling matters in comparison with the<br />
ruin which would have overwhelmed him, if he had not been insured.<br />
A case, of an opposite character to the foregoing, just occurs to my<br />
mind; and I will give a brief outline of it to illustrate the disastrous<br />
consequences of neglecting the common-sense precaution of insuring<br />
against loss by fire. An industrious tradesman was suddenly reduced to<br />
poverty by the destruction of his dwelling house and shop. He was<br />
wholly uninsured, and had the misery of seeing the results of many years<br />
destroyed in a few hours.<br />
For a day or two after the event, and while the recollection of it was<br />
fresh in the minds of his friends and neighbours, the poor man received<br />
much sympathy in the form of soothing words and sombre looks. There<br />
was, too, a spasmodic attempt made by a few friends to afford him more<br />
substantial comfort, by means of a public subscription; but it was a<br />
failure — they could not gather twenty pounds after an active canvass<br />
throughout the district.<br />
“Poor fellow! I am very sorry for his loss; but I really cannot help him<br />
at present,” said one in reply to the pathetic appeals of the collectors.<br />
“He was a fool for not insuring his property,” said another, with more<br />
candour than politeness, significantly buttoning his pockets at the same<br />
time.<br />
“It serves him right,” exclaimed a third. “He might have insured his<br />
property for less than ten pounds a year; and if he was such a dolt as to<br />
risk beggary for the sake of a paltry sum like that, which he could well<br />
afford to pay, he has no right to call upon me, or the like of me, to make
good his loss. Pooh! what next?”<br />
* * * * *<br />
Life has been a severe struggle with the poor man ever since that<br />
disaster. He was unable to re-establish himself in business from want of<br />
capital, and he is now in very straitened circumstances. Through omitting<br />
to insure against a calamity (to which every person, however careful, is<br />
to some extent liable), he lost the fruits of past years' exertions, and a<br />
position of comparative affluence, which he has ever since been vainly<br />
striving to regain; and he has the additional discomfort of feeling that his<br />
present poverty is the result of his want of business-like forethought.<br />
These illustrations are, I think, sufficient to demonstrate the advantage<br />
of insuring against loss by fire, and the folly of neglecting to do so. I<br />
believe it is a positive duty, incumbent upon every person engaged in<br />
business, in common justice to his creditors; and it is equally incumbent<br />
upon every head of a household, whether in business or not, in justice to<br />
his family. I have frequently heard persons say, “They do not see the<br />
necessity of insuring, as they are very careful;” in proof of which they<br />
urge, that “they never had a mishap from fire.” Their carefulness is<br />
commendable certainly, and their freedom from accidents by fire is a<br />
matter for gratulation; still, it is unquestionable that fire has often<br />
destroyed the houses of very careful persons; and none can effectually<br />
guard against the carelessness of their neighbours.<br />
A fire is at all times a deplorable mishap, but, perhaps, never so serious<br />
as when it occurs amongst the dwellings of poor persons, for they are<br />
generally uninsured. At such occurrences there is invariably much<br />
excitement and confusion. A panic seizes the poor occupants of<br />
neighbouring tenements, and they often hurriedly remove their little<br />
household effects into the streets for security, and frequently, by so<br />
doing, suffer severe losses by breakages, but, worse still, from the<br />
peculations of dishonest persons, who at such times are specially busy, as<br />
they then have good chances of plying their nefarious calling undetected.<br />
A thief can rush into a house in the immediate vicinity of a fire, and his<br />
wicked designs may be mistaken for good-natured zeal for the safety of<br />
the goods which he is seeking to steal. In general, the person or family<br />
who are burnt out of house and home are not the only sufferers; and fire<br />
is not the only enemy to be dreaded at such times.<br />
Were persons belonging to the labouring class to insure their household<br />
effects, such losses would be avoided; for if their houses unfortunately<br />
took fire they would be reimbursed for the damage they sustained. If a<br />
fire occurred in the immediate vicinity of their dwelling, the knowledge<br />
that they were thus protected from loss would deter them from rashly<br />
removing their effects into the street for thieves to prey upon; they would
most likely coolly lock their doors, and not allow the contents of their<br />
dwellings to be disturbed, unless ordered to do otherwise by some person<br />
in authority. Thus they would be spared a vast amount of worry — to say<br />
nothing of the comfort which they would at all times naturally feel in<br />
knowing that they were not exposed to the risk of being ruined in a few<br />
hours by the carelessness or wilfulness of neighbours, which it was<br />
impossible for them to guard against or control.<br />
All classes of the community can insure; and I should be glad if I could<br />
convince even a few poor persons that it is their duty, and their interest<br />
too, to avail themselves of the privilege. There are not many tenements, I<br />
imagine, in Sydney, on which the insurance offices would refuse to take<br />
a risk. The rates of premiums for risks in the city are very low too; for<br />
instance — a friend of mine, residing in one of the suburbs of Sydney,<br />
has his household furniture insured for £300, at an annual cost of ten<br />
shillings. The rate would be somewhat more for houses of a lower class<br />
than the one which the friend referred to occupies; still, I think, the<br />
average of mechanics, labourers, &c., could insure to the value of their<br />
household effects for ten shillings a year. What careful housewife could<br />
not manage to save twopence halfpenny per week (or rather less than<br />
that) for such a purpose? — perhaps to save herself and children from<br />
becoming homeless outcasts.<br />
Fires are less frequent in Sydney than might reasonably be expected,<br />
considering the crowded state of some parts of the city, the combustible<br />
nature of the materials with which many of the houses are built and<br />
roofed, and the heat of the climate; still such mishaps do occur, alas! too<br />
often, as many persons know to their sorrow. A catastrophe — entailing<br />
the ruin of a striving family — is sometimes recorded in a dozen lines,<br />
and attracts but little attention from the community on account of its<br />
apparent insignificance. The conflagration of a poor man's little cottage<br />
would not entice a large concourse of persons from their beds, though it<br />
will make the late unfortunate owner toss restlessly upon his bed for<br />
many nights; calling to mind that, in a fatal half-hour, all he possessed in<br />
the world was reduced to ashes.<br />
Such sad disasters are too frequent; and, as I read the sentence<br />
appended to the usual brief report of them in the newspapers — “the<br />
tenant was” uninsured — my sympathy with the poor houseless sufferers<br />
has to struggle against a feeling of vexation with them, for foolishly<br />
omitting a precaution which common-sense ought to have insisted upon,<br />
and which is within the reach of the humblest householder.<br />
Reader! I have not the slightest personal interest in any insurance<br />
society in the world, beyond being a policy holder for a small sum. The<br />
foregoing remarks are written in a disinterested spirit; and if you will<br />
take my deliberate advice, you will insure your property at once.
Little Strangers.<br />
LIVES there an honest old patriarch in Christendom, whose<br />
memory — though dead to ordinary bygone events — has not<br />
occasional, softening recollections of the joyful hour, when his tiny firstborn,<br />
the beloved child of his blossoming manhood, announced its entrée<br />
to his household by a lamb-like cry, which vibrated through his bounding<br />
heart, like strains of music from the better land?<br />
I would not venture — if I were not at leisure — to put that question to<br />
a young benedict, the owner of a tender heart as well as a tender infant,<br />
because he would almost certainly bother me with a minute description<br />
of the “precious poppet,” with eyes like jewels, and hair silk, together<br />
with all the funny ways of his precocious offspring, which, though not<br />
much bigger than a quart pot, he believes to be the finest child in the<br />
parish, because the experienced old nurse told him so. Not that I would<br />
condemn him for exhibiting feeling, which, as his heart is tender, he<br />
cannot avoid doing; quite the contrary. I am always prepared for the<br />
excited partiality which every honest young father feels for his offspring,<br />
because it is so natural; indeed, I would rather see it verge on the absurd<br />
than towards the stony stoicism which some affect, under the<br />
contemptible notion that it is unmanly to talk about little babies. I should<br />
not condemn him, even if he talked positive nonsense — I generally try<br />
to keep in mind my own bygone weaknesses — still I should not care to<br />
hear much of his extravagant dilation on his new-gotten treasure; because<br />
it soon becomes tiresome.<br />
But I dearly love to hear an old man talk about the days of yore, when<br />
his children were young, even though he should be over garrulous. I am<br />
fond of old boys and girls, especially when they can be merry and wise<br />
too. It titillates my fancy as much as the pages of Punch, to see a greyheaded<br />
old grandsire initiating his merry young sprouts in the art of<br />
“knuckling down” at “shoot in the ring,” or peg-top; or to see his<br />
venerable spouse playing a game of innocent romps with a lot of<br />
laughing little grand-daughters, while her time-wrinkled countenance<br />
glistens like a ginger-bread queen, showing that her heart is full of good<br />
humour and love. I would rather have a romp with them any day than go<br />
to a review.<br />
I have before my mind's eye at this moment a frosty-browed old boy,<br />
whom I know well. Though some folks think he is a moody old fellow,
they would change their opinion if they could have seen his excited phiz<br />
the other evening, when I put the following question to him: —<br />
“May I ask you, Mr. Wobble, if you have a distinct recollection of your<br />
feelings when you heard the introductory little chirping cry of your firstborn<br />
child?”<br />
The old man's alley marble eyes blazed up like policemen's lanterns at<br />
the question, and he replied with a volubility almost startling.<br />
“Recollect it, sir? Pooh! Ask a boy if he recollects his first pair of<br />
knickerbockers. Ask a young parson if he recollects preaching his first<br />
sermon. Ask a young lady if — but never mind that. Recollect it, sir?<br />
Humph! pap pots and puff boxes! Do you really suppose I could forget<br />
such a thrilling event as that?<br />
“And what a mistake to call that a cry which was the softest, sweetest<br />
music I ever heard in my life; and I have heard a variety; more than was<br />
charming too. I have sat in wrapt enjoyment whilst listening to soprano<br />
voices, enchanting as the melody of a grove full of blackbirds. I have<br />
also heard deep, bass voices, full and grand as the chords of St. Paul's<br />
organ.<br />
“I have heard a disciple of the great Paganini fiddle a sonata on one<br />
little string. I have been astounded at hearing Herr von Joel (in a saloon<br />
near Covent Garden) draw syren-like strains from my blackthorn<br />
walking-stick, which was as mute as a pitchfork handle to all my after<br />
attempts to make it emit even a single note. Yes, sir, I have heard music<br />
of all sorts, natural and artificial, from the most pathetic strains, gentle<br />
enough to melt a miser's heart, to the horrifying opposite; as displayed in<br />
the surprisingly elongated howls of the well-known Sydney Tinker, and<br />
the dismal chanter of cows' heels.<br />
“But if it were possible to concentrate the sweetness of all the music I<br />
have ever heard — throwing away the tinwa-a-a-a-are, of course — into<br />
one grand symphony, it could not produce such an enrapturing tickle on<br />
my tympanum as did that first silvery treble which assured me that I was<br />
the fortunate father of a living child, and filled my heart with gratitude<br />
and pride. Aye, sir, that was music, indeed, which I can no more forget<br />
than adequately describe.”<br />
The old gentleman here paused to recover breath after his excited<br />
rhapsody, when seeing that I had broached a subject upon which he<br />
could be amusingly eloquent, I by degrees led him fairly on to it, and<br />
listened to his animated narration till he had run himself down.<br />
“You see, I am now like an old man kangaroo with his tail chopped off,<br />
not much spring in me,” said Mr. Wobble, “but I was an active young<br />
man at one time, Mr. Boomerang, many years ago though, as these grey<br />
hairs and wrinkles will signify. It was in those green, young days, when I<br />
first got a delicate hint that I might expect to see a “little stranger” in my<br />
home, before I was half a year older. I really fancied that this news had a
stimulating influence on my whiskers, which were then only just about as<br />
long and as strong as the down on a young duck; but they took a start<br />
from that very time. Months rolled on, apparently slower than usual, for<br />
like young men in general, I was impatient. At length my dear Ruth<br />
began to — — h'm — — yes, began to be very busy with her<br />
needlework. She kept a big basket under an out-of-the-way table, full of<br />
all sorts of mysterious small-wares, including garments scarcely short<br />
enough for a very thin body five feet high, and other garments, scarcely<br />
long enough for a comparatively thick body fifteen inches high, which I<br />
thought was rather a wide allowance for the uncertain measure of the<br />
expected wearer. But I didn't know anything about rigging out babies<br />
then. There was a variety of other things besides, which of course, you<br />
would not wish me to describe; so we will throw a veil over the basket.<br />
“Well, sir, there my Ruth would sit and stitch, stitch, stitch, till her<br />
fingers must have ached; and sometimes her poor heart ached too, I fear,<br />
for I recollect suddenly popping into her room very late one night, and<br />
found tears trembling in her weary eyes, and I could also see several little<br />
moist spots, where other tears had fallen upon a long white muslin robe,<br />
tucked up to the waist, which she had spent many hours over, and of<br />
which she seemed very proud.<br />
“ ‘My dear Ruth,’ said I, ‘you must come to bed. I am afraid you'll<br />
injure yourself by sitting up so late, night after night, working at those<br />
long robes, and short what-do-ye-call-'ems. Come, come, put your<br />
stitchery basket under the table till to-morrow; you'll hurt your bright<br />
eyes, and then the house will be as gloomy as a cellar. Why, I declare<br />
there is something the matter with them now,’ said I, kissing her, and<br />
gently drawing her glossy head on to my breast. ‘Yes, you are crying,<br />
that you are, you little gosling,’ said I, kissing her again. ‘What is the<br />
matter, wifie, dear? Tell me all your troubles, and let me share some of<br />
them; that's only fair you know, for you always insist upon sharing<br />
mine.’ Well, sir, after a good deal of coaxing, I found that she had been<br />
stitching, and thinking, and fretting at the same time, over that fine long<br />
robe, which her nimble fingers had worked so neatly, with so many<br />
pretty tucks in the skirt, and such lovely embroidery in the bosom and<br />
sleeves, until she got weary and sad. Then she began to fear lest her<br />
hands should never tie those tiny tape strings, and her eyes never see her<br />
darling infant in the robe which she had taken such pride and pains to<br />
work. And she wondered too, what would become of me if she should<br />
die; who would air my linen, and look to my buttons; or smooth my sad<br />
brow as I gazed on her vacant chair; and who would nurse her little one,<br />
if it should live; and whether they would be kind to it and love it. As she<br />
finished her sobbing disclosure, she burst into a real flood of tears, and<br />
nestled her pale face on my breast, like a poor little weary bird.<br />
“ ‘Hush, now, Ruth, my ducky,’ I said, as softly as I could; ‘don't give
way to such gloomy forebodings, or you'll make me cry too. Dry up<br />
those tears, Ruth dear, and don't cry any more.’ Then I would kiss her<br />
again, and try to soothe her. But she did cry more though; so I thought it<br />
best to leave her alone for a little, as she was not one for giving way to<br />
sentimental whims and fancies, and I knew she would soon brighten up<br />
again, like an April day between the showers. Depend upon it, sir, that is<br />
the best way to manage such cases. You can never stop such tears as<br />
those with dry reasoning, so you needn't try. Let the floods come if they<br />
will, for those ducts are nature's safety valves to the heart, when<br />
surcharged with tender emotions, and tears often give immediate ease,<br />
like taking off tight boots.<br />
“But I begin to feel as low-spirited as if I had just shot somebody,” said<br />
the old gentlemen, his face brightening up, while he applied a red hot<br />
cinder to his pipe. “I shall make you gloomy too, Mr. Boomerang, if I<br />
don't alter my strain, which is too dirge-like for such a lively subject as I<br />
am going to introduce you to.<br />
“Well, sir, time went on slowly, and the preparations went on nimbly.<br />
Mrs. Follidodd, the monthly nurse, came to lodge with us; and a fine,<br />
chatty old body she was, too. I felt my responsibilities very much<br />
decreased as soon as she took charge of her department in the household;<br />
and her ceaseless tongue was wonderfully stimulating to my flagging<br />
courage. My dear Ruth, too, kept up her spirits as long as she could keep<br />
herself up. I used to try to put on a merry face, when in her company, but<br />
I fancy it looked as forced as the polite Frenchman's smile of apology to<br />
the stout English lady who had run against him in turning a London<br />
corner, and knocked his front teeth out.<br />
“ ‘Mr. Wobble,’ said Mrs. Follidodd, as she entered my sanctum a few<br />
evenings afterwards, ‘I think I shall have to trouble you to go for Dr.<br />
Dollop, bye — ’<br />
“ ‘Oh yes, certainly,’ I exclaimed, starting up as excitedly as if a black<br />
rat were running up my leg. ‘I'll fetch him in two minutes.’<br />
“ ‘Stop, stop, sir, don't be so alarmed, there's no hurry. I don't want the<br />
doctor just yet; only I thought I'd better tell you not to be out of the way.<br />
Pray compose yourself, Mr. Wobble, everything is going on very nicely,<br />
and there's not the least cause for anxiety. You must not be so excited,<br />
sir.’<br />
“ ‘No, I won't, Mrs. Follidodd,’ I replied, humbly, ‘only tell me what to<br />
do, there's a good creature. I'll do anything in the world you tell me; and<br />
every thing you want I'll get for you. Never mind the price.’<br />
“ ‘Thank you, sir, I have all that I want at present. Now I advise you to<br />
lie down on the dining-room sofa, and take a nap; I'll call you when I<br />
want you. There now, be calm, sir; lie down and go to sleep, for you are<br />
looking quite fagged.’<br />
“Accordingly, I lay down with my clothes and boots on, and my hat
under my arm. But I felt as fidgety as if the sofa and cushions were<br />
stuffed with horse-nails instead of horse-hair; and I was as indisposed to<br />
nap as the anxious captain of a ship on a lee shore, or an invalid next<br />
door to a house on fire. There I lay, wondering whatever I should do if I<br />
lost my dear Ruth, and only getting more perplexed and distressed, the<br />
further I ventured on such gloomy calculations.<br />
“Soon after midnight, the nurse crept softly into the room in her<br />
nightcap, and said very composedly, ‘Now, Mr. Wobble, I'll trouble you<br />
to go for — ’<br />
“ ‘Yes, Mrs. Follidodd,’ I exclaimed, jumping up, and without waiting<br />
for further instructions, I ran off for the doctor. In most towns there are,<br />
as you are aware, a multitude of dogs prowling the streets at night, and<br />
intolerable nuisances they are. It is the morbid nature of mongrels in<br />
general to run after everybody that will run away from them. So I had not<br />
run far before I had some of the yelping brutes at my heels; and the<br />
number increased as I went. Still I was unwilling to waste time by<br />
stopping to kick them. I knew from experience that curs are more noisy<br />
and troublesome if you take notice of them, and they seldom have<br />
courage to bite. So I kept running, and trying to comfort myself with the<br />
latter reflection, and they ran after me, of course, until, as I was turning<br />
an unlucky corner near a butcher's shop, a surly mastiff woke up, and<br />
like all bull-headed animals, he did not stop to consider why he should<br />
join in the melee, but rushed after me, seized a large mouthful from my<br />
apparel, and dispossessed me of kerseymere enough to make a pair of<br />
gaiters, in less time than the smartest tailor in Sydney could have cut<br />
them out. Of course I roared out, for I thought I had lost flesh as well as<br />
cloth, still I did not stop to argue with the brute. Onward I sped, till I<br />
arrived almost breathless at Dr. Dollop's door, and began to ring his<br />
night-bell a regular “bob major,” while the congregation of curs kept up<br />
an irregular bow-wow chorus.<br />
“ ‘Hilloa!’ cried the doctor, putting his head out of his top window,<br />
‘Hilloa! what the dickens are you making all this noise for? Is the town<br />
on fire?’<br />
“ ‘Doct — or, doc — tor!’ I panted.<br />
“ ‘What's the matter with you?’ shouted the doctor, (confound those<br />
horrible dogs.) ‘What do you want with me?’<br />
“ ‘Doc — tor, ma — make haste, co — come with me direct — ly,’ I<br />
gasped, as plainly as I could speak with my short supply of breath.<br />
“ ‘Be off you drunken sot. How dare you bring your filthy dogs before<br />
my house at this time of night?’ roared the doctor, in a very angry tone,<br />
being under the impression that I was some tipsy rat-catcher, and had<br />
mistaken his house for an inn.<br />
“ ‘They are not my dogs, Doctor Dollop,’ I replied, rather tartly, ‘my<br />
name is Wobble. I don't breed noisy curs to annoy my neighbours; nor do
I get drunk very often.’<br />
“ ‘Oh dear me, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wobble. I had no idea it was<br />
you. Wait a minute, sir,’ said the doctor, who then hastily drew his head<br />
inside, and pulled down the window.<br />
“That seemed the longest minute I ever waited, for I was picturing the<br />
while some dreadful results of the delay.<br />
“Presently the door opened, and the doctor appeared, when I stopped<br />
him in his apologies, and hurriedly explained the nature of my errand. To<br />
my chagrin he did not evince extreme haste, nor even the least surprise,<br />
at my wife's sudden demand for his services, but politely asked me to<br />
take a chair for a few minutes, until he was ready to return with me.<br />
“In due course the doctor arrived with me at my house. My repeated<br />
hints on the way there upon the urgency of the case, did not incite him to<br />
run; consequently, the dogs had no more sport that night. After he had<br />
had a little quiet conversation with Mrs. Follidodd, they both disappeared<br />
from my view.<br />
“Scarcely knowing what to do for the best, after I had exchanged my<br />
damaged garments, I walked into the kitchen, and solemnly exhorted the<br />
servant maid to exert herself to the utmost, and promised I would<br />
remember her at Christmas. The girl said she would do ‘all that lay in her<br />
power,’ then put another shovel full of coal on the roaring fire, and<br />
quietly sat down before it, looking very sleepy. I next put the door<br />
knocker in an old stocking, and not being able to think of anything else<br />
to do that was useful or necessary, I lighted a cigar, and began to pace up<br />
and down the verandah in a marvellous state of mental and physical<br />
shiver.<br />
“I endured two hours — as long as two days — of that extraordinary<br />
admixture of tickle and torment, which must be felt to be comprehended.<br />
At length Dr. Dollop came out to me and smilingly said, ‘it's all right,<br />
Mr. Wobble. I congratulate you on the birth of a fine daughter.’ About<br />
the same time I heard that delicious music which I have so imperfectly<br />
described to you. After almost hugging the doctor, I sat down in my easy<br />
chair, and gushed over with fatherly feeling.<br />
“Those dulcet sounds continued, and I sat and listened in silent<br />
admiration and with thankfulness for the indications of strength in those<br />
infantile lungs. I can recollect the lively ba — a — a, as clearly as if it<br />
were only last night; and I can recall most of those nice soothing things<br />
kind old Mrs. Follidodd was saying to the little darling, in simple baby<br />
dialect, for which I there and then resolved to give her a new bonnet tomorrow.<br />
“By-and-bye the bed-room door suddenly opened, and, ah, thrilling<br />
recollection! dear Mrs. Folly, (as I used to call her,) held before my<br />
devouring eyes my precious little first-born child. Ah! Mr. Boomerang,<br />
I'm not surprised to see you open your mouth wide with ecstacy, even at
my meagre description of that happy moment. But had you been there,<br />
sir, you would have beheld with your own eyes what no painter or poet<br />
in the world has ever yet succeeded in depicting, the fruition of a doating<br />
young father's hopes, and realization of his fondest dreams.<br />
“I held out my hands very nervously, and took the ‘little stranger.’ To<br />
describe my feelings as I did so, I must use extravagant figures, and you<br />
perhaps think I have been rather flighty already, so I will leave you to<br />
imagine them. I kissed it again and again, but very, very gently, lest I<br />
should kill it. Then I gazed on its calm slumbering face for some<br />
minutes — rapt in sublime cogitations, which soon voiced themselves in<br />
a spontaneous burst of original poetry, (you know I have a gift that way),<br />
while Mrs. Follidodd and Jemima stood by in solemn silence, with<br />
wonder and admiration visible in their open mouths.<br />
“ ‘Darling little daisy! it smiles,’ I gently ejaculated, as I gazed on its<br />
ruddy features with my heart and eyes overflowing with poetic fire and<br />
water. ‘Can't you see, nurse?’<br />
“ ‘It's only just the wind in its little inside, that's all. Let me take it, sir.’<br />
“I felt vexed with the stupid old woman, and as I handed the infant<br />
back to her I replied sharply, ‘It's no such thing as wind, Mrs. Follidodd.’<br />
“The old lady did not reply to me, but sat down in a rocking chair and<br />
began patting the little dear on its back, and talking at me in a very<br />
provoking manner. ‘Did de nasty windy pindy dit on its 'ittle tummack,<br />
and pain my 'ittle wicksy picksy, an make its 'ittle lips curl up, did it den?<br />
Hoosh sh-sh! Hark! There, Jemima, did you hear that? Didn't I say so?’<br />
“The old lady then rose from her seat, and trotted into the bedroom<br />
with her little charge, and evidently piqued at my rash dissent from her<br />
judgment, founded on long professional experience, the correctness of<br />
which had been so soundly demonstrated.<br />
“I felt as grieved as if I had wickedly mocked my mother; and was<br />
most anxious to express sorrow; but Mrs. Follidodd was then too busy to<br />
be approached on ordinary errands. I was terribly disappointed too, for I<br />
had scarcely seen my babe, much less had time for the observations<br />
which I was desirous to make on its phrenological development. Fulsome<br />
pride at my new dignity of father had blinded me to the respect which<br />
was due to one whom I had a few hours before felt under such weighty<br />
obligations for her unremitting care for my dear Ruth, and upon whose<br />
watchful skill my happiness so much depended. I felt humbled, even in<br />
that season of exultation; and as I resumed my promenade in the<br />
verandah, I was led to reflect on the power of truth, and how the simplest<br />
little thing will sometimes force conviction on the mind as sensibly as a<br />
broadside from a frigate.<br />
“The next morning Mrs. Follidodd looked rather cross, but my welltimed<br />
allusion to the new bonnet completely cured her, and removed a<br />
load from my conscience at the same time. I was soon afterwards invited
inside to see my dear Ruth and my darling babe, who were looking so<br />
pretty in their nice white caps, et cetera. How pleased and proud I felt to<br />
be sure, as I stood and gazed at them, and kissed them alternately, while I<br />
fancied that I never before felt my heart so brimfull of love.<br />
“In a fortnight my dear Ruth was able to get on to the parlour sofa; and<br />
you can fancy how delighted I was to see her there, dressed in a chaste<br />
print robe, with bows down the front; a white cashmere shawl over her<br />
shoulders, and her long dark hair falling in negligé bands over her<br />
delicate face. I often stood and gazed at her as she sat with her baby in<br />
arms, till I felt my breast swelling with fatherly pride and affection.<br />
“Soon afterwards, Mrs. Follidodd took her departure, with her bonnetbox<br />
and carpet-bag, and, to tell the truth, I did not grieve after her;<br />
although she was a nice old lady, and as merry as a magpie. I am fond of<br />
music, Mr. Boomerang, as I have before stated; still I got very weary of<br />
nurse's standard melodies before her month expired. Those ancient<br />
rhymes commencing with<br />
‘Hey diddle diddle,<br />
The cat and the fiddle,’<br />
are not ‘lacking in startling incident, and in their moral aspect, are<br />
preferable to some of the popular songs of modern times; still, I doubt if<br />
any person would like to hear ‘a cat and a fiddle' all day long, unless he<br />
were music-mad. That was a favourite song with Mrs. Follidodd, and she<br />
believed it had a soothing influence on my infant, though I think she<br />
must have observed that it had a contrary effect on me.<br />
“My darling's vocal performances, too, began to be less interesting to<br />
me than they were when I first heard them; not that they were diminished<br />
in power — quite the contrary — but they were rather too frequent, and<br />
they occasionally interfered with my nocturnal repose.<br />
“ ‘Do pat that dear child's back, my love,’ I said to Ruth one night, as I<br />
sat up in bed and rubbed my sleepy eyes with my nightcap. ‘I cannot<br />
think whatever ails it. Are you quite sure there are no pins irritating its<br />
little person, my dear?’<br />
“Ruth answered me in a quicker tone than usual, that ‘it had neither<br />
pins nor needles to worry it.’<br />
“ ‘Well, then it must be ill,’ I replied, ‘and I will consult Doctor Dollop<br />
about it to-morrow.’<br />
“Accordingly, the next morning, I called at his surgery, and explained<br />
to him very carefully all the distressing symptoms I had observed in my<br />
infant, especially dwelling on its frequent fits of grief.<br />
“The doctor smiled blandly, as if I were joking with him, which rather<br />
vexed me, for I thought it no joke to lose two hours' sleep on the previous<br />
night; and perhaps that had given a slight acerbity to my temper that
morning, for I tartly remarked, ‘You do not seem to want patients,<br />
Doctor Dollop.’<br />
“ ‘That is quite a mistake, my dear Mr. Wobble,’ replied the doctor<br />
with another bland smile. ‘I assure you I want patients much more<br />
frequently than patients really want me. But pray sit down, sir, and let us<br />
have a little quiet chat. Your infant is in no immediate want of my<br />
services, so make you mind easy about that; and if you can spare half-anhour<br />
I will give you a few hints which may be useful to you as a father,<br />
and perhaps spare you and your good wife much unnecessary anxiety in<br />
future, and your infant much discomfort too. Will you take the arm-chair,<br />
sir?’<br />
“So I sat down, and the doctor gave me some advice, which certainly<br />
saved me a vast deal of worry afterwards, and perhaps saved my infant<br />
from having unlimited doses of physic poured down its little throat, to<br />
half poison it, and make it grow up as sour as native currants. Some of<br />
his hints may be useful to you, Mr. Boomerang, if you should ever have<br />
any ‘little strangers’ in your establishment.<br />
“After advising me to accustom my child to a cold bath morning and<br />
evening; to abstain from administering narcotics, or medicines of any<br />
kind except under professional advice; to avoid coddling in its<br />
multitudinous forms; and to allow it plenty of pure fresh air, Doctor<br />
Dollop further remarked —<br />
“ ‘With regard to the frequent cries of your child, Mr. Wobble, it is not<br />
right for you to draw an unfavourable inference from them; for in most<br />
instances their cries imply the effort which children make to exercise the<br />
organs of respiration. Nature has wisely ordained that by these very<br />
efforts the power and utility of functions so essential to life should be<br />
developed. Hence it follows, that those over-anxious parents who always<br />
endeavour to prevent infants from crying, do them a material injury; for<br />
by such imprudent management their children seldom acquire a perfect<br />
form of the breast, while the foundation is laid in the pectoral vessels for<br />
obstructions and other diseases. In the first period of life such exertions<br />
are almost the only exercise of the infant; hence it is improper to<br />
consider every noise that it makes as a claim upon our assistance, and to<br />
intrude either food or drink with a view to satisfy its supposed wants.<br />
There are instances, however, in which the loud complaints of infants<br />
deserve our attention. Thus, if their cries be unusually violent and long<br />
continued, we may conclude that they are troubled with colic pains. If on<br />
such occasions they move their arms and hands repeatedly towards the<br />
face, painful teething may account for the cause. In such, and in many<br />
other symptoms, remedial measures may be called for. But, depend upon<br />
it, Mr. Wobble, that in general, the less you try to assist nature the better;<br />
for we learn from daily experience that children who have been the least<br />
indulged thrive much better, unfold all their faculties quicker, and
acquire more muscular strength and vigour of mind, than those who have<br />
been constantly favoured, and treated by their parents with the most<br />
scrupulous attention; or in other words who have been coddled and<br />
spoiled.’<br />
“I thanked Dr. Dollop for his kind and candid advice, which had<br />
sensibly shaken my confidence in flannel bedgowns and nightcaps, as<br />
well as in soothing syrups and other compounds, which I had had a sort<br />
of traditionary belief were as indispensable to the nursery as life-buoys<br />
were to a fleet. I went home with my mind much relieved, and at once<br />
began to enlighten my dear Ruth, and to confer with her upon the most<br />
judicious course to mark out for the future physical and moral training of<br />
our darling, having in mind what somebody has sagely remarked, ‘That<br />
children are like jellies, as they are moulded so they turn out.’<br />
“Our numerous friends now began to make their formal calls, to see<br />
Ruth and the baby. I cannot tell you all the extravagant eulogiums they<br />
bestowed upon the latter; but I may say, that the generally expressed<br />
opinion was that it was a perfect beauty, the very image of its mamma,<br />
with a remarkable resemblance to its papa.<br />
“Time rolled on, and of course, trouble rolled on with it. Measles and<br />
mumps, and other incidental ailments, came to prove to us that our little<br />
treasure was not exempt from the common inheritance of mankind. Still<br />
it suffered far less than some poor infants do, who are half suffocated<br />
with physic and flannel by over-anxious nurses. Like a tight little bark, it<br />
weathered all those waves of trouble; though the squalls were sometimes<br />
very long and strong, and our hearts were often anxious. There were<br />
many seasons of joy for us too, when the sunshine of hope chased away<br />
the mists of gloomy fears. There was the joy of welcoming our darling's<br />
first ‘ 'ittle toosy,’ as it cut through its soft rubicund bed; and of<br />
beholding the first capering signs of recognition of its doting parents; of<br />
its first attempts to creep, and of its precocious efforts to talk. I shall<br />
never forget the bright evening when my delighted wife assured me<br />
immediately on my return home, that she had distinctly heard our poppet<br />
call, ‘dad, dad, dad!’ How eagerly I listened and longed to hear it repeat<br />
that infantile abbreviation of its father's name. Nor shall I forget my joy<br />
when the next week I heard it say, ‘mam, mam, mam!’ Those early<br />
efforts to talk were considered remarkable by all our friends, some of<br />
whom appeared to take a peculiar interest in the budding wisdom which<br />
we from day to day observed in our offspring, and coincided in our<br />
opinion that it was not a common child.<br />
“It had a hard fight with its eye teeth, and symptoms of convulsions<br />
more than once appeared; but a tepid bath wrought wonders in relieving<br />
them, and a sixpenny rattle was a hundred fold more efficacious in<br />
restoring quiescence than a gallon of soothing syrup would have been.<br />
“At ten months old my little tiddledum trots began to toddle. Ah, sir!
you should have seen the animated faces of my wife and myself while<br />
squatted in opposite corners of the room, and with outstretched arms, we<br />
alternately stimulated our wee tiny legs to ‘tum to its mammy,’ or ‘dow<br />
to its daddy;’ while the fun of seeing it tumble down two or three times<br />
on each short journey, was richer than ‘blind man's buff.’<br />
“But I must get on a little faster with my story,” said Mr. Wobble, “for<br />
I'm afraid you'll get sleepy, Mr. Boomerang. Years rolled on, and my<br />
happy home resounded with juvenile fun and frolic, for I have been<br />
blessed with more little strangers in the meantime, all of whom sprung<br />
up healthy and strong except one, who was nipped down like a young<br />
rose-bud. But I will not tell you about that darling one just now, sir,” said<br />
the old man, as he dashed a tear from his eye-lid. “She is not lost; and<br />
anon I shall see her again; not as a child, perhaps, but as a lovely maiden,<br />
fairer than the flowers of paradise, arrayed in dazzling immortal robes,<br />
‘brighter than brightness.’ ”<br />
Old Mr. Wobble was here seized with a troublesome spasm in his<br />
windpipe, but he soon recovered, and thus began again —<br />
“Habit in a child is at first like a spider's web, neglected it becomes like<br />
a thread or twine, next a cord or rope, finally a cable; then who can break<br />
it? Those thoughts are not my own, Mr. Boomerang, but I can attest their<br />
truth; and I ever tried to keep them in mind in the early training of my<br />
young ones. Without curtailing their childish amusements, I have been<br />
careful in seeing that they were of an innocent character, and have<br />
frequently joined in their romping games, in order to observe if there<br />
were anything objectionable in them or in their playmates, and though I<br />
was sometimes as merry and frolicsome as a schoolboy in their midst, I<br />
was guarding them against vulgar or pernicious actions, or slangy<br />
expressions, with the vigilance of a schoolmaster.<br />
“ ‘I'll slap your head,’ said Ruth, one day to little Joe, who had<br />
accidentally thrown his boot into a saucepan full of beef-tea. Ruth would<br />
get rather excited sometimes, poor thing, about trifles; but her anger<br />
usually subsided quicker than the effervescence on a bottle of ginger pop.<br />
She was as good a mother as ever rocked a cradle, only she now and then<br />
got impatient, and would say cross things which she didn't really mean,<br />
and which she would cry over afterwards, and then be foolishly indulgent<br />
to the little object of her wrath. ‘Drat that boy,’ said Ruth, ‘he's spoiled<br />
every drop of that nice beef broth with his dirty boot, I'll slap your head<br />
for you, I will, you young rattletrap.’<br />
“ ‘Slap it gently then, my dear,’ I whispered, ‘as you have promised to<br />
do it, but don't promise to slap it again; for the head, though it looks<br />
pretty hard externally, contains some exquisitely delicate material, as<br />
physiologists explain to us; and they in general agree, too, that the brain<br />
is the seat of the reasoning faculties. Now, my dear, suppose you were to<br />
slap the bump of conscientiousness, which is in a very handy position,
and were to depress it, and at the same time elevate the bump of<br />
combativeness, or destructiveness, that would be a very serious matter,<br />
no doubt; but what would be your feelings as long as you lived, if your<br />
hasty slap on the head were to disorganise those wonderful faculties of<br />
the brain altogether, and cause poor Joe to drivel out his days a moping<br />
idiot, or a raving maniac?’<br />
“Ruth looked horrified at my question, as well she might. ‘Oh! Peter,’<br />
she said, with tears in her eyes, ‘I have never thought of that dreadful<br />
risk. I will promise never to slap a child on its head again — never.’<br />
“ ‘That's right, my dear,’ said I, ‘for it's a dangerous mode of inflicting<br />
punishment, although a very common one. ‘I'll box your ears!’ is the last<br />
expression which many a poor child's reason has comprehended; and I<br />
dare say there are wretched beings this day in our lunatic asylums, whose<br />
incurable maladies are really chargeable to unlucky slaps on the head in<br />
childhood; and many other poor creatures are wriggling through life with<br />
crooked spines, or otherwise distorted limbs, caused by hasty blows of<br />
heavy-handed parents. Whenever I hear folks pettishly talk of giving<br />
their children a good thumping, I shudder worse than if I were in danger<br />
of being kicked by an elephant.’<br />
“I disapprove of corporal punishment as a rule, Mr. Boomerang, still I<br />
do not dispute the correctness of the proverb about sparing the rod and<br />
spoiling the child, by no means. A rod in a household of young children<br />
is perhaps as essential for the preservation of peace and decorum as<br />
policemen are in a city; but if proper judgment be used, the rod need only<br />
be kept to look at. That is my opinion, founded upon experience. I used<br />
to keep a short switch, a little thicker than a lark's leg, hanging over the<br />
clock; and on rare occasions I have taken it down and administered two<br />
or three smart strokes to a refractory youngster, on a part where there<br />
was no risk of bruising bones. It tingled unpleasantly, no doubt, but it did<br />
no physical injury; and it is surprising how durable its moral effects<br />
were. I had only to look up at the clock if Master Joe were uproarious,<br />
and perhaps, quietly remark that a small piece of stick liquorice might do<br />
him good, when he would be as quiet as a dead mouse in a minute. Joe<br />
knew what was the time of day when I looked at the clock, if he were<br />
naughty; and he knew too, that if he did not immediately mend his<br />
manners if would soon strike one. But the rod over the clock was<br />
something like my grandmother's warming-pan, which hangs up in my<br />
kitchen, more for show than for use; and I don't think I have used it four<br />
times in forty years.<br />
“I have heard it remarked, ‘that the most uncomfortable house to live<br />
in, is a house full of pets; such as pet dogs, pet canaries, pet parrots, cats,<br />
and cockatoos, but worse than all pet children.’ I subscribe to that<br />
opinion, though not so much from personal experience, as from casual<br />
observations. I believe it is a positive sin for parents to pamper their
children, by giving them everything they ask for, or by allowing them to<br />
do anything they like, to keep them from fretting. Such pet children are<br />
not much less than little nuisances; and I feel almost malicious enough to<br />
make faces at them, and frighten them away, whenever they come near<br />
me. If such spoiled ones do not grow up mischievous, and immensely<br />
troublesome to their parents, and to society at large, it will only be<br />
through the merciful interposition of Divine grace.<br />
“I could give you a score of illustrations on the subject, but you are<br />
nodding, Mr. Boomerang, which shews that you have had enough of it,<br />
and I must beg pardon for keeping you so late. I declare it is past<br />
midnight.”<br />
“You have not far to walk home, however,” continued Mr. Wobble, as<br />
I buttoned on my overcoat, and walked to the door. “But stay, sir, take<br />
my knobby stick, to keep the street dogs from picking your bones on the<br />
way. By the by, I wish you could add to the present Dog Act a little<br />
clause, making it compulsory on owners of curs to chain them up, or<br />
hang them. Then equestrians would run less risk of having their necks<br />
broken, and pedestrians of having their legs bitten, and everybody's ears<br />
would be relieved of an intolerable nocturnal discord, equalled only by<br />
the screams of the prowling cats that infest this locality, and so<br />
frequently spoil my repose.<br />
“I have often thought of extemporising a cataract of scalding hot water<br />
from my bedroom window on to the screeching toms and tabbies<br />
beneath; but it would probably damage the fur of the animals, and if they<br />
happened to be pets their owners might be pettish, and sue me for<br />
damages.”<br />
“Good night, Mr. Wobble,” said I as I shook my old friend's hand.<br />
“Don't stand any longer in the open doorway talking about cats, or you'll<br />
catch catarrh.”
The Wag, and the Wager.<br />
THERE once lived a tippler, I need not tell where,<br />
The genus is lucklessly not very rare.<br />
If you doubt it, just walk through our streets for an hour,<br />
And doubts will flee, faster than pigs in a shower.<br />
The veteran toper of whom I now write<br />
Would tipple strong liquor from morning till night;<br />
His nose was as red as an over-ripe plum,<br />
Surcharged with the essence of brandy and rum.<br />
He one day agreed a large bet to decide,<br />
And prove his good taste, all his glory and pride:<br />
With eyes closely bandaged, by taste or by smell,<br />
The names of all liquids he'd instantly tell.<br />
The stakes were paid down, and the bandage was tied,<br />
Then Nosey with spirits and wine was supplied.<br />
Each sample presented, he named with a grin,<br />
Which shook his fat sides, for he thought he would win.<br />
And said, as he chuckled, “why who would suppose<br />
I'd not know the stuff that has painted my nose?<br />
My every day diet for forty-five years!<br />
Pooh! none but sheer ninnies could have such ideas.”<br />
“Come take off the bandage — the wager is won.”<br />
“Hold! hold!” cried a wag, “wait a bit, I've not done.”<br />
He then of pure water, poured out a full glass,<br />
And grinned like a blackfellow riding an ass.<br />
Old Tom took the glass, and sipped and then smelt it,<br />
Then close to his car he attentively held it.<br />
Quoth he, “it's not grog; to that fact I would swear;<br />
But what stuff it is, I don't know, I declare.”<br />
“It ain't got no flavor; it won't hiss nor fizz — ”<br />
“Time's up,” cried the wag, “Can you tell what it is?”<br />
“I can't,” said old Tom, (with a grunt like a boar),<br />
“For I never have tasted such liquor before.”
Jack Tars, Ahoy!<br />
HEAVE to, my hearties! while I spin you a yarn, which may serve you<br />
for a life-line, if you will coil it away in your memory's locker. But hold<br />
on a bit, let me hoist my number, lest you mistake me for some hungry<br />
cruiser, wanting to board you for your dunnage. I am as true a Briton as<br />
ever loved roast beef, or sung “God save the Queen;” and the Union Jack<br />
is flying at my mizen peak, which is a sign that I am not a pirate, or a<br />
privateer. I claim to be a friend of seamen, and though I am not a<br />
professional sailor (as the cockney said, when he voyaged round the<br />
London Tower ditch in a baker's trough), I know all the ropes on board a<br />
ship, from the spanker sheet to the flying-jib downhaul. I can hand, reef,<br />
and steer — or I could when I was young and able — I could also splice<br />
a rope, strop a block, or do an odd job with a palm and needle; though<br />
only in amateur's style. I have been shaved by Neptune's barber, with a<br />
razor like a saw, and shaving paste à la tur tub; and have been bled and<br />
blistered by the same amphibious functionary, though I cannot<br />
recommend him either as an easy shaver or a satisfactory surgeon. I have<br />
doubled Cape Horn in winter, and was nearly doubled up myself with<br />
cold, I have scudded round Cape of Good Hope under bare poles, but<br />
have not the slightest wish to scud round it again in similar weather, I<br />
have made several long voyages, and scores of short voyages to sea, and<br />
have had many sailors in my service, at sea and on shore too; so I may<br />
without presumption say I know something about sea life, and seamen. I<br />
have always felt a strong interest in their welfare; and it is that friendly<br />
feeling which prompts me now to take up my pen.<br />
Yes, I recollect, feeling a strong affection for seamen, long before I<br />
ever stepped on a deck, or knew the flavour of salt junk, or the colour of<br />
sea water. Many a time have I sat, when a boy, under a tree in Greenwich<br />
Park, and listened to a tough yarn from some old weather beaten tar, in a<br />
quaintly cut blue coat and cocked hat, a timber leg, and his face the<br />
colour of a cedar chest; and as he has stumped to and fro, with his<br />
telescope under his arm, as if he were pacing the deck of the forecastle;<br />
narrating in his sea lingo, the exciting particulars of the action, in which<br />
he received that slash on the cheek, or that smash on the nose; where his<br />
starboard arm was disabled by a splinter, and his larboard leg carried<br />
away by a chain shot; I have felt, as he touchingly described his<br />
sufferings, my soft young heart move, and almost melt, like a lump of
pitch in a hot ladle.<br />
I can call to mind too, my tender emotion, when for the first time, I<br />
visited Greenwich College, and the Dreadnought Hospital-ship, and saw<br />
many poor old veterans on their “beam-ends,” total wrecks; and others<br />
“hove down in their bunks for repairs.” I ever afterwards felt a virtuous<br />
disposition to thrash the vulgar street boys, who cruelly delighted to tease<br />
some of those poor old pensioners, as they hobbled through the streets,<br />
by shouting “timber toes, or goose.”<br />
I recollect too, when I was a schoolboy, how I used to admire, and<br />
envy, the natty little midshipmen, whom I occasionally saw on shore,<br />
dressed in their gold-laced caps, blue jackets with gold buttons, and<br />
“white ducks.” I used to think they were all embryo heroes, and that no<br />
profession was so full of adventure, and éclat as theirs. I longed to be a<br />
middy, for I fancied they always wore “white ducks” and faces as bright<br />
as their buttons; and I knew that they rejoiced in the favour of the pretty<br />
girls and fond old matrons all the world over. Of course, I had then never<br />
seen middies as I have since seen them in a gale of wind, huddled under<br />
the lee of the long-boat, like half-drowned chickens, or dancing beneath<br />
the break of the poop, on a cold stormy night, to keep their toes from<br />
freezing, dressed in rough monkey-jackets, sou'wester hats, and tarpaulin<br />
trousers. There was very little romance about them or their rig, at such<br />
time: and no more shine in their buttons then than in rusty rivets; while<br />
“white ducks” were as scarce on deck as white swans.<br />
Poor Jack tars! I have often lain in my cot on a dark stormy night, and<br />
listened to your shouts and songs, sounding in dismal concert with the<br />
howling of the wind through the ratlines. I have often, too, had<br />
troublesome fears, while you were aloft on the top-sail yards, lest the<br />
rigging should be chafed or rotten in any part, and, during a heavy lurch,<br />
the masts should carry away, and I should see you no more. Aye, and I<br />
have frequently gone on deck to lend you a hand when the sails were wet<br />
and heavy, and the ropes ran stiffly through the blocks; and you were<br />
glad of my little voluntary help. The officer of the middle watch, too,<br />
was often glad of my company when on his dreary duty.<br />
I can call to mind many dismal nights, far in the icy south; when<br />
running under small sail, and the sea like a cliff high above the taff-rail,<br />
threatening every minute to overwhelm us. And one night especially,<br />
when the decks were white with snow, and the wind roared through the<br />
shrouds like thunder: scarcely a stitch of canvas could be spread on the<br />
groaning ship, which was rushing through the foaming waters like some<br />
mad monster of the deep, and the officer of the watch stood by the<br />
steersmen, anxiously engaged in conning the course. Two men, as white<br />
as millers, were lashed to the helm, and skilfully they performed their<br />
arduous duty. “Steer steadily, my brave men,” I shiveringly ejaculated as<br />
I hurried below to my comfortable cabin; “but one false turn of the
wheel, in this frightfully heavy sea, might broach us to, and send this<br />
stately ship and her gallant crew, with her tons of gold, and her forty<br />
sleeping passengers, to the rocky caves below;” and as I turned into my<br />
warm cot, how much I sympathized with those poor fellows on deck!<br />
— how much I felt indebted to sailors! Doubtless many of my readers<br />
have felt in a similar way.<br />
I have also seen a ship trembling like a terrified steed, as she rushed<br />
before the fury of a tornado, and while some of the sails, which had been<br />
blown from the gaskets, were flying in ribbons, and making a noise like a<br />
hundred stockwhips; and while the strong masts bent before the blast,<br />
like bulrushes; I have seen a sailor, with an axe in his hand, lay out on<br />
the main yardarm, and cut away the chain topsailsheet, which had got<br />
foul, while other equally brave men, at the imminent risk of their lives<br />
and limbs, cut the flapping sails from the yards. Such feats of daring<br />
deserved something more than coarse fare and four pounds a month.<br />
And I have been on board a steamer, off the <strong>Australian</strong> coast, when I<br />
would have gladly given a year's income to have been safe on shore.<br />
When the green seas were tumbling over the vessel, and carrying away<br />
chain boxes, and everything moveable, from the decks — when blue<br />
lightning played dangerously about the masts and funnel, and the pealing<br />
thunder was heard above the roaring of the wind and waves — when the<br />
captain and his officers were eagerly looking for Sydney lighthouse<br />
through the thick rain and darkness — and when many of the sea-sick<br />
passengers below were fearing they would never see that welcome light<br />
again. How much I felt indebted to sailors then!<br />
By the way, I remember on one occasion, while lying wind-bound in a<br />
northern port, hearing several wealthy colonists — at a dinner table<br />
— describe a fearful night they had passed in a favourite coasting<br />
steamer, during an easterly gale. They stated that the captain kept on the<br />
bridge during the whole of that protracted passage, exposed to the full<br />
force of the storm; and on their arrival at Sydney the next day, he had to<br />
be carried below, and put to bed, being completely exhausted. I heard<br />
those gentlemen confess that they owed their lives, on that awful night,<br />
to the watchfulness and skilful seamanship of the captain, aided, of<br />
course, by his officers and crew. But whether those wealthy colonists<br />
ever acknowledged their obligations in any more tangible shape, I am not<br />
aware.<br />
As I write, I have harrowing reminiscences of my visit to the ill-fated<br />
Orpheus, at the invitation of a beloved friend, a promising young officer<br />
(and a true Christian), who perished at his post, in the sad wreck on<br />
Manakau Bar, on the 7th February, 1863.<br />
I inspected nearly every part of that noble steamship, which then lay at<br />
anchor in Farm Cove — and as I walked round her decks, I could not but<br />
he struck with the healthy and cheerful appearance of her crew. A finer
lot of young seaman I never beheld.<br />
Poor fellows! it is sad, indeed! to reflect upon their untimely fate, so<br />
soon afterwards. That melancholy wreck engaged my thoughts by day,<br />
and my dreams by night, for weeks after its occurrence. Often I have<br />
imagined the heart-piercing cries of those one hundred and ninety noble<br />
fellows, as my fancy has pictured the terrible scene, at the moment when<br />
the masts fell crashing over the side, and hurled them through the boiling<br />
surf, into the jaws of death.<br />
Yes, I sympathise with sailors most cordially. I love them as a class,<br />
and feel glad to observe any movement for their benefit.<br />
Of course I do not mean to say that they are all honest hearted, though<br />
rough and rollicksome. I have occasionally sailed with intolerable<br />
nuisances, yclept “sea lawyers,” with tongues as lively as seals' flippers,<br />
though not so harmless; I have also met with lazy, drunken, and<br />
dangerous fellows, who would do anything Old Mischief prompted to<br />
annoy their captain or officers; and I have also seen captains and officers<br />
who would do anything to annoy their crew. Still, such characters,<br />
though by no means rare, are not plentiful; and I have met with honest<br />
and true men in an overwhelming majority, and I believe that most<br />
unprejudiced travellers could make a similar report.<br />
But I fancy I hear some impatient son of Neptune exclaim, as he<br />
hitches up his nether garments, “Odds! blow me through a bunghole,<br />
shipmate. This yarn of yours arn't no use to us for a ‘stand-by!’ Belay<br />
that lady's bobbin, and pay out something handy for us, as you promised<br />
to do, when you first hailed us to heave-to. We don't want any more<br />
wordy sympathy, and that sort of music, because, though it sounds as<br />
sweetly as a jew's-harp, it isn't very satisfying — as the hungry sailor<br />
said when he swallowed a snowball. We are nice, handy men in a squall,<br />
as everybody knows who has been to sea; and most people believe that<br />
they would be very short of sugar and tea, and one or two other things, if<br />
it were not for sailors. Oh, yes, sir; all the world knows our wonderful<br />
virtues, and sometimes we are appreciated too — by timid passengers, in<br />
very bad weather especially.<br />
“Please to bear a hand, Mr. Boomerang, and spin something worth our<br />
while to coil away in our sea chests.”<br />
“Ay, ay, my hearties!” I reply. “Stand by for it now. You know that old<br />
age overtakes seamen as well as landsmen, and the former are peculiarly<br />
liable to infirmities, besides those which are usually incidental to old age.<br />
You active young A.B.'s (able seamen) can now shin up to the<br />
maintruck, and slide down again by the backstay, or lay out on the yardarm<br />
in a gale, as nimbly as squirrels, and you can do a hard day's work<br />
and laugh all the while, for your supple limbs are as strong as capstan<br />
bars. The winter winds may howl along our iron coast and lash the sea<br />
into foam, but they are harmless to your hardy frames. So long as you
have a good ship and a good offing, you care no more for the equinoctial<br />
gales than an albatross. But hold on a small bit, mates! I am sorry to<br />
prognosticate bad cheer, but I must be faithful, or I should not be your<br />
true friend. By-and-by old Time will make most of you shiver in the<br />
wind. Old age comes prematurely to the sailor, and is frequently attended<br />
with an unwelcome train of disorders, especially induced by hardship<br />
and exposure, and sometimes by culpable neglect, and excesses of<br />
various kinds. Rheumatism, and other painful affections of that class,<br />
will probably coil round you, and disqualify you for able seamen's duty.<br />
At the call of the boatswain — ‘all hands reef topsails’ you could no<br />
more take your old place at the weather earing, than you could dance a<br />
hornpipe on your head. Perhaps all your bones will ache as if you had<br />
been under a coal shoot for twenty minutes, or been caught in a hurricane<br />
in a cocoa-nut plantation. As a sailor, you will not be worth your beef<br />
and biscuit; and if you are not fortunate enough to get a berth in the<br />
galley as cook or cook's mate, you will be roused ashore like an old rusteaten<br />
cable, or a sprung spar that can't be fished. Then if you have not<br />
friends, who are able and willing to give you daily rations, and a place to<br />
sling your hammock for the rest of your life, you must steer for the<br />
Benevolent Asylum; or else wander about the streets, without home or<br />
habitation, picking up a precarious meal where you can; sleeping under<br />
gateways, or doorways, or under the trees in the Domain, with the dark<br />
clouds for your blanket; varied only by a night's lodging, now and then,<br />
in the watchhouse, by way of a luxury.<br />
Shipmates! this is no overdrawn picture from imagination; and if you<br />
doubt it, just pay a visit to the Benevolent Asylum any day in the week,<br />
or get up early on any Sunday morning in the year, and go to the<br />
Temperance Hall, to the breakfast for destitute outcasts. You would see<br />
many poor old sailors, jury-rigged, stagger into those places, the latter<br />
place in particular, deplorable looking objects, without a shot in the<br />
locker, without a cover from the storm by night or by day; ill-clad,<br />
hungry, diseased, and friendless. Poor old tars, whose best years have<br />
been spent in hard service; but now, disabled and unfit for sea, they are<br />
cast ashore like drift wood, or sea-weed, to be tossed about on the rocky<br />
strand of poverty, by the surges of misfortune, till death terminates their<br />
earthly sufferings, and they are rattled away to a pauper's grave.<br />
I repeat it; this is no flight of fancy, but a sadly accurate, every-day<br />
picture from real life, of which any of my readers, be they seamen or<br />
landsmen, may satisfy themselves, without much trouble.<br />
Messmates, help a brother sailor! All you able seamen can lend a hand<br />
to some of these poor old disabled brother tars, if you have the will, and<br />
many of them would be very grateful if you would throw them a tow-line<br />
or a cork fender. But my present object is not so much to appeal to you<br />
on their behalf as it is to warn you to look out for yourselves, and make a
provision for your old age, when you will be unseaworthy, and I am<br />
going to tell you of a good plan for doing so. Now carefully log down<br />
what follows.<br />
I will assume that I am addressing an active young man of twenty-one<br />
years of age. Well, brother, you may make a comfortable provision for<br />
your wants in old age by means of a deferred annuity. I will simply<br />
explain to you what that means. By paying yearly, the sum of seven<br />
pounds two shillings and sixpence, which is about two shillings and<br />
ninepence a week, or about fourpence-halfpenny a day, you may insure<br />
fifty pounds a year (with bonus additions), to be paid to you as long as<br />
you live, after you have arrived at fifty-five years of age; at which age, I<br />
dare say you will begin to feel you have had enough of sea service. You<br />
can insure for a larger or smaller amount, than fifty pounds, at the same<br />
rate; and a man of any age may make a similar provision; only, of course,<br />
the older he is, the higher rate of premium he will have to pay.<br />
You would have no difficulty in making the above provision, if you<br />
were so disposed, either in Sydney or elsewhere, for you will find<br />
assurance offices in almost every sea port. There are many other<br />
advantages offered to the careful man, besides a deferred annuity, by<br />
those excellent institutions, of which you could acquaint yourselves, by<br />
getting printed rules, or by applying for information to any of the Life<br />
Assurance agents.<br />
The expense cannot be a real obstacle to you, for even at the present<br />
rather low rate of wages, I believe it would be possible for any steady<br />
seaman to save enough to pay an annuity premium, and put something in<br />
the Savings' Bank too. I would strenuously urge seamen in particular, but<br />
landsmen also, to lose no time in making that easy provision for their<br />
life's winter.<br />
Shipmates! my yarn is nearly spun out; but before I whip the end of it,<br />
I want to ask you to read the story — in another part of this volume<br />
— about my poor friend Louis, the sailor, who was washed overboard on<br />
his voyage to New Zealand, and let me urge you to do as I trust poor<br />
Louis did, viz., live in preparation for the awful call, which death will<br />
make upon you, at some time, and you know not the day nor the hour.<br />
You are peculiarly exposed to danger, and like Louis, you may be<br />
washed overboard without warning.<br />
And now, my hearties, fill your sails and go on your voyage; I hope<br />
you may have fair winds and fine weather. But hold — luff up a bit;<br />
listen attentively to these few words before we part company; get such a<br />
chart as I gave to poor Louis (if you have not one) a Holy Bible — study<br />
it carefully, and frequently; steer by its directions; and if you do so, when<br />
the stormy seas of life are passed, you shall enter with flowing sheets the<br />
placid haven of Rest above, and there let go your anchors for ever.
A Crippled Ship with a Wrangling Crew.<br />
MANY years ago, when our fleet of coasting steamers was far less<br />
extensive than it is at the present time, and when perhaps the discipline<br />
on ship board was less perfect, I left Sydney one night for a northern port<br />
not far away. I was accompanied by a young gentleman (now occupying<br />
an influential position in the colony), who was about to pay a visit to my<br />
house, for a little relaxation from hard college studies. Strange to say,<br />
although a native of the colony, my friend had never before been on the<br />
sea, and when the steamer first felt the ocean roll as she passed the light<br />
ship, he began to anticipate that awful sensation, of which he had heard<br />
and read such moving descriptions, i. e., sea sickness; and the bare idea<br />
of it turned his complexion a blighted lemon colour. To counteract his<br />
squeamishness if possible, I led him under the bridge between the<br />
paddle-boxes, where the motion of the ship was less perceptible; and<br />
there he stood trying to analyze his peculiar feelings, and philosophising<br />
thereupon, much to my edification and amusement, for I had never<br />
experienced sea sickness, and had never before seen a sea-sick man<br />
merry, or heard one make a joke that was not of a dismal cast.<br />
There were many passengers on board, but they were all below, for<br />
there was a strong head wind and a drizzling rain, though the sea was not<br />
so heavy as I had often seen it at the same spot. Soon after the steamer<br />
had shaved round North Head, she began to pitch and toss and to duck<br />
her head under water, after the playful style of fast steamers in general,<br />
which astonished my inexperienced friend, who, by-the-bye, asked me in<br />
rather a quavering voice, “If there was any danger of our going to the<br />
bottom?”<br />
“Oh, dear, no!” I replied, “we are safe enough. This is the best sea-boat<br />
in the colony, and the captain knows the coast as well as you know<br />
Church Hill. I then explained that the vessel was in troubled waters,<br />
caused by the rebound of the waves after striking the base of the cliffs,<br />
but that she would be steadier when we got further to sea. As I was<br />
ending my comforting explanation, I saw an immense breaking wave rise<br />
on our starboard bow, and I had just time to direct my half paralyzed<br />
friend to hold fast to the handle of a pump, affixed to the paddle-box,<br />
when a green sea broke over the bows and filled the decks with water,<br />
knocking a number of barrels of beer down to leeward, turning a carriage<br />
on deck upside down, and nearly throwing the vessel on her beam ends.
Simultaneously I heard the well-known voice of the captain, shouting<br />
loudly for help; so I ran aft, and found him at the helm, and the late<br />
steersman (who was thrown over the wheel and had his jaw broken),<br />
lying in the lee scuppers groaning with pain. I was about to lift the poor<br />
fellow, when the captain called to me “to let him lie, and to run forward<br />
and rouse the hands out.” My allusion to the improved discipline in<br />
coasting steamers in the present day, will be appreciated when I state that<br />
the captain, the second mate, and the steersman, were the only persons<br />
belonging to the ship on deck at the time of the mishap. I ran forward,<br />
but found that the crew were “rousing out” without being called, for the<br />
forecastle was nearly half filled with water, and the sailors were hurrying<br />
up like drowning rats, and grumbling after their usual custom under such<br />
circumstances, while the second mate was violently kicking at the chief<br />
mate's cabin door, accompanying each kick with a curse, or something<br />
equivalent to it. Presently the door was opened, and the chief in a furious<br />
tone demanded what the other meant by knocking at his door in that<br />
sledge-hammer style.<br />
“Can't you see the ship is on her beam ends? Heave out and rouse some<br />
of this deck load up to windward, if you are not too drunk to stand. Bear<br />
a hand, or the ship will go down under us!” roared the second mate.<br />
“Bless the ship!” vociferated the savage chief. “How dare you talk to<br />
me in that manner? Bless your impudence! what do you mean by it? I'll<br />
punch your head in a minute,” he added, as he hastily drew on a<br />
necessary garment.<br />
“Will you?” exclaimed the second mate, squaring up like a professional<br />
boxer; “come on, I'm your man. I'll knock marlinspikes out of you!”<br />
While that angry dialogue was going on, the captain was shouting<br />
loudly from his post at the wheel, but no one heard what he said, or<br />
heeded his orders in the excitement of the affray, for the crew seemed all<br />
more interested in the sea fight than for the safety of the ship, which was<br />
plunging about in the trough of the sea, with one paddle-wheel<br />
submerged, and the other one high out of the water; while scarcely more<br />
than a quarter of a mile to leeward were the dark cliffs, looming upon us<br />
like the jaws of death. In the meantime my terrified friend was clinging<br />
to the pumphandle, in awful dread of tumbling into the engine-room, or<br />
being washed overboard, if he relaxed his hold for an instant, and<br />
wondering at the same time if that were an extraordinary occurrence in<br />
sea-life, or a mere nothing if he were used to it.<br />
I rushed in between the sparring mates, and in a tone of authority,<br />
which the emergency of the case warranted, I asked, “If they were mad,<br />
to waste time in quarrelling and fighting, when the lives of all on board<br />
were in peril?” adding, “get the ship upright, gentlemen, for mercy's<br />
sake! and fight afterwards if you choose. Be reasonable, gentlemen, I<br />
pray: leave off wrangling, and get the ship in trim, or we shall soon be
knocked to pieces on the rocks.”<br />
My appeal was effectual, for after promising to pay each other by-andbye,<br />
they set to work in earnest, and aided by the crew, soon got the<br />
drifted cargo up to windward, and afterwards shifted some of it aft, for it<br />
had been ascertained that the ship was seriously out of trim; being<br />
fourteen inches by the head, which accounted for her shipping seas over<br />
the bows in such an unusual manner. After the vessel was properly<br />
trimmed, and a skilful man sent to the helm, she went along comfortably,<br />
and without further mishap, for she was a fine lively sea boat, and<br />
sufficiently powerful to make headway against a hard gale, if properly<br />
managed. But she had a narrow escape from total wreck that night,<br />
through clumsy stowage in the first place, and afterwards through the<br />
insane disposition of her officers, to wrangle and fight, when they should<br />
have been using their utmost efforts to remedy their previous blunders,<br />
and to rescue the ship from the critical position in which their<br />
mismanagement had involved her.<br />
After the sailors had fairly got to work, and I saw that my aid was not<br />
further required, I assisted my friend down to the cabin; and as I changed<br />
my wet clothing, I quietly chuckled at the various remarks of the scared<br />
passengers around me, few of whom really understood the nature of the<br />
disaster. While some blamed the captain, the ship, or the steersman,<br />
others included everybody and everything on board in a general grumble;<br />
but I remarked that only two or three of the more sensible sort went on<br />
deck to see what was the actual state of affairs, or to offer a helping hand.<br />
* * * * *<br />
As I before remarked, many years have passed since that occurrence,<br />
but analogous circumstances have often recalled it to my mind. In trying<br />
to draw a parallel between that crippled steamer and the political<br />
condition of the colony, I do not indulge a cynical spirit. I would rather<br />
burn my pen than merely use it for the purpose of exposing the faults and<br />
follies around me, with no better motive than to provoke a sneer at them.<br />
Though I seldom trouble any one with my political opinions, I am far<br />
from indifferent to subjects which it is the imperative duty of every man<br />
to gain an intelligent insight into; and saying that, is virtually admitting<br />
that I have been often pained at the waste of time and talent in our<br />
Legislative Assembly, which I could not fail to observe.<br />
Often as I have glanced over reports of stormy debates in the House,<br />
have I thought of the two belligerent mates, with the careless crew<br />
watching them sparring, while the poor captain was at the helm shouting<br />
himself hoarse, to no purpose, and have wished that I could step on to the<br />
floor of the House, between the contending parties, and say earnestly, but<br />
politely, “Gentlemen, for mercy's sake attend to the important business
you are entrusted with, and which you have sworn to perform to the best<br />
of your ability! Why waste time in needless debates and factious<br />
opposition, when the interests of your constituents are in peril. Would<br />
you not censure the directors of a joint-stock company, if, when they met<br />
to discuss important measures for the benefit of their association, they<br />
showed the spirit of antagonism which I observe in this Assembly? And<br />
would you not expect to see their business soon go to wreck, and the<br />
poor ruined shareholders looking woe-begone at their unsaleable scrip?<br />
Pray don't let personal feelings or petty interests mar the general good of<br />
this great land; but be reasonable gentlemen, ‘leave off wrangling, and<br />
put the ship in trim.’ ”<br />
I would scarcely have hoped to arouse every one to a sense of the value<br />
of my semi-nautical suggestions, for some of the honourable members<br />
might have been obtuse, and others sleepy; but it a majority had seen the<br />
common sense application of my remarks, my object would perhaps have<br />
been gained. What a few irascible members would have said to such an<br />
uncommon message is, of course, uncertain, but the reasonable deduction<br />
is not flattering to myself, so I had better not speculate farther.<br />
But I wish to deal seriously with this subject — to say my little say,<br />
and thus ease my conscience, and to some extent fulfil my duty as a<br />
colonist, deeply interested in the moral and social welfare of this land<br />
and its people, and I would express myself with all due respect to our<br />
rulers, and without the slightest intention either to offend or to flatter one<br />
of them, on either side of the House. It is useless to lament over<br />
irretrievable errors, either public or private; but past experience should<br />
help us to regulate our future course. Happy for the colony if all our<br />
legislators have profited by the lessons which a careful review of past<br />
misapplied time is calculated to teach them.<br />
As I pen this rustic expression of my sentiments, “the House” is reopening<br />
for business, under — to some extent — a new Ministry; and<br />
from a careful survey of the list of honourable members, and a personal<br />
acquaintance with some of them, I cannot but believe that there are the<br />
essential elements for a good and wise government in the Assembly. If<br />
they would but waive all minor differences of opinion — which, after all,<br />
are not very distinguishable — and bring their collective wisdom to bear<br />
upon the various matters which imperatively call for prompt legislation,<br />
the effect of the past unskilful seamanship, and bad stowage (to continue<br />
my nautical figures), may be soon remedied, and the crippled ship put in<br />
good sailing trim. And notwithstanding the shaking she has had, with the<br />
heavy seas which have broken on board, she is still staunch and strong,<br />
and will soon begin to gather headway again; confidence in her officers<br />
and crew will be restored, and the passengers will all be happy and<br />
hopeful: while friends afar off will shake off their distrust, and heartily<br />
join in the glad shout, “Advance Australia.”
That is a pleasing picture; but as I look complacently at it, grave doubts<br />
arise in my mind if it will meet the eyes of our rulers, so I cannot hope it<br />
will effect all the reform I desire; and I fancy I hear some of my kind<br />
country friends say, “Ah! Old Boomerang is off his beaten track, and will<br />
soon be lost in the bush if he does not look out. Political economy is<br />
evidently not his favourite theme, for he handles it as nervously as a<br />
black fellow would a lighted sky-rocket. He had better stick to his storytelling,<br />
and leave politics for bolder pens.” I reply, “I don't often touch<br />
upon politics, for I have many other matters in hand; and as Hudibras<br />
says, ‘A man can do no more than he can do.’ But I ask you — my<br />
friends — to kindly bear with me while I offer you a word or two of<br />
counsel on this subject; and please to excuse me for comparing you to<br />
the passengers in the crippled steamer's cabin. Some of you, I am sure,<br />
are ready and willing to spring up on the deck of our colonial vessel, and<br />
lend a hand to trim it upright; but there are too many who choose to stay<br />
below and grumble, and frequently those persons talk loudest who<br />
cannot consistently say a word; I mean, those who were too apathetic to<br />
record their votes at the last general election, and those who voted<br />
without due discrimination.<br />
Many of you old men are fond of talking of politics by your evening<br />
firesides, which is very right and proper, and I should like to have a chat<br />
with you, now and then; and perhaps some of you have occasionally lost<br />
patience (at which I do not wonder), and have freely expressed<br />
disapprobation of doings or misdoings, while your young sons or<br />
grandsons have sat by with open ears. It is no marvel, then, if they, when<br />
out of your sight, should talk politics too; and in order to show that they<br />
are as witty as their sires, they ridicule certain members whom, perhaps,<br />
you have nicknamed, which is certainly not polite, to say the least of it,<br />
nor is it at all encouraging to a legislator to know that it is the popular<br />
sport to roast him behind his back, and joke about all that he says and<br />
does. In the name of fair play, I say, friends, remedy that as far as you<br />
can, and be as ready to award a meed of praise where it is due, as you are<br />
to censure; for after all, you know, legislators are only men. And depend<br />
upon it, if the ship is to be put in good trim, you must help to do it, either<br />
positively or negatively, according to your ability and influence; so<br />
calmly consider how you can best lend your aid, and then do it heartily.<br />
If these remarks, written with an honest motive, on the first day of a<br />
new session, should in any way help to right our lop-sided ship, I shall be<br />
much more pleased than I should be if I were triumphantly elected to the<br />
vacant seat for West Sydney, and further honoured with the Speaker's<br />
chair.
“Driving a Hard Bargain.”<br />
WHEN on a visit to England, I went one day to the farfamed gardens at<br />
Kew, where I saw, amongst many other things worthy of admiration, a<br />
variety of <strong>Australian</strong> shrubs, &c., which carried my gratified feelings<br />
away for a time to my loved adopted land far over the sea.<br />
Returning to London by railway, the train stopped for a few minutes at<br />
the Vauxhall station, when my attention was attracted to a placard,<br />
announcing that a “monster balloon” would ascend from some celebrated<br />
gardens in that vicinity, at seven o'clock, and would have<br />
accommodation for four passengers.<br />
Having travelled by almost every other mode of conveyance, I was<br />
seized with a strong desire to try a sail in a balloon, and get a bird's-eye<br />
view of London at the same time. So I alighted from the train, and<br />
walked straightway to the gardens before mentioned, whither crowds of<br />
people were wending their way. On paying the fee for admission, I was<br />
presented with a ticket, which entitled me to an equal chance with the<br />
other visitors, to a seat in the balloon car.<br />
The process of filling the balloon with gas now commenced; and for a<br />
small additional fee I was permitted to go within an enclosure and<br />
witness the manipulations. In a comparatively short time the enormous<br />
sphere of silk and network was sufficiently inflated, when that veteran<br />
aëronaut, Mr. Green, got into the car, and another man — his chief mate,<br />
I supposed — seated himself upon a sort of hoop above the car, and<br />
began to overhaul the valve lines; while Mr. Green arranged the ballast<br />
bags, coiled away sundry ropes, and secured his grapnels, with the<br />
carefulness and coolness of an expert yachtsman, when seeing his tacks<br />
and sheets all clear. In the meantime, a large black board was elevated in<br />
a conspicuous part of the garden, with four numbers chalked upon it; and<br />
the fortunate holders of tickets corresponding to those numbers were<br />
invited to show themselves. I was not one of the fortunate ones, so I saw<br />
that my chance of a ride in the air was gone, unless I could purchase a<br />
seat, as other persons, ambitious of lofty position, have done.<br />
In a short time four men hurried into the enclosure to claim their<br />
privileges as holders of the lucky numbers; so selecting the most<br />
nervous-looking man, I asked him if he would sell his ticket.<br />
“Yes, sir,” said the man, while his face underwent a rapid change for<br />
the better, “you shall have it for a pound.”
I drew out my purse, but found that it contained only fifteen shillings,<br />
which I offered to the man, who shook his head, and scornfully declared<br />
“he wouldn't take nineteen and sixpence — that it was dirt cheap at a<br />
pound.”<br />
“Jump in, gentlemen,” cried the captain of the balloon; “look sharp!<br />
look sharp! take your seats.”<br />
“Are you going to give me the pound, mister?” asked the nervous little<br />
man, as he scrambled into the wicker car.<br />
“I tell you again, I have but fifteen shillings with me,” I replied, “so I<br />
cannot give you more; and you had better take my offer. I don't believe<br />
the change of air will do you any good.”<br />
“Now I tell you what I'll do with you,” said the man, “I will take fifteen<br />
shillings and your umbrella — what do you say?”<br />
At that moment, the men who were holding the ropes, which secured<br />
the balloon to the earth, slackened them, when the machine ascended a<br />
few yards, and swayed to and fro, as if impatient to be off among the<br />
clouds.<br />
The little man began to look sea-sick as he shouted out with a<br />
considerable display of trepidation, “Well, here you are, sir; hand me the<br />
fifteen shillings and take my place, we won't fall out about an old<br />
umbrella.”<br />
But it was not an easy matter to hand him anything, considering that he<br />
was eight or ten yards above my head: so I replied, as I held up my purse,<br />
“Here is the money; come down one of the ropes, and I'll climb up by the<br />
same means.”<br />
“Oh, I'm afraid to go down the rope — pull the concern down, can't<br />
you,” shrieked the little man. And then, turning to the captain of the<br />
balloon, he said, “Hoy, master, tell those fellows to pull the thing down<br />
again; I want to get out — I'm not well, and I've sold my ticket.”<br />
The captain made some testy reply, and called to the men below to get<br />
ready to let go at the word of command.<br />
“I want to get out, I tell you,” roared the little man, who was now as<br />
pale as a white cat. “Hoy, you sirs; pull the concern down, and I'll give<br />
you sixpence.<br />
“Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!” laughed the unsympathising crowd, as the<br />
poor excited fellow stood up in the car, and was rather roughly pushed<br />
into his seat again by the irate aëronaut.<br />
“Yah! You'll never come down again on this side of the world, unless<br />
the balloon blows up,” roared one of the mob. “This is a fair wind for the<br />
East Indies; you'll land in a jungle, and be bolted by a boa constrictor.”<br />
“I wouldn't care if my wife knew where I am,” groaned the little man,<br />
scarcely knowing what he said. “I say, you sir; just go and tell her, will<br />
you? There she is yonder; that young woman in a red bonnet, with a baby<br />
in her arms.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the mob again, in a tumultuous chorus louder<br />
than before.<br />
“You'll never see that red bonnet, nor that baby any more,” shouted<br />
another of the comforters in the crowd. “Your wife is as good as a widow<br />
now; but don't cry, Joby; I'll take care of her — I'm a single man.”<br />
“Hoy! hoy, mister! You shall have my ticket for nothing!” shrieked the<br />
little man in the car. “Pull this confounded thing down, and let me get<br />
out. I don't want to go in your balloon at all, governor; I want to go<br />
home; I'm very ill, I tell you,” he continued, frantically addressing the<br />
obdurate old captain, who gruffly promised to throw him out “if he didn't<br />
sit down and make less noise.”<br />
“Good-bye, Joby,” cried a previous speaker. “I'll look after your missis;<br />
tat-ta — give my love to the Great Bear.”<br />
“I'd smash you, if I could get out of this basket,” roared the little man,<br />
in a great passion, shaking his fist at his tormentor.<br />
“Let go!” shouted the captain to the men below. The men let go, when,<br />
amidst the shouting, the loud laughter, and varied compliments of the<br />
assembled multitude, the balloon rose above the trees in the gardens, and<br />
was soon high in the air, looking not much bigger than a water-butt. I<br />
have no doubt that my haggling friend's enjoyment of the panorama<br />
beneath him was sadly marred by his extreme terror, and his selfreproach<br />
for refusing my reasonable offer for his ticket, combined with<br />
his anxiety for his wife and baby.<br />
Although I felt vexed at missing so favourable an opportunity for a ride<br />
above the world, I enjoyed a hearty laugh at the farcical discomfiture of<br />
the miserable little mortal, who had been so promptly punished for his<br />
cupidity in trying to extort from me more for his ticket than I was able to<br />
give him, and certainly more than he really thought it was worth.<br />
The foregoing little incident — although it taught me nothing new in<br />
principle — has often recurred to my memory, when I have seen the<br />
same covetous spirit exhibited in various ways, in my everyday<br />
intercourse with the world; and I have on other occasions seen speedy<br />
retribution follow similar acts of greediness, or attempts at driving hard<br />
bargains.<br />
I have repeatedly seen servants lose good situations, through<br />
obstinately demanding higher wages than they are worth, or than their<br />
employers were able to give them; and afterwards I have seen those same<br />
servants soliciting employment, of less desirable kind, and at much lower<br />
wages, when compelled by their exhausted finances to obtain work at<br />
any price. I have seen combinations of men striving to exact a little more<br />
pay for their labour than their employers could reasonably give; and<br />
invariably such attempts have been disastrous to the men and their<br />
families.<br />
I have seen, too, an industrious tenantry forced off an estate, by the
landlord or his agent, demanding a little more rent than they could<br />
possibly make off the farms; and the same farms have remained<br />
unoccupied for years afterwards. I have also seen the shelves of a trader's<br />
warehouse filled with old-fashioned, or shop-worn goods, which he<br />
might have sold long before, at a moderate profit, but he chose to hold<br />
out for higher prices until his goods were almost unsaleable. Stores filled<br />
with grain and breadstuffs have often been over-run by devouring rats<br />
and weevils, while the owners have been waiting for famine prices,<br />
though they ultimately had to sell out at a ruinous loss.<br />
Covetousness, and the passion for driving hard bargains, or, in other<br />
words, extortion, is sadly prevalent the wide world over; and it would<br />
perhaps be unfair to particularise itinerant fishmongers, cabmen, or any<br />
other special class in the community, as the most incorrigible. I am<br />
prepared to demonstrate that such policy is a most unwise one; but I<br />
think I need not trouble myself to do so, as most persons who have tried<br />
it, have proved it so by their own experience; and some even more<br />
disagreeably than did the nervous little man who coveted my umbrella;<br />
besides, I have no faith in the power of mere human efforts, or dictums,<br />
to effectually cure that or any other extensive evil. I will, however,<br />
venture to offer a few words of advice, to newly-arrived immigrants<br />
especially; many of whom I have seen in our city of late, and to whom I<br />
tender my congratulations and hearty welcome. Doubtless some of them<br />
have brought their strength and skill to labour, as their only capital, to<br />
this new land; and they will generally find that they have not brought it<br />
to a bad market. You have an undoubted right, friends, to make the most<br />
you can of your capital, in common with every one else in the<br />
community; but I would kindly caution you not to be too extravagant in<br />
your expectations of immediate returns. At the present time there is a<br />
depression in the labour market, which perhaps most of you have<br />
discovered. That can be but temporary, still it is the case, and not many<br />
employers of labour are in a position to pay extreme wages just now.<br />
Beware, then, how you refuse steady employment, from good masters, at<br />
fair remuneration; and if you should be tempted to do so, think for a<br />
moment of my poor scared friend in the balloon. The same reflection I<br />
would recommend to any other person who is prone to driving hard<br />
bargains. I may just add my opinion, that employers will not act wisely if<br />
they take advantage of the present temporary depression, to drive too<br />
hard bargains with their employés; for by doing so they may drive away<br />
useful servants, and perhaps create a prejudice against themselves,<br />
which, to say the least, must be undesirable.<br />
If some folks do not really think the “Proverbs of Solomon” are<br />
obsolete, they sometimes act as if they thought so; or, indeed, as if they<br />
never thought of them at all. There are many men in this land — and<br />
elsewhere too — who have cause to regret that they did not allow those
inestimable precepts to regulate their daily transaction in the busy world<br />
of bargain - making, and thereby save themselves many sorrows.
Micky Mahony's Mishaps.<br />
Chapter I.<br />
“JOE, my jewel! whisht a minit, while I spake a little bit iv common<br />
sinse; an that's a sort of music you don't hear every day uv yer life, so it<br />
will be a trate to yez. There's no mishtake but it's mighty aisy worrk,<br />
squatting under a tea-tree all day long smoking me dudheen or darning<br />
me duds, and singing ‘Molly Bawn;’ while the sheep are nibbling away<br />
at the green grass, or capering about like young haythins, and my ould<br />
dog Nip is kitchin the flies on his stumpy tail, or scratching them other<br />
teazing things out uv he's curly coat. It's a rale jintleman's life, to be<br />
shure, and not bad pay for it naythir; still an all, I'm gittin as rusty as an<br />
ould pickaxe, for want of a little dacint society — that's a fact; an I'm<br />
afeard I'll forgit all me manners if I don't go into the worrld and exercise<br />
'em a bit. I've bin thinkin' that as my agreement wid the masther is up tomorrow,<br />
an I'll thin be free to go anywhere my two legs 'ill carry me, I'll<br />
be off to the diggins, at daylight; and if I can pick up a few nuggets, only<br />
as big as a lamb's tail, me fortune is made intirely; an I'll have nothing to<br />
do the rest uv me life, but smoke me pipe an ate me rations, which<br />
delicate imployment, 'ill shute my wake constitution illegantly. Yes, Joe,<br />
me bhoy! I'll be off to-morrow morning, and your new chum, Sawney<br />
M'Grim, can take out my flock; an good luck to him. I'll have him my<br />
poor dog Nip, for I dare say rations are dear on the diggins, an Nip wull<br />
be no sarvice to me in my new perfession. Maybe, too, some of them<br />
yellow Johnnies wud ate him, poor cratur, and that wud grieve me<br />
mortally, for poor Nip is the only relation I've got in the colony.”<br />
These remarks were addressed to Joe Griddle, the hut-keeper on a<br />
sheep-station — in the interior of New South Wales — by Micky<br />
Mahony, the shepherd, as they sat down to a hot dish of “bubble and<br />
squeak,” one evening, after Micky's flock had been counted in and<br />
hurdled.<br />
“To the diggings, eh?” quoth Joe, with a sombre grin. “You'll soon be<br />
glad to come back again, Micky, I'll bet you tuppence. Hard work in a<br />
deep claim won't suit your rusty joints, I'm thinkin'; and you'll miss old<br />
Joe Griddle to prepare your supper, after you've bin working all day long,<br />
up to your middle in mud. You'll get no nice hot dishes of Irish stew on<br />
cold days; no roaring fire in your hut when you come home; and maybe
you'll have no hut at all to put your head in. You'll be roaring all day long<br />
with the rheumatiz, like an old bull stuck in a bog; and have no friend<br />
near to rub you as I do sometimes. You couldn't rough it in a tent, Micky,<br />
like a born digger, not a bit of it, so don't try it, mate. Stay where you are<br />
getting good wages and good rations, under a good master; with easy<br />
work that you have been used to the best part of your life, or you'll very<br />
likely live to be sorry you didn't take my advice. The diggins arn't fit for<br />
the like of you or me, Micky, for we are both as stiff as old stock horses.<br />
One might just as well set a couple of blackfellows to split slabs or build<br />
a woolshed, as expect worn out old tools such as you or I to dig gold<br />
enough even to find us a ration of rice and treacle, let alone anything else<br />
to make our miserable lives happy. — You dig! pooh, nonsense!”<br />
“Be the piper,” cried Mick, “an haven't I dug acres of praties in owld<br />
Ireland, an oceans of turf in the bargain? Whew! not know how to dig,<br />
eh! What next will yez be after telling me? Why, I'd bate any<br />
perfessional digger in the colony, wid the long shovel or pratie fork; aye,<br />
or the pick either, though I niver tried that tool. An maybe I'll pick up<br />
goold enough widout any tools at all but my fingers; faix, I'll be a match<br />
for anybody on airth at that game. Then agin, I've got purty nigh twinty<br />
pounds saved up, an what wull I do wid it here, I'd like to know? I might<br />
dale a little bit at the diggins wid my capital, for I'm thinkin I've got as<br />
much sinse in my head as many swells who have made their fortins at<br />
daling. Shure an didn't we hear Denis Whackduffy the daler say tother<br />
night that a wide-awake fellow can allers make more wid his head than<br />
his hands? Besides, I'm dying for a little gintale company. I haven't had a<br />
fight for four years, an I haven't seen a reglar shindy since I've bin on the<br />
station. I'm getting as mouldy as an old boot for want of a shine now and<br />
agin, that's a fact. Bedad, I'll be off to-morrow, Joe me bhoy! I'll try my<br />
luck at some more lively money-making game nor shepparding, so don't<br />
try to coax me to stay; for you may jist as well try if your argiments will<br />
stop that tom cat from licking out the camp oven in the chimney yonder.<br />
Maybe you'll see me come back agin a gintleman one of these days, Joe,<br />
an thin you shall be my chief cook, so you shall, for you're a broth of a<br />
bhoy to make doughboys, an a reglar tigar at rubbin away the<br />
rheumaticks.”<br />
The next morning Micky was up before the “laughing jackasses,” and<br />
was busily engaged packing up all his personal effects into a compact<br />
bundle, while his friend Joe prepared breakfast.<br />
“Suppose you should meet any of those bushranging cossacks that are<br />
prowling about everywhere now-a-days, Micky? What will you do if<br />
they take away your swag, and murder you, or else leave you as naked as<br />
a pickaninny?” asked Joe, with a very sober face. “An honest man's life<br />
and property are hardly worth owning these times.”<br />
“Niver fear,” said Micky, his merry eyes twinkling as if it were a good
joke to be robbed of his all. “Niver fear, Joe, they won't rob me I'll<br />
warrant, unless they murther me firsht; an thin I'll have the playsure of<br />
knowing they'll be hanged, the vagabins.”<br />
“Have yez got sich a thing as an owld pill box to give me, to put me<br />
money intil? You may kape the pills yerself; the box will do me more<br />
good.”<br />
“Put your money into your boot, Micky;” urged Joe. “Don't trust it in<br />
pill boxes, nor pockets neither. Your boot is the safest place — take my<br />
word, — inside the lining. Howsomever, if you want a pill box, here is<br />
one which I got from Doctor Dux tother day! a timber-box half as big as<br />
a pannikin.”<br />
“Hand it here, Joe, my jewel, you're the bist frind I've got. That's jist<br />
the identical thing; it wud hold pills enough to comfort a hape of poor<br />
miserable mortals or scare starvation out of a little village, so it wud. Ho,<br />
ho, ho! them's univarsal pills,” chuckled Mick as he counted nineteen<br />
new sovereigns into the pill box, which he then put into the centre of his<br />
bundle, rolled all up tightly in a blue blanket and affixed straps thereto<br />
for the convenience of carrying it on his back.<br />
“Now I call that a jintale little swag,” said Mick, tossing it on a rough<br />
bedstead in the corner of the hut, and then sitting down to his breakfast.<br />
“A rig out that Prince Alfred would be glad to own if he hadn't got a<br />
betther one. It's all my own, every bit of it, an it's all I've got in the wide<br />
worrld to bother me, barrin the clothes I stand up in, an the old boots<br />
under the bed, which I will lave to you, Joe, as a kapesake. And now my<br />
darlin't, I'll wager me fortin there to your long-handled frying-pan that no<br />
bushrangers will rob me, unless they knock me spacheless firsht and<br />
foremost; and I won't fight wid em naythir. Bedad, what ud be the good<br />
of my shallaley aginst the involving pistols of thim savages? — not a bit<br />
in the worrld, I might as well try to bate em wid a German sassage. No,<br />
no, I won't fight wid em anyhow, nor I won't rin away naythir, and yet I<br />
tell you agin Joe, there isn't a bushranger in the bush as 'll rob me of a<br />
haporth; that is if I can ony make him jist understand plain English,<br />
mixed wid a trifling taste of ginuine Irish brogue.”<br />
Soon afterwards Micky arose from his meal, took an affectionate leave<br />
of his friend Joe, and his dog Nip, then shouldered his bundle, and went<br />
on his way laughing as if somebody were tickling him.<br />
Onward he trudged, whistling “The Wanderer from Clare,” and other<br />
fancy tunes; stopping now and then to wet his whistle at a waterhole, and<br />
to have a few whiffs from his little black pipe, which he carried in his<br />
hat-band; and then onward he would trudge again, twirling his shillelah<br />
over his head, and making the bush musical with his joyful exclamation,<br />
and merry Irish airs.<br />
About two hours before sunset, as Micky was calculating whether he<br />
should be able to reach a neighbouring sheep station before night, or be
obliged to bush it, he heard the tramp of a horse's heels behind him, and<br />
on looking round, to his surprise and terror, he beheld a great rough<br />
looking fellow, well mounted, and armed, who, in a gruff voice called<br />
upon him to “bail up,” at the same time presenting a revolver. “Bail up<br />
there, paddy from Cork; or you'll be as dead as dog's meat in another<br />
minute.”<br />
“I'll bail up fast enough,” cried Micky; “so don't be after shooting me,<br />
if you plaze, sir.”<br />
“Hand up your swag, and turn out your pockets,” said the bushranger;<br />
“and don't stand there staring at me and taking my measure.”<br />
“Och hone!” whined poor Micky, “an is it me swag you mane? Shure,<br />
thin, ye'll not be afther stripping a poor mortial intirely! Don't do that<br />
same, good luck to yez! This bundle is all I've got belonging to me, an<br />
that's not much to the likes uv you. An me pockets — be the same<br />
token — are as impty as a pair of ould left-off stockings — there isn't the<br />
price of a ha'penny pipe — — ”<br />
“Stop that beggar's yarn, and roll up your swag inside mine,” said the<br />
thief, at the same time he unbuckled a large bundle from his saddle<br />
before him and threw it on the ground. “Look sharp now, do you hear? or<br />
I'll give you a dose that will send you hopping like a French fiddler all<br />
the days of your life.”<br />
“Och, musha, musha!” cried Micky, writhing and twisting like a<br />
scalded eel. “Don't, there's a good sowl; I don't want a dose of that sort of<br />
physic. I'll give you me swag, ivery bit uv it, an' I wish yez luck wid it;<br />
but don't murther me, whatever you do.” He then began to unroll the<br />
bushranger's bundle, while his eyes glistened at its valuable contents.<br />
“Troth, an' you've got a mighty fine swag uv yer own, so you have.<br />
Two pairs of blankets, half-a-dozen bran new shirts, wid a rale<br />
gintleman's turn out of broadcloth, an' a hape of other things besides.<br />
Now, what for do yez want to take away my poor little swag from me,<br />
when you've got goods enough here to start a store wid? Arrah! lave me<br />
my swag, there's a good thief; don't rob a poor ould beggar like me.<br />
Good luck to yez, lave me me swag.”<br />
“Roll it up inside mine, I tell you,” roared the ruffian, “and don't give<br />
me any more of your brogue.”<br />
“O, crikey! what 'll I do at all, whin I'm ruined intirely?” cried poor<br />
Mick, as he began very carefully to make up the bundle again, after he<br />
had placed his own swag inside it. “Ye'll be laving me as miserable as a<br />
blackfellow's dingo, so you will; and be dash'd if I know what I'll do<br />
afther that, at all at all. I'm fear'd I'll lose all me frinds, whin I've lost me<br />
swag.”<br />
“Roll it up tight, and put those straps round it,” shouted the thief; “and<br />
look sharp about it, I say, or I'll shoot you as dead as a mutton chop.”<br />
“Och! don't do that, sir. I don't like to be shot; 'an I'm not worth the
ullet ye'd murther me wid, that's a fact. I'm ruined outright, like a frostbitten<br />
murphy, so I am. But maybe ye'll be so ginerous as to give me a<br />
fig of tobaky, ye'rve got plenty inside yer swag. Do if you plaze honey!<br />
jist one fig, to keep me from starving intirely.”<br />
“Not enough to choke a cockatoo,” roared the thief. “Be smart, I tell<br />
you again: the troopers are on my track.”<br />
“Are they? Shure then I'll make haste, for fear they'd catch you,” said<br />
Mick, apparently working hard to make the straps meet round the bulky<br />
bundle, which having done, he handed it up to the horseman, with<br />
difficulty, remarking, as he did so, that “he feared it was too big for him<br />
to carry convaniently.”<br />
“Never you mind that,” said the bushranger, surlily, as he began to<br />
strap the bundle before him, while Micky walked up to a stringy bark<br />
sapling, and rubbed his back against it, like a scabby sheep.<br />
“Misther What's-yer-name,” whined Mick. “Aisy a bit afore you fasten<br />
the saddle straps. For pity's sake be afther giving me the box o' pills out<br />
of me swag, and I'll be iverlastingly obliged to yez; bekase don't you see<br />
I'm dying wid the itch; and nothing but mint pills will aise me.”<br />
“The what?” roared the ruffian, at the same time throwing the bundle<br />
off his saddle, as if it were scalding hot. “What; you've got that horrible<br />
nuisance, have you? Confound you! what did you put your mangy swag<br />
inside mine for? Do you want to infect me and all my mates too, and ruin<br />
my horse into the bargain, eh? Bad manners to you!”<br />
“Sorra a bit iv it sir,” cried Mick. “I wouldn't give such an ugly plague<br />
to ‘ould scratch’ himself, not if I could help it; that would be a rale<br />
unjentlemanly trick, soh. You towld me to give ye me swag, sir, and I've<br />
give it yez, every bit.”<br />
“Hur you dirty ragamuffin; I've a great mind to blow your brains out, if<br />
you've got any, for spoiling all my traps, with your confounded bundle of<br />
filth. I'll shoot you as dead as — — ”<br />
“Och musha! Good gentleman don't do that,” roared Micky. “Take me<br />
swag althgether, but spare me brains.”<br />
“Take your swag, eh!” sneered the thief. “I wouldn't touch it with a<br />
shovel, if it were full of bank notes, nor my own traps neither, now they<br />
have been bundled up with your leprous kit. They'll want fumigating<br />
with a barrowful of brimstone before any body could touch them, but a<br />
dirty scavenger like yourself. Why didn't you tell me you'd got the<br />
plague? Confound you!”<br />
“Shure an didn't I tell you so plain enough, sir, when I axed yez to give<br />
me the box iv pills out ov me swag?”<br />
“Bah! For threepence I'd give you a barrel of pills,” growled the<br />
ruffian, as he gathered up his reins, and held a revolver to Micky's head.<br />
“Don't let me catch you again, mind that.”<br />
“Faith ye'll not catch me again, if I can any how rin away from you,”
whined Micky; “and I hope you won't catch anything else belonging to<br />
me, or you'll wish yourself scratched to death wid a bush-full of native<br />
cats, I'm thinking.”<br />
“Hold your blatherin' tongue,” vociferated the bushranger, as he fired<br />
two shots over Micky's head, and then rode off at full gallop, leaving his<br />
bundle lying on the road.<br />
Chapter II.<br />
MICKY fell flat on his back with affright, and there he lay for some<br />
time, wondering whether he was dead, and hoping if he were so, that the<br />
troopers would soon be up to bury him dacintly, and to catch the<br />
murtherin thief who had shot him. Bye and bye he began to feel his head<br />
for bullet-holes, then his body and legs; but finding no wounds or<br />
fractures, he by degrees felt assured that he was not kilt at all; but that he<br />
was Micky Mahoney still, with his skin as sound as a pair of new saddlebags,<br />
and his swag twice as heavy, and thrice as valuable as it was when<br />
he left the station in the morning.<br />
“Och philleloo!” shouted Micky, jumping up and dancing a little<br />
corroborree round the bushranger's bundle. “This is a whacking day's<br />
work to begin wid and no mishtake. There's the work of twelve month's<br />
wages in that fellow's swag, anyhow, an it's all mine, as honest as if I'd<br />
bought it an paid ready money for it, every bit, for shure I arnt it wid me<br />
brains. Denis Whacduffy, its thrue for ye, that a man can make more by<br />
his wits thin by his work, for haven't I proved it this lucky day? Sorra a<br />
bit av the diggins 'll I dig; I'll set up shop and make a fortin; thin I'll go<br />
back to owld Ireland and buy a whisky-still, a hogshead av tobaky, and a<br />
cart-load av pipes, and I'll spind the rist av me days in pace and<br />
quietness. Yes, that's jist what I'll do, an may be I'll git a wife too. Ha!<br />
ha! ha! he! he! he! whack row de dow!” roared Mick, while he capered<br />
about as nimbly as if a fiddler were sitting on the stump beside him,<br />
playing “Donnybrook Fair,” or “St. Patrick's Day in the Morning.” “Och,<br />
I'm delighted, so I am! Long life to yez, Doctor Dux! yer pill-box has<br />
done me more good nor all the physic I've swallowed iver since I was a<br />
bald-headed babby. An this swag's mortal heavy too,” continued Mick,<br />
lifting it on his back, then throwing it off again, and dancing round it<br />
until he was almost out of breath. “Ho! ho! ho! what a lark! I wish Joe<br />
Griddle could see me jist now; he'd grin like an owld monkey cracking a<br />
hot nut. Ha! ha! ha! he! he! he! Be dash'd if I ain't a lucky dog to-day.”<br />
“Bail up there!” roared a terrible voice just then, close behind him,<br />
which stopped Micky's merriment in a moment; and on turning round,<br />
with his face as pale as a white bullock's, he beheld the bushranger again,<br />
with a revolver in his hand.<br />
“Hilloa, old scurvy bones! I've been watching your heathenish
fandangoes from the tea-tree scrub just behind you,” said the thief, “and<br />
now I mean to make you cut capers to quite another tune. You first spoil<br />
all my traps with your filthy kit, and then you have the impudence to<br />
laugh at me, till you frighten my horse. Now I'll see how you laugh under<br />
my particular tickle.”<br />
“Arrah! laugh did ye mane? shure thin isn't it crying I've bin, honey, till<br />
I'm nigh broken hearted?”<br />
“Give me no more of your blarney,” roared the bushranger. “Didn't I<br />
see you hopping about my swag, like a cannibal round his cookery?”<br />
“Troth thin, you'd hop too, I'm thinking, sir,” said Micky, “if ye'd git<br />
Saint Vitus's dance as bad as I have.”<br />
“Oh, you've got that lively disorder too, have you? You must be<br />
shocking bad; but I'll see if I can cure you.”<br />
“Thankee, sir,” said Mick, trembling. “I shall always owe you<br />
somethin. You're a good gintleman, an I shall niver forget yez.”<br />
“Shoulder the bundle,” shouted the bushranger.<br />
“That's jist what I was goin to do sir, whin ye come back agin,” said<br />
Micky, hoisting the bundle on his back. “Troth it's mighty heavy, so it is.<br />
I'm afeard your horse wouldn't ha run away from the troopers wid this<br />
load on his back, sir.”<br />
“Now march along before me — double quick time,” said the thief;<br />
“and if you speak another word I'll blow your head off, so take warning.”<br />
“Sorra anither worrd will I spake, sir, good or bad,” whined Micky.<br />
“But pray don't hurt me head; it aches awful jist now. Mine's a very bad<br />
head, so it is.”<br />
After a short march through the bush they came to a creek, the waters<br />
of which were running bank high, and foaming and bubbling as if they<br />
were boiling hot.<br />
“Now,” said the ruffian, “pitch those mangy swags into the creek; they<br />
want washing.”<br />
“I'd rayther carry em home an wash em wid soft soap if you plaze, sir,”<br />
said poor Mick, trembling with terror.<br />
“Would you though?” sneered the thief. “I'll save your soft soap. In<br />
with them. I can't bear the smell of them any longer.”<br />
“Och hone! pity a poor old cripple, and jist let me take out me pills. I'm<br />
gettin very bad agin, sir. Wud ye be ginerous enough to let me save me<br />
pills, yer honour.”<br />
“No, not if they'd save you from scratching your hide off; pitch them<br />
in, pills and all, or in you go yourself.” As the ruffian thundered out this<br />
alternative he fired off another shot, which blew the top of Micky's hat to<br />
tatters.<br />
“Ow, ow, ow! murther!” groaned Micky. “There they go, sir, there they<br />
go;” and away went the swags, rolling over and over in the turbid waters<br />
of the creek.
“Now, off with your coat, waistcoat, and boots,” shouted the<br />
bushranger, cocking his pistol again.<br />
“I will, I will, sir! Och, mercy, don't slaughter me outright, as well as<br />
frighten me to death! Pray don't, sir,” shrieked Micky, hurriedly<br />
disrobing himself as directed.<br />
“Pitch your dirty duds into the creek,” roared the bushranger. “They<br />
want washing too.”<br />
With a yell of anguish Micky obeyed; and away floated his garments,<br />
while his boots sank at once, like water-logged colliers.<br />
“Now you can dance as long as you like, Mr. Paddywhack, and the<br />
more you caper the less likely you are to catch cold. Think yourself lucky<br />
you've got a whole skin to dance in. You are the most troublesome<br />
customer I ever traded with; and mark me, if I meet with you again, I'll<br />
bore a hole through you, as shure as my name isn't Dick Turpin;” saying<br />
which, the ruffian rode away through the bush, and left Micky to his<br />
solitary meditations.<br />
“Well, well! this is a suparior situation for a poor crater bothered wid<br />
rheumatiz, and no mishtake,” muttered Micky, after he had somewhat<br />
recovered from the effects of the terror which the foregoing incidents had<br />
naturally caused him. “Here I am — bedash'd if I know where — but I'm<br />
here shure enough, half-naked, half-murdered, and frightened to death, in<br />
the bargain. Dear knows what I'll do at all at all, for I'm afeard me sinces<br />
are clane gone, as well as me swag. Well, well! I've heered tell of<br />
revarses av fortin, but I never seed any afore, cos I never had any fortin<br />
till to-day, an shure it's turned out misfortin afther all. Ugh! what for did<br />
I lave the station, where I could get all I wanted to make meself<br />
comfortable, and put by a dacint little bit av money every year for a rainy<br />
day — as the saying is — if I had a mind? What a donkey I was to think<br />
of going to the diggings. My own gumption might ha told me, that an<br />
owld crawler like me ud do no good there; and mayhap, have me toes<br />
trodden off by gettin in the way av the hapes av great busy fellows who<br />
are diggin and delving and staring their eyes out in search for big<br />
nuggets, and some av them as savage as sharks bekase they can't find<br />
any. Joe Griddle, you were right me bhoy! an I wish I'd a tuk yer advice.<br />
Denis Whackduffy, you're a blatherin guffy, and maybe, ye're a rogue to<br />
boot. Ye may say what you like about working wid yer wits, but it's my<br />
exparienced opinion that a man can make more by the honest work of his<br />
hands than by schaming, anyhow, he'll get more pace an comfort through<br />
his life. But it's no good me stoppin here, howlin over me troubles; I'll<br />
get no pity out av these iron-bark trees. I'd betther find me way back agin<br />
to me owld berth as fast as I can crawl widout boots; an then if any of<br />
these bush tigers catch me on another such a cruise as this, I'll give em<br />
lave to skin me out an out.”<br />
Micky then began to retrace his way towards the high road, stepping
very carefully, for he was not accustomed to walking in the bush<br />
barefooted; and many were the wishes — not very cordial ones — which<br />
he sent after the unmerciful thief, who had compelled him to “drown his<br />
brogues, like a pair of blind puppies.” He had not travelled far when he<br />
saw an old rusty, single-barrelled pistol lying on the ground, and close<br />
beside it a long grey cloak which the bushranger had either dropped from<br />
his saddle-bags or thrown away as useless to him.<br />
“Hilloa, what's this thing?” quoth Micky, as he picked up the cloak and<br />
examined it with as much joy and amazement as a wild Figian, who had<br />
just found a barber's poll in a bamboo brake. “It's big enough to kiver me<br />
an Joe Griddle together; how-an-iver, I'll make it fit me soh! an it'll be<br />
handy to hide me nakedness, though there ain't much heat in it.” He then<br />
put it on, and gathered its folds closely about him, with a strip of stringy<br />
bark by way of a girdle. “An this concarn may be handy too, in case I<br />
shall mate any more bushrangers,” continued Mick, picking up the pistol,<br />
and peeping down the barrel with one eye to see if it were loaded. “Shure<br />
it wud be a convanient way of settlin all me sorrows if I was to put this<br />
pisthle into me mouth, and fire aisily down me throat. But it is not<br />
loaded, so I suppose it won't go off.”<br />
The shades of evening were fast closing around when Mick regained<br />
the road; but a full moon was rising, and the sky was clear and bright; so<br />
onward he trudged in the direction of Joe Griddle's hut; very often his<br />
clamorous appetite helped him to picture his old friend Joe, with his new<br />
friend Sandy McGrim and his dog, Nip, sitting down to their substantial<br />
suppers, and much he longed to be sitting with them.<br />
Micky had not travelled far, when on turning an abrupt angle of the<br />
road, he met a colporteur, carrying a valise in one hand and a bushman's<br />
outfit in the other. In a moment Micky conceived the idea of stealing the<br />
latter, and before his better judgment could influence him he had called<br />
upon the stranger to stand and deliver up his swag, under divers horrible<br />
pains and penalties. “Bail up, honey?” shouted Micky in as gruff a voice<br />
as he could assume, at the same time flourishing his pistol about his head<br />
as if it were a shillelah. “Bail up I say, and hand up yer swag, or you'll<br />
catch it, an no mishtake.”<br />
“You surely don't intend to rob me, friend?” said the gentleman, in a<br />
tolerably composed tone of voice. “I fear you will not value the contents<br />
of my valise very much if I give it to you; if you did you would not make<br />
this wicked demand.”<br />
“Troth thin I've been robbed meself to-day of eviry haporth I have in<br />
the worrld,” cried Mick; “an shure you can't grumble if I just take a little<br />
trifle from yerself. I don't care what you've got in yer leather box, ye can<br />
kape that; but I want yor blankets an quart pot and yer vittles, for I'm<br />
gettin cowld and hungry, and savage to boot; so hand up yer swag,<br />
misther, or by the piper I'll shoot off this pisthle, and blow ye into the
middle av next Friday.”<br />
“Well, you shall have my bundle,” said the traveller, quietly. “Here it<br />
is; but don't commit murder, there's a good fellow. You had better be<br />
careful too, with that pistol, or you may shoot yourself. I think it would<br />
be safer in my hands than in yours; and you can have no farther use for it<br />
at present. Will you sell it?”<br />
“Yes, honey; I'll sell it chape as dirt, for I don't want it; give me the<br />
price of a new pair of boots and the pishtle's yours so long as you live.<br />
It's a raal good un, I think, ony it's a little bit rusty.”<br />
The gentleman handed over some silver, and took the weapon; then<br />
suddenly turning upon Micky, he said, in a firm tone, “Now, Mr.<br />
Bushranger, you bail up, and hand me back my blankets, and my money,<br />
or I'll fire at you.”<br />
“Ho! ho! ho! blaze away, me bhoy!” said Mick, laughing heartily;<br />
“there isn't a tint av powther or shot in it, ho! ho! ho! It's as innocent as<br />
the marrow-bone of a little sucking-pig, so it is.”<br />
“That's it, is it?” said the gentleman, smiling good-naturedly; “well, I<br />
thought at first sight of you that you were not a practised footpad, and<br />
that you didn't intend to shoot me, although you flourished your pistol so<br />
formidably. Now suppose we come to terms. You say you are hungry<br />
and tired; so am I; and I was just thinking of camping for the night when<br />
I met you; shall we camp together, and share our provisions and<br />
bedding? What do you say to that?”<br />
“Wid all me heart,” said Micky. “Give us yer hand, jewel; long life to<br />
yez! Here, take back yer money; sorra a sixpence will I kape; and ye may<br />
kape the pishtle too if you like, for I don't know how to use such tools as<br />
that, nor don't want to know nayther.”<br />
They turned off into the bush for a short distance; and very soon a<br />
cheerful fire was blazing, and the quart pot was simmering over the<br />
embers. The gentleman then opened his bundle, and produced some tea<br />
and sugar, cold meat and damper, and helped his thankful guest to a<br />
plentiful share, also to a share of the boiling tea when it was prepared.<br />
“I always ask God's blessing on my meals before I begin to eat,” said<br />
the traveller, lifting his hat reverently. Micky sighed, and lifted his hat<br />
too, while his neighbour uttered a few devotional sentences.<br />
“I allers used to say grace meself whin I was a bhoy,” said Micky with<br />
another long sigh, and then he fell to work upon the viands before him,<br />
and was apparently absorbed in his reflection until the repast was over.<br />
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed Micky, after he had been fumbling in his pocket<br />
for a minute or two. “That murtherin thief has jist lift me a pipe or two av<br />
tobaky afther all. If he'd only a known I'd got that morsel av comfort in<br />
me fob, he'd a made me pull off me breeches and pitch em into the creek,<br />
wid me other clothes, that he wud, the spalpeen, for he's got no more<br />
feelin nor a dead cow — not a bit. Bedad an it's lucky he didn't break me
pipe whin he blow'd me brains out, leastwise whin he blow'd the top of<br />
me old hat all to smithereens. Och, I thought I was sittled jist thin; I'd<br />
have sowld my head for a peck av green peaches, so I wud.” Micky then<br />
filled his pipe, and as he sat puffing away by the blazing fireside, he gave<br />
a detail of his day's adventures with an occasional allusion to parts of his<br />
previous history, while his companion sat and listened with deep interest.<br />
Chapter III.<br />
“WHAT thumpin whacks an cracks a poor mortial catches during a<br />
day's tramp sometimes,” said Micky, as he laid aside his pipe after he<br />
had finished his smoke, and the narration of his day's mishaps at the<br />
same time. “This is a terrible worrld av thrubble, Misther Mefriend,” he<br />
added, after a short pause, and with a very grave air, which contrasted<br />
strangely with the grotesque appearance of his tattered and long cloak,<br />
with its stringy-bark girdle, “a worrld of botheration an bad luck, sure<br />
enough; an I've had my allowance av it if I niver git any more after this<br />
blessid night. Jist fancy, Misther Thingummeebob — — ”<br />
“My name is Hopewell,” interrupted the traveller, mildly. “Will you<br />
tell me your name, if you please?”<br />
“I ax yer pardin forty times, Mr. Hopewell; my name's Micky Mahony,<br />
at yer sarvice. But I was going to say, I lift my home this lovely<br />
summer's mornin wid a swag fit for a mimber of parlimint, an nineteen<br />
bran new suvverins in me midcine chest, for-bye a rispectable suit on me<br />
back, and a lovely pair av kangaroo cossacks on me feet, an here I sit tonight<br />
— savin yer presence — as poor as a blind beggar, wid nothin to<br />
cover me nakidness but this long, comical cloak, an me owld hat, which<br />
looks as if it had bin in a sassage machine. Blow'd if I iver heerd tell av<br />
the like run av bad luck, niver since I've bin on the frosty side av the<br />
Blue Mountains. It bates all my bush exparience out an out, so it does.”<br />
“Yes; you have certainly met with some strange disasters to-day, Mr.<br />
Mahony, but I must tell you, I think some of them were the results of<br />
your own improper conduct. You coveted that thief's plunder, and to<br />
obtain it, you were untruthful in many particulars. Although punishment<br />
does not always follow similar acts so soon as it has done in your case<br />
to-day, it is certain that, sooner or later, all acts of deceit, and falsehood<br />
receive their due; and you may depend upon it, my friend, that<br />
truthfulness at all times, and under all circumstances, is the only safe<br />
course you can adopt; and whether you work with your hands or your<br />
head, honest work is the only work you can expect to prosper. I am,<br />
however, far from thinking that this is the worst day in your history, after<br />
all, for I have hope concerning you, which I cannot explain just now.<br />
You are here, alive and well, and you have been mercifully preserved<br />
from bodily injury; you should thank God for that. You have had food
enough for the day, and you have had strength given you to bear all your<br />
troubles: be thankful for that also. This day's trials are past, and you will<br />
not see them again; so as you cannot remedy them by fretting over them,<br />
your wisest plan is to look hopefully to the future, while you strive to<br />
profit by your past mishaps.”<br />
“Yes, sir,” replied Micky; “that's thrue for yez — what's done's done,<br />
and it's not a bit av good grumblin. If I was to howl for a fortnight it<br />
wouldn't rise my brogans from the bottom of the creek, nor sthop me<br />
swag from swimming out to sea; so the best plan I can think av is not to<br />
think av them at all, but to hurry back to my owld berth as fast as I can,<br />
an earn money to buy another rig out, and thin afther I've got it, thry to<br />
take betther care av it. This day's disasters will help to make me more<br />
continted in time to come, an make me thry to kape a good berth when<br />
I've got one, an not be thryin me hand at things I don't know nothin<br />
about.”<br />
“I see, you are a philosopher,” said Mr. Hopewell, smiling.<br />
“Police officer! not a bit av it, sir, nor niver was in my life; I niver had<br />
the good luck to dhrop into sich an aisy billet. I've bin a shepherd more<br />
nor twenty years; an afore that I tried me hand at almost ivery sort av<br />
bush work, barrin bushrangin, an I niver thried that game afore today;<br />
nor I'll niver thry it agin naythir, for it's a villainous trade, that's purty<br />
shure to lead to Jack Ketch's castle at last. I should jist like to tell all the<br />
bhoys in the bush my honest opinion av that cowardly way of getting a<br />
livin.”<br />
“How many years have you been in this colony, Mr. Mahony?” asked<br />
Mr. Hopewell.<br />
“Will ye be afther callin me Micky, sir, if ye plaze? I'm downright<br />
scared when ye call me Misther Mahony, bekase it makes me think av<br />
me poor owld dad, who's dead an gone. Folks used to call him Misther<br />
Mahony on Sundays; and well he desarved it too, poor sowl, for he was<br />
as honest a man as iver peeled a pratee, so he was. Well, sir, I've bin in<br />
this counthry two and thirty year come next March. Ye naydn't axe me<br />
who paid me passage out here; it wasn't me poor owld dad though. I'd a<br />
free passage give me, by order of a larned owld frind av mine at home,<br />
and Governor Darling was recommended to take great care av me, an<br />
mind I didn't catch cowld by being out at night. Whin I got to Sydney, I<br />
was pressed to stay and help to build a large house of accommodation for<br />
other visitors like meself; an there was a good lot in thim days — more's<br />
the pity. Afther a time a frind av the Governor's invited me to go into the<br />
bush wid him; an I was glad enough to go, bekase the cats in Sydney<br />
used to throuble me a good deal. Faith an I soon found there were cats<br />
(wid nine tails) in the bush too; but they didn't bother me quite so often<br />
as they did in Sydney. Well, sir, I've bin in the bush pritty nigh iver<br />
since; and though I says it meself, there isn't a cove this side av the
counthry as knows more nor I do about bush-work av all sorts, from<br />
shepherdin to shingle-splittin, an from plaitin cabbage-tree sinnet to<br />
makin whishky on the sly.”<br />
“You must have been a very young man when you first came here,<br />
Micky,” remarked Mr. Hopewell.<br />
“I was, sir; an able young fella too; as sthrong as a cart-horse. Troth I'm<br />
not very wake now for an old man, though I didn't allers take the best<br />
care av meself. Still an all, I've seen many fellers put under ground who<br />
were as able an as hearty as meself: be the same token, some av thim<br />
didn't come to their end through fair play, worse luck. I've had no end<br />
av'scapes from death afore to-day; but I'm as hard to kill as a native-dog.<br />
Twice I was speared by the blacks; onst I was nigh drownded in a flood,<br />
an another time close up roasted in a bush-fire; onst I was tossed by a<br />
wild bullock; onst I was bitten by a shnake; an onst I tried to hang meself<br />
wid me belt; but the sthrap broke just as I wor giving my last kick.”<br />
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Hopewell, with a shudder; “and had you<br />
died then where would you be now?”<br />
“Dear knows,” said Micky; “I niver thought much about it, sir. It would<br />
a bin a settler wid me, that's all I know. I shouldn't ha drawn any more<br />
rations, nor slops nayther, that's sartain. But bless yer heart, sir, I've<br />
know'd lots av poor craters who have killed themselves to get out av their<br />
misery; an ye wouldn't wonder at it nayther, if ye know'd all the misery<br />
they'd got to bear, in one shape or another, that you wouldn't. Troth, I<br />
could tell you yarns as wud make all yer hair stand up as stiff as spike<br />
nails.”<br />
“To get out of their misery, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Hopewell,<br />
solemnly. “Micky, hear me, my friend, and pray remember what I say,<br />
for you told me just now, that you thought of shooting yourself to-day<br />
when you picked up that pistol. I fear that fatal sin is sadly frequent in<br />
the bush as well as in our cities. By such a frightful act a man certainly<br />
plunges into the gulf of eternal misery. Of all sins self-murder is the most<br />
horrible. It is utterly hopeless, for repentance is impossible. By such an<br />
act man rushes unbidden into the awful presence of his offended Maker.<br />
Oh, Micky! be thankful that you were spared from such a terrible crime,<br />
and pray that you may be kept from another such attempt. But will you<br />
tell me why you were led to such a sad act?”<br />
“I will, sir,” said Micky; “though when I think av it it makes me shiver<br />
an shake like a black-fellow on a frosty morning. Well, sir, it's many<br />
years agone: I'd had a long job splittin posts an rails, an puttin up<br />
stockyards, an other rough work, on a new station, far away backwards.<br />
My mate, Jem Wedges, an I, had a pritty good sum av money comin to<br />
us, an we wanted a bit av a spree, jist to knock some av it down; so we<br />
goes to the Super one day, an axes him for an order for forty pounds, and<br />
thin away we goes straight to the grog-shop at Guzzleton, which was
about five-and-twenty miles off. Whin we got there in course we handed<br />
our order to Misther Tapps, the landlord, and thin began knockin it<br />
down, like jolly bushmen allers does. We know'd old Tapp wud pritty<br />
soon tell us whin the order had all run out, so we didn't bother ourselves<br />
about nothin but dhrinkin an playin ‘all fours,’ and singin a bit now an<br />
thin, av course. Our order lasted eight days, for there were not many<br />
fellers about the place at that time to help us knock it down quicker; an it<br />
was rayther a dull time altogether, for we only had three little bits av<br />
fights — but niver a reglar shindy at all. On the ninth mornin Mr. Tapps<br />
sings out, — ‘Hilloa me hearties, yer order's all knocked into nothin,<br />
ivery hapeny, and thirty shillings to the new.’ My mate was knocked<br />
down too; he was very bad in his head; I don't know whether it was from<br />
the bad rum, or from a crack he got wid the leg av a stool the night afore.<br />
Well, I kno'd it wor no good stoppin there any longer after old Tapps had<br />
tipped us the wink to be off, so I coaxed a quart av rum out av him on the<br />
new score, an away I goes towards the station agin, all alone; for my<br />
mate couldn't walk at all, an I hadn't got sinse enough in me to sthop and<br />
look after him, so I lift him at the shanty, fast asleep and spacheless.<br />
Well, I reeled along about seven miles suckin out av the bottle ivery now<br />
and agin, till at last I tumbled down head over heels, and wint to sleep.<br />
When I awoke agin it was dark night, so I finished the rum in the bottle,<br />
an soon wint to sleep agin. The next mornin whin I roused up I was as<br />
stiff as a skeleton, an awfully miserable soh; I wud almost hav given me<br />
sowl for a gill av rum; but there wasn't a tasthe in the bottle; so I got up<br />
and hobbled along a little further towards home. Och! what I suffered<br />
thin ye couldn't picture if ye tried for a month; nor I couldn't tell ye if I'd<br />
got twenty tongues. It frightens me to think av it.<br />
“By an bye I heerd a horrible noise behind me, an whin I looked round<br />
I seed the divil on a black horse ridin afther me as hard as he could<br />
gallop, an roaring like a tiger. Off I scampered through the bush, straight<br />
towards a runnin creek. Whin I got to it I dashed down the steep bank<br />
and jumped into the wather; but it wasn't deep enough to smother me, so<br />
I groped through it to the other side. The divil followed me to the top of<br />
the creek, thin got off his horse, tied him to a saplin, and looked at me<br />
wid his great big red-hot eyes, like doctor's door lamps; an he roared out,<br />
‘Micky Mahony, I've got ye now, anyhow; you can't git away from me,<br />
so ye naydn't thry.’ He thin began to wade through the creek to git at me;<br />
wid that I pulls off me belt and made one end fast round the limb av a<br />
tree, and put the other end round me neck; but jist as I was turnin meself<br />
off I seed me poor owld mother right afore me, which scared me worse<br />
still, for I know'd she wor dead long agone. I don't recollect anythin<br />
more, till I awoke lyin under the tree, wid the broken strap round my<br />
neck. How long I'd laid there, whether a day or a week, I never could tell;<br />
but I was awful bad for many a day after that; an the firsht bit ov news I
heard, when I got back to the station, was that Jem Wedges wos dead an<br />
buried, poor fellow! I niver tried to hang meself agin, nor I niver will if I<br />
kape me sinses. I allers think my poor owld mother hud somethin to do<br />
wid the breakin ov that strap; an nobody'ill make me think she hadn't. I<br />
was mighty sober for a long time after that sheavo; still I wasn't meself at<br />
all, for a very little noise at night used to set me tremblin like an owld<br />
lady in a cellar full of rats.”<br />
“O Micky, that is indeed a dreadful tale,” said Mr. Hopewell. “You<br />
were providentially saved from an awful doom, for which you should<br />
thank God with all your heart. Was your mother a good woman?”<br />
“Indeed she was, sir,” replied Micky, while the tears coursed down his<br />
rugged face. “She was a dear lovin owld sowl; and shure enough she's<br />
gone to heaven. I can call to mind, as plain as if it were but a week<br />
agone, how plazed she wor whin she could coax me to go to church wid<br />
her, which wasn't very often, more shame for me. An how she wad pray<br />
be me bed after she thought I was fast asleep. Ah, many times I've heard<br />
her sighin' and sobbin, an prayin God to bless me, wicked haythin as I<br />
wor. I can remember, too, the prayer she tached me to say whin I wor a<br />
gossoon, not taller nor my shtick, an the hymns she used to sing — for<br />
she could sing like a bird, ay, sweeter nor all the birds in the bush. Ah,<br />
poor sowl! I'll never hear her darlin voice agin.”<br />
“Can you repeat one of the prayers your good old mother taught you,<br />
Micky?” asked Mr. Hopewell kindly.<br />
“I don't think I can, sir; for somethin sticks in me throat, an nearly<br />
chokes me, wheniver I think ov anythin me mother tached me; but I'll<br />
thry to say one, or a bit ov one, if it will plaze yez, sir.” Poor Micky thus<br />
began to repeat a simple little form of prayer; but before he had uttered<br />
three sentences, he burst into an immoderate fit of weeping, and sobbed<br />
as if his heart would burst. “Och, mercy, mercy! I can't spake it if I was<br />
to be killed outright. I havn't said that prayer for nigh forty years. Och me<br />
darlint owld mother! it smashes me intirely to think on yez, so it does; an<br />
I'm feard I broke your tinder lovin heart too, wid my wickedness. Och<br />
hone! och hone! The darlint owld cratur; I shall niver see her agin, niver,<br />
niver, niver!” Poor Micky then put his head on his knees, and cried<br />
aloud; while his prudent companion sat quietly by, until his paroxysm of<br />
grief was over.<br />
“I am pleased to see these signs of affectionate remembrance of your<br />
dear mother, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell, at length breaking a long<br />
silence. “But you need not sorrow without hope, friend; you may meet<br />
her again in Heaven, and share with her the joys of that happy home of<br />
rest and peace for ever.”<br />
“Och, sir! Ye don't know what a wicked wretch I've bin, or yez<br />
wouldn't be after saying that, I'm sartin. Whisht, sir, an I'll tell yez<br />
truthfully, as ye've bin sich a kind friend to me. I onst robbed a church,
so I did, an that's what brought me to this counthry. You can't say I'll go<br />
to Heaven afther that, I'm thinkin.”<br />
“Well, Micky, that is a very grievous sin; but had you killed all the<br />
congregation belonging to the church, too — nay, had you committed ten<br />
thousand other crimes equally bad, if you truly repented of your sins,<br />
resolved to forsake them entirely, and humbly asked God for the sake of<br />
His Son Jesus Christ, to pardon you, God would surely forgive you<br />
freely, restore you to his favour, and receive your soul to Heaven at last.<br />
Here is God's own word pledged to do it.”<br />
Mr. Hopewell then opened his pocket Bible, and read a few<br />
encouraging passages therefrom, and afterwards briefly explained the<br />
simple plan of salvation through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ while<br />
Micky sat by and listened, with overflowing eyes and a throbbing heart.<br />
Chapter IV.<br />
“YER'LL be afther thinkin I'm as soft as a great big batter puddin, I'm<br />
afear'd, sir,” said Micky, when he had succeeded in restraining his sobs<br />
and tears. “I haven't had such a bout ov cryin for many long years before;<br />
though, dear knows, I've had throble enough to break me heart if it wasn't<br />
too hard to break. I've bin close up cut to pieces on the triangles; but<br />
sorra a tear did I drop at all. I howled an roared purty swately, to be<br />
shure, but that's nothin; a man can't help doin that, when his flesh is<br />
minced in that cannibal style, but they might hav cut me heart out ov me,<br />
before I would uv cried a single squeak, or shed a tear as big as a<br />
mosketer's eye; that's a fact, sir. An yit, whin yez begin to talk to me, as<br />
gently as a woman, it makes me cry like a babby in long clothes. It's<br />
mighty queer, so it is, but be dash'd if I could help it — if ye clipped me<br />
ears off for it. I axe yer pardon, sir, for — — ”<br />
“Don't mention it, my good friend,” said Mr. Hopewell smiling. “I am<br />
delighted to see it; and there are other eyes too, that we cannot see, which<br />
are rejoicing over your tears. Look up Micky, and ask God to give you<br />
pardon, and peace, and He will surely answer you; for He has said in this<br />
Holy Book — which I have just read to you, ‘Ask and ye shall receive.’<br />
Ask then, just as you used to ask your kind old mother to give you bread,<br />
when you were a hungry boy. You always believed that she would give it<br />
to you, did you not?”<br />
“Troth I did, sir,” said Micky, with earnestness. “She niver said nay to<br />
anythin I axed her for, poor soul; barrin it wor something that she know'd<br />
wouldn't do me no good.”<br />
“Just so,” said Mr. Hopewell, “and your Father who is in Heaven will<br />
not refuse you anything that you ask Him for, if He sees that it is needful,<br />
or that it will not be hurtful to you; for He has promised to ‘withhold no<br />
good thing from them that walk uprightly.’ Ask God to forgive you all
your sins, and give you grace to walk uprightly, in time to come, to help<br />
you to love Him, and to strive to serve Him. Jesus Christ died to atone<br />
for your sins and mine, and for the sins of the whole world. ‘Believe on<br />
the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ These words are written<br />
in this Book. Kneel down, Micky, and I'll pray for you, and you pray too.<br />
Pray with all your heart.”<br />
They knelt, and Mr. Hopewell offered up a short, appropriate prayer to<br />
God, and at its conclusion Micky said Amen, in a tone which plainly<br />
evidenced that it was sincere.<br />
For some time after they arose from their knees they sat without<br />
speaking, each one being absorbed in his own reflections. At length the<br />
silence was broken by Micky, who had resumed his roofless hat, and was<br />
preparing to relight his pipe.<br />
“I've bin thinkin, sir, while I was fillin me pipe, that if I could be<br />
sartain I'd go to heaven and see me dear owld mother, when I die, I'd be<br />
happier than if I'd got the whole world full of tobaky.”<br />
“Well, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell, with a smile, “and what prevents<br />
your being certain of going to heaven? Search the Scriptures, and you<br />
will there find your title, as clear as the light of heaven itself. You say<br />
you believe that the Bible is the word of God.”<br />
“I do that, sir, most cartinly, for me darlint mother teached me to<br />
believe that as soon as I could spake; an she, poor dear ould sowl,<br />
believed every word of it, and so did me fayther too. They used to say it<br />
wor the greatest help they'd got in life. Whatever mishaps befel them,<br />
they'd go to that book, an they allers said they found comfit and direction<br />
there.”<br />
“So have millions of poor heart-weary persons beside them, and so<br />
may you, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell. “If you take God's word and read<br />
it carefully, you will find plain direction in every difficulty, and comfort<br />
under every trial of life. You may learn the way to live happily, to die<br />
peacefully, and after death to share everlasting happiness in heaven.<br />
There is not a poor shepherd in the bush, who is able to read, but may<br />
find his title to those blessings, by ‘searching the Scriptures.’ What<br />
books have you got at home?”<br />
“Sorra a book have I got at home at all, sir,” said Micky; “an barrin a<br />
pair ov ould boots, an me poor dog Nip, I haven't a haporth in me hut<br />
belongin to me name. Joe Griddle has got the ‘Newgate Calender,’ an the<br />
‘Mysteries of London,’ the ‘Bottle Imp,’ the ‘Black Dwarf,’ an a few<br />
other story books ov that sort; forbye a ‘Joe Miller,’ an a fortune tellin<br />
book; that's all Joe's libery.”<br />
“Have you not a Bible in your hut, Micky?”<br />
“No, sir, nor niver have had, iver since I've been in the bush; but it will<br />
not be long afore I git one afther this, if I have to travel a hundred miles<br />
to buy it; I'll get one pretty quick whatever I pay for it.”
“Dear, dear me!” apostrophised Mr. Hopewell. “There is certainly great<br />
need for the ‘Bush Mission,’ and I trust it will be supported. Have you<br />
not divine service, of some kind, on your station on Sundays, Micky?”<br />
“Sometimes we have, sir, at the head station,” replied Micky, “a<br />
minister calls there now an agin; an then all the men as likes to go are<br />
axed into the house; or if its shearin time, they muster in the wool shed.<br />
But at most of the out-stations there is no Sunday to be seen, — Sunday<br />
and Saturday are all alike there; an we don't know no difference, bekase<br />
some of us have lost count of the days intirely. I've often thought the<br />
masthers an supers might take jist a trifle ov care about their men's<br />
manners, an it wud be all the better for iverybody. Most ov em take a<br />
mortial sight ov pains about the breed ov their sheep; in trainin their<br />
kangaroo dogs, or breakin in their saddle horses; but sorra a bit do they<br />
care for the sowls of their servants, and not much for their bodies ayther,<br />
forbye kapin them in workin trim.”<br />
“Stay, my friend,” said Mr. Hopewell, gently. “It would be unfair to<br />
say that such selfishness is general; for I have met with several squatters,<br />
and superintendents, who have a kind regard for the welfare of their<br />
servants; for their bodies and souls too.”<br />
“Have you so, sir?” replied Micky. “Troth then I'm glad enough to hear<br />
that same; still-an-all, I haven't had the good luck to fall in wid the like,<br />
all the time I've bin in the bush. I will spake me own experience, an its<br />
ivery worrd thrue. Nayther masther nor mishtress, nor super, nor any<br />
body else belongin to em, iver said a single worrd to me about me sowl,<br />
if they thought I'd got one at all. I've niver heerd so much of the Scripture<br />
(so that I could understand it, I mane), as yez have tould me this blessed<br />
night, niver since I wer born into the worrld; an that's a fact, sir. I niver<br />
knowed that I could git forgiveness from God for robbin that church, and<br />
for doing no end ov wicked things beside. I'd have bin afraid to ax for it.<br />
If I'd a know'd as much as that I should huv jumped for joy hundreds ov<br />
times, when I've been wretched enough to hang meself, wid the<br />
remembrance ov me blagger'd tricks, soh. I allers thought I was damn'd,<br />
for sartain; an that it wor no good frettin about what couldn't be cured at<br />
all. ‘Och! happy go lucky: I'll live till I die!’ I used to shout, when I was<br />
half drunk, an then I used to say the divil was me best friend, bekase I'd<br />
heerd tell that he firsht invinted rum. But, forbye all me blather an<br />
bounce, and me haythenish schaymes for drivin away ugly thoughts ov<br />
me past wicked life, I used to feel as miserable as a murtherer<br />
sometimes; an many's the time I've wished meself a bullock, or a<br />
bandicoot, or anythin else that I know'd had nothin at all to do wid any<br />
other worrld, but this one. Och musha musha! many's the melancholy<br />
day I've spent in the bush, sittin under a gum tree, thinkin upon nothin<br />
but me own miseries; while me sheep have been bitin away at their green<br />
feed, or jumpin with joy, like young wallabies, till I've felt quite savage
that I wasn't a sheep too. But, praise God,” added Micky, while his face<br />
brightened up like the moon, which was just emerging from a dark cloud,<br />
“I feel forty times better already. I'm downright glad I've seen yez tonight,<br />
sir, so I am; an I mane to turn over a new leaf intirely, with the<br />
help ov God. I know lots ov poor fellows in the bush who are terribly<br />
unaisy in their minds whinever they think about death; they wud be<br />
plazed enough to know what ye've bin telling me to-night, sir; that they<br />
had a chance of being forgiven for all their thievish tricks, an in sich a<br />
beautiful, aisy way too. Gorra! I wish I could rin an tell em all, just now,<br />
so I do.”<br />
“That is a very proper spirit, Micky, and I trust you'll encourage it all<br />
you can,” said Mr. Hopewell; “I also strongly feel for those poor men in<br />
the bush who are far away from any religious and social means of<br />
instruction; and I heartily wish I could see more done to improve their<br />
condition. I should like to see more efforts used by influential residents<br />
and employers in the bush. It is sad indeed to be obliged to believe that<br />
some settlers care more for the improvement of their cattle, or the<br />
condition of their crops, than they do for the moral culture of their<br />
servants or their tenantry. I think, however, that few would be so careless<br />
of their duties, if they but reflected on their positive moral<br />
responsibilities with regard to those who are dependent upon them; and<br />
also upon the easy way in which they might add to the comfort and<br />
happiness of those who serve them, by furnishing every station, outstation,<br />
or hamlet, with a small collection of books; and by occasionally<br />
speaking to such of their servants, or others, who are, perhaps, as<br />
ignorant of the Gospel plan of salvation, as you were, Micky, a few hours<br />
ago. I think, also, that it could be easily shown that the social comfort<br />
and security of our rural communities (apart from higher considerations),<br />
would be increased, if all those persons who have the time to spare, and<br />
the talent requisite for the work, were to assist in establishing Sunday<br />
schools (where there are none) for the religious instruction of the many<br />
poor children who, alas! I fear, are now growing up in ignorance of their<br />
important duties to their Maker and to their fellow-creatures. The<br />
grounds of economy might also be urged in favour of religious teaching,<br />
for it is terribly probable that some of those spirited boys, who are now<br />
allowed to run as wild and untaught as the aborigines, will, by and by,<br />
follow the sad example of those misguided youths who, some little time<br />
since, filled certain parts of the bush with excitement and alarm, causing<br />
much pecuniary loss, and in some instances loss of life, to unfortunate<br />
individuals, and an enormous drain upon the public funds.<br />
“But it's getting late, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell, looking at his watch,<br />
and rising from his lowly seat. “I think we had better prepare for rest.<br />
You take one blanket, and I'll take the other.”<br />
“Not a bit ov it, sir, axing yer pardon,” exclaimed Micky, “I'll not take
yer blanket, ye'll be catching cowld. I'd rayther sit by the fire all night, an<br />
injoy meself; for I've got plinty ov plisant thoughts to think about jist<br />
now, so I have. I'm as happy as a bhoy that's jist found a honey pot.”<br />
With much difficulty Mr. Hopewell at length prevailed upon Micky to<br />
take one of the blankets; and, after replenishing the fire, they prepared<br />
for their repose.<br />
“Can you sing, Micky?” asked Mr. Hopewell, as he rolled his blanket<br />
around him.<br />
“Yes, sir, a little bit,” said Micky. “I can sing ‘Rory O'More,’ an<br />
‘Groves ov Blarney,’ an — ”<br />
“No, no, I don't mean that sort of music,” interrupted Mr. Hopewell,<br />
with a smile, “though I don't object to harmless songs occasionally. Can<br />
you sing hymns, or psalms?”<br />
“Not a bit, sir,” said Mick, with a sigh. “I don't know half a one. I've<br />
clane forgot all I know'd years agone.”<br />
“I am sorry for that,” said Mr. Hopewell. “You must try and learn<br />
some. Singing praises to God often helps to cheer me on my weary way<br />
through the bush, and makes the time fly lightly and pleasantly.” He then<br />
sang, “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow” in a clear, ringing<br />
voice, which seemed to awaken a hundred echoes among the giant foresttrees<br />
around; then, wishing Micky “Good night,” he lay down before the<br />
fire and was soon fast asleep.<br />
Just as the sun was rising in the morning, they were awakened by the<br />
loud cachinations of those well-known punctual bush birds commonly<br />
called “the settlers' clocks;” and after a short devotional exercise, a bath<br />
in a neighbouring lagoon, and a hearty breakfast, they prepared to go on<br />
their separate journeys.<br />
“Now Micky, my friend,” said Mr. Hopewell, opening his valise, and<br />
producing two books (a pocket Bible, and a small illustrated edition of<br />
Bunyan's “Pilgrim's Progress,”) “I trust you will not forget my advice to<br />
you last night. Take these books as keepsakes, to remind you of our<br />
meeting in the bush. Study that Bible, and pray to God to help you to<br />
understand it. Keep your eye of faith steadily fixed on Christ, who is ‘the<br />
way, the truth, and the life;’ and by-and-bye, when we have done with<br />
this world, and all its anxieties, we shall surely meet again in that eternal<br />
home of rest, joy, and peace, where pains and sorrow are unknown, and<br />
where thieves cannot molest us. Give me your hand, Micky; farewell!<br />
may God bless you! farewell!”<br />
Poor Micky was completely overwhelmed. He could not speak a word,<br />
but after wringing his kind friend's hand affectionately, he sat down,<br />
placed his head on his knees, and sobbed like a child.<br />
Chapter V.
“THAT'S a raal jintleman, God bless him!” exclaimed Micky, after he<br />
had in some degree recovered from the emotion which had overcome<br />
him on the departure of his kind friend Mr. Hopewell. “A raal, out-andout<br />
jintleman, every bit ov him; an I'll niver forgit him, so long as I've<br />
got sinse enough in me to think of anythin at all. An sure I'll take his<br />
advice, an maybe this 'll turn out the luckiest cruize I iver took in me life.<br />
I feel a mortial sight aisier in me mind than I iver felt since I crossed over<br />
the sea from owld Ireland. Troth, an I don't think I iver felt so plazed,<br />
like, even in that same darlint little green isle, which bates the other<br />
green isles in the world, all to pebbles an brick-dust. Me heart feels rale<br />
glad, so it does; an I could hop about wid delight — if I'd got me boots<br />
on — an if it wasn't for the sorrow I feel at partin wid me bist frind: I'm<br />
afear'd I shall niver see the dear cratur any more. Oh, yis, I shall, though;<br />
I'm forgettin what he tould me already. Yes, I shall see him agin in<br />
heaven, so I shall; an wid the help ov God I mane to get there, soh. I<br />
know the way there now, an that's worth more nor all the other<br />
knowledge I iver had in me head, iver since I owned a head at all; be the<br />
same token — I believe a head isn't worth ownin, if it hasn't got that<br />
same knowledge in it.”<br />
Micky then arose from his seat on the ground, picked up the old pistol<br />
which was lying near, and put it into the pocket of his cloak, remarking,<br />
as he did so, that he might swop it for a pair of new boots, or a new hat.<br />
He then tied his books carefully up in his neckerchief, and with his<br />
precious little bundle in one hand, and his shillelah in the other, he<br />
resumed his journey homewards.<br />
He trudged along for several hours, pleasingly engaged with his<br />
reflections on the last night's conversation with his kind instructor, and<br />
occasionally expressing his grateful feelings in loud exclamations, and<br />
pithy encomiums, on the “Good frind who had helped to make him feel<br />
as happy as a parson.” As the sun rose higher in the cloudless sky, its<br />
fierce beams began to attack poor Micky's head through its dilapidated<br />
covering; and, withal, being rather footsore and weary, he seated himself,<br />
about noon, at the foot of a large tree to rest, and at the same time opened<br />
his little bundle to gaze again at the treasures therein, which he was so<br />
proud of possessing. He had sat for some time pondering over the<br />
passages in his Bible, which Mr. Hopewell had specially directed him to<br />
study, and was unconscious of the proximity of any human being, until<br />
he heard a shuffling noise close to him, and on looking round, saw a<br />
stout old man, genteelly dressed, lying in the road, and his horse<br />
galloping away through the bush. Micky immediately arose and ran to<br />
the assistance of the fallen man, when his ears were assailed with a<br />
volley of oaths and curses.<br />
“What do you mean by squatting your ugly carcase right in the road, to<br />
frighten people's horses, and break their necks, you blundering baboon,”
oared the old man, with another torrent of oaths, and at the same time<br />
rising, and rubbing his left hip and elbow.<br />
“I'm mortially sorry,” said Micky, in a commiserating tone; “very sorry<br />
indeed, but I hope ye haven't hurt yourself.”<br />
“Hold your tongue, you thief, or I'll kick your ribs into bone dust,”<br />
howled the old man, foaming with rage.<br />
“It's well for yer own ribs, and yer cobbera too, that I've larned better<br />
manners since yesterday mornin,” said Micky, firmly, “or I should be<br />
afther giving ye a tashte ov me sthick, for callin me them ugly names: I<br />
should so. I was just sittin down under that tree, wishin no harm to<br />
nobody, an not thinkin a bit about your comin up — harf drunk — on a<br />
shyin horse. Sorry enugh I am that ye got upset; how an ever, if ye'll just<br />
sit down for a bit, like a raysonable man, I'll go an thry to track yer horse,<br />
an bring him back to yez. Yez can take care ov me books while I'm gone,<br />
and if ye'll study that beautiful sarmont which I was a reading when you<br />
came up, it 'll do yer good, I'm thinkin. It wull tache yez to ‘swear not<br />
all,’ an a hape ov other things that you ought to larn, unless yer want to<br />
be miserable all yer life, and afther yer dead too.” Micky then handed his<br />
books to the old man, and started after the runaway horse as fast as he<br />
could limp. It proved a much more difficult and tedious job, however,<br />
than he had calculated upon. He was two hours on the tracks before he<br />
could sight the horse, and two hours more elapsed before he could catch<br />
the timid brute. (He had picked up the saddle-bags lying in the bush, but<br />
did not examine their contents). Weary work it was, too, and the blood<br />
was trickling from Micky's naked feet when he mounted into the saddle,<br />
and made the best of his way back to the spot where he had left the<br />
infuriate swearer; but when he got there, to his great dismay, the old man<br />
was gone and the books too.<br />
Poor Micky was well nigh distracted at this fresh mishap. To lose his<br />
books so soon after receiving them “as keepsakes,” was more than he<br />
could calmly think of. In utter uncertainty of the direction the old man<br />
had taken, he continued to ride up and down the immediate spot,<br />
cooeying and shouting at the top of his voice, while his long grey cloak<br />
was fluttering in the breeze. Presently he observed, on a rocky ridge a<br />
short distance from him, two gentlemen on horseback, apparently<br />
watching his proceedings. In a moment his horse's head was turned, and<br />
he was galloping in the direction of the strangers.<br />
“Ye haven't seen anything ov an ould gintleman, have ye?” asked<br />
Micky, in an excited, hurried manner.<br />
“What old gentleman?” asked the strangers, eyeing Micky very closely,<br />
and with evident symptoms of distrust and trepidation.<br />
“A fat ould gintleman, shure, all over dust, wid a red face, an a bald<br />
head, sitting under a turpentine-tree, reading a Bible.”<br />
The strangers smiled, and whispered together for a minute, then one of
them asked Micky what he wanted with the old gentleman.<br />
“Why, I want to give him his horse, and git back me Bible and<br />
Pilgrim's Progress; that's what I want wid him. I don't know where he's<br />
gone, an I don't know what I'll do at all, no more nor a fellar wid a<br />
wooden head. I want me property; I don't want his horse, no more nor I<br />
want an ould catsmeat cart. Och, bother! where's he got to, I wonder? I<br />
want me property, so I do.”<br />
“What property do you want?” asked one of the strangers.<br />
“Why, I tould you what property jist a minute agone, didn't I?” replied<br />
Micky, hastily. “An shure it's property worth all the sheep an cattle in the<br />
colony, soh, — aye, an all the goold nuggets intil the bargain.”<br />
“Come along with us, and we will take you to the old man's house,”<br />
said one of the strangers, after a little more private conference with his<br />
companion. “You must ride fast, my man; but keep a few rods away<br />
from us, do you hear?”<br />
“I hear, yer honours,” said Micky; “I'll follow yer like a red-hot<br />
cannon-ball. Hurry now, jintlemen, if yer plaze; ride as if yez was huntin<br />
kangaroos, an good luck to yez.”<br />
Away they rode at a hand-gallop, up hill and down hill, through the<br />
bush, and across the plains, for many miles. At length, just as it was<br />
getting dark; they arrived at a sheep station. The strangers cooeyed, when<br />
a hairy-faced man made his appearance, and on receiving some hurried<br />
instructions from one of the gentlemen, he ran off towards some huts a<br />
short distance away. In about five minutes he returned, in company of<br />
five or six other men, who surrounded Micky, and before he had time to<br />
surmise what they were going to do, they seized and pulled him from his<br />
horse, pinioned his arms behind him, tied his legs, and carried him into a<br />
large wool-shed, where they threw him upon a heap of sheepskins.<br />
“Murther! murther! robbery!” shouted Micky, with all his might. “Bad<br />
cess to yez! what on airth are ye afther traitin a poor crater in this<br />
cannibal style for? What harrm have I done to any ov yez, that you want<br />
to kill me in this cowardly way? Och! rob me if ye like — ov course<br />
you'll do that pretty quick, an faix ye won't have much to share betwixt<br />
yez, when ye've done it; strip me stark naked if yer a mind to, but spare<br />
me life, good luck to ye — me owld carcase isn't worth a dead parrot to<br />
any of yez.”<br />
“Where's Hopping Sam?” asked one of the gentlemen. “Oh, here he is.<br />
Sam, mount the bay mare, and gallop to Gallipot Station; ask Dr.<br />
Strapping if he can ride over the first thing in the morning to see this<br />
poor fellow. If the doctor can't come, ask him what we shall do with the<br />
patient.”<br />
“Is he clean cranky, do you think, sir?” asked Sam as he prepared to<br />
mount the mare's back.<br />
“Clean cranky, eh! why, he's raving mad,” replied the gentleman.
“When we found him, he was riding about the bush, looking for an old<br />
man reading his Bible.”<br />
“It's clear case, sir, I'm afraid,” said Sam, with a shrug, and a shake of<br />
his head; then, putting spurs to the mare, he galloped out of sight in a few<br />
minutes.<br />
In the meantime, the entire population of the station, young and old,<br />
had assembled in the wool-shed, to gaze at Micky, who was lying on the<br />
sheep-skins, sometimes whining about the loss of his Bible and Pilgrim's<br />
Progress, — sometimes demanding what for they sarved him in that cruel<br />
cowardly way. Why they tied his legs and arms like a fat pig going to<br />
market; and now and then entering into detached portions of his recent<br />
adventures; commenting upon the same, in his characteristic style. To the<br />
whole of his remarks, inquiries, arguments, or entreaties, his adult<br />
audience merely laughed; while the swarm of juveniles positively<br />
howled with delight, at the comical sayings of the “cranky man.”<br />
“Troth an is it cranky ye think I am?” asked Micky, as the true cause of<br />
his incarceration suddenly dawned upon his mind. “Och blathereens!<br />
What nixt? ho, ho, ho! Be dash'd if I could help larfin at that notion, if a<br />
dray wheel was on my toes. Cranky, eh! — ho, ho, ho! Hear me spake<br />
raysonable, friends. It's a mistake altogether, as thrue as me name's<br />
Micky Mahony. I'm no more cranky nor the masther there, and maybe<br />
not nigh so much. It's this ould coat as spoils the look uv me, and me<br />
ragged hat beside. But me brogans are drownded, and me swag's gone to<br />
sea, an I shall niver see them no more; so I can't wear me best clothes.<br />
Arrah, niver mind, I'm as rich as a king's son, after all, so I am. Jest let<br />
me loose, honies! if yez plaze, an I'll show yez I am as sane as the<br />
'torney-jineral. I'll forgive yez all, for all ye've done to me, if ye'll only let<br />
me loose, an let me go and look afther me property.”<br />
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the obdurate assembly, which so aroused poor<br />
Micky's outraged feelings that he poured out a cataract of threats, of legal<br />
penalties, which he would visit upon the heads of them all, when he<br />
regained his liberty, and finally he began to make strenuous efforts to<br />
disengage himself from the fastenings on his hands and legs; but to no<br />
purpose, for the green hide with which he was bound was too strong to<br />
be broken by him.<br />
About midnight Hopping Sam returned on the bay mare, with a<br />
message from Dr. Strapping that he would be over early the next<br />
morning, and in the interim, if the patient got worse, they were to shave<br />
his head, and keep wet cloths upon it, and give him a little sedative<br />
medicine.<br />
Micky was in the midst of a vehement declamation against cowardice<br />
and cold-blooded murther, when Sam returned; so, after a short<br />
consultation, it was agreed to shave his head at once, as he was decidedly<br />
worse. Micky's emphatic. protestations against their proceedings were
utterly disregarded, while his resistance was overruled by the main<br />
strength of numbers, and in about half-an-hour his long grizzly beard, his<br />
shaggy locks, and his bushy whiskers, were lying on the dungheap, and<br />
his face and head were as bald as a bladder of putty. A wet cloth was<br />
then wrapped about his head, and a couple of shepherds, armed with<br />
pokers, were left to keep watch over him till morning.<br />
Soon after daylight the doctor arrived at the station. I need not enter<br />
into particulars of what took place then; but merely state that Micky was<br />
speedily released from durance, and was overloaded with apologies from<br />
the gentlemen who had, unwittingly, been the cause of his new mishaps.<br />
Micky listened gravely to all they had to say, but declined their invitation<br />
to stay at the station until his hair grew to a becoming length; and also<br />
declined every other offer they made to him, but the offer of a breakfast;<br />
and not feeling very comfortable in a place where he was conscious that<br />
he was a laughing-stock for the whole community, he as soon as possible<br />
mounted his horse, taking with him the saddle-bags, and then took the<br />
shortest course across the bush to his old station.<br />
The sun was just setting when he came up to Joe Griddle's hut; and, in<br />
order to give his friend a sudden surprise, Micky fastened his horse to a<br />
tree some distance off, then crept stealthily up to the hut and peeped<br />
through a crack in the slabs. There was Joe, presiding over the longhandled<br />
fryingpan, which was full of beefsteaks and onions, the steaming<br />
savour of which was most stimulating to Micky's hungry senses.<br />
“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Micky. “How plazed the jolly ould sowl 'll be to<br />
see me, to be shure! An there's poor Nip, too, sittin beside the kettle; may<br />
be he's thinkin about me this very minute. Ha, ha, ha! he'll be fit to<br />
devour me wid delight, so he will. I'll jist creep in an astonish 'em both.”<br />
Micky then stole into the hut, unseen by either Joe or the dog, and seated<br />
himself on his old bedstead in the corner. There he sat for a few minutes,<br />
delightfully anticipating Joe's surprise, and his friendly greeting.<br />
Presently Joe lifted the fryingpan off the fire, and was about to turn its<br />
contents into a tin dish on the table, when he caught sight of Micky<br />
sitting in the corner, with his bald face and head, and his long wizardlooking<br />
grey cloak.<br />
“Hoo! hoo! hoo! Goblins!” roared Joe Griddle, dropping the fryingpan,<br />
and rushing out of the hut in terror, which was increased tenfold by<br />
Micky's rising and holding out his arms in the futile attempt to stop him,<br />
while Nip tucked in his tail and ran away, howling as if he had all the hot<br />
onions on his back.<br />
Micky ran out of the hut, and called as loudly as he could, Joe, Joe<br />
Griddle, me jewel! and Nip, Nip, Nip! but neither of them regarded his<br />
call, nor stopped to look behind them, away they ran into the bush, as<br />
fast as their legs could carry them; Joe Griddle shouting for Sandy<br />
M'Grim, and Nip howling a dismal accompaniment, until the sound of
their voices died away in the distant bush.<br />
Micky slowly returned to the hut, then gathered up a part of the late<br />
contents of the fryingpan, off the earthen floor, and sat down to his<br />
solitary supper.<br />
Chapter VI.<br />
“WELL, well! dear knows I've had cracks enuf, the last two days, to<br />
kill a crocodile,” muttered Micky, as he sat down on a log stool inside<br />
the chimney, after he had finished his supper; “and it isn't the smallest bit<br />
ov me thruble naythir, to see me owld frinds runnin away from me, as if I<br />
was a churchyard ghost. If iver any innocint crater was sarved worse nor<br />
me, in two days, I should jist like to see him, that's all. I've bin robbed an<br />
murthered, an shaved, an straight-jacketed, till I'm got so ugly that all me<br />
frinds are scared outright; an here I am, forsaken by all me kin, like a<br />
buck rat that's tumbled into a tar-but. Och, blarney! what'll come nixt, I<br />
wonder? I naydn't frit much about what's coming, anyhow — nor yit<br />
about what's gone naythir; I shall have strength given till me to bear the<br />
next thruble, whatever it may be. I feel that, shure enuf, an that's a blissed<br />
comfort, that I niver felt in this hut afore. I've had pirplexity in galores,<br />
since I left this tother morning, still an all, the pace I feel in me heart<br />
now, would help to make me smile if I met wid forty times as much. I'm<br />
not afeard of thruble, not a bit. But, ah, Musha! I wisht I'd got me books,<br />
so I do; I could read sich a lot ov thim, now I'm all alone an quiet. I<br />
wonder where that owld bloke has gone to wid em? but I hope he'll be<br />
readin em till I git em agin, an they'll do him good, soh; for he was a<br />
terrible owld Turk to swear. Well, plase God, I'll git up in the mornin an<br />
ride his horse till I find him, if he's in this part ov the worrld at all. Be the<br />
same token, I must go an look afther the poor baste; for he'll not like to<br />
be standin gnawin a gum saplin all night. I'm forgettin him clane, for I'm<br />
not used to the convanience of a horse to ride; I think I'm the firsht ov me<br />
family that iver sat in a raal pigskin saddle.”<br />
Accordingly, Micky went out, took off the saddle and saddle-bags, and<br />
after rubbing down his horse, led him away to a waterhole to drink; then<br />
tethered him on a nice fresh piece of feed, and slowly returned towards<br />
the hut. As he approached it, he heard voices inside, and, to his great joy,<br />
beheld through the open window Joe Griddle and Sawney M'Grim,<br />
apparently holding a consultation. Fearful of again frightening Joe,<br />
Micky paused awhile, and as he did so he overheard part of the<br />
conversation.<br />
“I dinna believe a word aboot ghaists,” said Sawney M'Grim, in a<br />
positive tone. “There are bogles and kelpies in Scotland as plenty as<br />
thistles; but I never heerd tell o' ony o' them crossing the ocean to this<br />
unco hot coontry — they're nae sich fules. It wasna a ghaist at all ye
seed, Joe; it was a muckle thief, that's my fancy; and ye should have<br />
knocket him doon with your frying-pan. Hoot mon; ye've nae mair pluck<br />
than an auld wife, not you. If ye saw a wallaby or a white coo in the bush<br />
on a dark night, ye'd rin daft wi' frigcht, and ca' it a ghaist or a bogle. It<br />
wasna Micky Mahony's ghaist ye seed at all, I tell yer, ye great gowk, so<br />
dinna fash me wi' yer hobgoblin stories; an if it was, it wadna harm ye,<br />
nae mair thon a moonbeem, or a whiff o' smoke fra a cutty pipe.”<br />
“Be Jabers, ye're right, Sawney!” shouted Micky, springing forward<br />
into the hut, with his right hand extended to greet him; “an suppose I was<br />
a ghost wid iron claws, I wouldn't scratch a — — ”<br />
But neither Sawney nor Joe stopped to hear the conclusion of Micky's<br />
animated address. Away they both scampered out by the back door,<br />
faster than if the hut were on fire, closely followed by Nip, and despite<br />
Micky's loud shouts and cries, in his earnest endeavours to recal them,<br />
they bolted through the bush like wild cattle, and Micky saw them no<br />
more. After enjoying a smoke by the fireside, and an hour's quiet<br />
meditation, he turned into Joe Griddle's bed.<br />
In the morning, before sunrise, Micky got up, and after praying a few<br />
words on his knees, he put the kettle over the fire, then went out and<br />
watered his horse, and returned to the hut to breakfast. When he had<br />
finished his meal, he saddled his horse and rode away, with the intention<br />
of finding the owner of the beast, and the possessor of his much prized<br />
books. He had provided himself with a little tea and sugar, some tobacco,<br />
and part of a damper, from Joe Griddle's stock; also with a blanket and a<br />
quart pot; for he was of course uncertain how far he would have to travel.<br />
Away rode Micky at a jog-trot, for he knew that that was the best pace<br />
for a long journey; and as he jogged along he tried to refresh his mind<br />
with the recollection of some of the important truths he had recently<br />
learnt. About the middle of the day he stopped, and tethered his horse,<br />
then made a fire, and put on his quart pot with a handful of tea in it. He<br />
was quietly enjoying his reflections and his pipe, while the tea was<br />
brewing, when he was suddenly startled by the well-remembered cry,<br />
“Bail up there!” and on looking round he beheld two horsemen, well<br />
armed, within shotrange of him. Instantly Micky's hand was in his side<br />
pocket, and pulling out his pistol he flourished it in a most threatening<br />
manner, at the same time hopping and dancing about to strike terror into<br />
his assailants with a display of his ferocity, as well as to baulk their aim<br />
if they attempted to shoot him.<br />
“Ye'd better take care how you come a-nigh this pishtle. Be the hoky,<br />
it's a rum un whin it goes off, so I jist caution you, me bhoys. Mind what<br />
yer afther, I tell you, for I won't be robbed agin, so long as I've got a gun<br />
to shoot wid. Be off wid yez, yer murtherin thieves! go and arn yer livin<br />
honestly, an not be afther stalein from the likes ov me. Be the livin jingo,<br />
if this pishtle shu'd go off wid a bang, yer'd both of yez be blow'd into
its, not bigger nor gum leaves.”<br />
“I call upon you in the Queen's name to surrender,” said one of the<br />
horsemen. “I arrest you for horse-stealing; and if you don't drop your<br />
arms this instant I'll shoot you dead.”<br />
“Wheugh!” whistled Micky, dropping his pistol, “that's it, is it, me<br />
jewell? Ho, ho, ho! I beg yer pardons, soh. I thought ye were thieves, ye<br />
look just like em. It's all right frinds; I'll pritty soon explain iverythin to<br />
yez. It's a mishtake altogether, an if ye'll jist git off an take a pot of tay<br />
wid me, I'll tell yez all about it; then you can trot home agin, an save<br />
yourselves a hape of thruble and botheration.”<br />
The troopers dismounted, but instead of accepting Micky's kind<br />
invitation to tea, they seized and handcuffed him, then commanded him<br />
to sit down while they caught his horse.<br />
“Och murther!” groaned Micky, “what for do yez put these bracelets<br />
on to me? I won't rin away, nivir fear. I didn't stale the horse at all, not I<br />
faith; an if ye'll jist sit down, as I axed ye before, I'll tell ye all about it,<br />
an ye'll see in a jiffy that I'm as innicent as the horse himself, every bit.”<br />
“It's my duty to caution you, that anything you say will be produced in<br />
evidence against you,” said the trooper, kindly.<br />
“To be shure, honey! that's jist what I want, produce every haporth ov<br />
it, that's a good sowl.” He then began a rambling version of the way he<br />
got the horse, and expressed his anxiety to see the owner of it, to confirm<br />
his story, and return him his books, which were worth a stud of horses.<br />
“You'll see him to-morrow safe enough,” said the trooper. “Now then,<br />
here's your horse, mount and come with us.”<br />
Micky mounted, and away they rode at a moderate pace, and a long<br />
weary ride it was. For some time Mick employed all his eloquence in<br />
defence of his honesty, but finding that it was entirely wasted upon the<br />
troopers, that they were as stolid as dead stumps to all his appeals to their<br />
“common sinse,” he concluded that they had got no sinse at all; so he<br />
rode the rest of the journey in silence. Some hours after dark they entered<br />
a small straggling township, and stopped at the door of the lock-up;<br />
therein they incarcerated poor Micky, and fastened him to a chain. After<br />
one or two attempts to enlist the sympathies of the lock-up keeper, but<br />
finding him as iron-hearted as the troopers, Micky ate his allowance of<br />
victuals, then lay down upon some straw, and thought of his kind friend<br />
Mr. Hopewell, and upon all the good words he had spoken to him, until<br />
his heart grew as cheerful as if he had all he wanted in the world at his<br />
command.<br />
The next day, about noon, he was unchained and escorted to the Courthouse,<br />
followed by a concourse of idlers and newsmongers. The Court<br />
waited some time in vain for the arrival of a second J.P., when the<br />
magistrate present, after a consultation with the prosecutor (who had<br />
been accommodated with a seat on the bench), decided to hear the case
prior to remanding it to a future day.<br />
The prosecutor was then sworn in the usual form, and gave his<br />
evidence substantially correct. He described his disastrous meeting with<br />
Micky, and the latter volunteering to catch the runaway horse. He further<br />
stated that he had sat for three hours under a tree, reading the two<br />
books — produced — which prisoner had recommended him to read, till<br />
he returned with the horse. That a traveller had passed who informed him<br />
that he had met a man riding a horse, which, from the description, he<br />
concluded was his own beast; and also concluded, that he had been<br />
duped out of his horse and saddle-bags. He then started on foot towards<br />
the nearest station, but was benighted in the bush: finally he reached that<br />
township, and a warrant for the apprehension of the prisoner was<br />
immediately issued on his application.<br />
“You swear positively to the identity of the prisoner, do you?” asked<br />
the magistrate.<br />
“I do, your worship,” said the prosecutor, “though he has attempted to<br />
disguise himself by shaving all his hair from his head and face, since I<br />
last saw him. Still, I clearly identify him by his peculiar idiom, his long<br />
cloak, and his ragged hat.”<br />
“I don't deny anythin in the worrld, yer honor,” interrupted Micky;<br />
“leastways, I do deny — ”<br />
“Silence, sir,” said the magistrate, with a severe frown: “you don't<br />
deny, and you do deny; what do you mean by such impudence?”<br />
At that moment the unpunctual J.P. walked into Court and took his seat<br />
on the bench.<br />
“Arrah, be jingo! that's the jintleman what shaved me, as clane as little<br />
Judy Fagan,” shouted Micky, while he danced with delight and pointed<br />
to the bench.<br />
The barefaced assertion that a magistrate had acted barber to a<br />
bushranger was a severe shock to the sensitive feelings of the two<br />
constables in court, and far more than their patience could quietly put up<br />
with. They both shouted silence, and at the same time shook poor Micky,<br />
till all his joints cracked like dry sticks.<br />
“Leave the man alone, constables,” said the gentleman just alluded to,<br />
sternly. “How dare you illuse a prisoner in that way?”<br />
“He's an incorrigible miscreant,” said the other J.P., with a defiant look<br />
at his colleague, and an approving glance at the constables, who<br />
straightened their shirt collars, and coughed.<br />
“What is the charge against the prisoner?” asked the rational J.P.<br />
With some sotte voce insinuations, that if the inquirer had not been<br />
absent from his duties, as usual, he would have heard the charge, — the<br />
testy J.P. ordered the evidence to be read over by the clerk of the court.<br />
“It is clear to me that I shall be a material witness in this case,” said the<br />
gentleman, rising, after the evidence had been read. “I have seen that
poor man before.”<br />
“Hurrah!” roared Micky, “didn't I tell ye so? I'm as innicint as a little<br />
duck inside a hen's egg, so I am.”<br />
“Silence!” shouted the senior J.P., and his posse comitatus echoed the<br />
order, making ten times more noise than Micky.<br />
The gentleman then briefly but lucidly, explained his meeting with<br />
Micky, and the subsequent events; especially commenting upon his<br />
extreme anxiety to find the old gentleman, with whom he had left two<br />
valuable books. The deponent also expressed his regret that he had,<br />
through the novelty of the prisoner's anxiety, mistaken him for, and<br />
treated him as, a dangerous lunatic; and finally stated his belief that he<br />
was an honest man, whom he would be very glad to have in his employ.<br />
A wonderful reaction in Micky's favour commenced from that moment.<br />
The frowns of the prosecutor's face relaxed into bland smiles. The testy<br />
J.P. began to look good-tempered, and the constables seemed sorry for<br />
having rattled Micky's bones so roughly. The saddle-bags were next<br />
examined, and proved that Micky had not extracted an article from them.<br />
The saddle was examined too, and its evidence was also favourable; the<br />
examination of the horse was dispensed with. After a few minutes'<br />
conference between the magistrates, Micky received an honourable<br />
acquittal; and what pleased him still more, he received back his precious<br />
books from the hands of the prosecutor, who remarked, “that he had read<br />
them with pleasure and profit; and intended to buy copies of them as<br />
soon as he could.”<br />
As Micky took the books into his hands, his honest face glowed with<br />
happiness which seemed to illumine the gloomy court-house, and make<br />
everbody smile. Making a feint to touch his forelock to the bench and the<br />
prosecutor, Micky exclaimed in a hearty tone, “Long life to yer honors!<br />
May God bless every sowl of yez — constables an all,” and then he<br />
hurried out of the building.<br />
He was quickly followed out by a dilapidated looking personage, with<br />
a purple nose, who tapped him on the shoulder.<br />
“Mr. Mahony,” said the phenomenon, “allow me to offer you a little<br />
advice, for I see you are an ill-used man. You have grounds for two good<br />
actions for damages; and your fortune is as good as made, if you go the<br />
sharp way to work. You have a first-rate action against old Nobbles, for<br />
false imprisonment. He is as rich as a copper mine, and you may knock a<br />
handsome sum out of him. Mr. Phinewoll, the J.P., is rich too, you have a<br />
stunning action for assault and battery there, and are sure to get heavy<br />
damages. Will you step with me to my office?”<br />
“Not a bit of it, Mr. What's-yer-name. I've got no grudge aginst ayther<br />
of them gintlemen. They shaved me head an face as bald as a hatter's<br />
block; but that's all the damage they've done me. I don't want to go to law<br />
wid em for such a trifle as that. Beside, I've got better law nor yourn to
go to, here,” said Micky, laying his hand on his Bible. “An I'm thinkin, if<br />
ye was to study them laws abit, every day ov your life, yez would learn<br />
better manners than to be setting yer neighbours a squabblin an fightin;<br />
an ye'd larn to make pace, instead of kickin up rows.” He then turned on<br />
his heel and walked away.<br />
He had not gone far, before he heard some person calling him, and on<br />
looking round he saw Mr. Nobbles hobbling after him as fast as his short<br />
legs could carry his fat body. “Hoy, Mr. Mahony,” said Mr. Nobbles,<br />
“don't be in such a hurry, I want to speak with you. Give me your hand,”<br />
he added, as he came up to Micky, “You are one of the right sort, I can<br />
see, and I respect an honest man, whether he be rich or poor. I am very<br />
sorry, indeed, that I caused you so much trouble, and I hope you'll try to<br />
forget it. I've been under the impression that you were one of those<br />
mischievous hypocrites, who make a trade of their piety; I suspected you<br />
were one of that dangerous fry; and that you had recommended me to sit<br />
and study your Bible, while you stole my horse and saddle-bags. I have<br />
heard of similar tricks before to-day. I see, however, that I have made a<br />
mistake in your character, Mr. Mahony. I think you really believe in that<br />
good book which you have under your arm, and which I am very glad I<br />
have seen, for I intend to turn over a new leaf from to-day. Now, I'm a<br />
man of few words, and I'll make a bargain with you on the spot if you<br />
like. I want an overseer for my head-station, and you are just the man for<br />
me. What do you say — will you engage with me at once?”<br />
“Wid all me heart,” said Micky, “for I'm out of a berth, unless I unship<br />
Sawny M'Grim agin, and I won't do that anyhow, bekase it wouldn't be<br />
fair play.”<br />
“That's settled then,” said Mr. Nobbles, “and now I'll treat you to a new<br />
outfit, for the annoyance I have caused you; come along with me to the<br />
store.”<br />
So Micky went with his good friend to a store near at hand, and<br />
although he modestly demurred at taking so many articles as the<br />
storekeeper forced upon him — his new employer, who stood by,<br />
insisted upon his having a thorough rig out; and when Micky left the<br />
store, he had a larger stock of necessaries than he had ever before<br />
possessed in his life-time; and was, as he himself humorously expressed<br />
it, “dressed better nor his masther.”<br />
“Don't say a word,” said Mr. Nobbles, interrupting Micky's torrent of<br />
thanks. “Let's get home as fast as we can. Go and mount the old horse<br />
again; there, there, no more thanks; go and mount Ginger, and follow<br />
me.” Micky obeyed, and soon afterwards he and his new master were<br />
trotting along the road towards Dingobones Station.<br />
* * * * *
I should have much pleasure in continuing Micky's history at length,<br />
but could scarcely do so under the title of our present chapters; for<br />
“Micky's mishaps” were over. He had begun an entirely new era in his<br />
life, and in a short time he was, to use his own words, “a new man<br />
altogether.” He daily rose in the estimation of his kind master, and also<br />
in the good graces of all the employés on the establishment. Micky was a<br />
true believer in God's word, and strove to walk humbly and truly by its<br />
Divine precepts, which were his daily study, and he earnestly strove to<br />
give evidence of his firm faith in it, by his upright walk and<br />
conversation; and never did he omit a seasonable opportunity of directing<br />
a poor uninstructed neighbour to the plain simple way in which he found<br />
peace with God, and the hope of Heaven. He was untiring in his<br />
unobtrusive, though cheerful efforts to do good, in his homely way, and<br />
his influence was felt, not only in his master's household, but on that and<br />
the neighbouring stations.<br />
Joe Griddle was in course of time installed as Mr. Mahony's houseservant;<br />
and the Bible, the “Sunday at Home,” the “Leisure Hour,” and<br />
other good books replaced the trashy pernicious volumes in Joe's library.<br />
Very soon he, too, could feel that his old tormenting fears of death had<br />
been driven away by the light of Divine truth, and that he had a<br />
comforting hope of “life beyond life.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
Reader! whether you live in the bush, or in the city, whether you be<br />
rich or poor, old or young, gentle or simple, if you want to be happy and<br />
useful through life, peaceful in the hour of death, and glorified<br />
throughout eternity, the simple plan to obtain those blessings, is to do as<br />
poor Micky Mahony did, viz., — “Repent, and believe the Gospel.”
“Light Weights” and “Short Lengths.”<br />
I REMEMBER my scepticism, on being told (when I was a little boy)<br />
that a “pound of feathers was equal to a pound of lead,” and when good<br />
old dame Birch, who taught me the rudiments of my “mother tongue,”<br />
reiterated that fact, and, with a grave look declared that “a pound was a<br />
pound all the world over,” my childish mind still doubted. Poor honest<br />
old soul! she has gone out of the world long ago; and here am I, her dull<br />
pupil, still acquiring rudimental knowledge, but no longer doubting about<br />
her last-named theory; for my experience in travelling the world over has<br />
fully convinced me that a pound is not always a pound, of which fact I<br />
have had many expensive reminders. I will give one example of recent<br />
occurrence, which, though insignificant compared with other parts of my<br />
experience, will help to illustrate certain very common tricks of trade that<br />
unconscionable persons have invented, and on which I purpose making a<br />
few comments.<br />
The other evening, my servant brought two miserably thin composite<br />
candles into my study; and being too small to fit the sockets of the<br />
candlesticks, they were leaning over, like the wonderful tower of Pisa;<br />
while the grease dropped on to my table cover, and soiled some of my<br />
manuscripts. On questioning the girl, I learned that she had bought the<br />
candles at a shop in the city; and on examining a pound packet, I judged<br />
it weighed not more than thirteen ounces, possibly not so much. “Ghost<br />
of old dame Birch,” I exclaimed, holding the packet up at arm's length.<br />
“Look at this for a pound! and if you still love fair play, go and pinch<br />
that swindling candlemaker's nose. You will probably find him in Russia;<br />
unless — and you must be very careful to ascertain that fact — some<br />
rogue elsewhere, has borrowed the candlemaker's brand. Pinch the real<br />
culprit till he roars, for greasing my papers — stay, I forgive him for that;<br />
but please to punish him for cheating thousands of poor people who must<br />
work for their bread by candle light, out of three ounces of matter in<br />
every packet of his skeleton composites that they buy. Pinch him for<br />
dimming the prospects of a host of honest diggers, who are hard at work<br />
in the bowels of the earth, far below the reach of a ray of sunlight. And<br />
pinch him very hard for tempting many an honest trader to sell short<br />
weight wares, in the erroneous belief that it is necessary for him to do so,<br />
to save his trade from suffering from the competition of unscrupulous<br />
neighbours. But nip all these ‘honest traders’ at the same time, for they
must know that it is not right to countenance wrong, in any shape, or<br />
under any circumstances.”<br />
The servant looked startled at my ghostly invocation, and explained,<br />
“that the candles had not been sold to her as full weights, but were<br />
merely recommended as ‘very cheap.’ She was certain sure the<br />
shopkeeper was a fair dealing man, and would not tell a lie for a cargo of<br />
candles.” But when I asked her how I could possibly believe that, with<br />
the palpable fact before my eyes, that he had given her but “thirteen<br />
ounces for a pound;” she fumbled at her apron strings, and said “she<br />
didn't know she was sure; but she fancied it was only for want of<br />
thought; and nobody would believe it was anything more than an error of<br />
the head, who knew Mr. Brown.” After cautioning the girl not to buy any<br />
more cheap candles, or short weight articles of any sort, I sat down in the<br />
dim glimmer of the thin tapers and began to ruminate on the light weight,<br />
and short length system, which is at the present day so glaringly tolerated<br />
in these colonies, and which sometimes bears the sanction of trade<br />
marks, either genuine or forgeries.<br />
But first of all, I tried to unravel the mystical legal distinction between<br />
the open sin of Mr. Brown, in selling pounds of candles weighing only<br />
thirteen ounces, and that of his neighbour, Mr. Doughnut, in owning<br />
sundry two pound loaves, each being about an ounce short of the<br />
standard weight; and I called to mind a case which was investigated at<br />
the Police Office the other day. I mention it for the sake of the analogy,<br />
rather than to enlist sympathy for the mulcted tradesmen. A baker<br />
pleaded guilty of having thirteen loaves in his cart, which in the<br />
aggregate, were fourteen ounces less than their proper weight; but his<br />
feasible explanation of the accidental cause of the short-comings of his<br />
bread, was not received in extenuation of his crime, and he was mulcted<br />
in the full penalty by law made and provided. Why Mr. Brown should not<br />
be fined for his short-weighted candles, or anything else short weight in<br />
his shop, I failed to find a satisfactory reason, after half an hour's study,<br />
so I gave it up; but would beg respectfully to commend the puzzling<br />
subject to some of our active legislators, in order to get the consideration<br />
of “the House” upon it, and if possible to remove the seeming<br />
antagonism between justice and common sense.<br />
But composite candles are not the only articles deficient in weight and<br />
measure, and of inferior quality, which find their way to our colonial<br />
markets, to prey upon the health and pockets of the humble classes<br />
especially. It is not easy for me to enumerate the deceptive goods, nor is<br />
it necessary to do so. I can adduce facts enough to draw attention to the<br />
evil, and I wish I could hope to cure it.<br />
There are many articles of daily demand in which the judgment of the<br />
purchaser is less likely to detect fraud than in the consumptive-looking<br />
candles just alluded to. For instance, in haberdashery wares, where short
lengths, and forged marks, are as common as the goods they represent.<br />
Take “short lengths” reel cotton for example, with the borrowed name of<br />
some well known maker, “warranted 200 yards.” The retail buyer has no<br />
guarantee of the quantity specified, save the honour of the shopkeeper;<br />
for the most careful old lady in the land would hardly stay to check the<br />
measure before paying for her reel of cotton; and it would be only when<br />
too late for a remedy that she would discover she had been cheated, and<br />
that she had far more wood than cotton for her money. Some good folks<br />
may, perhaps, exclaim impatiently, “Pooh! that is a mere trifle to write<br />
about.” But I would earnestly remind them that it is only a solitary<br />
example of a system of fraud which is too palpable to be mistaken; and I<br />
am sure they will not call that a trifle, especially if they bear in mind that<br />
it generally affects a class of persons who are least able to bear such a<br />
raid upon their pockets, and to whom these multiplied peculations swell<br />
to a serious aggregate in the course of the year.<br />
I know a respectable old widow who is too proud to beg or to run in<br />
debt, but not too proud to earn her livelihood by plain needlework; and<br />
since sewing machines have become as fashionable as pianos in<br />
gentlefolk's houses, this honest old lady finds it a difficult matter to earn<br />
full diet by finger stitching, for the price of her work is reduced far below<br />
a remunerative standard. Of course, she has to find her own cotton; and if<br />
her “200 yard reels” only turn out 100 or 120 yards each, is it not a<br />
severe inroad upon her hardly earned income? Is not 80 or 100 per cent a<br />
serious sum for her poor pocket to be plundered of?<br />
Some persons may reply to that question, “Let the old lady buy her<br />
cotton from respectable tradesmen, then she is not likely to be cheated.”<br />
That is certainly the best remedy within her reach, but I wish that her<br />
humble protest could reach the ears of manufacturers far away. There is<br />
the source of the wrong; for it is clear that if they honestly refused to<br />
“make up” short length, or short weight wares, there would be no<br />
wholesale or retail vendors of them, nor duped purchasers either.<br />
I don't wish to make a long chapter on this unpleasant subject, lest I<br />
should not be able to restrain my pen from expressing strong feeling; but<br />
I would like to gently remind those factors and dealers in deceptive<br />
goods, that though — humanly speaking they may carry on their<br />
nefarious traffic with impunity, and perhaps grow rich upon their spoils;<br />
yet they will not escape the penalty, which sooner or later is visited upon<br />
bad actions, as certainly as effects follow causes in material affairs; and a<br />
careful consideration of passing events from day to day, even within this<br />
city, might instil that belief into the most sceptical mind. Who of my<br />
readers has not seen ill-gotten wealth melt from the grasp of its<br />
possessors, and “leave not a wrack behind?” I have seen it, and expect<br />
again to see it; and I emphatically declare that I would rather be a<br />
corporation stone cracker, than I would luxuriate in the profits which
those factors and vendors make by false weights and measures, by selling<br />
timber instead of cotton to poor old widows, for my conscience would<br />
not fail to warn me in the night watches that the God of the widow would<br />
assuredly visit my unjust dealing with His awful judgment.
“Don't Mention It.”<br />
“I WOULD not tell another being in the world beside yourself, for I<br />
don't want it to be said that I tried to ruin the poor wretches. You won't<br />
mention it, will you?”<br />
“Not I, indeed, if I were chained to a hot griddle; you may safely trust<br />
me with anything. But it is very disgraceful. When did you hear of it?”<br />
“On Tuesday evening, and I have been dying to see you ever since.<br />
Bear in mind, dear, I don't vouch for the correctness of the report, but I<br />
give it you just as I got it from Sukey Sleigh, who overheard the servants<br />
next door whispering it over the back fence. It is likely enough to be true,<br />
though, and I am not surprised at it, for these shabby-genteel folks are<br />
often great schemers. I have always said those Campbells were haughty,<br />
stuck-up people, and I shall be pleased to see them pulled down from<br />
their stilts and rolled in the dirt.”<br />
“So shall I, for I hate them. They are proud as peacocks, and as poor as<br />
caged owls, too. Mrs. Campbell has worn that everlasting blue silk dress<br />
three summers, and her grey horse-hair bonnet has been cleaned twice, to<br />
my certain knowledge. The old man, too, looks as dismally seedy as an<br />
undertaker's coachman; and as for the girls — ugh! I've no patience with<br />
them. The butcher's boy told our servant, Mag, the other day, that they<br />
never order anything but shins of beef and sheeps' heads, or now and<br />
then a neck of mutton for Sunday. Pooh! I should like to know what they<br />
have to be proud of, the nasty, disagreeable, unsociable creatures. I<br />
should like to see them obliged to leave the neighbourhood altogether.”<br />
* * * * *<br />
Thus, Mrs. Gabb, and her spinster cousin Miss Pryer (a precious pair,<br />
of the backbiting genus), scandalized a respectable family over the way,<br />
who have unconsciously incurred the envy and hatred of their detractors<br />
for no other cause than their having prudently kept aloof from the society<br />
of such ill-bred, dangerous characters. Miss Pryer tells Mrs. Gabb, as a<br />
profound secret, that Mr. Campbell is meditating a moonlight flitting<br />
from his house, to defraud his landlord, which report is without the<br />
slightest foundation. Mrs. Gabb of course tells Mr. Gabb while she is<br />
preparing for bed that night, and at the same time adds a little to the<br />
story, from her own private stock of spite. The next morning Mr. Gabb
whispers it confidentially to a fellow toper, over a nobbler, at the Nag's<br />
Head, and with a roguish wink declares his belief that the Campbells are<br />
going to bolt to New Caledonia. The scandal flies, of course (“for lies<br />
have wings and can fly, though they cannot stand for want of legs,”) and<br />
a few hours afterwards, to the consternation of the maligned family, their<br />
landlord distrains for a quarter's rent only due last week, and which they<br />
were anxiously struggling to raise, in total ignorance of the plots of their<br />
neighbours, or the legal process of their too credulous landlord. Their<br />
troubles do not end with the sacrifice of their household goods, for the<br />
rumours have affected Mr. Campbell's business in the City. Excited<br />
creditors rush into his office, and demand payment of their claims, or<br />
satisfactory security. Vainly does the astounded man try to explain his<br />
solvent position, and plead for a little time, and he will pay them all; the<br />
majority of them will not wait — “they are not going to be duped while<br />
they are wide awake.” To meet their claims immediately would be<br />
impossible — (almost everybody knows the difficulty of realising<br />
suddenly upon assets, however safe they may be) — so, to protect his<br />
few reasonable creditors, and in justice to all, Mr. Campbell sequestrates<br />
his estate, which is his only alternative. Very soon his name appears in<br />
the insolvent list, and he may be seen any day walking about the city<br />
with his head bowed down. Thus, a striving, inoffensive family are<br />
suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow and inextricable pecuniary<br />
difficulties through the idle whisperings of a couple of scandal-mongers.<br />
* * * * *<br />
I will give another instance of the disastrous effects of gossiping, and it<br />
is as substantially true as the preceding one.<br />
“Have you heard the rumour which is afloat about Emily Green?”<br />
asked Widow Wen of her bosom friend Mrs. Cackle, as they sat at a little<br />
tea-table, munching hot muffins, and scrutinizing the failings of their<br />
friends and neighbours. “Have you heard about the impudent hussey?”<br />
“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Cackle, with eagerness; “what is it? Tell<br />
me all about it.”<br />
“I'll take a little more sugar,” said Mrs. Wen, handing her cup. “You<br />
shall hear the story word for word, as I heard it from — — , but I mustn't<br />
tell you who told me. You won't mention it again?”<br />
“Oh, dear, no; you ought to know me better than to ask it: mum is my<br />
motto.”<br />
“Well, then, you must know that my informant has been watching Miss<br />
Green's movements for some time past, never feeling satisfied that she<br />
was getting her living honestly; indeed, it has puzzled many persons how<br />
that girl managed to hold up her head so loftily, for she has only her<br />
salary as assistant governess at Mrs. Blank's school, and the fees of a few
drawing pupils of an evening. Her old mother lives with her too, and she<br />
is too lazy to earn a penny a month, so it is plain they must have some<br />
way of getting money that all the world does not know of. Well, the<br />
secret is out at last, as you shall hear. For five consecutive evenings last<br />
week, my friend, who was on the look out, saw a dashing looking<br />
gentleman get out of a hooded buggy at Miss Green's door just after dark.<br />
She saw Emily open the door for him each time, and invite him in,<br />
and — — ”<br />
“Oho! that's it, is it?” croaked Mrs. Cackle, with her mouth full of<br />
muffin, and her heart full of envy. “I see, I see, the brazen-faced minx.<br />
That's the way she gets her finery, is it? That's why she tosses her<br />
handsome head about like a soldier's horse! I understand it now; and, to<br />
tell you the truth, I suspected as much. Well! well! well!”<br />
“Now, pray don't mention it,” reiterated Mrs. Wen, “because I might<br />
get into trouble. We had need be careful what we say about that sort of<br />
people, for I dare say they have friends.”<br />
“I tell you again I'll keep it quiet, though she deserves to be exposed,<br />
the good for nothing slut,” said Mrs. Cackle, looking as fierce as a hawk<br />
tearing a young pigeon to pieces.<br />
Somebody did mention it, however, for it soon reached Mrs. Blank's<br />
ears. She did not trouble herself to investigate the truth of the rumour,<br />
but summarily dismissed poor Emily without a word of explanation. The<br />
scandal rapidly spread, and her drawing pupils one by one left her, when<br />
she was obliged to sell, from time to time, first all her little trinkets and<br />
articles of luxury, and afterwards her household furniture, for the support<br />
of herself and invalid mother.<br />
It was some time before Emily learned the cause of her sudden<br />
dismissal from Mrs. Blank's, and the removal of her drawing pupils, but<br />
when the cruel reality burst upon her, it proved too much for her<br />
weakened body and mind to bear. Her attempts at explanation were<br />
coolly repulsed by Mrs. Blank and others, and on every hand she met<br />
with insults and scorn, which crushed her sensitive spirit, and<br />
overwhelmed her with sorrow. Anxiety brought on sickness and rapid<br />
decline, which was accelerated by her constant attention to her bedridden<br />
mother, and want of necessary comforts. The melancholy sequel is soon<br />
told: her sufferings, though severe, were mercifully shortened by that<br />
kind Providence which specially watches over the helpless. She was not<br />
left long in lonely indigence to mourn the loss of her mother. Death soon<br />
came to Emily, with the welcome passport to a better world, and her<br />
weary soul soared away to its rest, “where the wicked cease from<br />
troubling.”<br />
Under the sandhills yonder, lie the remains of mother and daughter, in<br />
one grave, hapless victims to the tongues of their maligners, which<br />
proved fatal as the teeth of black snakes. But a great day is approaching
when they will know that the helpless girl whose character they so<br />
cruelly assailed was as chaste as an infant, and that their wicked<br />
insinuations were utterly groundless. Emily Green was a noble-spirited<br />
girl, well educated, and piously trained. Her disposition was too refined<br />
for Mrs. Wen and Mrs. Cackle, and their gossiping connections. She<br />
treated them with neighbourly courtesy, but avoided a closer intimacy.<br />
Hence their dislike to her, and their plots against her reputation. The<br />
gentleman whose visits to her house had given rise to the innuendoes<br />
which had so fatally injured her, was an eminent physician, who had<br />
kindly called to see her sick mother, at the recommendation of a friend of<br />
the afflicted. Poor Emily! slanderers will by-and-bye see her<br />
“righteousness as clear as the light,” but in the meantime they had better<br />
“take heed to their ways,” or a totally opposite judgment will at that day<br />
be passed upon their lives.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Open rebuke is sometimes seasonable, and friendly warning or reproof<br />
— judiciously given — is often useful; but nothing can be said in favour<br />
of covert fault-finding and backbiting. It is cowardly, mischievous, and<br />
sinful. “He that winketh with the eye causeth sorrow.” Sorrowfully true<br />
has that been proved by a host of unfortunate victims of malice and<br />
uncharitableness. Many a worthy man and woman's good reputation has<br />
been ruined by a wink, or a significant shrug; perhaps accompanied with<br />
a hypocritical expression of pity. Many noble actions, offsprings of true<br />
philanthropy, have been condemned by a sinister look, or belied by a<br />
mysterious elevation of the eyebrows, or some other facial contortion,<br />
slyly meant to impute selfish and other unworthy motives too base to be<br />
expressed in words. Many pure-minded young girls have had their fair<br />
fame blasted by the breath of envious prudes, who, at the same time,<br />
have appeared to commiserate the failings of their victims, well knowing,<br />
too, that the charges against their virtue were malicious falsehoods.<br />
“I am very sorry for the poor thing,” whispers Mrs. Gabb, across her<br />
counter, to a twopenny customer. “She has had heavy trials certainly, but<br />
that's not an excuse for acting as she does. She will never be able to pay<br />
her way, I'm sure. It is a thousand pities to see a widow, with three young<br />
children, setting them such a sad example. Drink is a great evil, and, of<br />
course, leads to everything else that is bad. Those friends who subscribed<br />
money to start her, don't know of her doings, that's plain; and I shouldn't<br />
like to tell them. Don't mention it again, will you? At any rate, don't say<br />
that I told you.”<br />
Ugh! you old sinner! I should like to make you eat a bottle of mustard!<br />
Are you not ashamed of launching such gross fabrications, to ruin that<br />
poor widow, who is striving to train up her little children in the fear of
God, and to lead a ‘sober, righteous, and godly life,’ herself? Is it not<br />
fiendish of you to try and crush her, and starve her little ones, simply<br />
because she has opened a lollipop-shop in the same street in which you<br />
trade?<br />
Cheer up, poor widow! Be not afraid: you have an Almighty Friend<br />
above, whose unchangeable word is pledged to protect and provide for<br />
you and your fatherless children. “Commit your way unto Him; trust also<br />
in Him;” and the malignant whisperings of your foes shall be as<br />
powerless to injure you as the hissings of a toothless viper.<br />
That burly trader, too, whose purse is heavier than a sack of potatoes,<br />
might well afford to spare his abuse of the striving young man, who has<br />
opened a shop next door but one to him; in the hope of earning an honest<br />
living, with “Live and let live” for his motto. Be assured, Mr. Bigbody,<br />
that your grudgery will recoil upon yourself. Your policy will be<br />
unprofitable, in a pecuniary sense, to say nothing of a far higher sense in<br />
which you will be a sad loser, if you encourage such evil passions in<br />
your heart. You know it is unjust to injure your neighbour in the opinion<br />
of his creditors and his customers; and if your bulky purse tempts you to<br />
laugh at the law of libel, let me remind you that there are infinitely<br />
higher laws, which you cannot break with impunity. I have seen the<br />
boasted hoards of purse-proud men leak away like wild honey from a<br />
cracked calabash, and leave them more miserable than a starving<br />
blackfellow. But whether your money is taken from you, or you keep it<br />
until you are taken from it, is a matter of small moment, compared with<br />
the judgment which awaits you, where ready cash cannot bribe. You<br />
need not be offended with me, Mr. Bigbody, for my straight-forward<br />
comments. I do not dislike you, but I cannot like your unprincipled<br />
doings. Take my advice, like a sensible man, mind your own business in<br />
future, and let your struggling neighbour earn an honest loaf if he can:<br />
there is room enough in the city for you both.<br />
* * * * *<br />
A wise man has remarked, that “envy is the most inexorable of all<br />
passions. Other sins have some pleasure attached to them, or seemingly<br />
admit of an excuse: envy wants both. Other sins last but for a while: the<br />
appetite may be satisfied; anger remits, hatred has an end — but envy<br />
never ceases.” A far wiser man has declared that “wrath is cruel, and<br />
anger is outrageous;” and he adds the enquiry, “but who is able to stand<br />
against envy?” The same high authority says that “a sound heart is the<br />
life of the flesh, but envy the rottenness of the bones.” Verily there are<br />
thousands of tons of such rotten bones in the world (carrying living<br />
souls, too), which taint the moral atmosphere, and breed “plague,<br />
pestilence, and famine; battle and murder, and sudden death,” from
which we pray to be delivered.
Down in the Pit.<br />
“I FEAR that the hearts of those dusky-looking hills yonder, will soon<br />
be torn out of them; and then what will become of this rising city? and<br />
what will its busy population do when they have no coal to sell?”<br />
Thus I soliloquised, whilst seated in a friend's house, which overlooks a<br />
considerable portion of the harbour and city of Newcastle. I had just<br />
before counted nearly forty square-rigged vessels, besides smaller ones,<br />
in the port, all loading or preparing to load coal; while long coal trains<br />
whirled past me at brief intervals, shaking the roof over my head, and<br />
suggesting unpleasant ideas of a sudden downfall, if the props in the old<br />
coal workings beneath the city should give way.<br />
“In former years,” I continued, “when they used to load vessels with a<br />
wheelbarrow, or cane baskets, there was but little cause to fear that the<br />
coal supply would run short; but now they ship it by steam; and more<br />
than a thousand miners are at work supplying those ponderous trains,<br />
which seem to be always screaming for more. I was told, that 1048 tons<br />
of coal were shipped yesterday, from the A. A. Company's shoots alone.<br />
What a gap they must have left somewhere! At that rate the very hills<br />
themselves would soon be cleared away, if they were all saleable matter.<br />
I feel uneasy upon the subject, for it is of vital importance to our national<br />
advancement. But yonder comes a gentleman who can see further into a<br />
coal seam than most men; I will ask his opinion. He certainly has not a<br />
desponding mien. Perhaps he will enlighten me a little, and allay my<br />
apprehensions of a famine in fuel.”<br />
In a few minutes I was accosted by the manager of the principal mines,<br />
of whose courtesy I cannot speak too highly. When I mentioned my<br />
foreboding, his eyes twinkled like “Davy lamps,” and he remarked, that<br />
my grandchildren might depend upon an abundant supply of firstclass<br />
coal, from the mine which he had the honour of superintending; and<br />
which I was told he had incurred the hazard of opening. Perhaps<br />
observing that I was still dubious, he kindly invited me to view the mine,<br />
and judge for myself as to the probability of its being soon exhausted,<br />
even by an increased demand upon it.<br />
A short time afterwards I was on a locomotive engine, driven by a<br />
shrewd-looking little man, who I was informed, had driven the celebrated<br />
George Stephenson's first “puffing Billy.” With one hand on the steam<br />
valve, and the other on the break, he seemed to manage the machine as
easily as I could handle a child's cock-horse, and pulled or pushed the<br />
loaded coal waggons about, at will, as though they were mere bonnet<br />
boxes. In company with the manager and another friend, I in a few<br />
minutes arrived at the mine, which is rather more than a mile from<br />
Newcastle.<br />
I cannot minutely describe the gigantic works either above or below<br />
ground, which are triumphs of perseverance and engineering skill,<br />
perhaps unparalleled in this part of the world.<br />
I gazed with wondering admiration at the machinery about the pit's<br />
mouth, and marked the order and system that prevailed, in the midst of<br />
noise and activity, which made my brain simmer like a stewed cabbage. I<br />
noted the waggish looks of some of the smutty - faced boys, (who were<br />
wheeling little coal skips about,) at my nervous care to keep my toes<br />
clear of their iron wheels, and to keep a look-out for my head and my<br />
other important members at the same time; while I mentally admitted<br />
that the smallest boy there was wiser than myself, or at any rate<br />
possessed more useful knowledge, adapted to that particular locality. The<br />
various modes of raising, weighing, inspecting, and screening the coal,<br />
were briefly explained to me in terms comprehensible to my uninitiated<br />
mind, which was dark as coal itself on such subjects. I was shown a huge<br />
box-full of “nuts,” without longing to crack one; and another box full of<br />
“duff,” which even a starving sailor would despise as a ration, though the<br />
engine furnaces daily devoured a large quantity, with greedy gusto.<br />
I next arrayed myself in a borrowed coat and cap — neither of which<br />
fitted me nicely — and with a little tallow lamp in my hand, took my<br />
stand in an iron cage between my two guides, and down, down, down, I<br />
went two hundred feet into the bowels of the earth. On stepping out of<br />
the cage, at the bottom of the shaft, I found myself surrounded by coalbegrimed<br />
men and boys, with little lamps stuck in their caps; whilst the<br />
clanking of chains, the rumble of coal skips on the rails in long dark<br />
lanes, the shouts of the horse drivers, and other sights and sounds<br />
altogether strange to me, helped my imagination to conceive many<br />
startling things.<br />
The overman of the mine lighted his lamp, and formed a rear guard; so<br />
away I went, with difficulty keeping up with my active friends in front,<br />
and sadly knocking my toes now and then against obstructions in my<br />
pathway, which my lamp but dimly revealed, but which my practised<br />
companions stepped over, as briskly as rabbits in a warren. Away we<br />
went, up a long black passage, which I called Ebony Highway — I forgot<br />
to enquire its proper name. On either side of us was a wall of solid coal,<br />
which sparkled in the glare of our lamps, like patent leather. The roof<br />
varied from ten to twelve feet in height; but occasionally it was much<br />
lower, as I discovered by my bump of firmness coming in contact with<br />
some stimulating substance, but whether it was rock or coal, I did not
stay to examine.<br />
Turning round a rugged corner into Nobbley Nook, my nose suggested<br />
that horses had recently slept in that neighbourhood; and presently my<br />
eyes assured me that my nose was quite right, for I beheld stabling for<br />
fourteen beasts, with the name of each written in chalk, on his appointed<br />
stall. Many ill-kept horses above ground, might envy Tommy and Jerry,<br />
and the rest of the sleek coated stud, their snug lodgings below. Onward<br />
we went again, and by and by the manager turned up Smut Court, to<br />
examine a newly discovered dip in the seam: meanwhile I sat on a lump<br />
of coal and chatted with some men, who were eating their dinner with an<br />
enviable zest, which even “Lea and Perrin” could not create. A little<br />
farther on, I saw a man on a very moist seat, and in Adamic simplicity of<br />
attire, picking with all his might beneath a block of coal, which I thought<br />
was dangerously liable to fall on his head. As I noticed the rapid<br />
movements of his powerful muscles, I reflected how hard some men<br />
work for their bread, compared with others, and how richly they deserve<br />
the compensating advantages of real enjoyment of their humble diet and<br />
sound sleep. I further speculated, on the probable social influence on<br />
some of those creatures of the “Dundreary” class (who would almost<br />
shudder to touch a knob of coal with a pair of tongs) if they could be<br />
persuaded to spend half a day, now and then, in a coal mine. If the bare<br />
idea of such a task did not shock them to death, I am sure the reality<br />
would in some degree help to make men of them.<br />
On we went again, in another direction, up a grimy alley, half a mile in<br />
length, which I was informed was an old worked out passage, leading to<br />
the ventilating shaft; and I began to fear that I should be worked out too<br />
before I got to the end of it. Masses of rock had, in several places, fallen<br />
from the roof, and as I hastened past those suspicious parts, I sincerely<br />
hoped that no more rock would fall for the present. The sides of the<br />
passage and the rotting props were thickly covered with a strange variety<br />
of fungi, while long filmy festoons of the same hung waving from the<br />
roof, as though a thousand fairies had been having a grand washing day,<br />
in the gaseous pool which I had just passed, and had hung up their “cutty<br />
sarks” to dry in that draughty alley. In vain did I hint to my foremost<br />
guide that I had seen enough; that my scepticism on the subject of the<br />
coal supply was perfectly cured, and that I wanted my dinner. He<br />
evidently had but little consideration for diners at that hour of the day,<br />
and was desirous of showing me the admirable arrangements for<br />
ventilating the pit. I was obliged to submit, for to be left in that mouldy<br />
locality would have been, to say the least, very unsatisfactory, especially<br />
if my lamp had gone out; and it is extremely doubtful if I could have<br />
groped my way back to the shaft, in thorough darkness.<br />
Presently I fancied I smelt day-light dashed with soot; and on looking<br />
up an old chimney, or shaft, I saw a patch of blue sky a little larger than
the roof of a coach. I was glad to see even that small bit, but was not<br />
allowed to look at it very long. Following my leaders round a mass of hot<br />
brickwork, I beheld an enormous fiery furnace, many times larger than<br />
the stoke hole under Messrs. Tooth's big brewery copper, and the air<br />
rushed towards it with the force of a brisk gale. While I stood silently<br />
sympathising with the half-roasted man, who was stirring the fire with a<br />
long poker, I decided, that if I were forced to select one of two trying<br />
services, I should prefer his red hot post, to that of the lookout man, of<br />
the middle watch, rounding Cape Horn, with a double reef breeze<br />
blowing icicles from the South Pole.<br />
I rested but a short time in the melting vicinity of the furnace, for my<br />
friend the manager is perpetual motion personified. Off he started again<br />
through Fungus Alley, and anon, after a ramble of several miles in sum<br />
total, we returned to the foot of the main shaft; a sort of “Charing Cross,”<br />
or grand junction, for all the tramways which branch off in every<br />
direction. Here my friends paused to draw breath, which they had<br />
scarcely given me time to draw before; and as I fancied they were<br />
beginning to consider which way they should go next, I plaintively<br />
assured them, “that I was more than satisfied with what I had already<br />
experienced, and would willingly take their joint testimony for all the<br />
rest. I had seen sufficient coal for the present generation, gluttons though<br />
they be, and my mind was at rest on the subject. At any rate, I positively<br />
could not walk any further, if it were to save the next generation from<br />
being driven to charcoal, or faggots. Finally I remarked, “that if my<br />
friends were fully bent upon showing me through any more long<br />
passages, they must carry me a pig-a-back.”<br />
The latter proposition seemed to have more weight than all the others;<br />
and being evidently indisposed to take such a troublesome burden on<br />
their shoulders, they smilingly accompanied me to the cage. The<br />
telegraphic hammer then struck two, and in another minute I was hoisted<br />
up into the sunshine, very weary, but somewhat wiser than I was when I<br />
descended the shaft, four hours before.
Boys and Girls! Beware of Snakes!<br />
“SEE, papa,” cried Minnie Maybud, one doubtful looking afternoon.<br />
“See, papa, the smiling sun is peeping out at last, from behind those cross<br />
looking clouds; there is a bit of blue sky too, as big as my parasol, and<br />
it's getting bigger every minute. Yes, the rain is all over, I do believe; so<br />
we can have our drive to Coogee beach after all. I'm so glad,” said little<br />
Minnie, clapping her hands with joy, as she bounded inside from the<br />
balcony, bringing sunshine with her.<br />
“I have been quite vexed with the weather all the morning,” continued<br />
little Minnie, “though I know it was silly of me, and perhaps sinful too;<br />
for as you have explained to me, papa, all the clever men in the colony<br />
could not have saved the thirsty vegetation, if the rain had kept away<br />
much longer. I am sure the poor cows and horses, and sheep, will be<br />
glad. I will be more patient in future, during wet weather; yes, that I will.<br />
Now, papa dear, please tell Simon to get the carriage ready, and come<br />
along, Anna,” she added, as she caught her sister round the waist, “come<br />
away, dear; let us get on our hats and mantles; and find our shell baskets.<br />
We will have a merry afternoon on the nice white sandy beach, and play<br />
at catch-me-if-you-can, with the big waves which come toppling over<br />
and over each other, with their white curly heads looking like cart loads<br />
of cauliflowers.” Away skipped the happy girls to their room; humming<br />
“shells of ocean.”<br />
Half an hour afterwards, the carriage containing Minnie and her sister<br />
with their mamma and their governess, was rolling briskly along the road<br />
towards Coogee. The morning showers had imparted new life and<br />
loveliness to the vegetable world, and everything looked refreshed. The<br />
pretty bush flowers, which bloomed in profuse variety on either side of<br />
the road, seemed to vie with the smiling faces of the blooming maidens<br />
in the carriage. The sun shone out bright and warm; making the drops of<br />
moisture on the bushes sparkle like diamonds, and the mimic rain pools<br />
in the road to look as if they were full of new sovereigns; while the air<br />
was far more fragrant than the shops of Rowland, Rimmell, or any other<br />
great perfumer.<br />
“Stop, if you please, Simon,” said Mrs. Maybud to the coachman,<br />
when he had driven to the end of the smooth road. The road was not then<br />
made quite down to the beach, as it is at the present time. “Stop, Simon, I<br />
think you had better not make Jacky draw the carriage through this heavy
sand; the poor old fellow has trotted along very nicely, so now he may<br />
rest. We will walk down to the beach.”<br />
“Come, sister dear,” said lively little Minnie, after they had alighted.<br />
“Let us have a run to yonder rock that looks so like a nice couch, with a<br />
green velvet cover to it. We can leave our mantles with mamma and Miss<br />
Prosody while we gather sea-weed, and shells, to make a wreath for dear<br />
grandmamma in England.”<br />
Away ran the light-hearted girls, and soon they were skipping about the<br />
beach, while the sea breeze blew their clustering curls about their rosy<br />
faces, and their bright eyes beamed with enjoyment.<br />
It cannot, with strict correctness, be said that there is not a variety of<br />
conchological specimens on Coogee beach. Indeed, that can scarcely be<br />
said of any sea beach; still the sea shores of Australia — the eastern<br />
coasts at least — are not so remarkable for rare or beautiful specimens of<br />
shells as other parts of this hemisphere; and especially some of the coral<br />
islands of Western Polynesia, which I have visited.<br />
The girls amused themselves for more than an hour, and gathered what<br />
appeared to them a choice assortment of univalves, and bivalves,<br />
together with seaweed, pebbles and sea-eggs. At length, feeling rather<br />
tired, they proceeded to where mamma and governess were seated, on the<br />
green rock before alluded to, there they spread out their little baskets of<br />
treasures, and amused themselves in sorting and arranging them, for<br />
another hour or more.<br />
“Now, my dears,” said Mrs. Maybud, rising from her seat, “I think it is<br />
time to return home. The sun is beginning to make long shadows, and the<br />
air from the sea is getting rather chilly, so put on your mantles, and we<br />
will walk to the carriage.”<br />
“Oh mamma, mamma,” shrieked one of the girls, at that instant in an<br />
agony of terror, “a snake, a snake, close to your feet.”<br />
Mrs. Maybud cast her eyes downwards, and, with indescribable<br />
loathing, beheld a brown snake within a few inches of her feet; with its<br />
fearfully fascinating eyes gleaming upon her. With more haste than<br />
elegance, the whole party sprang from the rock; fortunately without the<br />
least injury; but as may be imagined, with feelings of intense alarm.<br />
During the whole of the time they had sat on the rock, there is no doubt<br />
that the deadly reptile had lain coiled up in a crevice, at their feet, and<br />
had probably been asleep until awakened by the slight noise they made in<br />
rising; or possibly by some part of their dress touching it. They hurried to<br />
the carriage with hearts full of gratitude to God, for their providential<br />
escape.<br />
About a fortnight afterwards, Mr. Maybud, with Anna, and Minnie,<br />
drove to Coogee beach, during a south east gale, when a scene of awful<br />
grandeur was before them, worth going thrice the distance to behold.<br />
While the gigantic waves were breaking in rapid succession upon the
long shelly beach like avalanches, far away seaward, confused tumbling<br />
masses of foaming waters were warring with the howling winds, and<br />
black, angry looking clouds above, seemed to frown on the strife of the<br />
turbulent elements.<br />
After enjoying the sublime spectacle for some time, Mr. Maybud<br />
allowed his daughters to lead him to the rock, where they received the<br />
terrible fright above described.<br />
“That's the spot, papa,” said Minnie, pulling Mr. Maybud towards it. I<br />
know it by its nice, soft green surface; and that's the crevice where the<br />
snake was. Mamma's and Miss Prosody's feet were right over the spot for<br />
more than two hours. How very providential that the dreadful thing was<br />
asleep all the time. There, that's the hole, papa,” said Minnie, pointing to<br />
it with her parasol.<br />
“Hush, my dear,” said Mr. Maybud, excitedly, “there is the snake now;<br />
I saw it move. Stand back, stand back!” As he spoke, he thrust his<br />
walking-stick into the crevice, and by a dexterous movement forced the<br />
reptile from its hiding place. In another minute it was writhing on the<br />
sand with its back broken. It was a brown snake, about three feet in<br />
length, and of a very deadly species.<br />
* * * * *<br />
Coogee is now much less infested by snakes than it was at the time the<br />
above incidents occurred. Much of the land has been cleared and<br />
cultivated, or built upon; and a great many snakes have shuffled away to<br />
more secluded haunts, for they generally prefer the solitude of the thick<br />
bush, or reedy swamp. They do not, however, always object to the<br />
society of mankind, or to share his domestic conveniencies; as some of<br />
the following examples will attest.<br />
A married pair — intimate friends of mine — were sitting on a sofa in<br />
their little bush cottage, one Sunday afternoon, when to their dismay,<br />
they beheld a black snake, about five feet in length, leisurely wriggle<br />
from beneath the sofa, into an adjoining bedroom. My male friend<br />
immediately ran out of the room for some weapon, to despatch the<br />
unwelcome intruder: leaving his wife to watch its movements; but before<br />
he returned, the snake had disappeared. It was, however, killed that same<br />
evening, by a neighbour; who kept watch outside, the cottage, until he<br />
saw the snake emerge from beneath it, when he chopped its head off with<br />
a spade. My friend after that occurrence lost no time in plastering his<br />
cottage, and in carefully stopping every hole in the flooring, or fireplace,<br />
large enough to afford ingress to such loathsome visitors. Persons living<br />
in bush houses, will do well to follow my friend's example and stop<br />
every hole in their walls, or floors; which can easily be done with a little<br />
management even in the most rudely constructed habitations.
* * * * *<br />
A young gentleman, (with whom I was well acquainted), one morning,<br />
took up his cap, from the place where he had left it the previous night,<br />
when to his surprise, he found a small snake coiled up inside it. I am not<br />
quite sure whether he had put the cap on his head before he saw the<br />
snake inside it; but I do feel sure, that he did not put it on his head, after<br />
he saw its ugly tenant, until he had given it summary notice to quit; and<br />
had assured himself, more certainly than by bonds and covenants, that it<br />
would never get into his cap again.<br />
* * * * *<br />
I was travelling on horseback, one sultry day, through a part of the<br />
bush to the north, that I had never travelled before, when I overtook a<br />
man on foot, who offered to put me upon what he called “a short cut” to<br />
the place to which I was going. As the man walked beside me, he treated<br />
me to the horrifying details of a murder which had been committed<br />
sometime before, in a deep creek, into which we had just began to<br />
descend. “Here you are, sir, this is the very spot where the murdered man<br />
was found,” continued my garrulous informant, as I reined up my horse<br />
and got off his back, to allow him to drink from the pure cool stream.<br />
The banks of the creeks were precipitous; and the dense umbrageous<br />
foliage above and around totally excluded the sunshine. Not a solitary<br />
stray beam could pierce through the tangled masses of vines and<br />
creepers; and even dull daylight itself could scarcely find its way to the<br />
bottom. “Well,” I remarked, “this is the sort of place I should expect a<br />
murderer to select for his dreadful work; where he would not be very<br />
liable to be intruded upon.”<br />
“It has been called ‘Dead-man's Creek’ ever since that murder;” said<br />
my informant, as a wind-up to the sanguinary tale, which he had told<br />
with such scrupulous regard to minute particulars, that I almost feared he<br />
would want to give me a practical illustration of the exact way in which<br />
the poor victim's head was cut off.<br />
I was very glad when he had finished his story, for I never was fond of<br />
tales of murder; and that awful recital by a strange man, in such a<br />
gloomy spot, was particularly uninteresting.<br />
My horse had finished drinking, and I was about to sit down on the<br />
gnarled roots of a tree, which was close beside me; when to my horror I<br />
saw, what appeared to me to be a cluster of snakes coiled up, on the very<br />
spot where I had intended to seat myself. I hastened up the opposite bank<br />
of the creek, tied my horse to a tree, and aided by the man, broke a small<br />
sapling short off by the roots, then descended the bank of the creek
again, and forced the jagged end of the sapling down on the reptile, when<br />
it slowly uncoiled itself, and dropped into the pool of water beneath,<br />
from which, after some difficulty, I dragged it ashore, and killed it. It<br />
was a diamond snake, rather more than twelve feet in length, and was in<br />
a state of repletion; having but a short time before, swallowed a kangaroo<br />
rat. The details of that cruel murder, and my escape from sitting on that<br />
formidable reptile, have impressed “Dead-man's creek” vividly on my<br />
memory.<br />
I could write a long chapter, horrible enough to scare a soldier, about<br />
wonderful escapes from “tremendous snakes” of which I have been told.<br />
By-the-bye, most of the snakes that escape and that, of course, are never<br />
measured are of enormous dimensions; and the same remark applies to<br />
sharks, and many other terrible things, that travellers frequently talk<br />
about. I have heard too, some hair-raising stories of snakes being found<br />
in beds, and under beds; in bonnet boxes, in flour bags, in chests with<br />
Sunday clothes, or coiled up in a stockman's empty boots, or in the<br />
pocket of a farmer's great coat, which hung against the wall of his slab<br />
hut. Although many of those stories are quite authentic, I shall not relate<br />
them in detail; for I do not wish to intimidate my young readers. It is<br />
very far from my desire to create bugbears, or to encourage pusillanimity<br />
in any form. I only wish in giving a few examples, to induce ordinary<br />
prudence in guarding against accidents from those deadly reptiles.<br />
I once met with a gentleman in the interior, (a new arrival,) who had<br />
such a horror of snakes, that he would scarcely stir out of his house, on<br />
foot, after dark; and even in daylight he walked through the bush in<br />
nervous trepidation. He had heard “travellers tell strange tales,” of the<br />
dangers of the bush from the prevalence of deadly reptiles, until he had<br />
got a settled dread on his mind, which was excessively painful to him,<br />
but which he could not reason away. He seemed surprised and somewhat<br />
relieved, when I told him, that although I had been more than twenty<br />
years in the colony, and had lived much of that time in the interior, that I<br />
had not seen a hundred snakes. I owned that I probably might have seen<br />
many more if I had specially searched for them, for on one occasion, I<br />
went out with my gun and my pointer dogs, on a sultry afternoon, to the<br />
margin of a small lagoon, not more than a mile from a country town, and<br />
there shot seven or eight black snakes, in about two hours. But that<br />
locality was notoriously infested with those reptiles.<br />
Pedestrians should look carefully to their feet, when travelling on a hot<br />
day in the vicinity of swamps, lagoons, or drains, as snakes particularly<br />
inhabit such localities, and they often come out of their hiding places,<br />
and lie in the foot-paths, for like cats they are fond of basking in the<br />
sunshine. They will, however, generally wriggle away as fast as they can,<br />
on the approach of a human being, although on several occasions, a<br />
snake has reared its head, and glared on me with its basilisk-like eyes,
and has not attempted to flee, while I kept my eyes upon it, but the<br />
instant I have turned for the purpose of picking up a stick, it has<br />
attempted to escape at its utmost speed.<br />
I have seen a bold bushman go close up to a snake, and strike its head<br />
with the hammer head of his riding whip, but that was certainly running<br />
an unnecessary risk, and I have always preferred a tolerably long stick as<br />
my weapon in such encounters. Snakes are easily disabled, one or two<br />
smart blows are sufficient, but they are as tenacious of life as silver eels,<br />
and bushmen have a tradition, that “snakes never die till sundown.”<br />
It is best to approach them in front, as they are apt to spring backwards<br />
upon an assailant, though they cannot spring forward, and in general they<br />
cannot creep so fast but even a lazy man might easily get out of their<br />
way. I have heard of snakes attacking persons, but I never saw one do so,<br />
and those that I have seen, have seemed glad to get away from me.<br />
Vicious animals in general have a fear of man which deters them from<br />
assailing him, unless they are incited to it by provocation or in selfdefence,<br />
and the most noxious species of reptiles have generally some<br />
distinguishing characteristics by which their hurtful properties may be<br />
known, and counteracted. In that we see a mark of God's providential<br />
care for us.<br />
I repeat my declaration. I have not seen one hundred live snakes during<br />
over a quarter of a century; and I have not known of one fatal case of<br />
snake poisoning, within my own circle of friends and acquaintances.<br />
That may be rather surprising to those persons who fancy our fine<br />
continent is dangerously overrun with those loathsome reptiles.<br />
But there is, alas! a black snake, terribly prevalent, which is caressed<br />
by thousands of persons in this land; though many of them know from<br />
personal or family experience that it is far more dangerous than the deaf<br />
adder. I mean the “dram bottle.” That is the snake which has desolated<br />
hundreds of homes, and sent thousands of poor souls to ruin; that has<br />
done infinitely more mischief in this fine country than all the snakes in<br />
the bush.<br />
I have seen the serpent — intemperance — writhe its treacherous way<br />
into many happy households, and first fascinate, then crush within its<br />
powerful folds the most promising members of the family. I have seen<br />
the hope of a respectable house — a fine, broad browed youth — his<br />
father's pride, and his mother's idol; upon whose education the fond old<br />
pair had lavished their hardly earned little hoard; I have seen that beloved<br />
boy's fine intellect vitiated, his once athletic frame palsied and wasted,<br />
and with sorrow I add, that I have stood upon the graves of the suicide<br />
son and his broken-hearted parents.<br />
I have seen a sunny-hearted little child grow up to girl-hood, and fall a<br />
victim to the fascinating influence of intemperance. With aching heart I<br />
have marked her rapid decline from the paths of innocence and virtue, to
vice, poverty, disease, and an agonising death; long before she had<br />
reached life's meridian.<br />
I have seen a decrepit, grey-headed widow groping her way through<br />
life in penury and grief. I knew her in former days, when she was rich in<br />
this world's goods, and blessed with an industrious husband, who walked<br />
with her to the house of God. But, alas! in an evil hour he fell a victim to<br />
the world's great curse; and now he fills a drunkard's grave, while his<br />
poor old helpless widow is left to mourn in hopeless sorrow.<br />
I have seen — — But ah! I dare not write more on this harrowing<br />
subject; for well-remembered faces rise up from the dead before my<br />
mental gaze; and my heart sickens at the dreadful contemplation.<br />
Boys and girls! beware of snakes! beware of snakes! But especially<br />
beware of the last one I have alluded to, of which I lack words<br />
sufficiently strong to express my horror.