Australian Tales - Setis

Australian Tales 

and Sketches From Real Life 

Houlding, John Richard (“Old Boomerang”)(b. 1822) 

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Source Text: 

Prepared from the print edition published by Sampson Low, Son and Marston 

London 1868 416pp. 

All quotation marks are retained as data. 

First Published: 1868 

RB1568.13 Australian Etext Collections at short stories 1840-1869 

Australian Tales 

and Sketches From Real Life 

London 

Sampson Low, Son and Marston 

1868

Preface. 

MOST of the following tales and sketches have appeared in the “Sydney 

Mail;” and I have good reason to believe that they have been favourably 

received by thousands of subscribers to that influential newspaper. In 

publishing them in a volume, I am yielding to the persuasion of many kind 

friends, who have expressed their belief that they will be well received, and be 

useful. 

I have spent much time in altering and improving all the articles; and they 

will be fresh to my old readers. The fact of the articles having appeared in the 

columns of the “Sydney Mail,” will be a sufficient guarantee to parents, that 

they need not scruple to place the volume in the hands of their children. I will 

only add, that there is nothing controversial or sectarian in it; and I have used 

my utmost efforts to make it both amusing and instructive. English readers will 

find many phases of Australian life depicted; for which I claim this merit, that 

their accuracy may be relied on. 

The extensive circulation of my recent work, “Australian Capers,” (see 

appendix,) encourages me to hope that this volume will meet with a favourable 

reception; not only from my many friends in Australia, but also in Great 

Britain. 

OLD BOOMERANG. 

Darlinghurst, Sydney, N.S.W. 

August 31, 1867.

Australian Tales, and Sketches from Real 

Life.

Mr. Phiggs and His Christmas Breakfast. 

A SEASONABLE STORY. 

“GOODNESS me, Mr. Phiggs, be rational, there's a dear! Only fancy; 

boiled fowls smothered in rice, currants, and onions; or curried nonsense, 

fiery as red-hot cinders, for friends coming hungry and squeamish off a 

steamboat, and on a Christmas morning too! You surely must be joking! 

But I tell you seriously, I cannot cook an Indian breakfast, so pray do not 

miscalculate my skill; and I'm sure Sally would as soon consent to cook a 

horse's head. I dislike such peppery messes at any time; but at this special 

season for old English cheer, I particularly disapprove of foreign 

trumperies on my table. Consider again, Jacob, and don't perplex me at 

this critical time, there's a good man.” 

“Patience, Dolly,” said Mr. Phiggs, with a smile. “It is plain that you 

know very little about Oriental fare, or you would not speak so 

disparagingly of it. When I proposed to give our expected guests an 

Indian breakfast, I did not suppose that you would cook it. Not at all. But 

if you will tolerate my little whim, for once and away, I shall esteem it a 

favour. I have a strong desire to try my skill in cookery by way of 

experiment; and if you will allow me the undisturbed use of the kitchen 

and the cooking utensils to-morrow morning, I think I shall be able to 

remove your prejudices against foreign messes, as you call them. I 

breakfasted with Captain Carraway the last time I was in Sydney, and 

such a dainty meal (prepared under his own supervision) I never before 

partook of. I wished you had been there to enjoy it with me, though I 

know you always advocate simple diet. I procured from the Captain plain 

written directions for making veal olives, curried kidneys, pillaued 

chicken, savoury omelettes, milk coffee, cream potatoes, and sundry 

other exquisite dishes (from recipes furnished to him by Rajah 

Mulleegrubbee's chief cook); and as some of our oldest friends are 

coming to spend Christmas with us, I should like to surprise them with 

something out of the common way, and of my own preparation. Friend 

Samson will assist me in the kitchen; and, as I do not wish to trouble 

you, or either of your servants, you can lie in bed an hour later than 

usual, and the cook can go for a morning walk if she likes. You, of 

course, can cater for the Christmas dinner, which is the grand social 

event of the year, but do let me have the pleasure of providing the 

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 

his explanation had sat thoughtfully pondering how she could humour 

her worthy spouse's odd fancy without upsetting all her domestic 

arrangements for the day, which were rather more onerous than usual, 

considering that she was expecting eight or nine friends from Sydney by 

the next morning's steamer, to spend a merry Christmas with her and her 

family. 

In anticipation of the reader's inquiry. “Who are Mr. and Mrs. Phiggs?” 

I briefly explain that they were a crummy old couple, brimful of human 

kindness, who lived in a quiet little sea-side town, not a hundred miles 

from Sydney, and were well to do in the world. They were decidedly not 

fashionable folks, but they liked to entertain their friends in a cozy, 

homely style, which all true lovers of comfort appreciate, and they often 

welcomed visitors beneath their hospitable roof, and used their utmost 

efforts to make them feel at home. Although they had been many years in 

the colony, their early imbibed tastes for old English customs were as 

fresh as ever. Foremost among the endearing remembrances of their 

loved native land was Christmas-tide, with its special family reunions, its 

joyous festivities, and peculiar good fare. Mr. and Mrs. Phiggs loved to 

keep up Christmas Day's social rites, if they were less zealous of the 

more hallowed observances of the time, of which, however, they were 

not wholly unmindful; and while all within their own household were 

regaled with seasonable good cheer, they took care that the homes of 

their poor neighbours were supplied with material comforts, for rejoicing 

the hearts of the inmates; thus testifying their Christian love and good 

will towards all men, free from narrow prejudices against country, 

colour, or creed. I trust there are thousands of good souls in this land who 

will, at this auspicious season, especially remember their duty, and try to 

gladden the hearts of their needy neighbours around them, by dispensing 

with an ungrudging heart, a portion of the good things with which kind 

Providence has entrusted them. 

I would not have my reader suppose that Mrs. Phiggs was 

unreasonably tenacious of her domestic prerogatives, or that she was at 

all inclined to exercise an arbitrary dominion over her good husband's 

will. Far from it. She was the most ductile little wife in the district; one 

who neither snapped nor sulked, and who never encroached beyond her 

own strict line of duty on her husband's right of rule. But on the present 

occasion she foresaw a houseful of troubles and vexations attendant on 

his odd whim; not the least of which was the risk of rousing the fiery 

spirit of Sally Skewers, who, cook-like, was very jealous of undue 

interference in her department, and whose services were especially 

necessary on that day to prepare a suitable dinner for the unusual number 

of guests who were expected. Mrs. Phiggs also lacked confidence in her 

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 

least talent in that way; and as for his plainly-written recipes, on which 

he placed so much reliance, she well knew that such things are generally 

of not much more practical use than the written directions of a conjurer, 

as to the safest method of swallowing a sword, or a bundle of paperhangings; 

and she dreaded the failure of his projects at a time when such 

a mishap would be particularly inconvenient. She urged her objections in 

her usual out-spoken, though good-tempered manner; but Mr. Phiggs so 

pertinaciously clung to his crotchet, and pleaded his cause with so much 

tact, that she at last, like a good pliant wife, withdrew her opposition; 

though, at the same time, she laughingly predicted that “he would make a 

pretty mess of it.” To that monition Mr. Phiggs nodded his head 

sagaciously, and replied, “Wait a bit, Dolly; I believe I shall astonish 

you, and receive the commendations of all our company.” 

After despatching Samson to various tradesmen in the town for the 

extra provisions required, and which were to be at the kitchen door at 

peep of day, Mr. Phiggs sat down to study his chart — as he called it 

— the plain directions for cooking an Indian breakfast, which he had 

received from Captain Carraway, and which seemed to Mr. Phiggs as 

simple as a little boy's “Reading Made Easy.” 

An hour before daylight next morning. Mr. Phiggs crept quietly out of 

bed, as he supposed, without awakening his wife; but had the bedroom 

lamp burned a little brighter he would have seen the tassels on the 

curtains dancing in sympathy with the merry mood of Mrs. Phiggs, who 

was making the bedstead shake with her smothered laughter, at the idea 

of the “pretty mess” she would have for breakfast. 

Friend Samson turned out of bed at the first word of command, and 

very soon he had kindled a fire in the old-fashioned kitchen range, large 

enough to roast a calf. 

Punctually at the prescribed time came the milkman with a large can of 

extra milk and a basket of eggs; other tradesmen speedily followed with 

various articles ordered on the previous night, and the dresser was soon 

strewed with a strange collection of crude material for the feast. The 

butcher brought the kidneys all correct, but “was very sorry the 

thunderstorm in the night had spoilt his veal, so he had brought a nice bit 

of tender beef instead.” That was annoying certainly, for the veal olives 

were intended to form the leading triumph; however, Mr. Phiggs 

promptly decided upon making some savoury sausage-cakes instead; so 

Samson set to work with an axe, and soon the house began to vibrate 

with his vigorous blows as he chopped up the beef into sausage-meat, 

and at the same time chopped the kitchen-table into corduroy grooves 

and ridges, the cedar chips nicely mixing with the meat by way of 

seasoning. 

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, 

and although she had been nervously apprised by her mistress on the 

previous night of what was to take place in the kitchen the next 

morning — and notwithstanding she had given her mistress a sort of 

sulky promise that she would not interfere with her master's whimsies for 

once, seeing her nice, smooth table greased and cut up in that savage 

style was too severe a trial for her forbearance; so out she came, halfdressed, 

and both Mr. Phiggs and Samson were positively electrified by 

the fiery torrent of temper which she poured forth. “Molly-coddles” and 

“fishfags” were the mildest epithets she applied to them, and there they 

stood gazing at each other, as if deciding whether it was not their safest 

course to flee from their unexpected assailant. They however, stood their 

ground like men, and tried, though in vain, to soothe Sally, by promising 

to vacate the kitchen in two hours at the farthest. After exhausting her 

stock of expletives, she flung a chopping board on Samson's toes, and a 

chopping knife on to the table, then bounced into her bedroom again, 

from whence she soon afterwards re-issued in her holiday frock, her hat 

and feather, and dove-coloured boots. With a passing anathema on her 

dirty pots and kettles, and a glance at her master and Samson, fierce 

enough to frizzle them both, she flung herself out of the kitchen, and 

slammed the door with a bang like a great gun. 

“I hope she won't come back till we have finished our business,” said 

Mr. Phiggs, with his eyes full of tears, as he handed some chopped 

onions to Samson to mix with his sausage-meat. “I had no idea that Sally 

had such a tongue in her head, she fairly frightened me. I'm very glad she 

is gone out for a walk.” 

“So am I,” said Samson; “I don't like her. She has nearly knocked my 

little toe off with this chopping board. I am sorry I have spoilt the table 

though; but I didn't see the board and mincing knife before.” 

“Never mind the table,” said Mr. Phiggs, “that can be mended tomorrow. 

Now then, Sam, if you have done the sausages, just smash up 

these potatoes; I think they are boiled enough; and mix — let me see 

(consulting his chart) — yes, mix a quart of new milk, and beat all up 

fine with a fork; that's the way to make cream potatoes. Now go to work, 

while I see after the curried kidneys. Stop, hand me another saucepan and 

a long spoon.” 

When she heard Sally's violent tirade, and her noisy exit from the 

house, Mrs. Phiggs thought it was time for her to bestir herself; so she 

got up accordingly; and first of all quietly peeped into the kitchen, when 

the sight she beheld was anything but exhilarating on a merry Christmas 

morning. There was Mr. Phiggs, his face as red as the warming pan, 

against the wall, puffing and perspiring before an enormous fire, stirring 

a saucepanful of rice, which she judged by its odour had been allowed to 

burn. The floor was garnished with grease, onion parings, cinders, egg

shells, and a variety of other refuse, whilst cooking utensils and dishes of 

all sorts and sizes littered the place in every direction. Every saucepan 

and kettle in the kitchen had been brought into use, and the range was 

covered with them. The fryingpan, filled with curried kidneys, was on a 

chair, the long handle of the pan protruding through a broken windowpane, 

and the sooty coffee-pot, with the spout burnt off, was placed on 

the dresser shelf. Samson was sitting on the floor with a saucepanful of 

potatoes between his knees, which he was actively stirring with a 

toasting fork, and smoking a cigar at the same time. 

“Now, then, Sam, let us consider,” said Mr. Phiggs, again consulting 

his chart; “I think those potatoes will do now. Dear, dear!” he added, 

after a short pause, “I see we have made an annoying blunder; the quart 

of new milk should have been boiling hot. What a nuisance! the cream 

potatoes will be as cold as cream ice before they are dished. However, it 

can't be helped now; we must try if we can warm them up again. Turn 

them into that pie-dish, and put them on the hob. Look alive, there's a 

good fellow!” 

“Don't you think they would have looked nicer if they had been peeled 

before we made cream of them?” asked Sam. 

“Peeled, to be sure! why what a precious gowk you must be not to have 

done that without my telling you,” said Mr. Phiggs, with considerable 

warmth of temper. “Who the dickens would have thought of smashing 

potatoes with the skins on but a pig with his tusks or a donkey with his 

hoofs?” 

Stung by that severe reproof, Samson rose to his feet in a moment, and 

sharply retorted upon Mr. Phiggs, in the attitude of a pugilist. A stormy 

altercation ensued, and ended in Samson's donning his coat, and leaving 

the kitchen to the sole occupancy of his half-bewildered friend, who had 

long since began to wish his Indian breakfast at the bottom of the Indian 

Ocean. 

Mrs. Phiggs was aware of her husband's dilemma, and would willingly 

have gone to his aid, as well for his own sake as for the good order and 

credit of her house; but she knew his disposition too well to interfere 

with him at such an exciting time; so, like a wise little woman, she kept 

aloof, but at the same time actively exerted herself with her other servant 

in preparing the breakfast-room, as far as she could, for her coming 

guests, whom she expected very soon, as the steamer had been signalled 

for some time. She once or twice felt a quizzical disposition to peep into 

the kitchen, and wish Jacob a merry Christmas, but pity for him would 

not allow her to tease him at a time when he was almost overwhelmed 

with perplexity. 

“Let me see,” soliloquised Mr. Phiggs, putting on his spectacles, “let 

me see; one pound of best Mocha coffee, boiled down to a quart, and put 

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 

went the coffee, grounds and all, into the boiling milk, and when too late 

to remedy it, Mr. Phiggs, to his grief, discovered that he should have 

strained and fined the coffee first; for the mixture looked like brown 

paint, or a road puddle after a heavy shower. 

“Everything is going against me this morning,” grumbled he, while he 

turned the curried kidneys into a soup tureen, and put them on the hob to 

keep warm; then wiped out the frying-pan and put it over the fire, with 

the handle poised on the back of a chair. “Now for the omelettes,” he 

muttered, and again referred to his instructions. “Put half a pound of 

fresh butter into a clean frying-pan, then beat up two dozen eggs, mix an 

onion chopped fine, and a small bit of sage, fry quickly, and serve up 

hot.” “All right; that's plain enough any way,” he continued, as he put a 

lump of butter into the red hot pan, which frizzled and sputtered, and 

slightly scalded his face. “Botheration take the breakfast,” he pettishly 

exclaimed for the tenth time. “Now for the eggs. Well, well! I declare 

that stupid fellow Samson has not half beaten them; I should like to beat 

his head with this gravy spoon.” 

“My dear! our company are coming up the street,” said Mrs. Phiggs, 

peeping into the kitchen. “Is the breakfast ready, Jacob?” 

“Dear me, are they coming so soon? — that's vexing. I can't get 

breakfast ready in a minute less than half an hour,” said Mr. Phiggs, 

wiping his heated brow with a smutty towel. “I say, Dolly, send in Jane 

for a little while, there's a good soul, just to clear the kitchen a bit; I'm 

expecting Sally back every minute, and if she catches me here she will 

very likely storm my ears off. I am getting on delightfully, only that 

blundering fellow Samson has — hallo! ow! fire! fire! Good gracious, 

Dolly! send for help — quick, hoo!” roared Mr. Phiggs, at that instant 

hopping about the kitchen with his left foot in his right hand, while his 

face expressed terror and torment, and his groans were heard above the 

roaring of the fire in the chimney. In turning round hastily, with a 

basinful of eggs in one hand and a fork in the other, he had trodden on a 

lump of suet, slipped down, and spilt the eggs all over him. In falling he 

had struck the handle of the frying-pan, and tipped the half pound of 

fresh butter into the fire, except a small part, which had fallen into his 

left slipper, and set him dancing like an insane harlequin. 

The attempt to describe the uproar and confusion that ensued would be 

altogether too much for me. Just as the company were walking up to the 

door, expecting a warm reception from the Phiggses, as usual, a stream 

of fire shot up from the kitchen chimney, high above the roof of the 

house, and the screams of Mrs. Phiggs and Jane, the housemaid, added to 

the roaring of Mr. Phiggs, were, to say the least, astounding. Fortunately 

it happened that one of their guests was a member of the Sydney fire 

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 

excited neighbours, he poured a copious supply down the blazing flue, 

and soon put out the fire; but at the same time he put the finishing touch 

to Mr. Phiggs's Indian breakfast by smothering everything with soot, 

making all the dainty dishes on the hobs as black as an Indian's woolly 

head, and turning the kitchen into a mimic Black Sea. 

Mr. Phiggs's guests were all old friends, and jovial ones too; and that 

they were not disposed to desert a brother in his distress was evident 

from their all flocking into the kitchen to see their unlucky host, and to 

cheer him up with “compliments of the season.” There he sat, covered 

with soot, egg sauce, and melted butter, nursing his basted foot, and 

surrounded by a confused collection of cooking tools and little islands of 

soot, in a sea of grimy water. But despite his sores and sorrows he could 

not but join in the uproarious bursts of laughter, which nearly split the 

shingles above his head, as the cause of his mishaps was explained to the 

visitors by his waggish little wife, whose eyes were overflowing with 

fun. 

A breakfast was extemporised, to which the guests soon afterwards sat 

down, headed by Mr. Phiggs, who had cleansed himself, and applied a 

chalk plaster to his sore foot (which, by the way, is an excellent remedy 

for scalds or burns), and many were the jokes passed upon his morning's 

exploits by his fun-loving friends, at which none laughed more heartily 

than did the good-humoured host himself. 

After breakfast Mr. Phiggs put on his hat and went out in search of 

Samson and Sally, to offer the amende honorable, while Jane ran for 

Mrs. Scrubb, the charwoman, and set her to work to clear the kitchen. 

Samson was fishing on the wharf, and looking as sullen as a boy in a 

dunce's cap; but Mr. Phiggs's frank apology soon restored him to good 

humour, and he returned to the house laughing immoderately. Sally was 

sitting in her mother's parlour, crying, and vowing she would never enter 

old Phiggs's kitchen again, when her humbled master entered. His kind, 

coaxing words, and peace offering of a new shawl for a Christmas-box, 

very soon altered her views, and half-an-hour afterwards Sally was 

stuffing a goose at her damaged table, with her face all over broad grins, 

while old Mrs. Scrubb was clearing away the wreck like an able seaman. 

Mr. Phiggs's dogs, Pincher and Snap, had a dainty Christmas breakfast. 

They evidently appreciated the pillaued chicken, although it was half 

raw: they enjoyed the cream potatoes too, but declined to eat the sausage 

cakes, possibly because Samson had accidentally put a double quantity 

of cayenne into them. 

And Mr. Phiggs's guests had a dainty Christmas dinner, although it was 

an hour later than usual. Heartily they enjoyed their good cheer and each 

other's cheerful society. They were merry and wise, so of course they 

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. 

SOME time ago I was told an amusing story about a good old man, 

who, in his labours of love, occasionally shewed more zeal than 

discretion. I do not vouch for the authenticity of the incident, but as it 

may convey a useful moral to other over-zealous workers, I will quote it 

with a few fanciful variations. 

“There once lived a barber, I cannot tell where, but it was in some 

populous neighbourhood. He was a good, simple-minded man, and 

feeling in his heart that joy and peace which all true believers feel, he 

was desirous that his neighbours should share in the happiness he had 

found ‘without money and without price,’ and which is as free for the 

poor as for the greatest personages upon earth. To carry his good desires 

into operation, the barber resolved upon ‘speaking a word in season’ to 

every customer who patronised his ‘easy shaving shop’ — a 

praiseworthy resolution certainly — but one requiring much judgment in 

its execution. One day a crabbed looking old gentleman walked into the 

shop, and after taking off his hat, coat, and cravat, seated himself in a 

chair, and gruffly intimated that he wanted to be shaved. The barber 

bowed politely as usual, placed a napkin under his customer's chin, and 

began to ply the lather brush about his face in true tonsoric style. 

Meanwhile, the good barber was mentally debating on the most effective 

mode of putting the all-important questions to his customer, as to the 

state of his mind, and whether he had a good hope of heaven. But his 

visage was so grim, and his demeanour so uninviting, that the barber's 

courage almost failed him; so, to sharpen it up, he began to strop his 

razor, and while doing so, a thought suddenly suggested itself to his 

mind, that he had better not risk offending a strange customer by 

abruptly putting questions to him upon so solemn and delicate a subject. 

‘Ah, that's the devil, but I'll settle him,’ muttered the barber to himself, 

though just loud enough for his lathered customer to overhear; and not 

knowing that the zealous shaver's soliloquy had reference to the 

supposed inward suggestion of Satan to neglect his duty, the old man 

began to sit uneasily, under the impression that the barber was going 

mad. Presently, as if he had sufficiently sharpened himself and his razor 

too, he stood before his palpitating customer, with the blade of the razor 

at right angles with its handle, and taking hold of his nose, in order to get 

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?’ 

“ ‘O good lack! murder! murder!’ roared the old gentleman, starting 

up, overturning his chair, and rushing out of the shop in the utmost 

consternation, closely followed by the poor bewildered barber, razor in 

hand, vainly endeavouring to explain that he was only anxious about the 

safety of his soul. 

“ ‘Murder! police! help!’ shrieked the half frantic old gentleman, as he 

ran down the street, minus his hat and coat, with the napkin about his 

neck, and his face bedaubed with soap. ‘Hoo-o! for gracious sake, catch 

him somebody; he is going to cut my throat.’ 

“ ‘I tell you I have no idea of cutting your throat, my good friend,’ 

gasped the barber, close behind his runaway customer; ‘I only wanted 

to — — ’ 

“ ‘Whoa!’ cried a brewer's drayman, putting one of his huge feet before 

the barber and tripping him up, then sitting upon him kept him down 

until several policemen arrived, took away his razor, and regardless of 

his loud attempts to explain his pious motives, hurried him away to the 

watch-house.” 

* * * * * 

As I premised, I am not, sure that the foregoing story is veritable, still, 

it exemplifies the indiscriminate zeal of many good-meaning Christians 

in the world, who sadly lack tact and judgment to direct their monitory 

efforts, who — like the barber — are apt to mistake the promptings of 

common sense for the suggestions of the evil one, and whose 

commendable desires to do good are often thwarted by the illtimed or 

bungling way in which they execute them. 

“Shall we try and speak a word in season to any one we see this 

morning?” asked a rather eccentric friend, who was riding with me one 

day towards some of the wharves in Sydney, to go on board of a ship. 

“Yes; certainly,” I replied. “That is an everyday duty; but we must be 

careful that our words are seasonable, or they may do harm instead of 

good.” 

Soon afterwards we ascended the side of a ship, and stood upon the 

deck. The mate was near the main hatchway, with his cargo book in his 

hand, superintending the bustling operation of taking in goods of various 

kinds. He stepped up and politely accosted us, when my zealous little 

friend held his hand, and looking into his face with a peculiar smile, 

kindly enquired after the condition of his soul. 

The mate looked rather confused, and being anxious to see the mark on 

a case which was then being lowered into the hold, he returned a hurried 

but civil answer, and began to make another entry in his cargo book, with 

something like a curl about his mouth, as if he had just eaten a green

gooseberry. 

“I don't think that was speaking a word in season,” I quietly remarked 

to my friend, as we seated ourselves on a skylight; “quite the contrary; I 

think it was decidedly out of season, and may have the effect of making 

that man think unfavourably of religion, or that those who profess it are 

troublesome bores. It was very unlikely that he would keep his crew 

standing idle, while he told you his religious experience before them; but 

had he been sitting quietly on the booms smoking his after-dinner pipe, 

your question might not have been inopportune, though even then, I 

think, it would have been more effective if put in a less direct form. You 

would be more likely to impress a sailor with a few good words 

judiciously infused into your cheerful conversation during an hour's walk 

with him on deck in the middle watch on a quiet night, than you would 

by preaching to him while he is putting the ship about, or hauling up the 

main-sail in a squall.” 

The same principle is applicable to landsmen as well as sailors. 

Suitable times must be selected for speaking good words, otherwise your 

good words may be worse than useless, for, like fruit, they are 

unpalatable, and sometimes positively unwholesome, when “out of 

season.” 

I do not think my reasoning convinced my eccentric — though very 

worthy — little friend, for he had much to say in favour of his system of 

“sowing beside all waters,” notwithstanding his palpable failure to 

impress the busy mate with a solemn sense of the important question he 

had just put to him, with the kindest of motives, though with illtimed 

precipitancy. 

I could give numberless instances, if necessary, of similar lack of 

judgment, exhibited by well-intentioned persons, which have come under 

my notice. I have often heard, too, the motives of such persons unjustly 

impugned, and themselves ridiculed or abused, simply because they 

failed to make themselves understood by those whom they were kindly 

endeavouring to benefit. While I have of course deprecated such 

ingratitude, I have not been surprised at it, and could not but lament that 

the subjects of it had not, in addition to their other studies, studied human 

nature a little more. 

Few readers will be likely to mistake the meaning of my remarks. It is 

far, indeed, from my wish to discourage any humble-minded person from 

endeavouring to comfort or edify his needy fellow creatures around him; 

on the contrary, I would encourage him in every way in my power. I 

simply wish to urge the policy of studying to do good in the most 

effectual way, and prevent good from being spoken evil of.

Will He Kick? 

“WILL he kick?” nervously enquired Mr. Bradbury Spriggs, a spruce 

little city friend, who was on a visit to my house, as he prepared to mount 

my favourite hack. 

“Oh dear, no,” I replied, “he's quiet as an old cow.” 

“He'll bear the spurs, then, I suppose.” 

“Why, yes,” I replied, honestly, “he is livelier for a slight touch of the 

spur now and then. I always let him know that I have them on, though it 

is very seldom I use them, for I think it is cruelty and ingratitude, 

drumming a poor beast's ribs with spurred heels, while he is trudging 

along under me.” 

“He doesn't shy, does he?” asked Mr. Spriggs again, as he gathered up 

his reins, and stuck his legs out straight, to show the fashionable cut of 

his pantaloons. 

“Not he,” I replied, somewhat impatiently; “he wouldn't shy if he met a 

gang of gorillas carrying a turnpike-gate.” 

“All right; good-bye,” said Mr. Spriggs. Away he bounded at a brisk 

canter; and soon I could catch occasional glimpses of his figure, between 

the distant trees in the bush, riding like Tam O'Shanter. 

In a few hours he returned, looking fatigued, while the perspiration was 

dropping off my steed, and his bleeding sides showed painful evidences 

that his rider had given him considerably more than a slight touch of the 

spur now and then. 

“He's a spendid animal,” remarked Bradbury, with the knowing look of 

a connoisseur in horse-flesh, as he slowly dismounted. “I never rode a 

beast I liked better. Such paces! and withal so free and gentle; I found, 

however, that he required the spur occasionally.” 

“Humph!” I quietly ejaculated, as I led my panting favourite towards 

the stable — “rather an equivocal appreciation of your merits, my poor 

old Jack; but I'll sell you to a knacker before I let that hide-rasper mount 

you again.” 

* * * * * 

It was not a rare occurrence for city friends to pay visits to my house in 

those halcyon times. Residing in a pleasant and accessible part of the 

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 

to gratify them, though frequently to my own inconvenience and 

vexation. I had a strong objection to lend the horse I usually rode 

myself — for having drilled him into paces which best suited my comfort 

in travelling, I had a dread lest casual riders should drill him out of those 

paces again. Whenever I could hire a nag for a visitor, I did so; but as 

that could not always be done, I sometimes found myself compelled by 

courtesy to lend my own hack. 

About two years after the foregoing incident Mr. Bradbury Spriggs 

paid me another visit for a day or two: and one of his early enquiries was 

for “the splendid animal which had carried him twenty-five miles in two 

hours.” 

“Ah! I've sold poor Jack,” I replied, with a slight sigh: “he is now 

drawing a hawker's cart; an ignoble occupation for such a handsome 

beast as he once was. I lent him one day to a friend, who unfortunately 

threw him down and broke his knees. But I have another Jack, in the 

paddock, a finer horse than the last one, at least he suits me better, if he 

is not such a general favourite with my friends.” 

“Ah! I should like to see him,” replied Mr. Spriggs, while his face 

brightened up, like a boy's who is just going to have the first spin at his 

new humming-top. “Could you let me have a trot on him for an hour or 

so; I haven't had a ride since the last time I was here.” 

“Hum! I'll see,” I slowly replied, as I tried to see if I could find some 

honourable excuse for declining to let him have a trot, having an 

annoying recollection of his two hours' gallop on the former occasion. 

“Yes — you can have him for an hour, Mr. Spriggs,” I at length 

replied, “but I hope you will not ride very fast, for I have to take a long 

journey to-morrow, and I want Jack to be pretty fresh.” 

“Oh, certainly not, I'll not ride him hard; I'll take care of him, you may 

depend on it,” replied my excited friend; and away he went to his 

dressing-room, to prepare himself for the jaunt, while I gave orders for 

the horse to be saddled and brought to the door. 

In a few minutes out came my city friend, armed with a hammerheaded 

whip, and glittering spurs at his heels, and looking as bold as a 

bushranger. He was preparing to mount when I quietly asked, “Will you 

ride with spurs, Mr. Spriggs?” 

“Ye-e-s,” he replied, with some hesitation, and an earnest glance into 

my face. “Why, sir, will your horse not bear them?” 

“He does not like them,” I replied, which was true enough; indeed, it 

would be hard to persuade me there is a horse on earth that does like 

them. 

“Oh, well, perhaps I had better take them off. I am glad you told me!” 

and forthwith he began to unbuckle his spur leathers. 

“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 

two in surprise. This was observed by my friend, who timidly 

enquired — 

“Does he bolt?” 

“I never saw him positively bolt,” I replied carelessly. “Who-o-o-o, 

Jack, stand away from his heels there!” I shouted to my grinning groom. 

“Will he kick!” asked Mr. Spriggs with a very nervous look, as he took 

a wide circuit to hand his discarded spurs to the man. 

“Well, I have seen him lift his legs,” I replied, “but I don't think — — ” 

“Ah, that's a very dangerous habit; perhaps I had better not ride him today,” 

said Bradbury, who had evidently made up his mind on the subject. 

“Oh, by all means ride him,” I replied, “but ride carefully, keep a 

tolerably tight rein on him, and do not give him too much of that whip, 

I'll warrant he'll not run away with you — who-o-o, Jack, who-o-o!” 

“Well, I don't care much about riding to-day,” said Mr. Spriggs; “a 

— a — the fact is, I am not a very a very good rider, and this is a strange 

animal, if it were the other horse I'd — no thankee, I won't ride to-day. 

I'll just take a walk into the bush, it looks beautiful. I shall enjoy that 

quite as much as a ride, much obliged to you.” 

* * * * * 

The horse was turned into the paddock again, and as he kicked up his 

heels with delight, at being freed from the prospect of a tiresome duty, I 

could see that my timid little friend mentally congratulated himself upon 

his prudent determination, in the full conviction that he had narrowly 

escaped breaking some of his bones by riding such a vicious brute; 

whereas poor Jack was one of the steadiest old roadsters in the colony. 

* * * * * 

I have occasionally seen a pompous official metamphorically spurring 

a patient subordinate; and have been at once reminded of the cowardly 

little griffin, who mercilessly overrode my faithful old hack, because he 

knew Jack would not kick.

A Matrimonial Juggler; 

OR, MR. TEDDINGTON TROUT AND MISS CHARITY GLIMM. 

“WELL that has a bonâ fide look certainly,” simpered Miss Charity 

Glimm to herself, as she pored with exulting eyes over an advertisement 

in the Herald. “There is an air of candour, and a gentlemanly style about 

it, that struck me at first sight as being genuine. I would not for the world 

reply to a thing of the sort, if I had the least idea that it was a hoax, 

invented by a party of idiots, as is often the case, merely for the sake of 

laughing at creatures almost as foolish as themselves. No, I really believe 

that this is no meaningless joke, but the pure breathings of a refined, 

manly soul, which is longing for sympathy and comfort, which it cannot 

find in an ordinary way.” As Miss Glimm thus soliloquised, she took up 

the paper again and deliberately read aloud the following stimulating 

composition: — 

“MATRIMONY. 

“The advertiser, who is turned forty-one years of age, of pleasing 

personal appearance, and easy means, is desirous of forming a 

matrimonial engagement with a lady of suitable age. Money is not an 

object, and will by no means counterpoise a lack of the main desiderata, 

viz., agreeable person, amiable disposition, and domestic acquirements. 

The most honorable secresy may be relied on. Address, in full 

confidence, B. O. H., Post Office, Sydney.” 

The honest reality of the foregoing so impressed Miss Charity, that her 

appetite for mutton chops became quite inert; so she sipped a cup of tea, 

then opened her writing desk, and after two hours' perplexing study she 

had produced the following note, in time for the eleven o'clock iron 

receiver: — 

“To B. O. H., Post Office, Sydney. 

“SIR, — The apparent candour and gentlemanly honesty which 

pervades every line of your advertisement in this day's Herald, induces 

me to reply to it with the feminine candour which it deserves. In full 

confidence that I am not mistaken, I send you herewith my carte de 

visite, which was taken on the first of May last. I was then thirty-seven 

years of age, and a spinster; which I am still. I was brought up under the 

eye of a virtuous aunt, whose only aim in life was to see me grow up 

thoroughly domesticated. At her death she left me ninety pounds a year 

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 

remark that I believe you would find in me all those qualities which you 

so feelingly express your desire to gain in a wife. If you think this worthy 

of a reply, please address, in the first place, to Floy, Post Office, 

Paddington. 

“P.S. — I had almost forgotten to mention that the spot on the left side 

of the nose, in my carte, is the accidental mark of a fly, and the slight 

squint in the right eye is entirely owing to the artist forcing me to look 

animated.” 

Next morning the postman's sharp rat-tat at the door made Charity's 

heart bound like a football. In another minute she was gazing with 

throbbing admiration at a carte de visite which was enclosed in a scented 

note, written with rather a tremulous hand, as follows: — 

“MY DEAR MADAM, — MY pen cannot express the happiness I felt 

on receipt of your truth-breathing epistle this morning, accompanied by 

your likeness. As I have carefully studied Lavater, you will perhaps 

allow me to say, without suspecting me of flattery, that yours is a face 

which indexes a mind — such a mind as I am sure could appreciate the 

warm overflow of my soul. I will not stay to write more, for I am 

impatient for an interview, if your kindness will extend itself so far as to 

grant it. I enclose my carte, and beg to subscribe my real name, as your 

devoted admirer, 

“TEDDINGTON TROUT.” 

Half an hour afterwards, Charity had posted another note, intimating 

that she should be happy to see Mr. Trout at his earliest convenience, and 

then she sat down in her easy chair to study his picture. Whether she took 

a short nap or not is uncertain; at any rate, she was still sitting in the 

chair, fondly gazing at the carte, when a rat-tat-tat at the door suddenly 

brought her down from the top story of a lofty aerial castle, and before 

she had time to go to her dressing-room to adjust herself, that stupid girl 

Biddy had shown the gentleman into the parlour. Charity blushed, of 

course, and nervously apologised for her deshabille; but Mr. Trout put 

her at her ease in an instant, and with a sweet smile, which displayed a 

perfect set of teeth, he assured her that he was delighted to find her in 

unstudied attire, and further, “that it was the charming naïveté manifested 

in her portrait, and in her note too, which had given spurs to his desire to 

see her, and had induced him to trespass upon her at that unfashionable 

hour of the day.” 

At her request he took a seat, then took off a tightly-fitting glove, and 

passed his hand gently over his hair, which was curly and glossy, and as 

black as a raven's tail; with most fascinating whiskers and beard to 

match, but no moustache, as she was happy to remark. He was rather a 

genteel figure, though very thin, with a peculiar stoop, which, however, 

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 

eccentricity, but it could by no means be taken as an indication of 

weakness, for the unusually bright colour in the parts of his face that 

were bare, clearly showed the ruddy glow of health. That his legs were 

curved could not be denied, but that was a trifling defect, which she 

thought even his handsome beard alone would overbalance. His being 

“all of a shake,” indicated a highly sensitive organisation and a becoming 

modesty; indeed, she concluded that the man who would not shake a 

little under such circumstances must possess an ossified heart, wholly 

unimpressible by domestic perfection. Omitting the details of their long 

interview (during which a mutual confidence had been exhibited, and a 

satisfactory outline of each other's history had been given), I briefly 

record, that before the clock struck two their engagement had been 

ratified by a true lover's kiss; after which — to the surprise of Biddy 

— the happy pair sat down to a homely dinner. 

I must hurry past the succeeding ten days of active courtship, merely 

noticing that their admiration for each other hourly increased, and as all 

needless delay was held to be sheer cruelty, and having neither parents 

nor guardians to consult, they mutually agreed to be married on New 

Year's Day. In order to save the unnecessary “fuss of inviting a lot of 

quizzical friends to their wedding,” they decided to go to Newcastle, 

there to get married in a quiet way, then go to Singleton by rail, to revel 

in honey moon-shine. 

Next Monday morning they joined the seven o'clock steamer, taking as 

little luggage with them as possible, to save trouble. The weather was 

fine and clear, though a strong N.E. breeze made the vessel pitch and toss 

very uncomfortably for a squeamish man. But Charity — who was never 

sick — said she enjoyed it amazingly. She playfully remarked, “that her 

dear Teddy had entirely lost his colour,” and advised him to go below 

and lie down, but he manfully protested against leaving her on deck 

alone; so he got some cushions from the cabin, and made her a 

comfortable couch on the skylight, then tucked her feet in his railway 

wrapper and put his travelling shawl tenderly over her hat, to keep the 

spray from spoiling the blue feather. After handing her a copy of the 

Sydney Mail to amuse and edify her, he walked about in the fore part of 

the ship in order to cure his squeamishness. 

There were few fore cabin passengers on board that morning, and those 

few were below, for the spray made the deck very moist forward. Mr. 

Trout was glad there were no unsympathising eyes to gaze at him, for he 

felt woefully sick, and wished to ruminate over the side of the ship, and 

watch the bubbles gaily dancing by. Quietly stepping down to the cabin, 

unseen by Charity, he got an old tweed coat and vest from his bag, and 

returned to the fore deck. He then put on a sailor's tarpaulin jacket (which 

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 

began to make the most varied facial contortions and guttural gwarcks 

that ever aroused expectation in a hungry fish; and if he were not very 

bad indeed, his noises and his wry looks terribly belied him. The spray 

had long before washed away all his rouge, and his bile-tinted face 

looked like a suet pudding made for paupers. His change of dress, too, 

had strangely altered his figure, for there was no padding in his old tweed 

coat, and the crook in his back was as apparent as the curve in a 

monkey's tail. Loudly he lamented that he had not gone to Richmond by 

rail, instead of travelling by steamer on such a windy morning. Severe 

were his denunciations of steamers in general, and of that one in 

particular. Horribly profane were the curses he invoked on his own weak 

stomach, on his eyes and limbs, and on his soul too. Presently, as if in 

direct answer to his invocations, and to convince him how easily his 

blasphemous breath could be stopped for ever, he was seized with an 

unusually fierce internal qualm, during which, a tiny morsel of 

regurgitating breakfast slipped into his windpipe, and provoked a 

convulsive wheeze. In an instant, to his intense horror, out flew all his 

teeth, which were bran new only three weeks ago, and more horrifying 

still, in his frantic efforts to clutch them he jerked off his cap, and with it 

his span new wig and whiskers. Away they went, all of a heap, “into the 

tumbling billows of the main.” 

For an instant he stood aghast and paralyzed; his sunken chops 

quivering with emotion, and his dirty, bald head covered with beads of 

cold perspiration, like a gigantic toadstool in a thunder shower. “Ghost of 

Buonaparte! I'm ruined! I'm ruined! What shall I do now?” he gasped in 

tones of wild despair. (The escaped steam from the safety valve at that 

moment went Who-o-o! as though in mockery of his misery.) He had left 

his old wig and fixings and his other teeth at his lodgings; so what could 

he do, so remote from barbers and dentists? And it was not possible to 

quietly scalp a sailor, for there was not one to be seen in the fore part of 

the ship. How could he explain his dilemma to Charity? And whatever 

would she say to his wrinkles, and to the palpable fact that he was sixtytwo, 

instead of forty-one years of age? These were thoughts which 

rushed into his mind with distracting force. In the midst of his dismay, 

however, was a gloomy joy that no eye had witnessed his disaster. So he 

resolved to get his shawl to cover his head, then to call Charity into the 

cabin, there to explain his misfortune, and appeal to her tender 

sympathies. Accordingly he ran aft (without taking off his tarpaulin 

jacket), and rushing up to his darling, he mumbled out with awful 

incoherency, “Gip me my shawl; I'm pery bad.” 

“Ugh! mercy pon us! get away, you nasty old creature! Wha-a?” 

shrieked Charity, in terror, and in utter ignorance who the crooked old 

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 

she loudly called for Teddington to come to her aid. 

“Hallo, daddy, what are you doing aft?” asked the chief mate, running 

up to the rescue of Charity, and collaring the stranger, who was making 

stuttering efforts to convince her that he was her intended husband. 

“Do you know this old chap, ma'am?” asked the mate. 

“Goodness me, no! certainly not. I never saw him in my life before. O! 

for pity's sake drag him away, Mr. Mate,” said Charity, looking round for 

her lover to protect her, and calling for the stewardess to help her below, 

out of sight of the hideous old lunatic. 

“The old bloke is cranky, there is no mistake about that,” said the mate. 

“Lay aft here, the watch. Catch hold of him, some of you, and shove him 

into the paint locker, and block up the door. Don't hurt him, lads, don't 

hurt him, poor old fellow. He is a runaway from Tarban, I suppose, but I 

didn't see him come on board.” 

In another minute Trout was seized, neck and legs, by half-a-dozen 

sailors, and, despite his violent kicking and cursing, they carried him 

forward, and put him into a little closet on the fore-sponson, where they 

left him loudly protesting against their illegal proceedings. 

“O dear me! that horrid old man has given me such a fright,” said 

Charity, rubbing her forehead with rose water. “Stewardess, do go on 

deck, if you please, and ask Mr. Trout to come down. You will see him 

in the fore part of the ship — a gentleman with black beard and whiskers, 

and a military cap on.” 

Away went the stewardess, and in ten minutes she returned with the 

startling news “that no such gentleman was on board.” An awful scene of 

excitement ensued. A search was made through the ship, from the hawse 

holes to the rudder trunk, but no Trout was to be found; and the terrible 

conviction forced itself upon every mind that the mysterious madman 

had thrown the unfortunate gentleman overboard, which idea was 

confirmed by a brief examination of the murderer, who persisted in 

mumbling that he was the identical Mr. Trout himself. Double irons were 

procured, and he was securely bound, and barricaded in the paint locker. 

A flag was hoisted half-mast, and general sympathy was manifested for 

the disconsolate lady who — as the mate remarked — had so tragically 

been made a widow the day before she was a wife. 

When the steamer arrived at Newcastle, Charity was too much griefstricken 

to go on shore; so it was arranged that she should stay on board, 

and return to Sydney next trip, in order to give evidence against the 

murderer of her lamented lover. The captain generously gave up his 

cabin to the mourner, and the stewardess volunteered to extemporise 

some mourning gear, taking care, of course, to keep the blue feather and 

all such unseasonable trifles out of sight, in the hope that they would go 

out of mind too.

* * * * * 

Two days afterwards, Charity, covered in crape, entered the police 

office with her solicitor, amid the sympathy of the full bench and a 

crowded court. The prisoner in the dock looked more sanguinary than 

ever, and eyed Charity with maniacal tenderness, which made her dread 

that he would leap out of the dock and bite her. Ever and anon he 

mumbled that he was Mr. Trout, and had never been murdered, and that 

he was going to be married to Miss Glimm. Close confinement, in irons, 

amongst the paint pots and oil cans for two days and nights, and on low 

diet too, had sadly damaged his appearance. His bald head was bedaubed 

with a variety of colours, like a painter's palette, and his nose and 

which nearly met — were garnished with engine grease, from his having 

used an old wad of cotton waste, in lieu of a pocket handkerchief. It was 

not until the gaoler threatened to gag him that he was induced to keep 

silent, while Charity gave her evidence. 

After a lengthened examination — during which it was pretty generally 

believed that the prisoner would be hanged — the magistrate asked, 

“Have you had any previous acquaintance with the prisoner, Miss 

Glimm?” 

“O dear no, your Honour. I never saw him in my life before he attacked 

me on board the steamer, in the way I have described,” said Charity, with 

an affecting shudder. 

“On your oath, madam. Do you say you never saw the prisoner 

before?” asked the counsel for the defence. 

“Certainly I do, Sir,” said Charity, with a toss of contempt at the mere 

assumption that she could be guilty of telling a falsehood. The counsel 

then requested that the witness might retire, which she was politely 

ordered to do. He then drew from his blue bag a set of teeth, a black wig 

with whiskers and beard conjoined, and a black cartout, coat, and vest, 

and handed them to the prisoner, who forthwith arrayed himself in them 

with magical alacrity: and the improvement in his appearance caused a 

buzz of admiration throughout the court, which six constables shouting 

silence could not smother. He was then told to step out of the dock, and 

to stand near to the door of the ante-room, and Charity was re-admitted. 

The moment she saw him, she exclaimed, hysterically, “Good gracious! 

Is it possible? Yes, yes, it is my own dear, dear Teddington!” then flung 

herself into his arms and fainted away. She was carried from the court to 

be rubbed and rinsed into consciousness, and in twenty minutes she reentered 

looking much better. 

“Do you still assert that you never saw the prisoner at the bar before?” 

asked the counsel, pointing to Trout, who was again in the dock in all his 

paint-disfigured baldness. “Look at him carefully, Miss Glimm; don't

hurry with your reply.” 

Charity looked steadily at the prisoner for half a minute, then replied 

with the fervour of honest conviction, “I solemnly declare that I never 

saw him until he assaulted me; but I don't accuse him of murdering Mr. 

Trout, because he is in court somewhere, I'm happy to say.” 

“Oh, is he?” said the counsel, with a waggish smile. He then handed 

his blue bag into the dock to the prisoner, who again arrayed himself in 

his whiskers, wig, and teeth, amidst the loud laughter of the assembled 

crowd, which no one attempted to check; while Charity covered her face, 

and “fie'd for shame.” 

The prisoner was of course acquitted of the charge of murder; but 

failing to satisfy the Bench how he obtained an honest livelihood, he was 

committed to gaol for three months, as a rogue and a vagabond. Swifter 

than a scared sheep, Charity sped out of the court, then got into a cab and 

drove rapidly homeward, wringing her hands in vexation of spirit. Next 

week she left the colony, under the nom de guerre of Nancy Dunn. 

Where she is now I do not care to know, but I trust she is growing wiser; 

and I heartily hope that her humiliating experience may be a warning to 

her sex in general against the egregious folly of answering matrimonial 

advertisements, and thereby subjecting themselves to the terrible risk of 

being made miserable for life.

Bryan Grady and His Twin Brother Teddy. 

A PARTY of gentlemen (including Dr. McMerry) in travelling 

overland from New South Wales to Victoria, camped one Christmas eve 

in the bush: and as they sat around their camp fire, they each related an 

incident from their colonial experience. The following is the doctor's 

story: — 

“It is thirteen years this Christmas-tide since the events I am about to 

relate. I was surgeon of the ship Walrus, on my first voyage to 

Melbourne. Amongst the emigrants were Bryan Grady and his wife 

Bridget, his daughters Nora and Judy, two buxom, blue-eyed girls, and 

three ragged-headed gossoons, ‘with cheeks like thumping red potatoes,’ 

as the old song says. Pat, Mike, and Denis played more mischievous 

pranks on board than the boatswain's baboon, and the frequent whacks 

with the thin end of their father's shillelah were apparently as inoperative 

as gentle words to deaf bears. While watching the capers of those 

youngsters I have sometimes been strongly inclined to Monboddo's 

whimsical notion, ‘that men are monkeys with their tails rubbed off.’ 

Bryan Grady was an unsophisticated, honest-hearted Irishman, with a 

merry face, twinkling eyes, and an active tongue strongly tipped with the 

brogue. His wife was a quiet little woman, without the least pretensions 

to anything out of the common; in fact, the whole family were of the 

humblest class of Irish peasantry. They had long ‘struggled with hard 

times in the ould country,’ as Bryan remarked, ‘an shure enough, 

dochter, everything was dead against us, an it was nigh starvin we wor, 

though it was hard enough we toiled for the rags on our backs an the bit 

o' victuals we ate, which wasn't enough to kape us from bein cowld an 

hungry.’ 

“ ‘What are you going to do in Australia?’ I asked him one evening, as 

he was sitting on the windlass smoking his little black dudheen. 

“ ‘Troth an I can't tell yez that, sir,’ he replied, running his fingers 

through his grizzly locks. ‘I don't know what I'll do at all, but it's mighty 

little I frit meself about that same, cos we're not half-way there yit. I'm 

able an willin' to work, thank God, an the bhoys and girrls are rale good 

workers too, so it ull be hard enough iv we don't pick up a clane honest 

crust. Anyhow we can't be worse off nor we wor in the land beyont, 

unless we are stripped an starved out an out. Besides me brother Teddy is 

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, 

we can help ourselves and no thanks to nobody, as the rats sed whin they 

got into ould Mulligan's granary.’ 

“ ‘In what part of Australia does your brother reside?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Shure an I don't know where he is at all, sir; I whish I did know. 

Teddy ran away from home many years agone, when he was a gossoon 

not much bigger nor my bhoy Mike. He sint us a letther soon afterwards, 

to tell us that he wasn't drowned on the voyage to Sydney, and that he 

wos goin' up the counthry to some outlandish place wid a long whuzzy 

buzzy name that I cud niver spake widout coughin', and which I've clane 

forgot years agone. That's all I know about Teddy; but maybe I'll find 

him one of these days, an he'll be plaised enough to see me, I'll wager, 

for it's twins we were whin we were bhoys, and as much alike as two 

wild rabbits, only he'd got a dale more gumption nor meself, which was 

plain enough from his rinnin' away from poverty, while I stopped in it till 

it pritty nigh ate the heart clane out ov me. Och hone! an thire's a mighty 

lot ov poor hungry souls in ould Ireland, so there is, wus luck.’ 

“Soon after the Walrus's arrival in Melbourne I took steamer for 

Sydney, intending to stay there a month or two, in order to secure the 

best season of the year for returning home by way of Cape Horn. I went 

to stay with my old college friend, Grant, who was living in tolerably 

good style, in a pleasant part of Sydney. The day before Christmas I had 

been strolling about the city, looking at the numerous well-stocked 

provision shops, and the fruit market, and contrasting the sultry, dusty 

atmosphere with Christmas weather at the antipodes. I returned in the 

afternoon, weary, warm, and dusty to my friend's house, and stretching 

myself on a sofa in his sanctum, was watching the pertinacious attempts 

of a grey mosquito to tap my nose, when Grant walked in, with a letter in 

his hand. ‘I have been looking for you Mac. Here is an invitation for you 

to accompany me to a dinner party to-morrow, at my friend O'Grady's. I 

hope you are not otherwise engaged,’ he said, tossing the letter to me to 

read. 

“ ‘Your friend, O'Grady, is not a scholar,’ said I, smiling, as I returned 

the quaintly worded note of invitation, ‘However, he may be a clever 

fellow for all that, and I am sure he is a respectable man or you would 

not own his acquaintance. I will go with pleasure.’ 

“ ‘O'Grady is certainly not a scholar, as you remark,’ said Grant, ‘still 

he has a large share of good practical sense, with general information, 

and a vein of native humour which the most prosy savant in the land 

would appreciate; in short, he is a capital fellow, and you will enjoy his 

company — for I know you love thorough men, whatever their condition 

in life may be. His wife is a high-bred lady; perhaps a little too stately 

beside her uncultured spouse, but withal a kind-hearted woman. 

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. 

He went into the bush, and ten years afterwards he won the heart of a 

rich widow, with his handsome face and his blarneying ways; and now 

he owns several stations in the interior, and I don't know how many 

houses in Sydney besides. He is member for Midgyborough; and though 

he admits that it is mighty little he knows of political science, he has 

more influence in “the House” than many men of greater pretensions. In 

his own house he is one of the most hospitable, off-hand, humourous 

Irishman that I have ever met with; but you shall see him and judge for 

yourself.’ 

“Next day my friend Grant and I drove to Derrydown Hall, which was 

a stylish mansion, charmingly situated in the most fashionable suburb of 

Sydney. We were met at the door by our host, whose hearty, homely 

salute assured me that I was welcome, more than the most polished 

address would have done. I fancied I had seen him before, but could not 

remember where. His wife received me with stately etiquette, and 

presented me to her daughters, three tall, handsome girls, whose bearing 

more resembled that of mamma than papa. There were about a dozen 

guests in the drawing-room, and the hostess expressed to Grant her regret 

at the absence of others — who had been invited — through a sudden 

family bereavement. I need not minutely describe the house and its 

contents, suffice it to say that the mansion was commodious; it was 

furnished in elegant style, and its surroundings showed a rare 

combination of natural and artistic beauties. 

“The company were in that peculiar state of suspense which is often 

observable a few minutes before the hour for dinner, each one seeming 

undesirous of beginning a conversation, which might be abruptly 

terminated by the summons to adjourn to the dining-room, when 

suddenly the awkward silence was broken by noisy voices in the hall, 

accompanied with sounds of scuffling. I had a few minutes before 

observed a spring cart, full of men and women, pass the windows 

towards the front door of the house. 

“ ‘Och bad manners to yez! ye pickled pork-faced spalpeen! what do ye 

mane by kickin' me down the steps an' spillin’ me bist hat?” uttered an 

excited voice, which sounded familiarly in my ears. ‘Be the hoky iv ye 

lift yer hoof to me agin, I'll knock yer big head into brawn, so I will. Go 

an' tell yer masther I want him, an' bad cess to yez.’ 

“ ‘Be off I tell you! you can't see Mister O'Grady to-day,’ said the 

footman. 

“ ‘Be off is it! Wheugh! an who are you to tell me I can't see him, when 

I've come a hundred thousand miles amost on purpose. Och Mike, what 

next! I'll bet a penny ye'll see somethin' yerself pretty quick that you 

won't like above a bit; ye'll git the dhirty kick out by and bye, an' go 

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.’ 

“ ‘Get out you saucy ragamuffin?’ said the servant angrily, at the same 

time we heard a heavy thud outside, and the door was slammed to. It was 

evident that the intruder had been pushed out of the house, which seemed 

a clear indication that he was not welcome in it. 

“ ‘Hallo! hallo! what's all that whirly burly about, I'd like to know?’ 

exclaimed the host, walking from the farther end of the drawing-room as 

though intent upon going into the hall to investigate the cause of the 

uproar. At that instant a man, covered with dust, presented himself at one 

of the open French windows, holding a battered hat in his hands. 

“ ‘Be the livin' jingo! iv that isn't Teddy himself!’ shouted the man, 

dropping his hat and springing into the room. ‘Savin' yer prisense, ladies 

and jintlemen, and axin yer pardon for gettin' in at the windee like a thief, 

I've come to see me brother, an' here he is sure enough, God bless him. 

He's the ony son ov me mother, barrin' meself an' me sisther Meg. Troth, 

I'd know him in the middle ov a regiment ov sogers, iv they were all as 

nakid as skinned weasils — so I wud. Teddy, honey! an' don't ye know 

yer own darlint brother Bryan?’ he added, advancing nearer, with his 

eyes full of affectionate earnestness. 

“The host stood for a moment as if petrified with amazement, while his 

handsome face twitched with emotion. Then a happy smile began to play 

round his mouth, but almost simultaneously he burst into tears, and flung 

himself into the open arms of the dusty man, whom I at once recognised 

as my humble friend Bryan Grady; at the same time I observed his wife 

and five children grouped round the window, staring into the room, with 

faces expressive of wonder and delight at the moving scene. The 

surprised looks of the guests, and the very natural embarrassment of the 

hostess and her daughters, at the unexpected arrival of relatives with 

whom they were wholly unacquainted, would have made a rare picture. 

Releasing himself from the athletic hugs of his brother, Bryan blundered 

out an apology to the guests, then turning to the group at the window he 

exclaimed: — 

“ ‘Arrah, come inside here, ivery one ov yez, Nora and Judy darlints! 

kiss yer uncle tinderly. Bhoys take yer skull caps off an' wipe your noses. 

Bridget jewel! this is me brother Teddy, as ye've heard me mintion a 

million o' times. Long life to him, and God bless everybody else.’ 

“ ‘Wisha! wisha! an' is that Teddy himself now? Shure I'm right glad to 

see yez, honey!’ said Bridget, humbly approaching to take the proffered 

hand of the host. Then the girls, pushed onward by their father, timidly 

drew near to kiss their sobbing uncle, while the boys were making a 

series of bows to the whole company, in a style peculiar to peasant boys 

in general, and shuffling about on the velvet pile carpet like young bears 

on hot tiles. 

“ ‘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 

to his boy Denis, ‘rin and tell Barney not to go away wid the cart, we'll 

be wid him in a jiffy. We mustn't sthop here to bother all these ladies and 

gintlemen. Och philleloo, whack! good luck to this happy day! who'd ha' 

thought ov seein' all this fun at onst? Troth an' I'm feard it's ony draming 

I am afther all.’ 

“ ‘Stay boy,’ cried the host, as Dennis was bounding through the 

window, ‘ye shall all stay an' dine with me, every one ov ye. It isn't 

meself that would sind any mortal out ov me house hungry on a blissed 

Christmas Day, not a bit ov it. Ye're all honest and clean, I'll be bound, 

though ye're not rigged out in superior gear; an' anybody prisent who is 

ashamed ov me for doing what's right and fair to me own flesh and blood 

may go an' git his dinner somewhere else if he likes. That's all I've got to 

say, maning no offince nathir.’ 

“ In order to shorten my story, I pass over the comically expressed 

objections of Bryan and his wife to ‘dine with sich elegant company,’ the 

good-natured way the hostess seconded her husband's hearty invitation to 

his humble relatives, the cordial manner in which the guests received the 

strangers, and the thorough enjoyment of the whole amusing scene. Soon 

afterwards the whole family were seated at the lower end of the diningtable, 

in the places of the absent friends before alluded to, and dinner was 

served up in grand style. To relieve the embarrassment of the party to 

some extent, I arranged to sit at the lower end of the table too, and it was 

only by extraordinary effort that I preserved becoming gravity during 

that meal, as I witnessed the awkwardness of the boys, and the anxiety of 

their father ‘to make thim behave dacintly before their supariors.’ 

“ ‘Arrah, Mike! look out that ye don't poke that big fork in yer eye. 

Shure an’ ye niver ate yer dinner wid sich a tool as that afore,’ said 

Bryan, in a loud whisper; and in the same breath he added — ‘Pat, 

where's yer new pocket-hancher what I bought yer yestreen? ‘Be dacint, 

can't yez? Norah, jewel! it isn't manners to be houldin' that turkey's leg 

wid both hands; an' don't be shovin' yer elbow into Judy's mouth naythir. 

Dash that bhoy Denis! kick him, Bridget. Bad scran to him, look at him 

now, the greedy spalpeen! Och, I'm ashamed ov yez outright, so I am,’ 

he vociferated, with a severe look across the table at the culprit, who had 

taken a tureen of mint sauce — which was before him — and was 

supping it with the ladle, in utter ignorance that he was transgressing the 

rules of etiquette. 

“ ‘How did you discover your brother's whereabouts, Bryan?’ I asked, 

hoping to relieve his chagrin by engaging him in a little conversation. 

“ ‘It was mighty curious altogether, sir. I wint about Melbourne every 

day for a month or more, axing everybody I met wid iv they knowed 

Teddy Grady; but not a sowl culd tell me a haporth about him, an' I was 

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 

Sydney one mornin', an' axed the captain, who was a rale sinsible-lookin' 

man, an' ses he to me, “I know a jintleman in Sydney, named Edwin 

O'Grady, Esquire, M.L.A.” 

“ ‘ “Shure that isn't me brother Teddy, sir,” ses I, “for he isn't a squire, 

nor a Malay naythir; he's an Irishman every bit ov him, an' there isn't a 

single tint ov black blood in his carcass, I'll engage.” The captain 

laughed, an' ses he, “What sort ov a lookin' chap is this brother Teddy ov 

yours?” “Dear knows what he looks like now, sir,” ses I; “but he was a 

rale broth ov a bhoy thirty years agone; jist like meself, an' not a morsel 

or difference atween us, only he'd got more sinse in his head nor me.” “I 

know him well enough,” ses the captain; “he has often sailed wid me. 

Hasn't he got a scar jist over his nose?” “To be shure he has, sir,” says I, 

“an' well enough I ought to know it, too, for it was meself as made it for 

him. We was havin' a bit ov sport one day, in Larry Flynn's barrn, an' me 

sthick slipped an' hit Teddy a little bit too hard, wus luck, an' pretty nigh 

knocked his nose off altogether. That's him safe enough, sir,” ses I, “an' 

though he's got a little O nailed afore his name, an' a hape ov jinglin' 

titles afther it, like tin pots to a dog's tail, he's me own brother Teddy, an' 

all the whizzinags in the world won't alter it, soh. I'll go an' see him pritty 

quick,” ses I. So I shouldered me luggage an' took all them crathers wid 

me on board an empty collier brig, an' the captain gave us a passage 

chape bekase we found our own victuals an' slept on the stone ballast in 

the hold; an' here we are all on us safe and sound — thank God — an' 

there's me brother Teddy too beyant, lookin' as grand as the Lord Mayor 

ov Dublin — long life to him. Troth it's the merriest Christmas Day I've 

ever seed in my life, so it is; though that long flunkey there, in the yellow 

breeches, knocked me spinnin' down the steps, and made this big bump 

on top ov me head. But niver mind that, good luck to everybody, that's 

all I've got to say. Ugh! Pat, what a gorf ye must be to go an' choke 

yerself wid that red hot what-you-may-call-em?’ added Bryan, with a 

reproving glance at his son, who was sneezing and coughing 

immoderately, having eaten a large capsicum, supposing it to be an 

Australian plum. 

“After the cloth was removed, the host — who had been unusually 

thoughtful during dinner — rose, and in a rich musical voice spoke as 

follows: 

“ ‘My dear friends, I'm not a man to spake much, and dear knows, 

some ov the fellows who gabble a mighty dale had better be quiet, there 

may be fewer folks would know they were sich fools. I'm plaised to see 

ye all here to-day, and though there are more here than I invited, there's 

not one that isn't welcome. Frinds, whin I look beyant there (pointing to 

his brother's family), I feel like a fellow who has just been caught 

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 

thin, bekase they wasn't born; but as I was going to say, I've bin in this 

counthry living in luxury, rolling in riches, as the saying is, and not a 

blissed thought did I think about me poor frinds at home, till they all 

walked in at me windee this morning to ate their Christmas dinner wid 

me. Troth they might all have bin starved outright for all I knowed, or all 

I cared either, and I could aisily have sint them a good big Christmas-box 

ivery year, widout hurting meself the laste bit in life; but I didn't do it, 

more shame to me, and it's a wonder to me that God didn't take all me 

money away from me, for being so greedy. I'm worse nor a haythin, a 

mighty dale, bekase I knew what was me duty and I didn't do it. Shure 

many's the time I've read in me Bible, “Whoso hath this world's good and 

seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion 

from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?” Poor Bryan! you've bin 

in need bad enough, and I'm rale sorry I didn't help you; but I'll be a 

brother to ye from this out, honey, niver fear, and may God forgive my 

past neglect. You shall niver see hard times agin, Bryan, if I can help it, 

take my word for that.’ Here the host's voice faltered, and his eyes filled 

with tears, while all the company showed sympathy. 

“ ‘Aisy, darlint!’ said Bryan, rising as his brother was about to say 

more; ‘whisht a bit, Teddy, dear, an' let me spake a word or two.’ 

“Bryan's address would, doubtless, have been very pathetic, but 

unluckily at that moment a pet kangaroo bounded across the lawn 

towards the window. ‘Ow! ow! ow!’ yelled the boys in concert; ‘och, 

what a rum-lookin' donkey — look at his tail!’ shouted Dan, standing up 

and pointing to the animal, while his mothers and sisters opened their 

mouths wide in wonder and consternation. 

“ ‘Ye're a donkey yourself, and bad manners to yez!’ vociferated 

Bryan, at the same time giving Dan a cuff on the head for his breach of 

decorum. 

“A simultaneous burst of laughter from the whole company drowned 

Dan's howls, and the balance of Bryan's speech too. 

“But I must soon end my long story,” said the Doctor. “I cannot tell 

you all that took place at Derrydown Hall on that merry Christmas Day, 

unless I keep you here all night; but it was certainly one of the 

pleasantest days I have spent in the colony. 

“O'Grady faithfully kept his promise, and soon afterwards settled his 

humble relatives on a snug farm at Illawarra. In a few years the boys and 

girls formed comfortable homes for themselves; and Bryan has now a 

score or more of blooming Australian grand-children. He blesses the 

lucky day that he landed on these shores; and on every Christmas Day he 

stands up at the head of his well-filled board, and shouts ‘long life to his 

twin-brother Teddy,’ till all the children around him laugh like merry 

little elves, and his good wife's eyes overflow with love and gratitude.”

Joey Goosgog and Jasper Spindle's Trip to Bondi Bay in 

a Pony Chaise. 

MR. Joseph Goosgog and Mr. Jasper Spindles were a comical looking 

pair of Cockneys. They had voyaged from London to Sydney together a 

few years ago, and from those four months of constant intercourse, and 

the mutual participation of the dangers and disagreeables, inseparable 

from a long voyage, a close friendship had sprung up. Though in their 

externals they were the very antipodes of each other, their habits and 

tastes were strangely identical — their minds seemed to have been cast in 

the same mould, and were as much alike as two winter mornings. 

Mr. Goosgog, in his city shoes, stood exactly five feet three and threequarter 

inches, and was what is termed a podgy man, of fourteen stone or 

thereabouts; while Mr. Spindles, though three or four stone lighter than 

his friend, was a trifle over six feet one inch in his slippers, and was 

lathy, leathery, and angular, with his shoulders peeping into his ears, and 

his face as long as a gold-digger's boot. 

They were confirmed bachelors, and as shy of young ladies as they 

were of sharp dogs. They lodged in the same house, near Sydney, and 

boarded together, of course. They were engaged in trade in the city 

during the day-time, but they invariably spent their spare hours 

together, — in fact, they were almost as uniform in their movements as 

the Siamese twins, or a pair of coach wheels. They were plodding men of 

business, sharp as razors in their own particular department of soft 

goods, but outside that they were soft goods themselves. They knew the 

value of time, and seldom took a holiday out of the general course, but 

they invariably commemorated their birthdays by a little merry-making 

to themselves, and at those times especially they were “jolly good 

fellows” by their own unanimous verdict. 

One evening in January, that pair of odd fellows, and their landlady, 

Mrs. Cobbrer, might have been seen very carefully packing sundry 

edibles into a market-basket, together with knives and forks, plates, 

tumblers, and tablenapkins for two. The next day was Mr. Spindle's 

birthday, and the two friends had decided upon a trip together to Bondi 

Bay in a pony chaise, which Mrs. Cobbrer's cousin Phil. had agreed to 

lend them for a moderate consideration. 

“It will be a baking day,” said Mr. Goosgog, who sat pouring out the 

coffee at the breakfast-table on the following morning; “a fiery hot wind,

I think.” 

“Hot enough to cook a salamander,” replied Mr. Spindle, with his 

mouth full of cold mutton and chutney. “I shall wear my grasscloth suit, 

and my Chinese hat with a white turban. What time was the chaise to be 

ready, Goosgog?” 

“Nine o'clock — oh, here it is, I declare, punctual to a second. I like 

that,” said Mr. Goosgog, rising, and going to the window. “And it's a 

neat turn out too; just big enough to seat two, comfortably. The pony 

pricks his ears rather suspiciously though; I hope he won't run away with 

us. By the bye, can you drive, Jasper? I forgot to ask you that before.” 

“Ye-yes — certainly — I have driven on several occasions, that is to 

say, I have sat on the box with the driver, which is all the same, you 

know, for I was very observant. It's a simple operation, very; you have 

merely to pull the rein gently, whichever side you wish your horse to 

incline, and it's as easy as opening oysters when you get the knack of it. 

Oh, yes, I can drive delightfully.” 

“I am glad of that,” said Mr. Goosgog, “for I could not drive a lame 

donkey; and I am always rather nervous in vehicles, unless I am with an 

experienced driver. I think the sooner we start the better, Jasper; and we 

shall get down to the sea beach before the hottest time of the day. We 

had better take some towels, and our oilskin skull caps, and we can have 

a delicious bath in the surf, free from dread of sharks and stingerees; for 

those disagreeable fish don't like the surf, I have heard sailors say. Bring 

in the basket, Mrs. Cobbrer.” 

“Yes sir,” said Mrs. Cobbrer, hobbling in with the market basket, 

which was rather more than half a load for her. 

“Have you got the mutton chops from the butcher, Mrs. Cobbrer?” 

“Yes, sir, two pounds and a half; they are in the basket, with the cold 

sausages, and sardines, and the peach pie, and the bananas, and a 

pineapple, and a big sugar melon.” 

“And some nice potatoes, Mrs. Cobbrer?” 

“O yes, sir, I forgot — ten beautiful taters; I washed 'em all ready for 

cooking; and I put in a screw of pepper and salt too.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Cobbrer; you have managed very nicely. You may 

expect us home about seven o'clock this evening. Good morning, Mrs. 

Cobbrer.” 

Very soon afterwards the two friends got into the chaise, after lashing 

the basket behind it; and as the driving seat was, of course, a few inches 

higher than the other seat, Mr. Spindle considerately insisted upon his 

friend taking it, as he was decidedly the shortest man. 

“But I can't drive,” urged Mr. Goosgog, with slight trepidation, “I told 

you that before, Jasper.” 

“I don't want you to drive, my good sir,” replied Mr. Spindle, taking 

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, 

sir! Hi! what's his name, boy?” he asked of the grinning youth who had 

been holding the pony's head. 

“His name's Jerry, sir.” 

“Ah! O yes, thank you. Get along, Jerry,” said Mr. Spindle, giving the 

reins a jerk, and just stroking him with the whip-lash. 

“Hit him hard, sir,” said the youth aforesaid; “he's as knowing as an old 

magpie, that pony is. He won't care no more for your just tickling him 

with the whip-cord, than if a mosquito was kicking him, not a bit.” 

“He won't run away, boy, will he?” asked Mr. Goosgog, in rather an 

anxious tone. 

“Not he, sir,” said the boy, grinning as before; “he's a plaguey deal too 

lazy for that. He wouldn't run away if you'd got a hen-coop full of 

cockatoos in the chaise all in full scream, or a fire bell hanging to the 

axletree, ringing for the engines. Dash him! I often wish he would run 

away. Hit him very hard, sir, he won't hurt you.” 

“Ah! I'll make him go, I'll warrant, the lazy fellow,” said Mr. Spindle, 

giving him a savage slash with the whip, which Jerry seemed to 

understand from experience, for he whisked his tail — rather pettishly 

though — and started off at a smart trot, while the two friends smiled and 

looked as triumphant as if they had tamed a tiger. The boy grinned again, 

then went on his way home, whistling “Billy Button.” 

Away they jogged, behind Jerry, through the turnpikegate, along the 

red road to Paddington, without anything very remarkable occurring. 

They roused up a disagreeable dust, which their white jackets evidenced; 

but that is not remarkable on that road. The soldiers at the barrack gates, 

and the idlers at the roadside inns, stared and giggled at them as they 

trotted by; but it would have been remarkable if they had not done so, for 

Mr. Spindle was administering half minute strokes with his whip on the 

pony's hips and ribs as vigorously as if he were killing snakes, while Mr. 

Goosgog assisted to stimulate the sluggish brute to go forward, by giving 

him frequent downward digs, on a convenient part of his body, with the 

ferule end of an umbrella, and at the same time peremptorily 

commanding him to “come up.” Round spun the wheels, and soon the 

city of Sydney was more than three miles behind them, and the spirits of 

the two liberated tradesmen were as light as gossamer or blond tulle. 

“Ah! this scenery beats Richmond Hill all to ribbons; it is richer than 

our show-room, I declare!” exclaimed Mr. Spindle, with lackadaisical 

rapture, as he ceased working with the whip for a short time, and let the 

pony take his own pace when they had got to the top of Waverley 

heights, to allow time for enjoying the magnificent views of Port Jackson 

and Botany Bay, with the lovely landscape all around, where nature and 

art combine to make a picture which is unrivalled in this world of beauty. 

“Oh, dear, dear,” sighed Jasper, “this is a charming prospect; eh! Joey?”

“Beautiful, beautiful!” responded Mr. Goosgog, in a sentimental tone, 

at the same time gazing around, and gasping in the fresh air, like a 

snapper just taken off the hook. “I should like such an excursion as this 

once a fortnight, Jasper; my mind being freed from the shrivelling 

influence of the shop, would expand like a patent mackintosh life 

preserver. The pure, invigorating air, the balsamic fragrance from the 

bush flowers, the thrilling music of the locusts, and the intensely 

gratifying pros — — Good gracious, Jasper! whatever is the matter with 

that abominable pony? I'm afraid he's going mad; O dear, dear! look at 

him!” 

“Whoa — whoa — wa — quiet, sir — quiet, pony!” shouted Mr. 

Spindle, turning as white as his grasscloth waistcoat. 

“Whatever ails the disagreeable beast, I should like to know? I never 

saw such an extraordinary horse in my life before. Oh! ah! I see now 

what's the matter with him; the right rein is under his tail; that's what 

makes him kick so dreadfully. Don't be frightened, Joey; I'll soon pull it 

clear. Coil your legs up on the seat. Whoa, Jerry! whoa, my boy! poor 

old fellow! whoa, then — whoa!” 

But Jerry seemed determined not to whoa, for the harder Mr. Spindle 

tugged at the rein, in his violent efforts to disengage it from Jerry's 

tightly tucked-in-tail, the more he kicked and jibbed; knocking the 

dashboard to tatters, and putting the poor travellers behind it into intense 

bodily fear, and bodily danger too. 

“Lift up his tail, Joey, while I pull the rein,” cried Spindles, in an 

imploring tone; at the same time he doubled his long legs under him, on 

the seat, like a tailor or a Turk, to keep out of the reach of Jerry's active 

hoofs. “Make haste, Joey, lift up his tail.” 

“Oh, Goblins! I won't lift his tail; he'll kick my nose off, or do me some 

other horrible damage,” groaned poor Goosgog; “I'd sooner lift a hot 

poker. I never handled a tail in my life, Jasper; you lift it; you are 

stronger than I, and you have had experience with horses.” 

“What's to be done? What's to be done?” gasped Spindles, not noticing 

what his terrified friend had just advised him to do, and evidently 

resolved not to risk his brains by touching Jerry's tail. “What shall we do 

to stop him? he's running backward, the contrary creature. Here, hold the 

reins, Joey, while I jump out over the back, and run to the hotel yonder 

for a hostler.” 

“No, no, no!” vociferated Joey; “you shan't jump out, Jasper; he'll run 

away with me while you are gone, and break my neck. I won't have 

anything to do with the reins. I know no more about driving than my old 

Aunt Becky.” 

“No more do I; no more do I; and I fancied I did,” howled Spindles, 

now nearly frantic. “Oh, Dimity, we shall be smashed up like old bonnetboxes 

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! 

whoa! whoa, I say; confound the animal! he doesn't mind a bit what I say 

to him. Just hoist up his tail with the hooky end of your unbrella, Joey; 

he can't kick you if you're careful. Try, Joey, pray do, there's a good 

fellow.” 

“Ods bodkins! I'm afraid I can't do it; his tail fits so close; but I'll try,” 

whined Joey, trembling with terror, as he wriggled his umbrella through 

a rent in the dashboard, and, by a powerful lunge, succeeded in forcing 

the hooked handle under Jerry's tail, which had the immediate effect of 

making him dreadfully indignant, and to kick and plunge twice as hard as 

before, threatening the entire demolition of everything within reach of 

his iron heels. 

“O lawk a mercy! that won't do, Joey — that won't do! pull your 

umbrella away again; pull it away, quick, quick!” 

“I can't, I can't! He won't let it go; it's under his tail as tight as if it grew 

there. Hoo lud! now it's gone altogether,” roared Goosgog, with despair 

stamped on his turnip-coloured countenance. In his nervous efforts to 

release the umbrella he had let it slip from his grasp; when falling down 

behind Jerry's legs, and opening out wide, it so thoroughly roused and 

scared him that he started off at a run-away pace, for the first time in his 

life. 

“Stop him! Stop him! Boo-o-o!” bellowed the terrified friends. But as 

there was no person within hearing to stop him if it had been practicable, 

they thought they had better try to do it themselves; so they seized the 

left rein, and pulled together like sailors at the main-tack, till Jerry's head 

was exactly square with his tail; the natural result of which was that the 

chaise inclined to the left side of the road. Presently it came in contact 

with a thick bush, and the next instant it was lying on its side, with one 

wheel spinning round horizontally, and the pony lying on his side too, 

while Goosgog and Spindles were sprawling in the dust, like gigantic 

frogs, rather out of their element, surrounded by knives and forks, cold 

sausages, raw potatoes, and the whole contents of the market-basket. 

Their Chinese hats were rolling briskly down the hill before a fair wind, 

and the sugar melon was rolling down the hill too, closely followed by 

the basket itself. 

“Oh, dear me!” gasped Jasper, who was the first on his legs, and 

looked as if he had been peppered all over with Scotch snuff. “How are 

you, Joey? Are you hurt, my friend?” 

“I'm afraid I am,” replied Goosgog, in a dismal tone, “I fear so, but I'm 

not quite sure. What shall we do now, Jasper? I'm a good mind to kill 

that pony now he's down, for he certainly tried to kill us, confound him! 

What shall we do now? that's the first consideration.” 

Jasper would have been totally unable to tell his friend what to do 

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 

speedily put the pony and chaise upright. Jerry had lain quite still; no 

doubt being glad of the temporary rest, and there was nothing broken by 

the upset; so in less than an hour they were once more on the road to 

Bondi; with their basket lashed up behind, as before. But Mr. Spindles 

was particularly careful to keep clear of Jerry's tail, and to that end, he 

took the driving seat, and held the reins up about level with the top of his 

hat; using both hands; while Mr. Goosgog exerted himself with the whip. 

In due course they arrived at Bondi Beach without further mishap. 

They drove the chaise into a shady nook; then took the pony out, 

unharnessed him, and tethered him by the reins to a green bush, off 

which he was expected to dine: for Mr. Spindles assured Mr. Goosgog, 

that he had been informed — upon no less an authority than a 

that horses in the interior are very glad to eat bushes sometimes; but it 

did not occur to Mr. Spindles that horses generally ate bushes upon the 

same principle that hungry men have sometimes been glad to eat their 

boots — when they could get nothing better to eat. Jerry might have been 

more satisfied with his scrubby dinner, if he had had a draught of water 

first; but his drivers forgot that, in their haste to get into the water 

themselves. 

I do not mean to imply that those gentlemen would have grudged Jerry 

a shilling's worth of corn and hay had they thought of it while they were 

packing up their own provisions, for they were not niggardly men, far 

from it. But with obliviousness which is peculiar to that class of 

horsemasters, they thought no more about baiting their nag than they did 

about greasing the wheels of the chaise. A feed of corn and a bucket of 

water would probably have induced Jerry to stand quietly, and would 

thus have saved his drivers much subsequent suffering. Careless 

horsemen had better take warning from the mishaps of these two unlucky 

excursionists. 

The market basket was carried down to a convenient place, under an 

over-hanging part of the cliff, close to which was a deliciously-cool 

streamlet of fresh water trickling down the rocks above into a little 

natural basin, for which many thirsty boys have been grateful. 

Bondi Bay is one of the many romantic spots around Sydney which 

often allures and delights the holiday-loving citizens. But I cannot now 

attempt a description of its beauties. 

Jasper and Joey were enraptured with the place; and were overjoyed, 

too, at being mutually assured, after a careful inspection, that they were 

free from all personal marks of their late mishap. With that important 

matter decided so cheeringly, of which before they were both in some 

anxiety, they walked together on to the beach, pleasantly conversing as 

they went; they stepped into the sea together, and, in another minute 

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. 

“Halloa, Joey! look at that confounded pony,” said Jasper, about ten 

minutes afterwards. “What's the matter with him now, in the name of 

wonder? I do believe he's trying to break loose. He's a perfect torment, 

that animal; and I would rather have walked here, and carried the basket, 

than have been bothered with him, if I had known his vicious disposition 

before, I believe he is a thoroughly bad horse, Joey, and that's the reason 

we got him so cheap. I must run and fasten him up with double reins; and 

I'd tie his legs, too, if I thought he wouldn't kick me.” 

Now whether Jerry had never before seen a tall bony man without his 

garments, and was, naturally enough scared at the spectacle; or whether 

the desire had entered his head to bother his inexperienced drivers as 

much as he possibly could for the day; or whether, which is the most 

likely, he wanted something to eat and drink, and he saw nothing to 

prevent his getting it, but the clumsily fastened tether, I, of course, am 

not certain; but he no sooner saw Mr. Spindles striding towards him, like 

a “native companion,” than he gave a smart tug, and broke his tether, 

then leisurely jogged off into the bush. 

“Hoy! Joey!” shouted Spindles; “here's another nuisance, Jerry's got 

loose. Come and help me catch him. Make haste, there's a good fellow. 

Bring the boots with you, for the ground here is covered with prickly 

things, like pins and needles.” 

Goosgog emerged from the sea, like some rare amphibious animal, and 

was soon waddling towards his friend, as fast as his short legs would 

allow him to travel; with two pairs of Wellington boots in one hand, and 

a long rough stick in the other, which he thought might be useful to assist 

him in catching the pony. 

After putting on their boots, which was not a very easy operation with 

wet and naked feet (as most people know who were Wellingtons), they 

ran after the fugitive beast, and a most uncomfortable run it was, for the 

bushes are rather thick about Bondi, and some of them stimulate, very 

much like furze or gooseberry bushes, which the wincing pursuers soon 

discovered, and they were reminded every minute that they had omitted 

to put on their garments as well as their boots. However, they were 

sanguine of soon catching Jerry, for Spindle had several times stridden 

within seven yards of him; but, after many experiments, he found that he 

never could get half a yard closer than that, which was again rather 

discouraging when weighing the chances of catching him. After spending 

more than an hour in that doubtful chase, Mr. Goosgog, who had 

followed up, with his long stick, as fast as he could trot, and who was 

grunting like a hunted hippopotamus, and perspiring, too, like a 

gentleman lying on a wooden griddle in the Turkish bath, now declared, 

with tears in his eyes, he would rather be flogged with a birch broom, 

than run any further through those horrible bushes in his present

vulnerable condition. So it was hastily decided that Jasper should run 

back to the beach for their clothing, while Joey kept watch over the pony, 

who had just discovered a small spot of green grass, and was quietly 

grazing, about one hundred yards distant. 

Mr. Goosgog accordingly sat himself down under a tea tree, and busied 

himself in the three-fold occupations of picking some of the thorns out of 

his irritated skin, brushing away the mosquitos, and watching Jerry; 

while Mr. Spindle endeavoured to make his way back to the beach at a 

quick march. 

Now Mr. Spindle, in his exciting chase after the pony, had omitted to 

take notes by the way, so being a bad bushman, and unskilled in tracking, 

and withal having to dodge away from the most formidable of the 

bushes, he wandered about in a circle, or rather in a series of zigzags, for 

an hour and a half, and at last, when almost ready to lie down in despair, 

he unexpectedly returned to the spot, where Mr. Goosgog sat under the 

tree, fast asleep, with myriads of grey mosquitos covering him, like 

young feathers. 

“Halloa,” roared Jasper, scratching his head, and gazing at his friend 

with a woe-stricken visage, which might have forced a sigh from a 

Cossack. “Halloa, Joey! why here I am again. Bless my soul! I'd no idea 

where I'd got to; I thought I was lost altogether.” 

“Hey-day, Jasper!” muttered Joey, rubbing his eyes, having just woke 

up. “I'm so glad you've come back, for these horrid mosquitos have been 

poking their horns into me, like five thousand of the ‘best drilled-eyed 

sharps,’ and I can't keep them off. I never knew the value of a suit of 

clothes before, though I have sold hundred of suits. I shall always feel for 

the poor blackfellows in future. Where are my clothes, Jasper?” 

“Where's the pony, Joey?” inquired Mr. Spindle. 

“Eh? — there he is — no — yes, he was there a few minutes ago, I'm 

sure,” stammered Joey, rising and gazing around him, and seeing nothing 

but bushes and sand-hills. “Well, I declare he's gone! Yes, confound him, 

he's gone, and I don't know which way no more than this stump that I am 

standing upon. I have been asleep, and that designing beast has taken 

advantage of my unwatchfulness by running away; that's all I know 

about it. Good gracious me! I wish we had never come out to-day; or I 

wish I had killed that wretched horse, when he upset us at Waverley, and 

then gone back to the shop. What shall we do now, Jasper?” 

“Let us go back to the beach as fast as we can, and get our clothes on 

first of all,” said Jasper, “for I'm blistered with the sun, and nearly 

irritated beyond endurance with these prickly bushes, mosquitos, and 

soldier-ants. I am getting very hungry, too, and I'm afraid we shall not 

have fire enough to cook the chops, when we get back. But come along 

Joey, let's get back, let's get back. The pony may go to the dogs before I 

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 

as long as I live.” 

It fortunately happened, that Mr. Goosgog had not been able to run so 

fast as his long-legged friend, so he had had more time for observation as 

he ran, consequently he knew the track back to the beach, to which they 

made the best of their way, — walking side by side, like the “babes in 

the wood”. But when they got there, to their intense horror and grief, 

they found that some person or persons had taken away every article of 

their apparel, and their market basket too, and had literally left them “on 

the strand,” hungry, and totally destitute of every article of civilized 

convenience, with the exception of their bathing caps, their Wellington 

boots, a few baked potatoes, and the pony chaise. 

It would be cruel to picture their unphilosophical endurance of that new 

and most trying misfortune. They were not large-brained men, as I before 

hinted; but I omitted to say, at the same time, that two more inoffensive 

creatures never entered Sydney Heads. Their tempers were sweet and 

smooth as “Everton toffee,” or “golden syrup.” Not a single jar — even 

of the smallest size — had ever been exchanged by those stanch friends 

from the first time their eyes met up to that distressing hour. But now, 

alas! that friendship, which ordinary mishaps and the struggles of every 

day life had tended to rivet as strongly as a highpressure boiler, was 

doomed to a temporary fracture, through the accumulated disasters which 

had on that memorable day descended about their devoted heads, like a 

cataract of icicles, and, for a time, frozen up the best sympathies of their 

kind hearts. 

I will but cursorily glance at the events of the next hour and a quarter; 

how, alas! their native suavity totally forsook them for a time, and they, 

first of all gave vent to intemperate outbursts of wrath at the unknown 

peculators who had so disgracefully wronged them; while Mr. Goosgog 

brandished his long stick, like a cannibal chief, and loudly declared that 

if the thieves were anywhere near, and would come forward at once, he 

would thrash them into barley straw. And after that fierce paroxysm was 

over, how Mr. Spindle gave vent to his feelings, and rashly cursed his 

birthday; and afterwards bitterly inveighed against the pony, and the 

chaise too. How Mr. Goosgog just then, with unprecedented haste, and in 

terms of caustic severity, condemned his friend for his bombastic vanity 

and downright deceit in pretending to drive; when it had been so 

miserably evident that he knew no more about a horse than a stupid ass, 

or the “tailor's dummy” that stood just inside their shop door. How Mr. 

Spindle, at that unexpected thrust and the degrading comparisons, got 

madly wrath with his friend; called him a fat China pig, and knocked him 

down. How Mr. Goosgog got up again, like a gamecock, and fought 

three rounds with Mr. Spindle, and got knocked down six times more. 

How they then simultaneously burst into tears, and embraced each other

like brothers, then mutually apologised, shook hands, wished each other 

many happy returns of the day, and sat down on a rock to devour the 

half-cooked potatoes, which had been overlooked by their spoilers, and 

to discuss what it was best to do next. 

After a short time they decided upon drawing the chaise and harness to 

the junction of the South Head Road, there to wait till darkness should 

partially hide their unfortunate poverty of apparel; then to draw the 

conveyance and appurtenances aforesaid to the nearest hotel, and wait 

there until they could send to Mrs. Cobbrer, for fresh suits from their 

wardrobe. 

Fortunately, the apron of the chaise, and the dog skin mat, were not 

taken away, so Jasper took the former, and Joey the latter, and tied them 

about their persons with parts of the harness. Then, Jasper took the 

shafts, and Joey pushed behind, and, with many sighs and groans, they 

slowly moved the chaise along the sandy road towards Sydney. They had 

not gone far, however, when they heard merry voices just before them, 

and had barely time to leave the chaise and run into the bush, when a 

furniture van appeared in sight, containing Mr. and Mrs. Duddle, with 

their large family of grown-up sons and daughters, and two or three 

neighbours beside, who were on their way to the beach to spend an hour 

or two. 

Of course they stopped to examine the chaise, and to speculate upon 

the-cause of its being left there, apparently abandoned, in the middle of a 

wild bush road. The opinions expressed on the subject were very varied; 

old Mrs. Duddle, however, was the only one of the party who believed 

that it was exposed there for sale. The discussion was abruptly closed by 

Mr. Duddle, who, having caught a glimpse of the remarkable figures of 

Jasper and Joey dodging through the scrub, and thinking of course that 

they were escaped lunatics, he, in consideration for his large family, and 

possibly for himself too, thought he had better drive away from their 

dangerous vicinity as fast as he could, which he did accordingly. 

Goosgog and Spindles wriggled on their way, they knew not whither, 

in a state of bewilderment and physical suffering only to be imagined; 

but before long they came in sight of a large house. Luckily for them 

— as they then too sanguinely thought — two maid-servants were 

engaged outside the fence, shaking carpets. 

Leaving poor exhausted Goosgog at the foot of a large spreading tree, 

Mr. Spindle stealthily approached, under cover of the scrub, till he got 

within hail of the maids aforesaid, and screening himself behind a 

favouring stump; he called out in his most insinuating tones, “Young 

women, young women, if you please.” 

“Oh, gemini! what's that, Jane?” enquired Jane's fellow servant, turning 

very pale, and gazing all round and up in the air too. 

“Goodness me! I don't know,” replied Jane; “I heard somebody, but I

can't see nobody.” 

Mr. Spindles, with the most scrupulous delicacy, just then peeped from 

behind the stump and said with an intensely imploring look, which ought 

to have had more influence — 

“My dear girls, just listen a moment — — — ” 

“Ah lud!” screamed the girls in concert; “there's a nasty great fellow 

behind the stump. Aaron! Aaron! Aaron!” 

“For pity's sake, listen to me one moment, dear young women,” 

implored Mr. Spindles; “do, pray hear me — I've lost my clothes.” 

“Aaron! Aaron!” screamed the girls, fairly terrified, while they ran 

inside the fence as fast as they could, leaving their carpets on the ground. 

Mr. Spindles sprang forward in desperation, seized a piece of the carpet, 

wrapped it closely round him, and was going up to make an appeal to the 

master of the house, when a savage-looking gardener, and a still more 

savage-looking dog appeared at the gate hastily advancing to welcome 

him. Mr. Spindles turned round instinctively, and ran away much faster 

than he had ever ran before; and he never had such good reason to be 

thankful for his long legs and his Wellington boots, for he had barely 

time to get to the tree, up which Goosgog had already climbed, when the 

dog was at his heels. Fortunately for Jasper, he dropped the carpet in his 

rapid flight, which the dog stopped for a second or two to smell, and 

gave him barely time to mount into the tree, and thus save himself from 

being partially devoured. 

“Hoold him! hoold him! hoold him! Growler,” cried the savage man, 

running after Jasper with a garden rake in his hand. “Catch him, boy; 

catch him.” 

But Mr. Spindles had very fortunately got out of catching distance, and 

when the gardener came up the wretched friends were perched on 

opposite branches of the tree, looking like two strange species of 

melancholy monkeys, almost breathless with terror and their violent 

exertions of climbing to their refuge; while Growler — an immense 

mastiff — was sitting at the base of the tree, showing his teeth, with his 

mind evidently made up to wait there till they found it convenient to 

come down and be worried. 

“Hur yer bushranging ruffians; I've got yer now safe enough; I've been 

looking for you this long time,” snarled the man, coming up within pistol 

shot of them — but no nearer. “Look to them, Growler! Hoy, Mike,” he 

roared to a stable boy, “Mount black Jack, and ride in for three or four 

constables; tell em to bring handcuffs for two, for I've got two desperate 

rascals — Gardiner and Gilbert I think — bailed up in a gum tree. Look 

sharp, do yer hear, Mike?” 

“I'll be there an' back agin afore you could ate a hot murphy,” said 

Mike, as he ran to the stable for the horse, and was soon riding off at full 

gallop towards Sydney.

“Now, my pretty ‘Cockatoo Islanders,’ you'd better hop down off your 

perch, and march to the stable yonder,” said the gardener, “and then I can 

keep you under-lock and key. I'm not going to stay here all night looking 

at your ugly mugs.” 

“Oh, pray hear us speak; for mercy's sake do,” whined Mr. Goosgog 

and Mr. Spindles together, “we are not thieves, sir, we are — — ” 

“Not thieves, eh!” sneered the man, “why confound your impudence, 

what next will you say? didn't I see you running away with the parlour 

carpet, with my own eyes, eh? And haven't you frightened my wife into a 

fit, yer great, long, ugly bundle of bamboos. You're the very same 

fellows as stole the garden roller, and the gig harness, the week before 

last. I know yer manoeuvres, my boys — you came here on a foraging 

expedition, and yer thought if yer came naked, I shouldn't be able to 

swear to yer clothes, but that old trick won't do at this shop. I'll write my 

mark on yer directly, and you won't be able to scratch it out very quickly. 

Now then, my hobgoblins, are you coming down into the stable or not? 

that's what I want to know.” 

“Oh, for goodness sake, hear us! Call away that great dog, there's a 

dear man, then we'll come down directly — we are — ” 

“Call away the dog, eh? I dare say, and give you a chance to bolt? No, 

no, not to-day, daddy-long-legs. I've seen how you can run, and perhaps 

the fat fellow can run too; I might as well try to catch a kangaroo as catch 

you, if I let you give me the slip. No, no, I can't do without the dog; but 

I'll give you a few minutes to consider about it, while I go and get my 

gun: and if you don't come down I'll tattoo you all over with dust shot; 

and then if you do get away from me, I shall know you again. Look to 

them, Growler, my boy, pin 'em, Growler.” 

The surly gardener then went into the house for his gun, leaving the 

dog sitting at the foot of the tree; looking at his poor shivering prisoners, 

as stolidly as if he were made of the hardest timber. 

The gardener returned from the house in about ten minutes, armed with 

a double-barrelled gun, and a shot belt round his waist. “Now then; once; 

twice; thrice; as the soldiers on sentry say. I'll give you fair warning, and 

if you don't come down from the tree, and walk straight into that stable 

yonder, I'll pepper you till you do; so mind your eyes. I don't want to kill 

you, though you don't deserve any mercy (dust shot won't break your 

bones) but I want to caution you like I do the flying foxes, that steal my 

peaches. I told master last week I thought I'd catch you fellows soon. 

Now then; — once.” 

“Hoo-o — hoo-o — hoo-o,” roared Mr. Goosgog. 

“Ay, it's no good making that row, my native bears; you had better 

come down. Twice — — ” 

“I protest against your murdering us in this cold-blooded manner,” 

shouted Mr. Spindles, rousing up his courage. “You shall suffer for this

outrage, you cowardly villain. We are gentlemen, and we — — ” 

“Ho-ho-ho!” jeered the gardener. “Gentlemen, are you? That's just 

what Dick Turpin and his mate, Tom King, the infamous highwaymen, 

used to say. You look very genteel, certainly. Now, don't give me any 

more of your sauce. Time's up — thrice. My name's Aaron Horseradish, 

and that's my mark — I can't write.” 

Saying which he pulled the trigger, and the charge of dust-shot 

scattered through the tree, and a proportion of it entered the skins of poor 

Joey and Jasper, who acknowledged the receipt thereof by a prolonged 

howl. 

“There, that's one; and as you don't seem to like that, I'll give you 

another,” said Aaron; but just as he was about to give them another, his 

attention was drawn to a number of horsemen, who were riding rapidly 

through the bush towards him. 

“Hoy, my man,” shouted one of the horsemen, “have you seen 

anything of two nak — — ” 

“Seen 'em? ay, to be sure I have,” interrupted old Horse-radish, 

dancing and pointing with his gun to the tree with fiendish triumph, 

while the dog got up and wagged his stumpy tail in delight, as if he were 

exactly of the same opinion as his master — that the horsemen were 

detectives, come out in search of two notorious bushrangers. 

“Hurrah! here they are,” yelled Horseradish, as the strangers rode 

rapidly up; “I've bailed them up in the tree, and I was just going to give 

'em some more black pepper. They're an awful looking pair of scoun — 

— ” 

Before he could finish the libellous sentence he was knocked down, 

gun and all, by the excited party of horsemen, who crowded round the 

base of the tree. But the joyful exclamations of Goosgog and Spindles 

drowned the cries of the unlucky gardener; with the howls of Growler 

too, who had his toes trodden on by one of the panting steeds, and had 

run away to his kennel lest he should get them trodden on again. 

Words are inadequate to describe the delight of the two poor sufferers 

at beholding the welcome faces of about half a score of their intimate 

acquaintances; and it would be equally impossible to describe the 

consternation of Aaron Horseradish, on finding that he had been shooting 

at two respectable citizens of Sydney, instead of those terrible scourges 

of society, Gardiner and Gilbert. 

A rapid explanation followed, which I must give as rapidly. It appears 

that some boys who had wandered along the rocks, from Coogee to 

Bondi, had found, first of all, the market basket; and as “boys will be 

boys,” they sat down and ate everything in it that was eatable. After they 

had done so, and while they were perhaps looking about for another 

basket to devour, they espied two heaps of clothing under a cliff, at 

which they were rather alarmed, for they naturally concluded that the

owners thereof were drowned. After a hasty look for bodies on the rocks, 

and along the beach, without being able to find any, they took the 

clothing and the basket, and hurried into Sydney with the alarming news. 

A “hue and cry” was raised immediately, and poor old Mrs. Cobbrer 

went into hysteries. When she came out again, she found her house full 

of sympathising enquirers of both sexes, whom she was, of course, 

unable to enlighten in the smallest degree, beyond giving them a sight of 

the empty basket and the empty clothes, for which they all seemed very 

much obliged to her. 

A general muster of the friends and acquaintances of the lost ones took 

place, and a large muster it was. Without loss of time, they started out on 

horseback and in vehicles of various kinds to Bondi Bay. Their good 

friend Captain Codger, had a coil of rope round his horse's neck, with a 

small grapnell attached. The crowd increased as it went forward, and 

about four o'clock, to the astonishment of Mr. Duddle and his party, who 

were just taking tea, a multitude of persons descended to the beach, and 

began to search every hole in the rocks big enough for a large crab to 

crawl into, while the captain uncoiled his rope and grappled in the surf 

with an energy and anxiety quite touching. 

As soon as Mr. Duddle ascertained the object of the excited seekers, he 

informed them of the two nude figures he had seen dodging through the 

bush; so a party of horsemen immediately started in search of them; but 

the majority of the friends were sceptical of Mr. Duddle's information, 

and remained behind to examine the rocks, and assist old Codger to 

investigate the rollers with his grapnell. 

The reader knows the result of the bush expedition, and my story will 

soon be ended. It is not necessary to dwell upon the horror of Aaron 

Horseradish, who dreaded being tried for “wounding with intent, &c.” 

Nor upon the magnanimous manner in which the truly kind-hearted 

friends raised the contrite gardener from his knees before them, and how 

they afterwards accepted his pressing offer of the loan of two suits of his 

best clothes. How that four policemen rode up, armed with loaded 

carbines, just as the friends smilingly emerged from Aaron's house, clad 

in suits of worsted cord and colonial tweed, which could hardly be called 

“good fits,” considering that Aaron was a slim man of only five feet six. 

Mr. Goosgog and Mr. Spindles were taken home in triumph in a 

“Hansom,” with the chaise and harness towing behind, and followed by 

an immense cavalcade, including the constables; and as they rode along, 

their honest hearts glowed with pride and amazement at the general 

affection which was manifested towards them. They had not the least 

idea before that they had so many friends; quite forgetting, in their 

simplicity, that they were supposed to be dead. In the excess of their joy 

that they were not dead, and at being so highly appreciated by such a 

respectable multitude, they nobly invited everybody to sup with them, to

the utter bewilderment of poor Mrs. Cobbrer, whose house was filled to 

overflowing, and the contents of many cooks' shops were necessary to 

feed the hungry guests. 

Mr. Spindles made his debût as a speaker that night; and in returning 

thanks for an appropriate toast to his honour, he, among many 

noteworthy sentiments, remarked emphatically “that he had never spent 

such an exciting birthday since the day of his birth.” 

* * * * * 

Soon afterwards Jasper and Joey went into partnership; and in a few 

years the firm of Spindles and Goosgog was reputed to be wealthy. 

Wealth and wisdom are often supposed to be associated, and Mr. 

Spindles was waited on by a deputation, requesting him to represent 

them as Member of Parliament for East Sydney. They declared their 

unanimous opinion of his fitness for the work and honour, in such 

forcible terms, that his doubts began to dissolve. He smirked and tried to 

look modest, while his long face was flushed with new pride. He was 

about to express his willingness to exert his talents for the publie good, 

when Mr. Goosgog stepped quietly up and whispered in his ear, 

“Remember Bondi Bay, and the pony chaise.” Jasper was startled at the 

salutary hint, but so far from getting cross, he smiled pleasantly at his 

partner, and manfully confessed to his admiring friends, that he was 

totally ignorant of political science, for which simple reason, he must 

decline the honour of representing them in parliament. 

There are many eager aspirants for legislative honours, who know as 

little of political economy as Jasper knew about driving a pony, and if 

they will follow his prudent example, and leave parliamentary seats for 

able men to occupy, they will confer a great benefit on the community, 

and perhaps save themselves from Aaron Horseradish's “black pepper,” 

in the form of public contempt and ridicule.

Poor Girl! 

THERE she stands, under that public-house gas-lamp, with a maudlin 

smile on her faded face, and an affected, careless air; but her soul is as 

be-clouded as a winter's night, and her heart within her is seared. She 

attracts but few libidinous glances from prowling “fast men,” for her 

charms are all blighted by disease, anxiety, and sensual excesses; and, 

like a tender flower, withered by a hot wind, her beauty is gone. Her 

draggled finery is faded too, and betokens poverty and neglect, while 

scarcely a trace of maidenly modesty, or self-respect, is visible. 

But she is still young, and her figure retains somewhat of its bygone 

symmetry; while her long brown tresses — though dishevelled by the 

rough wind — tell of the time when they fell in flowing ringlets over her 

fair shoulders, and attracted the admiration of all beholders. Her full blue 

eyes too, though lustreless as rough pebbles in a rock, are mournfully 

suggestive of those happy days of girlhood and innocence, when the 

proudest youth in our city would have felt honoured by a favouring 

glance from Mary May. 

Why stands she there in her scanty attire, on this bleak night? Dark 

storm-clouds are gathering in the western sky, and the rumbling thunder 

forewarns that a tempest is approaching. Why stands she there, as if in 

defiance of the warring elements, while most of the citizens of Sydney 

are preparing for their beds? Why does she not go home? Alas! poor girl! 

In all this wide world she has not a roof to shelter her head from the 

angry winds; she is homeless, cheerless, and penniless. A wreck on the 

strand, or a waif on life's turbulent ocean. A miserable outcast — a poor 

lost girl. May God pity her! for no pity does she get from man, and very 

little from woman either. To the tender sympathy, and kindly offices of 

her sex, she has long been a stranger; and she is ignorant of God's love 

and mercy, in providing a way of redemption for even such as she. 

Spurned and contemned by all but the very lowest dregs of society. she is 

a sworn foe to mankind, who have severed her from all endearing social 

ties, blasted her hopes, and made her young life a dreary waste, and an 

intolerable burden; from which she has often been tempted to rid herself 

by violent means, and wickedly to rush into the awful presence of her 

Maker. 

Do you ask me, reader, who is this poor girl? Are you anxious to know 

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 

when her prattling tongue could but imperfectly pronounce my name; 

and when her little hands were often held out for the “sweeties,” which 

my coat-pocket usually contained for my many young favourites. 

Memory — obedient to my will — flies back a dozen years or more, 

and presents poor Mary to my mental gaze, as I knew her, a frolicsome 

girl of thirteen; the hope and pride of indulgent parents, who idolised 

their only child, and expected for her the admiration of all their friends 

and neighbours. Mr. and Mrs. May were a simple-hearted old pair; true 

and just in all their dealings; unsuspecting and confiding in their nature. 

They had seen very little of the world, and were unacquainted with its 

sophistries. Their beloved daughter was as innocent as a lambkin 

sporting in the green meadows beside its dam, and as unconscious of evil 

lurking in her pathway. If she knew that she was beautiful, she knew not 

the dangers to which that much coveted gift would expose her. Life was 

full of happiness to her sanguine view, for she had seen nothing of its 

dark obverse. Trouble had never darkened her happy home, and real 

sorrow had never chased the sunshine from her charming face. The world 

to her seemed bounded by the meandering river, whose noiseless 

current — typical of her own life — flowed before her parents' cottage in 

peaceful beauty, and the wild woods beyond, whither she so often 

rambled to gather flowers to bedeck their rustic home, or to weave 

garlands for her pet kangaroo. 

“Far from the busy world's ignoble strife, 

Her sober fancies never learned to stray; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life, 

She held the even tenor of her way.” 

Well do I remember little Mary in those days of innocence; often have 

I stroked her sunny ringlets, and gazed with delight into her merry blue 

eyes, so full of artless love and childish fun. She was indeed as joyous 

hearted a maiden as ever made a wilderness vocal with cheerful melody. 

I can fancy I see her now: and as I contrast her with that draggled, forlorn 

creature under the gin-shop lamp, my heart within me sickens at the 

sight, and with difficulty I restrain the rising feeling of wrath, which 

would tower over my settled loathing for the creature who could 

deliberately lure to ruin an innocent girl, whom he should feel bound by 

every manly consideration to shield from impure influences, and be ever 

ready to guard from injury or insult. While I tearfully gaze at the wreck 

before me, at the wretched victim of a villain's perfidy, my fervent prayer 

ascends on her behalf to the mercy seat of the Almighty Judge of all the 

earth, who alone can comfort her care-worn spirit, and redress her 

wrongs.

But I have promised to give an outline of poor Mary's history. Very 

brief it will be, for my pen falters at the task. This is not a solitary case in 

my experience, I have seen many such, and have been an eye witness to 

scenes of anguish, which might move the veriest roué in the land to pity, 

if his heart were not wholly burnt up by the lustful fires which his life 

has been spent in feeding. 

Mary's father died when she was about sixteen years of age, and it then 

became necessary for her to contribute to her mother's support. To that 

end she bound herself for a term to a respectable woman (who kept a 

little shop in the country), to be taught the millinery business. Every 

morning after breakfast Mary hastened away to her work, and returned 

home in the evening: the distance was but little more than a mile. For a 

few months all went on smoothly. Mary made good progress in her new 

occupation, for she was a quick, intelligent girl, and she looked joyfully 

forward to the time when she would begin to earn a little money and be 

enabled to add to her mother's comforts, and perhaps to increase her own 

limited stock of finery and necessaries. 

About this time, Lionel Wolfe, the eldest son of a wealthy landed 

proprietor in the neighbourhood, returned to the colony, after finishing 

his education and his travels on the continent of Europe. He was a young 

man of showy exterior, about twenty-five years of age; and being the heir 

of the Wolfden estates, his return created no small stir in the usually 

quiet village of Woollaburra. 

If I say that Lionel Wolfe was a “fast young man,” almost every one 

will understand his character, so I need not particularise it. It was not 

long before his gloating eyes were fixed upon Mary May. Her rare 

beauties and modest mien smote his heart with love, — stay; what am I 

writing? A feeling so holy and pure as love never entered the heart of a 

practised debauchee, never! It was not love, but quite a different kind of 

passion, which inflamed Wolfe's breast at the first sight of the pretty little 

country lass, as she tripped along one evening towards her mother's 

cottage. He saw her, and at once conceived the designs against her virtue, 

which, alas! he too surely carried into effect. 

To describe all the arts employed by that accomplished seducer, would 

require a more patient pen than mine. He did not effect his purpose by a 

coup de main, he was too wily to attempt anything so bold, with the 

timid unsophisticated girl, who trembled at the notice of one so much her 

superior in position. Slowly and deliberately he concocted his schemes; 

slily he spread his nets, and anxiously he watched them, until the poor 

little bird was inveigled within their fatal meshes; then very soon her 

lovely plumage was ruffled, her golden wings broken, and her joyful 

song of innocence was silenced for ever. 

Here I will digress from my story a little. Grieved indeed should I be, 

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 

enter upon my task with a light feeling; but a fatherly love for, and an 

earnest desire to guard the virtue of the young maidens of this land, 

constrain me to offer a few words of counsel, which I pray them to 

ponder over. 

I would speak to you, fair girl, whose bright eyes glance over these 

sketches! In words of affectionate warning, I would say to you, beware 

of the first advances of the bold designing man. One repellent look, 

indicative of the horror with which your pure young mind regards his 

rude remarks, full of hidden meaning, his sensual leers, the undue 

pressure of your gentle hand, or any other ungentlemanlike way in which 

his insidious work is begun. One such look may save you from a 

repetition of the rude familiarities of those traitors, with whom you are 

too often thrown into accidental contact. Very few such fellows would 

have the courage to renew an attack, when thus foiled in the first 

instance, for they are usually as cowardly as they are treacherous. Poor 

Mary May neglected that precaution; perhaps she had never been warned 

of the danger of encouraging the forward salutations of strangers; 

howbeit she did not repel young Wolfe's first advances; an intimacy 

sprung up, and in a very short time she fell a victim to the practised arts 

of the seducer. Pardon me, dear young reader, for naming you in the 

same lines with that polluted wreck under the gas lamp yonder; and for 

beseeching you to take warning by her sad fate, and flee from the voice 

of the flatterer. Pardon me, I ask, and remember that I knew her when 

she was as lovely and as pure as you are now; and when all about her 

pathway was sunshine and joy. 

I shall never forget the heart-rending scene which my eyes beheld in 

widow May's cottage, a little more than a year afterwards; a scene which 

I should like to compel every seducer to witness before receiving a 

merited flogging. Months before I had heard of the faux pas of the 

village belle; for in small country communities scandal flies swifter than 

swallows. I had heard of her intimacy and her flirtations with Lionel 

Wolfe, and had warned both Mary and her mother too of their danger, 

and advised them at once to sever their connection with the unprincipled 

rake, who from his antecedents I judged was plotting the young girl's 

destruction. But my advice was too late to be of real service to them, for 

Wolfe had completely gained the girl's affections, and had persuaded her 

mother that he loved her daughter, and intended to make her his wife. I 

need not enter into painful details; it is the old sad story, which has been 

told hundreds of times before, which has been the death blow to many 

aged parents, and “brought down their grey hairs with sorrow to the 

grave.” Poor Mary fell a victim to the plots of Lionel Wolfe: how could 

it be otherwise after she had once admitted his influence? She was a 

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 

and love the Saviour, and to flee to Him at all times for support and 

guidance; she lacked, too, sound paternal counsel and protection. A 

resolute sire, or brother, are as effective in scaring prowling villains from 

the domestic hearth, as sharp dogs are in guarding back-yards from petty 

thieves. But she had no such trusty guardians, which her deceiver well 

knew; moreover, she loved him with all the warmth of her young heart's 

first affections; and for that love, that self-immolation, he very soon 

returned coldness, then closely followed neglect, scorn, and positive 

brutality. To her impassioned appeals to him to save her reputation, to 

fulfil his oft-repeated promise and make her his wife, he from time to 

time returned evasive answers; and to her last pathetic appeal to him, on 

her knees, for the sake of the infant which she shortly expected to bring 

into the world, he spurned her from him, and coarsely applying an 

epithet, at which every woman shudders, he left her tearing her hair in an 

agony of grief. 

* * * * * 

There she lay, with an infant folded to her bosom, when I entered her 

cottage, about a week after her accouchement. I shall ever remember that 

dreary morning, though I wish I could forget it, for my heart aches while 

picturing it, even now. 

Pillowed up in an old arm chair in the front room, sat Mrs. May, with 

the marks of death in her countenance. The anxiety of the last few 

months had proved too severe for her impaired strength, and she had 

sunk beneath the trial. Her mind, too, was as enfeebled as her body, 

which was perhaps a merciful alleviation of her sufferings. At times she 

seemed to forget her griefs, and to fancy her Mary was again a child 

playing beside her, in the same merry mood that she used to do in happy 

days gone by: and then the poor old soul would hold imaginary 

conversations in the fondling style in which she used to talk to her “wee 

Polly;” and repeat the nursery rhymes, which in those days delighted her 

little smiling companion. Suddenly, however, the recollection of the 

present forlorn condition of her still idolized daughter, would burst upon 

her mind like an overwhelming flood, then her anguish and weeping 

exclamations of despair were more than I could bear to witness, and I 

was glad to escape from that scene of sorrow, even to one, scarcely less 

painful to behold, in the adjoining room, where lay poor Mary on a clean 

little stretcher bed, with her infant pressed to her agitated heart. Her 

disengaged hand was held before her eyes, but tears coursed down her 

face, and her sobs prevented her from articulating a word. I stood beside 

her bed and gazed at her in mournful silence. My heart was too full to 

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 

before, while they professed to condole with her. There lay the poor 

young creature almost destitute of common necessaries, and oppressed 

with grief indescribable; and as I gazed at her I could not but contrast her 

deplorable condition with a scene fresh in my memory — that of a happy 

young wife, with her first-born on her bosom, and every comfort at her 

command; cheered by the caresses of her loving husband, and the 

congratulations of surrounding friends, and her heart bounding with joy 

and pride while fondling her precious little new-born treasure, which 

every one was praising. 

But I must hasten on with my dismal story. In a few days Mrs. May 

died of a broken heart, and before poor Mary could rise from her 

wearisome couch, she had the anguish of seeing her only parent's body 

borne away to the grave, and the additional pang of feeling that she had 

been the cause of her beloved mother's untimely death, and the months of 

misery that had preceded it. 

I should have mentioned before, that directly Mrs. May had discovered 

her daughter's critical state, she made a personal appeal to Lionel Wolfe's 

father and mother to use their influence and induce their son to do justice 

to her daughter, and marry her, as he had solemnly promised to do. But 

the arrogant old pair would not listen to the end of her tearful address; 

she was moreover told by Wolfe's prudish sisters, that she and her 

brazen-faced daughter had designedly entrapped their brother to the 

disgrace of his family. They also refused the smallest assistance, and 

ignored Mrs. May's claim upon them in any shape; then peremptorily 

ordering her not to enter the gates of Wolfden again, they turned from 

her in disdain, and left the old lady to retrace her weary way home with 

her heart stricken by a sorrow which can only be comprehended by those 

whose domestic hearth has been similarly desolated. 

How Mary May struggled on for the next two years was often a matter 

of speculation for those who feast upon scandal, and there were many 

such moral pests in Woollaburra. Several respectable residents, however, 

could testify that Mary lived a virtuous life during that period. She 

worked to support herself and infant, and her scanty earnings were 

supplemented by voluntary donations from friends who carefully 

watched over her. She lodged with a worthy old couple in the outskirts of 

the town, and kept very secluded; seldom going beyond the garden which 

surrounded her humble domicile. 

Her infant died when about two years old. Doubtless it was a merciful 

dispensation of Providence in removing it beyond the influence of a 

frowning world, and taking it to Heaven; but it was a terrible loss to poor 

Mary. She felt it hard to part with her baby, though it had caused her 

such crushing trouble. It seemed the only tie she had to life; it was her 

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 

prattle helped to lighten her life's dreary burden, and to cheer her 

blighted heart. Mothers will understand her feelings better than I can 

describe them, and I need not further dwell upon this fresh trial, which 

very nearly shattered her reason. Daily she would wander to her baby's 

grave to moisten the cold sod with her tears, and pour out her sorrows 

unseen by any eyes but the little birds in the tall sighing oaks around the 

cemetery, and by that Omniscient eye which watches the little birds, and 

sees that all their wants are supplied. Poor girl! she was almost brokenhearted; 

the woods often reechoed her melancholy lamentations for her 

lost baby, and throughout long sleepless nights she would bemoan her 

hapless misery. 

About that time, Lionel Wolfe (who had settled in Victoria), paid a 

visit to Wolfden for a month, and, during that period he had repeated 

interviews with Mary May, notwithstanding the remonstrances of the 

honest old folks with whom she lodged. Weakened as her mind was by 

her various troubles, and especially by her recent bereavement, it is no 

marvel that he easily obtained a mastering influence over her, and that 

she became again his willing slave. One morning, shortly after Wolfe 

had departed for Victoria, Mary was missing at Woollaburra, and for 

sometime her whereabouts was a mystery; but at length it transpired that 

she was in Melbourne, in the keeping of the unprincipled author of all 

her miseries. 

Further efforts were made by friends who were interested in her case, 

to rescue her from her betrayer; but the means they tried were all in vain, 

she seemed fast bound by a fatal spell which she would not try to break. 

Drink was resorted to by her to drown reflection, and madly she sped in 

the race to ruin, as thousands of other miserable girls are rushing at this 

very hour. She lived but a few months with Wolfe; he soon grew tired of 

his companion, who was usually either madly hilarious from the effects 

of drink, or suffering from its reaction, and sorrowing in all the bitterness 

of ruined hopes and down-crushed love. 

Soon she was an inmate of a fashionable brothel in Melbourne. She had 

been cast off by her paramour (who had gone into the far interior to 

evade his creditors), and was pounced upon by one of those wicked hags 

who live by the wages of poor deluded women, to whom a young and 

still beautiful girl like Mary, was a prize which would for a short time 

prove a new attraction to her horrible lair, and bring money to her hoard. 

I dare not trust my pen to express my abhorrence of these rapacious 

fiends, or those persons who encourage their iniquitous calling. 

Down, down, down! whirled poor Mary, like a frail canoe in the rapids. 

No mind can picture her sufferings during the succeeding five years. Her 

own sad words were, “My body and mind have been racked with the 

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 

wrecked me!” Poor girl! what a wasted life of misery has yours been! 

Who can understand the anguish of your blasted heart? Tottering old 

roués look at her! Fast young men look at her! Mothers and sisters look 

at her! May God look in pity upon her, and may He inspire many 

Christian hearts to pity her, and others who are like her, dreary wanderers 

on the world's wide stage. 

Mary has recently come from Melbourne in search of Lionel Wolfe; 

and she harbours wild vengeance in her heart. She will perhaps try to 

murder him if they meet, and then commit suicide, for she is desperate. 

There she stands, on the verge of perdition; but she must not be suffered 

to go over, while she is within the reach of Christian hands. “Haste to the 

rescue.” Her blood will be upon your head if you allow her to perish 

without attempting to save her. 

* * * * * 

There is a “Home” in this city for such as she; and polluted as she is, 

she will be gladly received within its walls, and have all her wants kindly 

attended to. There she may find a refuge from the cold winds and still 

colder blasts of the world's scorn. There she will be led to Him who 

kindly suffered such an one as she to wash his sacred feet with her tears; 

to her Saviour, who loves her, who will graciously receive her, and fill 

her poor torn heart with peace, such as she never felt, even in the 

blithesome days of her childhood; He will gently guide her along life's 

rugged road, and when she arrives at her journey's end receive her 

cleansed soul into His glorious rest. 

All honour to those benevolent ladies and gentlemen who conduct the 

Female Refuge. Through their noble efforts many fallen women have 

been lifted up, almost from the depths of despair, and restored to the path 

of virtue. The great day alone will declare the sum total of good, which 

has been wrought by that excellent institution. 

Reader! help it with an annual contribution. It will be money well 

invested, and help to make its freely offered hospitality known to those 

homeless wanderers, who you so often see staggering in your pathway. 

Pity the poor creatures, and try to turn them gently round and put them 

on the road to heaven. And if this should be read by one of those forlorn 

ones; I beg of her to go at once, knock at the door of the Refuge, and 

therein find rest for her weary body and mind.

Old Daddy Gummy and Kitty Mayberry. 

“HA, ha, ha! I'm so glad!” chuckled Jabez Gummy, as he sat on the 

side of his bed, stitching a brace button on his drab kerseymere small 

clothes, one Monday morning. “No more stitching for me after I have 

fastened this blessed button: this is my last act of molly-coddlery. Hurra! 

I'll throw my thimble out of the window in a minute, and give my cotton 

box to old Mrs. Budge — no, no, I won't though, I forgot, it was a 

present from my grandmother, forty years ago last Christmas, so I'll keep 

it for her sake; it would be undutiful to part with it, and Mrs. Budge does 

not deserve it, for she has woefully neglected my wardrobe. My best 

linen shirts look as yellow as old blankets, and I do believe she wears my 

flannel waistcoats, drat her. Ha, ha, ha! I'm to be married next Friday! 

Won't it be funny! If I had plucked up heart to take the mysterious leap 

long ago, I might have made some pretty little maid a happy wife, and 

have had — but never mind, I'm just in time. The fact is, I have been 

afraid of the feminine gender ever since that unlucky affair with Ann 

Spike, in 1840, which split my heart like a ripe plum. But bother her, I 

don't care a button for her now; my dear little Kitty is worth forty old 

cats — ha! ha! ha! Bravo, Jabez! you have not forgotten the way to 

wheedle the women, though you have been long out of practice, but you 

have got a real jewel at last — or almost as good as got her. Hurra! 

again; no more domestic discomforts, which I have writhed under for 

nearly half a century. No more losing arguments with old Mother Budge 

about her omnivorous cat, and her mischievous boy Billy, or her 

mystified accounts. No more dull wearisome days, and lonely nights. No, 

no; I shall have a dear little wife to develope the latent virtues of my 

disposition; to love, honour, and cherish me, and make this sombre old 

house as shiny as a light-house lantern. Ho, ho, ho! how nice it will be!” 

The exciting idea made Mr. Gummy chuckle again, till he began to 

cough so fiercely, that he owned to himself, as he sat down to his solitary 

breakfast-table, a few minutes afterwards, “that he felt quite weak in the 

knees.” 

* * * * * 

“Zounds! what next? Daddy Gummy is actually going to marry Kitty 

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 

has only just done with her dolls, and has no more love for the toothless 

old toddler than I have for Mammy Wombat, the black gin. Poor little 

puss, she is bedazzled by the glitter of his money, the idea of a grand 

wedding, and riding to church in a coach. I dare say it is rare fun for her 

to prattle with her playfellows about her fine house, and her dear old 

fogey who doats upon her, but I doubt if she has bestowed five minutes 

serious thought on the responsibilities she is taking upon herself; much 

less has she foreseen the gloomy reality of being tied to a ricketty old 

man, whose temperament is as opposite to her own as June is to January. 

I pity her, poor thing, but as for Jabez — well, perhaps I had better not 

say all I think of him, or I may be thought uncivil. I will say though, that 

he ought to have common sense enough to know that a giddy girl will not 

make him a good wife. In his long life he has doubtless seen scores of 

homes made wretched by want of sympathy and unity of feeling, and he 

cannot reasonably expect much of those social virtues from a girl young 

enough to be his grand-daughter. Pshaw! I have no patience with the old 

gander! But I consider it is positively wrong to sit still and see a silly 

couple plunge into misery, so I am determined to stop them, if warning 

words will do it.” 

“Ugh! stop them indeed! you may as well try to stop a train by 

whistling ‘Cockabendy,’ ” growled Mrs. Grouts. “They will be tied 

together, as tightly as you and I are, before this day week in spite of all 

you can say. The little minx told our Betsy last night, that she will jingle 

the mildew off the old boy's money as soon as she can coax the keys of 

the cash box from him; so it is plain enough what she is marrying for, 

and I'll bet you a penny she will bolt off with young Ben Spry before she 

is a year older. As for Jabez he is up to his eyes in love, as the saying is, 

and all the words in the dictionary won't cure him, so don't bother 

yourself in trying, master; that's my advice. You had better take warning 

by what your Uncle Dick got for himself when interfering in a similar 

case. You know he had to wear a bob wig, all his days, to hide the mark 

of the hot fire-shovel on his crown.” 

“I don't care for hot fire-shovels if they are in the way of duty,” said 

Mr. Grouts, bravely. “I mean to use my influence with Kitty's mother, if 

Jabez won't listen to reason.” 

“Poogh! that's no use neither, for she told me only yesterday she knew 

Gummy would make her girl a good husband. ‘To be sure he is older 

than Kitty,’ said she, but that isn't of much account now a days; you often 

see such disparities. He is a healthy man, though rather skinny, and he is 

as merry and frisky as she every bit; besides, he is not so old as folks say, 

and is able to provide handsomely for her, so I don't see that it is such a 

bad match as the times go. He is doatingly fond of her, there is no doubt 

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 

is pretty clear that what you may say to her will not stop the match, but 

will very likely make all the family enemies to us; then woe to our 

garden, for they will let all their cocks and hens loose again!” 

“Humph! But Jabez is an old crony of mine and I am really more 

concerned about him than about the girl,” said Mr. Grouts. “We know 

that only a week or two ago she was flirting with Ben Spry, and I dare 

say she is fond of him, for he is a smart young fellow, only he happens to 

be poor, which is equal to a serious failing with widow Mayberry; more 

simpleton she, for I declare if Kitty were my girl, I would rather let her 

have Ben with only his trade to depend on, than old Gummy if he could 

load the ship “La Hogue” with Spanish dollars. I don't like to say 

anything to Jabez about Kitty's flirtations, for it would look like tattling, 

and you know I abhor that sort of mischief; but if I could stop his 

marriage by some honest means, I am sure he will be much obliged to 

me when he returns to his senses. At any rate, I'll try what I can do,” 

added Mr. Grouts, taking his hat and stick. “I'll walk over to his house 

and have a little quiet chat with him, and if love has not blinded him 

outright, he will see that he is running into nettles, and stop in time.” 

His wife exclaimed, “Stnff and nonsense!” Nevertheless, away went 

Mr. Grouts on his delicate errand, and soon he was welcomed by his old 

friend Jabez, whom he found very busy overlooking his wearing apparel, 

and arranging it in a handsome wardrobe, which had been sent from the 

upholsterer's that afternoon. 

“Glad to see you, Grouts,” said Jabez, grinning like an ape who had 

just picked up a soldier's jacket; “I'm in a bit of a muddle, you see, but I 

know you will excuse it. Take a seat — stay, stay, don't sit on my frilled 

shirt, or you'll ruin me. That is an important part of my wedding outfit. 

Blue coat, drab breeches and gaiters, buff waistcoat, and a frilled shirt; 

shan't I look buckish? ho, ho, ho! Wasn't you tremendously tickled when 

you heard I was going to tie the knot?” 

“No, I wasn't tickled at all, Jabez, but I was very much astonished at 

your choosing a girl who only a month or two ago was in short 

petticoats,” said Mr. Grouts, drily. “We have always been in the habit of 

speaking plainly to each other, so I tell you candidly that I wish you had 

courted her mother instead.” 

“Ha, ha, ha! I always liked spring lamb,” chuckled Jabez; “Kitty is 

much handsomer than her mother, and she is intensely fond of me. She is 

always stroking my beard, and calling me her pee-weet. She will make a 

loving little wife, I'm sure; just the one for me, for I like to be petted. The 

darling! ho, ho, ho! Don't you wish you were Jabez Gummy, eh, 

Grouts?” 

“Bah!” grunted Mr. Grouts. “I hope you won't get pepper-mint sauce 

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.” 

“Stop, stop, I'm not seventy,” said Jabez, with a show of anger, “I am 

only sixty-six next January, so don't cheat me: and I can't see anything so 

unnatural in the affair as you wish to make out. You see old chaps, as 

you call them, marrying young girls often enough, so there is nothing 

very wonderful in my preferring a young wife to an old one.” 

“Yes, and you often see those young wives neglecting their homes and 

their old husbands, and there is nothing wonderful in that neither,” 

replied Mr. Grouts. “I don't intend to say a syllable to the prejudice of 

Kitty, or to insinuate that she will not make a faithful wife, but in general 

terms I mean to say that when old men are silly enough to marry young 

girls, they usually look for more attention from them than they get, or 

than they can reasonably expect; thus they are very often tormented with 

jealous fears and fancies, real or imaginary, and their lives are made 

miserable. I will give you one sad example, which just occurs to me. A 

gentleman, more than threescore years old, married his gardener's 

daughter, a buxom lass of nineteen or thereabouts. She was a good girl, 

and I believe for several years was as true a wife as any in the land, still 

her husband suspected her of flirting with every young fellow who 

presumed to look at her pretty face. In vain did she try to reason him out 

of his jealous fancies, and give him every proof she could give of her 

fidelity; he grew worse as he grew older, until her life was a complete 

burden. She became reckless and ill-tempered. Horse-whipping did not 

improve her; she took to drinking, and a few years ago you might have 

seen her on any night you chose to look into one of the singing saloons 

of Sydney; so you may guess her deplorable end. Mind, I don't say that 

all such unequal marriages terminate so badly, for I have known cases 

quite contrary; but they are rare, and I take the freedom of an old friend, 

to warn you against the risk you are incurring in marrying a girl so much 

younger than yourself. That lassie will not make a suitable wife for you, 

Jabez, I am sure of that, and I advise you for pity's sake to give her up.” 

“O dear me! I can't, I can't. Don't say that again, Grouts, it hurts. I love 

the girl, and if I give her up I shall give up the ghost in less than three 

weeks; I am sure of that. Can't you see how my knees are knocking 

together, at the bare idea of it? The fact is my heart has been as 

impenetrable as a fire-proof safe for nearly thirty years, but Kitty has 

picked the lock at last, and got right inside, and to turn her out would be 

ten times worse than skinning me. I can't do it, Grouts. Ask me to do 

anything else that's reasonable, and I'll oblige you in a minute, but I can't 

give up Kitty, I'd almost as soon give up taking snuff, and that would be 

the greatest trial in life that I can think of. Besides, look at this house full 

of feminine knickknacks, what would be the use of them to me if I lost 

my little doxey? They were all bought for her, bless her heart!” 

“Please, sir, a boy has brought a lot of bottles and things from Mr. Lint,

the chemist,” interrupted Mrs. Budge, opening the door, without 

knocking. 

“Yes, yes, all right, lots of scent; I shall smell like a nosegay on Friday. 

Bring them in, Mrs. Budge. Let me see, I think I'll put them on a shelf in 

my wardrobe for the present,” said Jabez, who forthwith began to stow 

away sundry bottles of perfumery, and a large gallipot full of pomatum, 

which Mr. Lint had specially prepared and warranted it would make hair 

grow on Jabez's bald head, and turn his grey beard dark brown. “Excuse 

me for neglecting you, Grouts, but you see I am up to my neck in 

confusion. I wish you would come and see me this day fortnight, and 

stay a long while: I shall be calm as a dish of cream then, and we can talk 

over things comfortably. Say you will come, and bring Mrs. Grouts with 

you. Hoy, Mrs. Budge! stop the boy! he has left a bottle of soothing 

mixture for Mrs. Fitz, over the way.” Jabez hobbled out of the room with 

the mis-sent bottle, and while he was gone Mr. Grouts glanced over the 

perfumery on the shelf, especially noticing the pomatum pot, which was 

without a label. 

“I don't want to hinder you,” said Mr. Grouts, as Jabez returned 

breathless and faint, after his exertion of running to the front door, “but I 

was going to remark, when your housekeeper disturbed us, that if you 

love Kitty as I believe you do, you may prove the disinterestedness of 

your love, and do a noble action for which she will ever venerate you. 

This is the plan I would suggest: Take a cottage for her, furnish it with 

some of the superfluous things that you have recently bought, and give 

her away to some deserving young fellow, who will make her happy 

— in short, adopt her as your daughter. You have neither kith nor kin in 

the land, and you have more money than you can reasonably spend on 

yourself. Take my advice, Jabez, and you will rejoice over it by-and-bye, 

and the girl will rejoice too. You may live to have many merry romping 

games with your adopted grand-children, and — — ” 

“Pshaw! get out Grouts! what nonsense you talk,” said Jabez, sharply. 

“The girl would break her heart if I jilted her in that underhand way, poor 

little bird! give her away to some deserving young fellow, indeed! 

poogh, I won't. Besides, where will I find one more deserving of her than 

myself? I love her, and she loves me; that's a mutually admitted fact, and 

I won't allow anybody but grim Death himself to separate us — that's the 

way to say it. Excuse me for getting warm,” added Jabez, relaxing into a 

grin, “but you are too late with your advice, my boy. My honour and 

happiness are at stake. I must be married on Friday: ho, ho, ho! I must 

have a wife, for my feet get very cold on winter nights; very cold indeed; 

but Kitty will be twice as good as my water bottle, or a hot brick, ho, ho, 

ho!” 

“Now go home, Grouts, there's a good fellow; don't bother me any 

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 

obliged to you. Give my love to Mrs. G. — Good night.” 

Chapter II. 

AFTER Mr. Grouts left his friend Gummy's house, he walked slowly 

homeward; and any one meeting him would have fancied him under the 

influence of laughing gas, or something else equally exciting, for he 

chuckled and poked the air with his stick in the most facetious manner 

imaginable. 

“Whatever is the matter with you, Grouts,” asked his wife, when he 

entered his home, still laughing and blinking both eyes at once. “You 

haven't broken your pledge, I hope? Let me smell you. All right,” she 

added, after a few satisfactory sniffs at her jovial spouse. “You are quite 

sober, though you look half drunk; but what is tickling you so 

amazingly? Tell me this minute, you giggling old image, or I'll run up to 

Gummy's house and ask him.” 

“Sit down, missus, and I'll tell you a secret,” said Mr. Grouts: so Mrs. 

Grouts sat down, and her husband told her all about his interview with 

Jabez, and something besides, which set her giggling too. After an hour's 

merry conference, the old couple went to bed, laughing all the way up 

stairs. 

* * * * * 

“Oh, my dear! what do you think?” exclaimed Widow Mayberry, 

entering Mrs. Grouts's cottage — in a state of great excitement — two 

days after the above recorded events. “Would you believe it, Gummy is 

a — a — a deceitful old cripple; I have made such a humiliating 

discovery. I don't know when I have felt so staggered, since the night I 

was run over by the safety cab.” 

“What in the world is it, neighbour?” asked Mrs. Grouts, with well 

feigned wonder in her looks. “Sit down and compose yourself a bit, then 

tell me what has happened. Let me get you a cup of tea with an egg in it. 

Poor thing! You look quite upset. There now, untie your bonnet strings 

and sip that, while you tell me what is the matter. It is something serious, 

I'm afraid. I hope it isn't fire or — — ” 

“I'll tell you in a few words. An hour ago I was up at Gumberry 

Lodge — though I don't mean to call it by that name any more, the old 

fellow named it after himself and Kitty; for he said that his and Kitty's 

names looked uncommonly nice together; but he must stick something 

else to his gum now, or leave it bare, for he shall never have Kitty 

Mayberry while my name is Ruth. Well, as I was saying, I went there an 

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 

naturally enough I began to look about the house, as it belongs to me in a 

manner of speaking, and, of course, I was anxious to see what was in it. 

In peeping into his wardrobe, what do you think I beheld?” 

“Patience knows! A lot of old fusty clothes, I suppose.” 

“No, I didn't look at the clothes, but I dare say they are mere rags. A 

shelf full of doctor's bottles and pots caught my eye, and my curiosity 

was excited in an instant; so I began to examine them, and the very first 

thing I looked at was a big pot, marked in pencil, ‘salve for sore legs.’ 

Ugh! fancy how I felt, my dear! I was too much shocked to look any 

further, for I was afraid of seeing something worse still, so I slammed the 

wardrobe door to and sat down to stifle my feelings, which kept bubbling 

up like boiling stew. Presently Mrs. Budge came into the room; so 

without telling her what I had seen, I said to her as calmly as I could: 

‘Mrs. Budge, you are a mother and know a mother's feelings, tell me like 

a good honest soul, what is the matter with your master's legs?’ She 

seemed startled at the solemnity of the question, but after a moment she 

said, ‘Upon my word and honour I don't know, ma'am — leastways, I 

don't know for certain, for I never saw them in my life. I have lately 

noticed his knees knock together harder than they used to do, and he has 

worn long worsted stockings all the summer; but I didn't suspect there 

was much the matter with his legs, till two nights ago I overheard him 

say — mind this is a secret, Mrs. Mayberry, I would not for the world let 

him know that I was listening — he said to old Mr. Grouts, in this very 

room, that Kitty would nurse him and do him more good than a hot 

brick.’ 

“ ‘Ugh! the nasty old fellow!’ said I, boiling over with wrath. ‘How 

dare he compare my daughter to a hot brick? How dare he to have the 

impudence to say that she would nurse him? Bah! she wouldn't touch 

him with a clothes prop,’ said I. ‘Oh, the dirty old man! I'll let him see 

when he comes home; I'll talk to him with a vengeance. He ought to be 

ashamed of himself!’ 

“ ‘Oh for goodness sake, ma'am, don't say a word to him,’ said Mrs. 

Budge, beginning to cry. ‘I shall lose my place, and my poor boy Billy 

will be turned out of house and home. I'm sorry I told you, ma'am,’ said 

she; ‘but, as you say, I know a mother's feelings, and I shouldn't like for 

a girl belonging to me to be compared to a lump of dirt — for a brick is 

nothing more — and be made to nurse a miserable old man all the days 

of her life. I had no other motive in telling you, I assure you, ma'am 

— for I have no objection to your daughter as my mistress — and I hope 

you won't get me into trouble.’ 

“So I promised I wouldn't say a word about it, and told her not to let 

her master know that I had called. Then I went straight home and told 

Kitty.”

“Did you though?” exclaimed Mrs. Grouts, “and how did she bear the 

shock? poor thing! I suppose she was sadly cut up?” 

“Cut up, not she indeed! why she would have gone right straight off to 

the lodge and scratched his face, only I stopped her. She has her mother's 

spirit in her, and that's not to be trifled with I can tell you. Between you 

and me Mrs. Grouts, Kitty never cared a threepenny-bit for Gummy, and 

only that she was anxious to be married before Lotty Jiggs, she is glad 

enough for an excuse to be rid of him. That shows how much she is cut 

up. She'll cut him up, for she never intends to see him again. A hot brick 

indeed! a pretty thing to call a young girl, who is worthy of the best man 

alive.” 

“But had you not better see Jabez, and come to some understanding, so 

that he may save the wedding breakfast and stop the company from 

assembling on Friday?” 

“No, I won't see him, that's plain; I have too much pride in me to go 

near him, after his cruel attempt to kidnap my poor girl. Leave matters to 

me, Mrs. Grouts; I'll explain all to him at the right time. Promise me you 

will not say anything about it, or take any notice of what I've told you.” 

“Oh dear me, I don't want to have anything to do with it, I'm sure,” said 

Mrs. Grouts. “Poor Gummy will be dreadfully disappointed. It is a pity 

he had not made you his confidante; if his legs are so much out of order, 

perhaps you might have helped to cure them, and then — — ” 

“Faugh! Do you think I would have let him court my girl if he had told 

me that?” asked Mrs. Mayberry, fiercely. “Not I, indeed! Though I am 

not rich, I am clean and wholesome, Mrs. Grouts; I have sprung from a 

sound stock, and there never was a bad leg in my family, I am proud to 

say. Before I gave my consent to the match I was careful enough to ask 

him if he was healthy, and he told me he was as sound as a new tub, and 

never had a serious ailment in his life, those are his very words, the 

wicked old fellow.” 

* * * * * 

“But I say, Grouts, don't you think you ought to tell Jabez that Kitty 

will not have him? It is a pity for him to prepare an expensive breakfast 

for nothing,” said Mrs. Grouts to her spouse, after she had told him all 

that widow Mayberry had said a few hours before. 

“Don't disturb your mind about that, Missis; the breakfast shall not be 

wasted, I'll engage. It's many a long day since Gummy prepared a good 

meal in his house for guests or himself either, and all his kitchen tools 

were as rusty as prison bars. If I knew that he could not afford the 

expense, of course, I should act differently; but he has plenty of money, 

and it will do him good to spend some of it, and do others good too. 

Where is Kitty, do you know?”

“She has gone up to her Aunt Sally's at Lane Cove. Her mother said 

Jabez wont dare to go there to trouble her; but if he does he had better 

mind his bad legs, for her cousin Phil has come back from the diggings.” 

“I am glad she is out of the way. Now, don't you say a word to any of 

the neighbours about this affair. It will all turn out right if you act 

prudently, and have patience. In the meantime, gossips will be busy 

enough, but don't let them be able to say that they heard your tongue in 

the matter. That's my advice to you, Missis.” 

* * * * * 

On Friday morning, Jabez was up at the first streak of light; in fact, he 

had lain awake all night, thinking of the bliss that awaited him on the 

coming day, and picturing himself in his wedding suit. 

“Friday isn't a lucky day with me in general,” he soliloquized, as he 

began to fit on his new flannels. “I was wrecked on a Friday, robbed on a 

Friday, fell down an area coal-hole on a Friday, and — but pooh, pooh! I 

won't be superstitious.” 

“Hoy, Mrs. Budge! send Billy up with my shaving water, and a cake of 

scented soap; and just air those new lambswool stockings for me, will 

you? Ahem-hem-hem! dear me, my winter cough is not coming on today, 

I hope. I'm afraid my nightcap was damp last night. That old woman 

is so careless; she thinks I'm made of gutta percha. Ah, never mind, I 

shall have a young woman in the house presently, and all my own too 

— ho, ho, ho! all my own for life! how nice! Bless her heart! she'll see 

that my linen is well aired, I'll be bound. She'll coddle me up, and pat my 

back when my cough is choking me. She'll rub away my rheumatism, 

and make me as lively all day long as a Scotch fiddler. Heigho! I wonder 

how she is this morning? I dare say she is rather mournful at leaving her 

mother, poor little thing! I'll cheer her up as soon as I get her. I feel 

uncommonly shivery, but I suppose it is natural for a man to be nervous 

on his wedding morning. I hope I sha'n't cut my nose off while I'm 

shaving my upper lip. That would be a bad job indeed — ha, ha! I should 

look funny going to church to be married without my nose. I wonder if 

Kitty would love me then as now? or whether the loss of half-an-ounce 

of gristle would be a serious consideration with her? Pooh! not at all; I 

won't wrong her by supposing such a thing. She has a soul far above such 

petty influences, and would love me all the more for my misfortune. The 

loss of my nose would doubly endear me to her, especially as it was cut 

off on my wedding day, and in her service I may say, for if it wasn't for 

her I should not shave at all. Pretty little dear! she does not like 

moustachios, so I'll mow them down twice a week, as long as I live. 

Hurrah! I've got over that hazardous operation, and my nose is as sound 

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 

nice and shiny?” chuckled Jabez, putting away his shaving-tackle, and 

taking up the pomatum pot. “Eh — hallo! what's this? Botheration take 

that fellow Lint! if he hasn't sent me a potful of salve for sore legs, in 

mistake. What a nuisance! Well, never mind, it can't be helped now, and 

it won't do to get cross this morning. I must sprinkle my head with 

‘Jockey-club,’ and stroke my beard with a wax candle.” 

Eleven o'clock struck, and Jabez was in the drawing-room receiving his 

guests, and looking longingly out of the window every minute for his 

little “robin redbreast,” as he called Kitty. Never had his neighbours seen 

him look so smart before, and compliments were showered upon him till 

he blushed blue. He was just telling Mr. Grouts that he felt happy enough 

to fly, when Mrs. Budge placed a note in his hands. He opened it, then 

turned pale, and with a prolonged groan he hastily left the room, toddled 

upstairs as fast as he could and jumped into his bridal bed. He was 

quickly followed by a score of friends, all anxious for an explanation of 

his mysterious flight, but no clue could they gather from him. To their 

united entreaties to come out of bed, or merely to show his face, he only 

replied in smothered yells from beneath the bed clothes, as if his mouth 

were full of blankets — 

“Go home! go home! every one of you. Leave me alone! Leave me 

alone! I shall never get up any more.” 

After an excited discussion, which did not enlighten any one in the 

least degree, all the company — save Mr. Grouts — went home, without 

breakfast; some declaring that Jabez was drunk, but the majority 

believing that he was suddenly struck silly. An hour afterwards not less 

than a hundred boys and girls were seated in a green paddock adjoining 

Gumberry Lodge, and the wedding breakfast was portioned out to them 

by Mr. and Mrs. Grouts, to the great satisfaction of the children, but to 

the marked disgust of old Mrs. Budge, and her ravenous boy Billy. 

Mr. Gummy kept to his bridal bed (in full dress) for three days, during 

which time he doggedly refused to speak or to partake of any 

refreshment. On the fourth day he felt very hungry, so he got up and 

ordered a rump steak and fried potatoes. After a hearty meal, he went 

into Sydney and gave orders to an agent to let Gumberry Lodge, 

furnished. He then returned home, gave Mrs. Budge and her boy Billy a 

week's wages and their dismissal, and the next day he started for 

Melbourne, without saying goodbye to any of his neighbours. 

* * * * * 

Thirteen months after the above occurrences, Mr. Gummy and Mr. 

Grouts were sitting by the fireside in a little back parlour at Gumberry 

Lodge. Mr. Gummy had recently returned from his tour, and regained

possession of his house, with a new housekeeper. After hearing various 

items of local news, he asked his friend, “And what has become of that 

little rogue that jilted me so mysteriously? Ha, ha, ha! The mischievous 

young puss! it's a mercy she did not kill me.” 

“She was married, seven months ago, to a steady young fellow named 

Spry, a clever mechanic,” replied Mr. Grouts. 

“I am very glad of that; poor little bird! very glad indeed. I hope she 

will be happy. She was far too young for me, Grouts, and I ought to have 

known that; but the fact is, I was struck spoony as they call it, and 

common sense deserted me. I have often thought of your kindness in 

trying to dissuade me from the silly step, and I thank you Grouts; though 

I verily believe that all the friends I have in the world would not have 

reasoned me out of it at the time; I was so obstinately in love. Ha, ha, ha! 

What a silly old gander I was to be sure. But tell me why she gave me up 

so suddenly, Grouts? you see I am sane upon the subject now, so you 

need not mind telling me all that you know. I received half-a-dozen lines 

from Mrs. Mayberry, on my wedding morning, telling me ‘that she had 

sent Kitty into the country, and that she would rather bury her in the wild 

bush, than give her away to a good-for-nothing old cripple, who regarded 

her as a mere brick.’ That's all I know about it, and it's all a mystery to 

me.” 

Mr. Grouts then briefly explained to his friend the ruse he had invented 

to prevent a match, which he saw must end in misery, knowing, as he 

did, that Kitty was a giddy little creature, who could only be managed by 

a smart young husband; and, moreover, knowing that she was in love 

with Ben Spry, more than she was, perhaps, aware of herself. “Finding 

all my logic ineffectual,” said Mr. Grouts, “I had recourse to the scheme 

which I have explained.” 

“But how and when did you manage it? It seems like a piece of 

conjuration,” said Mr. Gummy, while tears of fun rolled down his merry 

old face. 

“While you went down to the door with Mrs. Fitz's physic, I took out 

my pencil and wrote ‘salve for sore legs’ on your pomatum pot, and that 

is all I did. I intended that Mrs. Mayberry should see it, for I knew it 

would blister her pride in a minute; but I was saved further trouble by her 

prying curiosity and Mrs. Budge's tattling tongue together. They 

managed the rest of the business for me, and that is how you lost your 

little spring lamb, Jabez. But I have explained the matter to Mrs. 

Mayberry long ago, and I expect she will call on you, and humbly 

apologise for her rudeness. For my part, I confess it was a great liberty I 

took with you, which nothing but the extreme necessity could warrant, 

and I ask you to forgive me, Gummy.” 

“Forgive you, my boy! I thank you with all my heart,” said Jabez, 

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 

that while I lay in bed sulking, and trying to starve myself, I overheard 

the merry voices of the children whom you collected to eat my wedding 

breakfast, and though it was not welcome music to me at the time, it has 

since suggested some important considerations to my mind, which I have 

had ample time to reflect upon. The fact is, I have seen that my life has 

been a waste; I have been hoarding up money, and living in selfish 

idleness — burying my talent in a napkin, as it were — and totally 

neglecting the most important concerns of life; but I hope I am now a 

wiser, and a better man. If God spares me, you shall see some of my new 

plans in operation very soon, and I trust that thousands of poor children 

in this land will be permanently benefited thereby. Forgive you, indeed! 

ha! ha! ha! You are the best friend I ever had in my life. Ho! ho! ho! 

Your salve made me smart for a time, but it has doubtless saved me from 

life-long heart-ache; at all events it has softened my heart towards my 

needy fellow-creatures around me, and let me feel the luxury of doing 

good with my money. Give me your hand, Grouts! God bless you, my 

boy! This day fortnight is Christmas Day, you know, and you must dine 

with me, so don't say nay. You shall see such a gathering in my paddock 

on that day as nobody ever saw there before. I have invited all the poor 

people I can find to a good dinner, and I am going to give them a 

Christmas-box beside. Ha! ha! ha! won't it be glorious to see hundreds of 

poverty-stricken mortals filled with joy and gladness?” 

* * * * * 

Not long afterwards Mr. Gummy married Widow Mayberry; and it 

would be worth while for any old gentleman afflicted with chronic 

celibacy, to peep into Gumberry Lodge now. Mr. Ben Spry is a master 

wheelwright. thanks to the timely aid of Mr. Gummy, and his buggies 

and bullock drays are generally approved of. Kitty makes a devoted wife 

and a careful mother. Grandfather Gummy may often be seen frolicking 

with her children, like a sunny old soul as he is; and when he has done 

playing, he has always got useful work to do, “to visit the fatherless and 

widows in their affliction.” His home is full of harmony, and his heart is 

full of love; but if care-clouds perchance overshadow his brow on rare 

occasions, his loving wife gently pats his bald head, then coquettishly 

rattles the lid of the pomatum pot (which is kept as a chimney ornament), 

when his face brightens up in an instant, and he laughs like a kilted 

Highlandman trying on a pair of top-boots.

“Old Bogies.” 

NOT long ago I overheard a mother thus address her little daughter, 

who had strayed from her side, and with childish curiosity was peeping 

into an open door-way. “Come hither, Minnie! you little monkey! Do 

you hear me, miss? Old Daddy Longlegs will catch you in a minute, if 

you don't mind what I say to you. Here he comes! My goodness! he'll 

catch you!” The dread of Daddy Longlegs had an immediate effect upon 

Minnie's short legs, and away she ran towards her mother, who seemed 

much pleased at the manifest alarm of her offspring, and at the success of 

her own silly expedient. 

I do not refer to that occurrence on account of its novelty, for it is not 

uncommon to hear mothers call their children names, even less 

complimentary than “little monkeys,” and to consign them to powers 

more terribly real than “daddy Longlegs.” I wish to make a few remarks 

on the folly and danger of exacting obedience from children by operating 

on their fears; and I would commend my subject to the consideration of 

mothers and of nurses in general. 

I was recently conversing with an intelligent lady friend upon various 

matters connected with the training of children, when she related the 

following facts, and gave me permission to make what use I pleased of 

them. She said that when about eight years of age, she was on a visit at 

the house of a relative; and during her stay there she shared the bedroom 

of two adult female cousins. One night she had been rather tardy in 

disrobing, and her cousins were in bed before her, so the duty of 

extinguishing the candle devolved upon her. “If you don't make haste and 

put out the light, Annie,” said one of her cousins, “old Bogy will catch 

hold of you as you are getting into bed.” 

My friend said that she put out the light instantly, and sprang into bed 

with a palpitating heart, and there she lay conjuring up a hideous array of 

images, which scared away sleep, and filled her mind with horror. The 

next morning she was in an unusually excited state. In the course of the 

day she went shopping with her cousins, and while in the city she 

suddenly left them and ran as fast as she could to her home, which was 

some distance off. When she arrived there, she rushed up to her mother, 

flung herself into her arms, and burst into an hysterical fit of weeping. 

“Next day,” my informant remarked, “I was seized with an attack of St. 

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 

years; but by degrees my nerves recovered their tone, and now — thank 

God — I am as free from dread of old bogies as most adults are. But I 

have not forgotten the occurrence, and it has made me very careful to 

avoid exciting my children in a similar way; and also to be very watchful 

over my nursemaids, for I have good reason to believe that children are 

sometimes terrified by servants, as the following tragical incident will 

prove.” 

“A lady whom I knew very well,” resumed my informant, “was one 

evening at a party at a friend's house, when suddenly she was impressed 

with an unaccountable idea that some terrible disaster had befallen her 

child, a little girl about five years of age, whom she had left in charge of 

the nursemaid. The lady hastily departed for her home, and on reaching 

it, ran up-stairs to the nursery, when to her horror, she beheld her darling 

child lying in its little bed — dead. Its eyes were wide open, and were 

directed with a ghastly stare to a hideous-looking figure at the foot of the 

bed, which the lady speedily discovered was a broom, dressed up with a 

black shawl and other sombre habiliments, to represent an ‘old bogy.’ 

The poor child had actually been frightened to death; and perhaps it was 

well for her she was dead, for it is probable, had she lived, she would 

have drivelled out her days in hopeless idiocy. That unpardonably cruel 

trick had been perpetrated by the nursemaid, to make the child lie still, 

and allow her to go to the servants' hall, and join in the revels, which 

were there going on in the absence of the mistress of the house.” 

I do not mean to insinuate that such barbarity is often practised by 

nurse-maids in civilised life. I hope it is a very rare case, and I further 

hope that if the foregoing fact should be read by persons who have the 

charge of young children, that it may serve as a warning against the 

dangerous expedient of quieting them by means of “old bogies,” tangible 

or otherwise. Nurses would do well also, to beware how they instil into 

young minds frightful tales of ghosts and goblins, which many children 

have an eager desire to hear, or the consequences may be very serious; 

and if not in many cases so disastrous as in those above related, it may 

tend to mental imbecility and other evils of a life-long tenacity. 

An old friend of mine has assured me, that though grey hairs are 

frosting his brow, he has not forgotten the ghostly legends which were 

crowded into his mind when he was a child. Even now, he is obliged 

— when in certain positions — to keep a vigilant check on his 

imagination, lest it should overpower his reason for a time, and surround 

him with a host of self-created phantoms, horrible as the figure of death 

itself. He further told me, that a schoolfellow had once declared to him, 

that he had accidentally run up against his Uncle Bill's leg, as he was 

crossing a country churchyard one dark night. The leg was sticking up 

perpendicularly, with the toes bare. “That grossly absurd story,” added

my friend, “had such an effect on my boyish fancy, and created such a 

dread of straying legs, that rather than even pass the churchyard wall 

after dark, I have walked two miles round.” 

I remember stopping — some years ago — at a comfortless bush inn, 

after a wearisome day's journey on horseback. The weather had been 

wet, and the roads were boggy. I reached the inn about two hours after 

sunset; and a more uninviting reception I never met with in travelling. I 

was shown into a dreary apartment, and after the lapse of an hour was 

supplied with a greasy supper. 

When I had finished my meal, I rang the bell and asked the landlady if 

she could accommodate me with a newspaper. She replied, that in 

consequence of the river being flooded, there had been no postal 

communication for several days; but she had last Saturday's — 

— Mercury. I had read that issue of the paper, so I asked if she could 

oblige me with a book. She thought she could, and in a short time 

brought me a tattered volume of Mrs. Crowe's “Night Side of Nature.” I 

sat before the fire and read about ghosts and spectres, until a sort of 

horrible fascination stole over me; and it was long after the house had 

been closed, that I was warned to bed by the flickering candle. But the 

terrors of that night are still vividly before me, when I allow my mind to 

dwell on them. A short allowance of bedding, a hard bed, an illventilated 

room, and a supper of fat bacon, are quite enough to mar 

refreshing slumbers; but my physical discomforts were nothing 

compared with the mental horrors which gradually crept over me, until 

they completely got the mastery of my reason, kept sleep from my 

eyelids, and filled my chamber with imaginary spectres, diabolical 

enough to scare even Mrs. Crowe herself. I have not seen that lively 

book since, nor do I wish to see it again. I recommend it — with all 

similar books — to be carefully kept out of the reach of children, and 

dismal-minded adults; as it is very likely to frighten them out of their 

wits. 

I would advise parents, and all persons entrusted with the care of 

children, to be very cautious what story books they allow them to read, 

or what stories they allow them to hear; for I have good authority in 

stating, that many poor children have had their minds shaken to idiocy by 

ghastly legends and romances, which only Satan himself could dictate, 

and which can serve no better end than to please him. 

I wish all those persons, who either thoughtlessly or savagely delight in 

frightening children, could be made as thoroughly ashamed of 

themselves as my literary friend Grinn was, some time ago. Mr. Grinn 

was by no means an enemy to children; on the contrary, he was usually a 

favourite with them, and few old men studied to please them more than 

he did, in general. But even literary men are peevish at times, and the 

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 

infantile fun as a giant with a broken jaw. He was on a visit to a friend in 

a neighbouring colony; and was one morning busily engaged preparing a 

lecture which he had promised to deliver that evening. His quiet studies 

were frequently intruded upon by the son of his host, a pretty, merry little 

fellow, just beginning to chatter; and though at most times Mr. Grinn 

would have been glad to see him, and have a frolic with him, his private 

opinion, on that occasion, was that Jamie was a little nuisance. At one 

time he would open the door to show Mr. Grinn a wooden horse, without 

head or tail; then he would apply for instruction in spinning his 

humming-top; and soon afterwards tease his old friend with a box of 

puzzles, or a squeaking cat. At each visit Mr. Grinn received his little 

tormentor as blandly as he could, and used every legitimate artifice to 

induce Jamie to stay outside, but to very little purpose, for at intervals of 

seven minutes he would return, in full song, and though Mr. Grinn had 

fastened the door, it did not avail him in the least degree, for Jamie 

would kick it until it was opened. 

“Here, Jamie, my dear, run and get some lollies; and don't come in here 

again, there's a good boy. I am very busy this morning, and can't spare 

time to play with you,” said Mr. Grinn, with an appealing look at the 

boy, on his ninth visit. “Here's a penny for you; run away now, there's a 

man.” 

Jamie took the money and ran away to buy his lollies, and probably ran 

all the way back too, for he was not gone long, and of course he rushed 

directly into the room, to share his purchase with his generous friend. 

“I don't want any lollies, Jamie. Do go away, there's a good boy,” 

groaned Mr. Grinn, who was just finishing a passage which he expected 

would produce thunder-claps of applause from the body of the hall, and 

“hear, hear,” from all the sedate gentlemen on the platform. “Go away, 

Jamie; I think mamma wants you. Go and give her a lolly.” 

Jamie ran away, and Mr. Grinn resumed his work, but in less than five 

minutes the boy was back again, disarranging the lecturer's papers with 

his sugary fingers, and singing “diddle daddle, diddle daddle dum,” with 

all his vocal energy. Mr. Grinn's patience forsook him for an instant, and 

he grew positively savage. Throwing down his pen, and looking straight 

at the boy, he made a grimace hideous enough to make an old cab-horse 

bolt, and exclaimed in hissing tones, “If you don't go away this instant, 

I'll eat you up.” 

“Hoo-o! hoo-o! hoo-o-o!” roared Jamie, as he ran out of the room in 

terror, while his mother rushed down-stairs to meet him, and to learn the 

cause of his unusual outcry. “Hey, Jamie, my darling! what's the matter?” 

asked his fond mother, in excited tones. 

“O mammy, mammy! gent'man going to eat me up,” screamed Jamie, 

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, 

and confessing his folly in thus frightening her boy; which he really did 

not intend to do. 

“No, no, Jamie! Mr. Grinn will not eat you. He is a kind gentleman, 

and loves nice little boys.” 

“Yes, mammy, he will eat me. Hoo! hoo-o!” roared Jamie. 

“Nonsense, my sonnie! he won't eat you. Come in with me,” said the 

lady, walking into Mr. Grinn's studio, with Jamie in her arms, his little 

eyes staring with terror. 

Mr. Grinn blushed and shivered, as guilty men usually do, while he 

stammered out an awkward explanation, the effect of which was to 

incline the lady to the horrible belief that he really had cannibalish 

designs upon her chubby little son. Few modest men have ever felt more 

abashed than poor old Grinn did, at the look of contemptuous surprise 

which over-spread the handsome features of his hostess. She spoke not a 

word, but, hugging her trembling boy to her breast, walked out of the 

room with a calm dignity and closed the door, leaving her guest as 

miserably chapfallen as if he had been publicly exposed as an impostor. 

His studies were completely upset for that day, and his lecture at night 

was a failure. 

While I feel a good deal of sympathy for my unlucky friend, under the 

peculiar circumstances, I cannot too strongly denounce the practice of 

frightening children, either by threatening to eat them, or by invoking 

“Old Daddy Long-legs,” or any other mystical nobody, to catch them. 

And though I have a thorough contempt for old bogies in general, I think 

I could countenance a special one, whose office should be to nightly 

twitch the noses of all disseminators of hideous ghosts and goblin stories; 

the tendency of which is to spoil promising children, to oppress their 

young brains with pernicious trash, and terrify them into miserable 

imbeciles.

Don't Lie Down and Fret. 

ONE afternoon I was sitting on the poop of a fine ship, then on a long 

voyage, when we were overtaken by a violent squall. The majority of my 

readers doubtless know what a scene of bustle and commotion a ship's 

deck presents at such a time, so I need not minutely describe it. The wind 

roared, the officers shouted, and the sailors sung hoy, hoy! as they 

hurriedly clewed up, or hauled down the flapping sails. All hands were 

on deck, and actively engaged. In the midst of the exciting scene, I 

particularly noticed the eccentric movements of a pale little man, who 

was yclept “Jemmy Ducks,” the cognomen which is usually given to the 

individual who has charge of the pigs and poultry on ship-board. The 

poor fellow was on his first voyage, and had scarcely got what sailors 

call his sea legs. He was evidently sea sick, and looked as helpless and 

scared as a black fellow on a runaway omnibus. Presently I saw him fall 

flat on the deck, having lost his footing in a violent lurch, caused by a sea 

striking the ship on the broadside. While I was preparing to go to him, to 

ascertain if he were hurt, I observed a rough-looking old seaman (who 

was running with some others to the main topsail reef tackles), as he 

passed the prostrate Jemmy Ducks, gave him a smart kick in the ribs, and 

at the same time grumbled out, in that dry ironical tone so peculiar to 

sailors, “don't lie down there, you'll be in the way.” The poor poultry 

man scrambled up, and with a rueful face, staggered to his hen coops 

under the top-gallant forecastle; doubtless thinking it was an equivocal 

sort of sympathy which the old son of Neptune had manifested for his 

downfall, and his bruises. I confess that while I pitied him, I could not 

avoid smiling at the sailor's mode of emphasising his advice, by kicking 

the poor fellow, instead of helping him up; and the comical expression 

on the faces of the other sailors, shewed that they viewed his 

discomfiture with much the same feeling that they would display at 

shaving an uninitiated shipmate, while crossing the line. 

I was at that time comparatively inexperienced in the ways of the 

world; and I bestowed but little reflection on the incident; but — trivial 

as it was — it has often recurred to my mind, when I have seen the spirit 

of the old sailor imitated by folks on shore, on their luckless friends who 

have been knocked down, either by their own folly or by misfortune; 

though I have not always felt so disposed to laugh at the exhibition, as I 

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 

of Jack Junk, to such of my readers who may be disposed to lie down and 

despair, in consequence of present trials and difficulties, which to their 

troubled minds appear insurmountable. So far from administering a kick 

with my caution, I would offer a few words of counsel and friendly 

encouragement to such downcast ones, and endeavour to lift them up; 

lest some of their neighbours stumble over them. 

In general, those persons are disappointed who look for much 

sympathy from the public for their pecuniary reverses, or at all events 

who expect that feeling to be very lasting; and it would be unwise to 

calculate upon much revenue in return for a tale of ruin. Your society is 

more likely to be shunned than courted, if you are too ready to pour out 

your troubles. A fire, a shipwreck, an explosion, an inundation, or any 

other great catastrophe, which had suddenly reduced you to poverty, 

might create a strong impression, and procure you general condolence for 

a brief period after its occurrence; but the emotion would be very 

transient, and it is marvellous how unsympathisingly the majority of 

folks would hear you recite the details of the mishap, twelve months 

afterwards; and what difficulty you would experience in raising even the 

price of a dinner, by the most dismal story you could tell. Do not then 

voluntarily lie down and fret, in the belief that you will gain much by 

doing so, for you are more likely to be kicked than pitied. Rather try to 

stand up and face your trials and difficulties, whatever they may be. Put a 

manly, cheerful courage on, then half your troubles will fly away, and 

you will probably find help to battle with the other half. It is an old 

saying, that “a merry-faced fellow could raise a guinea at any time, but a 

dolorous individual, on the contrary, could not raise ninepence if his life 

depended on it.” 

“Do you see that gentleman on the opposite side of the street?” I 

enquired of a friend with whom I was walking one day. 

“Yes, I see him. He looks very miserable: who is he, and what is the 

matter with him?” 

“I knew him a few years ago, as a flourishing merchant,” I replied; “but 

he failed, from some cause of which I am ignorant, and he has never held 

up his head since. He seems to have lost heart and energy altogether, and 

looks grief-worn and poverty stricken.” 

“Poor wretch!” exclaimed my friend, with a momentary glance of 

sympathy towards the desponding merchant; then he added, “what a 

simpleton he must be not to stand up stiff under his burden, if he cannot 

shake it from his shoulders entirely.” 

“There are the old sailor's sentiments again, and the kick too,” I 

thought, as I continued my walk beside my friend, who, by the way, was 

not an unfeeling man. Like scores of other men immersed in business, he 

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 

that poor man's dejection, or offer to help him with even ten pounds' 

worth of goods, to make a fresh start in the world. But were any brisk, 

energetic-looking individual to present himself at his warehouse, and ask 

credit for a hundred pounds' worth of goods to help to restock his shop, 

which was burnt out the other day, it is probable my friend would give it 

cheerfully. 

“Nil desperandum” is a capital motto; and “never give up,” — which is 

almost the same sentiment — has saved many a storm-shattered ship 

from sinking to the bottom of the sea. Courage and perseverance often 

overcome extraordinary difficulties; and a hopeful spirit at such times is 

as cheering as sunshine in a gale; while anxiety, and gloomy misgivings, 

destroy that cool presence of mind, which is so essential in all 

emergencies; paralyze the faculties, and hasten on the evils you so much 

dread. 

“The ship is sinking!” raved a terrified man from the fore part of a 

steamer, which was labouring heavily in a furious gale, on this coast, one 

memorable night. 

“She is not sinking!” shouted the captain from his post on the bridge. 

“Bale the water out of the fore cabin, and nail tarpaulins over the 

skylights.” 

The cool, determined spirit of that commander, inspired his crew with 

hope and energy, and their efforts saved the vessel. Had he suffered that 

startling cry to paralyze his judgment, the steamer would doubtless have 

foundered, and the lives of all her passengers would have ended. The 

same hopeful energy, put forth in the storms which often threaten our 

social or commercial prospects, would generally help us to escape them, 

or at any rate it would help to alleviate their effects; while, on the 

contrary, a desponding, lie-down-and-die sort of spirit, would be 

productive of disaster, and perhaps ruin; to say nothing of its panicraising 

influence on our neighbours. 

“What are you going to do?” I once asked a farmer, who was gazing at 

the smoking ruins of his barn, which had been burned to the ground. 

“Do, sir?” he replied, “why go to work and build a bigger barn: it's not 

a bit of use crying over those cinders.” 

“Bravo, Sam! that's plucky,” said a good-natured by-stander. “I'll lend 

you my bullocks and dray, to draw in the split stuff from the bush.” 

“And I'll give you nails for the job,” said another friend. 

Sam's barn was soon rebuilt, and if he did not altogether forget his 

mishap, he soon ceased to trouble himself about it. By showing a manly 

resolution to help himself, he got help from his friends, and his 

temporary troubles were surmounted. If you have obstacles in your way, 

reader, push them aside if you can; if not, jump over them, run round 

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 

being in the way, by some of your bustling neighbours. 

“We overstate the ills of life, and take 

Imagination, given us to bring down 

The choirs of singing angels, overshone 

By God's clear glory, — down our earth, to rake 

The dismal snows instead; flake following flake, 

To cover all the corn. We walk upon 

The shadows of hills across a level thrown, 

And pant like climbers.” 

* * * * * 

I do not mean to infer that it is always possible to chase away 

distressing thoughts, by a mere effort of the will; or as easy to put away 

our troubles, as to throw off an overcoat; but as I believe it is possible to 

increase them by fretting over them — for like produces like — so it is 

possible to lessen them, by looking hopefully to the probability of their 

terminating. It is much more comforting to hope for things to mend, than 

to fear they will be worse; and it is miserable waste of time to dread evils 

which may never come near us. Unavoidable troubles, of course, must be 

borne, and the more patiently we bear them the less are we likely to be 

galled. A man who has used every honest effort to avert disaster, will 

feel a degree of satisfaction at having done his duty, and his conduct will 

doubtless be rightly estimated by thoughtful men around him. 

That there is a good deal of distress, at the present time, throughout the 

colony, is indisputable; and to trace some of the causes and their effects, 

would not be difficult. There are few reflecting men, however, who did 

not expect severe straits to result from the terrible inundations which 

lately ravaged many of the agricultural districts, and the repeated failure 

of wheat crops from rust. Droughts, too, have seriously affected some of 

the pastoral and mining districts. The lawless depredations of 

bushrangers, and political disruptions, together with many other minor 

occurrences and calamities, have tended to depress trade, and the 

influence is easily traceable to individual exchequers. However much 

these things are to be deprecated, merely deploring will never remedy 

them, and the truest philosophy is to look at our difficulties boldly, and 

strive to diminish them if we cannot surmount them altogether. We only 

double our trouble when we trouble ourselves over it. Though many 

persons just now join in the cry of bad times, there is plenty of room for 

hope that times will mend, for this is a great country with boundless 

resources, and no rational man will fear that general distress can be 

permanent. Every one knows the beneficial influence the frosts of winter

have upon the soils of some parts of our globe, in destroying noxious 

weeds and vermin; and may not such seasons of depression as the present 

have a salutary influence on our commercial and social systems. 

Uninterrupted prosperity would not be good for us, in a moral, or in any 

other sense, and occasional reverses may be regarded as wholesome 

correctives. After cool consideration, I have arrived at the firm 

conclusion — which is strengthened by many years' colonial 

experience — that there is no need for an honest, industrious, healthy 

man to despond in Australia; so to all to whom it may apply, I repeat the 

old sailor's injunction, “don't lie down, you'll be in the way.” Try to smile 

away the gloom from your faces, and the effort will lighten your hearts, 

and shed a cheering influence around you. 

It would seem like trifling with the misfortune of those, who from 

bodily infirmity, or overwhelming distresses, are incapable of getting up 

to offer them advice suitable only for the strong and healthy. To such 

poor sufferers I would say, lie still, friends, and try to bear with patience 

the trials which you cannot avert; while you take comfort in the belief, 

“that all things work together for good.” Remember that precious gems 

have to be rubbed and ground a good deal before they are fitted to grace 

the crown of a monarch. There is doubtless a “needs be” for all your 

afflictions, which by and bye you will joyfully acknowledge. There will 

be an end to them all — perhaps very speedily — and like the polished 

gems, you will shine brighter for the hard rubs and severe grinding under 

which you now writhe and groan.

Sunshine in Winter; Or, the Loves of Old Mr. And Mrs. 

Dovecott. 

Chapter I. 

A BEAMING old pair were Mr. and Mrs. Dovecott, whose loves I am 

about to depict, in the tenderest manner I can. To see them as they 

toddled to church on Sundays was as pleasing a sight as that of a tree 

laden with ripe cherries. Arm in arm they jogged along — which they 

could comfortably do, for Nanny wore no crinoline to rasp her husband's 

ancles, or to keep him an arm's length from her side — while love and 

sympathy were evident by their clinging contact, and by their every act 

and gesture. The simple little fact, too, of Nanny's goloshes peeping out 

of David's coat pocket, in doubtful weather, and her warm plaid wrapper 

hanging over his arm, plainly indicated his thoughtful care for the health 

and comfort of his darling wifie. 

Almost any one may write a love story; that is to say, almost any one 

may find material enough for the purpose, by merely putting his head out 

of window on a sunny day, or on a moonlight night either; but I am sorry 

to believe that he would have to wander about a long while to find many 

such specimens of genuine old lovers as the subjects of my story. 

Perhaps it is worth while for the reader to pause a minute and consider 

the causes of the comparative lack of mutual warmth in aged wedded 

hearts. Why so many old folks grow cold, and cross, and negligent of 

each other. I have thought upon the subject carefully, and am of opinion 

that in most cases the primary cause of unhappiness and discord, is the 

absence of that strong abiding love which is founded upon a knowledge 

of, and an esteem for each other's virtues; and a secondary cause, is the 

lack of tact and prudence in studying each other's dispositions, and 

mutually bearing and forbearing with infirmities and peculiarities, which 

should have been ascertained before the irrevocable marriage vows were 

made. The following little sketch of marriage à In mode will perhaps 

help to illustrate the latter proposition better than any abstract reasoning. 

A soft-hearted pair, just merging from their teens, meet for the first 

time at a picnic, a ball, a bazaar, or what not, when the young gentleman 

is “struck spoony” with the bright eyes, the glossy hair, and fascinating 

air of Julia Daffodil. Of course he is as killing as he can be, and young 

love boldly enters her susceptible breast, without meeting with the

slightest resistance. She is struck too, and forthwith becomes enamoured 

of sentimental songs, set to die-away music, begins to study the language 

of flowers, and to indulge in moonlight reveries and rhapsodies. The 

stricken pair meet again very soon, for love always manages to effect 

those little amatory contretemps; when the swimming eyes of Horace 

Hawthorn softly declare his heart's overladen condition, and the dovelike 

glances, and rising blushes of Miss Daffodil, plainly evidence that 

the tender feeling is mutual. Horace's love soon grows violent, and 

impatient: he boldly sues for the heart and hand of his inamorata, and is 

accepted at once with appropriate tears, and gushing expressions of 

never-dying constancy. How can two such fond hearts exist apart? 

Impossible? With such a fierce flame within them they would soon be 

burned to death. They are speedily married, and revel for a fortnight on 

holiday fare and love, in their temporary lodgings at Kissing Point. Oh! 

What a delightful time that is! Comparable to nothing in every-day-life; 

and only to be rightly estimated by poets. They have nothing to do but 

ramble about and listen to the pretty birds, and gather bush flowers; or sit 

beneath a sweetbrier hedge, and mutually confide all the secrets they 

have ever had in their hearts, and tell each other everything they know, 

even to their own follies and foibles — which candour they will possibly 

regret before they are a month older. But the golden days speed by; alas! 

too swiftly for love and them. Their honeymoon wanes. They sigh over 

departing joys, and wish that honeymoons were perennial. At length, 

Horace's leave of absence expires, and they go home to begin married 

life in earnest; he to earn the necessary funds for bread and sundries and 

she to the matter-of-fact duty of managing her household economy, and 

examining for the first time the mysterious depths of his trunks, and 

discovering the shortcomings of his bachelor's buttons, &c. 

I shall not accompany this hastily-matched pair through the short 

stages of their conjugal progress, up to their first quarrel. By an elaborate 

computation it has been settled that the average duration of amity and 

peace in such households is six weeks. The satiated lovers then begin to 

discover what they should have been careful to find out before the fatal 

knot was tied, viz., that they are wholly unsuited to each other, in every 

way; which fact they loudly confess with tears and angry recriminations; 

and in less than six months Horace Hawthorn may be heard, ten times a 

day, saying in effect, to his pouting spouse — “I wish we were 

unmarried.” 

That is a short but far from an over-wrought sketch of flaring affection 

and precipitate unions; and though it is drawn from fancy, I have only to 

give my memory a slight rub, to cause many sadder examples from real 

life to arise. But I am about to draw a far more pleasing picture of 

wedded life. Leaving young lovers' downy dreams, and their waking 

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 

delicate task has certainly more of novelty to recommend it, for few 

persons make old folks the hero and heroine of a romantic tale. Love 

stories usually end with marriage (though I do not see why they should), 

but the mutual love of my two worthy old friends will not end with my 

story, and I hope — indeed I feel sure — it will live for ever. 

Dear reader! if you knew David Dovecott and his amiable wife, I am 

sure you would love them as warmly as I do. The mellow tints of a 

summer evening's sky are not more pleasing to gaze on than the 

benevolent faces of that genuine pair, and their faces are true indices of 

their warm hearts. If you are fortunate enough to know them, and can 

appreciate a simply told tale of honest, enduring affection, take a 

favourable opportunity of asking Davey to relate his first love 

impressions, and his marital experience of forty years, and you will have 

an entertainment far surpassing the Lancashire bellringers' striking 

melodies. Those who cannot have the superior pleasure of hearing the 

story from the old man's lips, may — if they choose — read my account 

of it, which, as I transcribe, I fancy I see him sitting in his verandah on a 

pleasant evening, with his devoted wife beside him, her eyes swimming 

in loving kindness, and her silvery hair braided over a countenance 

which might have been photographed for the emblem of mortal 

goodness. Here then I begin his story, which I wish I could give in his 

own rich racy style. 

“It is — let me see — sixty-six years come the fourteenth of next July, 

since I first saw my own darling Nanny here,” began Mr. Dovecott, 

chuckling his smiling wife under the chin at the same time. “Sixty-six 

years ago: that is a long time, Mr. Boomerang, but I remember it as 

distinctly as though it were but last Christmas Day. I was going home 

from Dame Tingle's school, at the end of our village, and was knocking 

down butterflies with my empty dinner-bag, when I almost ran up against 

a little girl, about five years old, dressed in a short blue print frock, and a 

round straw hat; but with only one shoe on. She was standing near to the 

crossing-place of the brook, crying: so I went up to her and said — 

“ ‘What is the matter, little girl!’ ‘I have lost my shoe,’ she answered, 

wiping her eyes on her frock. ‘Where did you lose it?’ said I. ‘I was 

picking a waterlily, and I slipped off that rough stone, and my shoe came 

off and swam away down the brook. Hoo — o — boo — o — o! What 

shall I do?’ ‘Don't cry, little girl,’ said I, ‘I'll try and find your shoe for 

you. Here, hold my dinner-bag.’ 

“So I pulled off my shoes and stockings, and rolled up my trousers, and 

away I paddled into the brook. I soon found the shoe, which had a little 

hole in the side, so it had not floated far. I wiped it as dry as I could with 

my pinafore, and gave it to her; when she sat down on the grass and put 

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 

since then. That was the first time I ever set eyes on my dear Nanny; and 

little did I then think that that wee tiny girl would prove to be the best 

friend I ever found in the world, and would gladden my life with the 

genial influence of her love — would prove to me a greater treasure than 

all my gold, even if it were multiplied ten thousand fold, and worked into 

filigree jewellery.” 

“Hush, hush! Davy my dear,” said Mrs. Dovecott, while she gently 

patted her husband's lips with her hand. “You must not praise me any 

more, or Mr. Boomerang will think me a vain old creature to sit here and 

listen to you.” 

“Well, well, my lass, I won't if it makes you feel uncomfortable, 

though I have not said half as much as I should like to say about you, 

bless your little heart!” 

“Some folks would say it is all nonsense to talk about a boy of seven 

years old falling in love; but I can certify that it is quite natural for all 

that,” continued Mr. Dovecott, addressing me. “You will believe what I 

say, Boomerang, and I assure you I fell in love with that little girl, who 

had lost her shoe; though I did not know I had fallen at all, till I got 

home; indeed, I did not even then know the name of the strange feeling 

which came over me. It was a peculiar sort of sweet sensation, with a 

tingle in it, more like brimstone and treacle than anything else I could 

then compare it to; and I used to feel it strongest when I crossed the 

brook, or whenever I saw a little shoe with a hole in it: and I sometimes 

used to dream that I saw a little girl picking a waterlily, and crying 

‘Hoo — o — boo — o! I've lost my shoe!’ 

“About twelve months after that occurrence, the same little girl came to 

Dame Tingle's school, and I felt so glad, though I scarcely knew why. 

Whenever I bought a half-pennyworth of hard-bake or bulls-eyes, I 

always saved some for little Nanny Roseley. She used to look so pleased 

when I gave them to her; and one day she gave me a young turnip, which 

I thought was as sweet as a golden-pippin, and it was nice and warm too, 

through being carried in her pocket. I remember the first wicked act 

which love tempted me to commit, and I did not soon forget the penalty I 

paid for it. One morning I was going to school, and in passing Squire 

Leveret's garden, I saw a bed of lovely pinks just inside a briar hedge. I 

thought how much I should like one of those pinks to give to Nanny; and 

without stopping to reflect on the sin I was going to commit, I worked 

my head and shoulders through the hedge, and was in the act of picking 

the flower, when I was strikingly conscious that some angry person was 

behind me, with a stick in his hand; indeed the evidence of that was plain 

enough five weeks afterwards. I withdrew my head and shoulders in a 

very short time, when to my great dismay there stood Squire Leveret, 

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 

me again; I'll never do so any more, sir!’ ‘What do you mean by robbing 

my garden? You young gaol-bird!’ shouted the squire. ‘I was only 

picking a pink for Nanny Roseley, sir,’ I sobbed. ‘Who is Nanny 

Roseley?’ he asked. ‘She is a little girl who goes to our school, please 

sir.’ ‘You had better take care she does not lead you to the gallows,’ he 

replied gruffly, at the same time giving me another blow with the stick; 

whereupon I thought I had enough stick for one pink, so I made use of 

my young legs, and ran off with two large pink stripes on my person, 

which of course I kept to myself.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Mr. Dovecott. “What an old goose Squire 

Leveret was to utter such a sentiment as that! I remember feeling more 

indignant with him for thus defaming my Nanny, than I did for his 

striking me with the switch, and I was strongly tempted to throw a stone 

at his head; but I am glad that I did not. Lead me to the gallows indeed! 

Why the dear soul has all her lifetime been leading me to Heaven. Her 

gentle, sympathetic counsel has often chased away the ruffles from my 

troubled brow, and her honeyed words have sweetened many a bitter 

sorrow. Her tender nursing hand has softened many a throb of pain; and 

her example of Christian patience, meekness, and love, has had more 

influence on my soul than all the doctrinal sermons I ever heard 

preached. But I must not say any more about her virtues, for I see she is 

blushing again, and I would not cause her a moment's uneasiness, even to 

give myself a month of pleasure.” 

Chapter II. 

AFTER passing a few good-natured strictures on Squire Leverett's 

angry prognostications, Mr. Dovecott thus resumed his narrative: — 

“A short time afterwards I was taken from Dame Tingle's, and sent to 

Mr. Wagstaff's school — about five miles off — as a weekly boarder; so 

I only saw Nanny on Sundays, in our village church. I loved to sit and 

look at her, in her brown beaver bonnet with red ribbons, and her 

nankeen tippet and sleeves; and I used to wonder if it were wicked for 

me to think her ten times prettier than the little mahogany angels that sat 

on the top of the organ. If it happened to be a wet day, and she was not at 

church, I always felt something like a dry cork sticking in my throat, and 

when I attempted to sing I would sometimes burst out crying, which 

usually gained me a dose of rhubarb when I got home, for my mother 

used to think I was poorly. 

“At fourteen years old I was apprenticed to Mr. Smalts, the grocer, on 

our village green, and Nanny, who had grown a fine big girl, often came 

to the shop with her little market basket. I always tried to serve her, 

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 

few plums or a stick of barley-sugar, but I was afraid she had grown far 

above such things, and would feel offended if I offered them. She always 

looked so modest and reserved, that whenever she came into the shop I 

was struck serious, and as overawed as if she were the parson's wife or a 

young saint. Had I any idea that the sly little rogue was, at the same time, 

over head and ears in love with me, it is very likely I should have 

summoned courage to have said a soft word or two; but she never gave 

me the slightest clue to her real feelings, for which becoming maidenly 

modesty I afterwards admired her the more of course. I remember one 

day after she had gone out of the shop, Tom Bullskin, my fellow 

apprentice, made some coarse remarks about her, when I immediately 

fired up and gave him a smart knock on the nose, which made his eyes 

water. ‘Now you had better take that from me,’ said I, ‘than let me tell 

her father what you have just said.’ ‘Oho! that's it, is it?’ said he, trying 

to look facetious, ‘I didn't know she was your sweetheart.’ From that 

time it was the talk of the gossips in the village that Nanny and I were 

lovers; still I never even whispered a word of love to her for years 

afterwards. At length my passion got to such a pressure that I felt I must 

ease my heart, or it would burst like an over-fired steam boiler. Nanny 

was then a lively lass of fifteen or sixteen. She was handsome as a satinbird, 

— but I need not attempt to describe her charms; just look at her 

now, Mr. Boomerang, and I leave you to judge what she was then,” said 

the old man, gazing at his wife, and passing his hand gently over her 

silvery locks. “You may imagine how she looked as Queen of the May 

fifty years ago, sir. You can fancy, too, how anxious I felt lest some one 

of the smart lads of the village should pluck my pretty May flower (as 

they were all looking after her as much as they dared, for her father and 

her big brother scared them from making any bold advances), and, as I 

said before, I had not the least idea that the little puss was sighing her 

heart sore for me, and perhaps fearing that some of the other village 

lasses would win my heart. 

“How to declare my love to her puzzled me wonderfully. I knew no 

one whom I could ask for advice except my mother; and I was half 

ashamed to speak to her on the subject, for I had often told her that I 

should never love any one in the world so much as I loved her. However, 

I thought I might get information from her, enough for my purpose, 

without exactly letting her know that she had,’ been supplanted in my 

affections; — so one evening, as she was sitting at her spinning-wheel (I 

always went home at night) after a good deal of thought how I should put 

the question, I said boldly, ‘Mother, what did poor father say to you 

when he first came courting?’ My stars, sir! you should have seen how 

the dear old lady stared at my unexpected question. ‘Why what on earth 

do you mean by asking me that, Davy?’ she exclaimed, stopping her

wheel and gazing into my blushing face. ‘Oh, nothing very particular, 

mother, only I like to know all about everything in the world; and you 

know you encourage me to acquire useful knowledge. — Do tell me all 

about it, mother,’ said I, in a coaxing tone, and putting my arms round 

her neck at the same time. I could see the loving old lady's heart was 

warming at the tender recollections which my question had awakened. 

She sighed, took off her spectacles, and wiped some tear marks from 

them, then began to smile, and playfully chide me for my inquisitiveness. 

After a little more gentle persuasion she sighed again and said, ‘Your 

poor dear father was a man of few words, Davy, still for all that, he was 

very acute, and a man of good taste too. He found out that I loved him, 

though I am sure I had not told it to a soul in the world; nor did he say a 

word to me about it either, but went straight off to my father, and said 

right out in his blunt way, “Mr. Dobbs, I want your daughter Grace; I 

love her awfully hard, and I am able and willing to work to keep her. 

What do you say?” My father, who always liked straight-forward people, 

said to him, “Come inside, Master Dovecott, and have a mug of cider; we 

will talk the matter over.” So in he went, and in a very short time he got 

father's consent. Then he came into the dairy where I was putting a 

cheese into the vat, and asked me if I would have him for a husband. You 

must be aware that I did not say nay, boy, and that's all about it. But what 

in the name of fortune do you want to know that for?’ ‘Nothing very 

particular, mother — I will tell you to-morrow night,” said I, kissing her 

affectionately. 

“I then put on my hat, and away I went across the fields to Mr. 

Roseley's house, repeating my father's successful form of address all the 

way I went. There sat old Mr. Roseley outside his front door smoking his 

pipe. ‘Good evening, Davy, my lad?’ said he; ‘Good evening, Mr. 

Roseley,’ said I. Then I felt all of a twitter inside, as though I had 

swallowed a nest of young skylarks. But I soon plucked up heart, and 

speaking as nearly as possible in the bluff style that my father always 

spoke in, I said, ‘Mr. Roseley, I want your daughter Nanny. I love her 

awfully hard, and am able and willing to work to keep her. What do you 

say?’ Goodness me, sir! how the old man stared at me. His pipe went out 

directly, and his nose reddened as if it were going to relight the tobacco. 

He did not swear, certainly, for he was a sensible man in the main, but he 

blustered like a black north-easter, and almost upset me. ‘Look ye, 

Davy,’ said he, ‘I believe you are an honest lad, or else, do you see that 

whip behind the door there? I'd give you that for your impudence in 

coming to ask for my girl as carelessly as if you merely wanted to 

borrow my wheelbarrow. “I want your daughter Nanny.” Zounds! is that 

the way to ask for such a girl as mine? Besides, do you think I am such a; 

fool as to let a lass of sixteen get married, unless I wanted to see her an 

old worn-out woman before she is in her prime? Ugh! get out, you

monkey, or I shall kick you into the duck-pond!’ 

“ ‘Oh, Mr. Roseley, I beg your pardon,’ I timidly stammered, ‘you 

make a mistake, sir. I don't want to marry her — — ’ 

“ ‘Eh, what! Then what the dickens do you want with her?’ roared the 

old man, stopping me before I had half said my say, for I meant I did not 

want to marry her for five years. ‘Confound your impudence! Let me get 

hold of you! Here, Boxer, Boxer, Boxer! Hool him, boy! hool him!’ 

“Boxer was a large mastiff that I had often seen following Nanny, as if 

to protect her, and as I was always timid of dogs, I did not wait till Boxer 

arrived from the back of the house, but away I went with my heart in my 

mouth, as the saying is, and jumped over the garden gate just as the dog 

was about to spoil my Sunday pantaloons. You can have no idea, sir, 

what a humble opinion I had of myself as I retraced my steps across the 

fields. When I got home I told my mother all about my misadventure, 

and she said I was a young gosling for not telling her what I was going to 

do, and she would have advised me how to go about it better. I ought to 

have borne in mind, she said, that my father was nearly thirty years old 

when he went courting; — moreover, he had a farm of his own, and a 

good house to take a wife to, ‘little matters which generally 

counterbalance roughness of address, in a great measure, as the times 

go.’ She further told me, ‘that I might have been sure Mr. Roseley would 

not let an apprentice-boy marry his daughter; that I ought to have gently 

told him I loved Nanny, and asked his permission to pay my addresses to 

her.’ Of course, that was all I wanted, — I only wished to secure my 

pretty bird, lest she should fly away with some other mate; but I sadly 

blundered in my way of making known my wishes and purpose, and I 

had not courage to go to Mr. Roseley again with explanations, for I 

dreaded Boxer's teeth, and the horsewhip behind the door. Nanny never 

came to our shop after that, so I thought my chance of caging her was 

very small indeed, and the mental distress I suffered in consequence I 

cannot well describe. To add to my torment, too, Tom Bullskin had by 

some means got hold of the story of my running away from the dog; and 

sometimes, when he was out of the range of my fist, he would whistle, 

and call out ‘Boxer, hool him, boy!’ 

“When I was twenty-one years old my apprenticeship expired, and I 

accepted an engagement with a London wholesale house which supplied 

my master with dry-saltery goods. I shall never forget the grief I felt at 

leaving my native village for the first time in my life. I had a few days' 

leisure before I went, so I resolved to ramble through every lane, and 

field, and nook, for miles round — which had been dear to my boyhood's 

fancy. The woods where I went nutting, the old elm by the roadside 

leading to the church, which I had so often climbed for birds'-nests, and 

the brook where I used to catch minnows and bullfrogs, or, more 

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 

long before I saw them again, I would indulge my fancy with a good 

long revel among them. One lovely afternoon, I remember it well, I was 

slowly walking along the margin of the brook, thinking of the merry days 

of childhood, when who should I see under a willow tree by the identical 

place where fourteen years before I had raised the sunken shoe, who but 

my darling Nanny. Yes, there she sat with a water-lily in her hand gazing 

at the brook, perhaps admiring her own beautiful image. There never was 

anything like lackadaisical sentiment about Nanny Roseley; so, strange 

as it seems, she had not gone there on purpose to meet me; not at all, sir, 

she had too much modesty for that. She has since told me with her own 

truthful lips, that she did not know why she went there on that identical 

afternoon, but we understand it now, sir; her going there was not mere 

chance. However, there she sat, looking as graceful and modest as the 

lily in her hand; and I must necessarily have passed by the place unless I 

had turned round and walked back, which would have looked very 

unmannerly if she had happened to turn her head and see me. So onward 

I went — timidly enough you may be sure — and when I came up to the 

spot where she sat, I felt as though I had been electrified; my heart 

actually leaped up to my throat, and forced my tongue to say, ‘Nanny!’ 

she turned round quickly, and, oh, sir! the sight of that beautiful blushing 

face would have knocked a cannibal down on his knees, or melted a Turk 

into tenderness. Of course I had not premeditated my address, how could 

I do so, when I had had no idea of seeing her? I rushed instinctively up to 

her and seized her lily white hand, and my heart spoke again right plump 

out, ‘Nanny, I love you!’ That is all I said, all I could say in fact, but that 

was enough, and I saw in a moment that Nanny loved me, though she did 

not speak a word. Oh, what a rush of rapture coursed all through me at 

that happy discovery! Never shall I forget it. It is a wonder I did not clasp 

her to my heart and kiss her luscious lips. It is fortunate too that I did not 

do it, for it might have frightened her, and — but I see you are getting 

excited, Mr. Boomerang, and so I will hurry past this touching part of my 

story. We sat beneath the willow tree for an hour or more, and Nanny 

lisped out the innocent confession, ‘that she had loved me ever since the 

day when I restored her lost shoe to her.’ Was not that very wonderful, 

sir? Of course I did not commit a second blunder by asking for her hand 

there and then, for I felt sure she would not give me any promise without 

the cognizance of her father, and I knew, too, that it would be wrong to 

press her for it. I merely asked her to reserve her heart for me, subject to 

her father's approval, which she promised to do, and then an interchange 

of lovers' vows took place which I sealed with a kiss; the first kiss I had 

ever impressed on a maiden's lips, and oh, sir, it was — but I beg pardon, 

I see I am exciting you again; I am afraid you are losing patience at my 

soft descriptions.

“Next day I went to London, with my mind fully resolved to work my 

way up in the world, and to provide a comfortable home for my heart's 

idol. I had plenty of uphill work, sir, but I will not trouble you with the 

details of that. An honest, determined spirit can overcome a host of 

difficulties. I not only acquired a more thorough knowledge of 

mercantile usages, but I found time to cultivate my mind, and improve 

the limited education I had received at school. Eighteen months 

afterwards I returned to Beechwood, to spend Christmas. I was then a 

man; and Nanny would now tell you, if I only paused a minute to allow 

her to speak, that I was rather a smart-looking young man too. I no 

longer feared Boxer, or the horsewhip (in fact, sir, I feared nothing in 

those days but dishonour), so I called on Mr. Roseley, and after much 

explanation and negotiation, I was acknowledged as Nanny's betrothed. I 

spent a merry Christmas at Mr. Roseley's house; and as I sat by the 

blazing ingle side, with my mother on one side of me and Nanny on the 

other, I would not have exchanged lots with the Duke of York. What fun 

we had that night to be sure! Old Mr. Roseley sat in his easy chair 

puffing his pipe and looking as benevolent as Father Christmas himself; 

the company roared with merriment when the old man told the story of 

my abrupt application for Nanny; of his wrathful rejection of my suit, 

and my flight over the garden gate just as Boxer was about to take a large 

bite from my maximus muscle.” 

The recollection of that comical incident was so vividly presented to 

the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Dovecott, that they laughed till the tears rolled 

down their faces. Of course I laughed to see them so merry, and you 

would have laughed too, dear reader, had you been with us. 

“But soon after that an important change took place in my prospects,” 

continued Mr. Dovecott. “A trustworthy young man was required to fill a 

responsible post in this colony, and I was strongly recommended for the 

office by my employers, who, though loth to part with me, felt a true 

interest in my welfare. An offer was made to me, which I had three days 

to consider, and then, if I accepted it, a week to prepare for my voyage. It 

would be hard to convey to you an idea of my conflicting feelings at this 

critical juncture in my affairs. On the one hand there was a brilliant offer 

of an honourable and lucrative post, with almost certain advancement to 

fortune; and on the other hand, there were ties of the most tender and 

sacred nature binding me to England. I was fairly perplexed, and the 

more I pondered the matter, the more complicated it seemed. So I 

earnestly sought guidance and direction from that unfailing source where 

I have all through my life found help in time of need; — and after a time 

I felt my mind perfectly free from doubt on the subject, and I was 

thoroughly convinced that it was my duty to go to Australia. It has ever 

been my rule, Mr. Boomerang, when I have clearly ascertained the path 

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 

the news to my dear mother and Nanny Roseley; and to take a last look 

at my native woods, and the old-fashioned thatched house near the 

village green, where I first drew the breath of life.” 

Chapter III. 

“MY mother was overwhelmed with grief when I tremblingly 

acquainted her with my new designs and prospects,” continued Mr. 

Dovecott. “And it is no wonder the poor old soul was cast down, for I 

was her main stay, and the only earthly object of her heart's strong 

affections to centre upon. She had buried my father and my sister years 

before, and had had a hard struggle to keep a comfortable roof over her 

head, and to give me a little bit of schooling as she called it. When I 

began to earn money of course I supported her, for she had grown too 

feeble to earn much at her spinning wheel; indeed, I did not allow her to 

work for pay after I had the means of supplying all her wants. It was a 

proud day for me, sir, when I remitted her my first quarter's salary, and 

told her in a loving letter that she was henceforward to live like a lady. 

The idea then of my going from her to the other side of the world, and 

over the terrible wide sea, seemed like blasting all her earthly comfort, 

and cutting off her supplies of daily bread too. She could not see a single 

ray of light through the thick cloud which had so suddenly darkened her 

life; and her piteous appeals to me not to leave her alone in the world, 

almost shook my resolution to pieces. Any logical efforts to assuage her 

grief just then would have been vain, I knew, so I deferred reasoning 

with her until the first heavy burst of her sorrow was past. Depend on it, 

sir, that is the best plan to adopt in such cases. I have often seen 

sympathizing friends trying to administer comfort to persons who had 

been suddenly overtaken by some distressing calamity, and I have 

fancied that the eloquence of their looks would have been more soothing 

than their tongues. ‘Cheer up! Don't fret! pray don't give way to such 

immoderate grief!’ and similar little bits of good advice, tend rather to 

irritate than to console, under the first heavy pressure of calamity. If a 

horse tumbles down with a loaded cart behind him, a skilful driver does 

not immediately shout ‘Come up,’ in his ears, for he knows that the 

violent efforts the horse would make to rise, under the excitement caused 

by his fall, would probably break the harness, and perhaps break his 

knees or his backbone. So the driver lets the poor panting beast rest for a 

few minutes to recover the shock, and meanwhile eases the load as much 

as possible, and after that he may say ‘gee up’ with effect. You may as 

well try to extinguish a blazing house with a boy's squirt, as to rally grief 

out of the heart of a poor mortal crushed down with sudden affliction, by 

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. 

That is my opinion, sir, and I have seen something of human nature in 

seventy years or more. I gently embraced my poor weeping parent, and 

whispered ‘Mother, dear! I will leave you for an hour or two, I must go 

over to see Nanny. You are a Christian; and when you have calmed down 

a bit, I know you will consider whether this is not an essential discipline 

that you have to pass through, and you will seek for comfort and 

direction from the source of all blessings.’ After kissing her again and 

again, I left the cottage, and as I crossed some newly mown meadows to 

Nanny's house, the fragrance of the new hay seemed to revive such a 

gush of recollections of happy school days, that I threw myself upon a 

haycock, and actually groaned off some of the pent up emotions in my 

heart. 

“Old Mr. Roseley was violently opposed to my going abroad; and after 

insinuating many ungenerous things, he told me in plain terms that if I 

went I must give up Nanny altogether, for he would never consent to her 

going to Botany Bay, as this colony was called. Australia was then but 

imperfectly known in England, and was associated in the minds of most 

persons with convicts and kangaroos; and a voyage here in those days 

was thought as stupendous an undertaking — especially by inland 

villagers — as an exploring expedition to the Arctic regions would be 

now-a-days. I had anticipated some opposition from Mr. Roseley, but I 

did not expect to see him so rough and unreasonable, and you may be 

sure, sir, I did not feel very happy; still my resolution was unshaken, 

because — as I said before — I felt sure I was in the highway of duty. I 

kept calm, and used all the arguments I could to convince Mr. Roseley 

that it was my interest to accept the offer, and that it would probably lead 

to my advancing higher in the social scale than I ever should in England, 

when he dashed his pipe on to the hearthstone and said, ‘He did not care 

a flip for social scales or weights either; he was not going to sell his girl 

like a sack of malt or barley-meal.’ And after working, himself into a 

rage, he finally declared ‘that if Nan ever went to Botany Bay, she would 

go at the King's expense, with iron bracelets on, as many bright girls had 

gone; but she should never go with his consent, or at his cost, even 

though I were made governor of the land.’ 

“Nanny was sitting by when her father uttered that cruel ultimatum, 

and her poor pale face might have moved a savage to pity. She did not 

speak a word, but as she rose and left the room she turned her swimming 

eyes upon me, and there was something more than mortal love in her 

look, sir, it seemed to lift my heart like a powerful lever. I soon followed 

her into the hall, where she silently put on her hat and tippet at my 

request, and accompanied me for a ramble across the fields, and beside 

the rippling brook where we had first met. I need not tell you all that 

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 

my breast for a few minutes, and wept as though her heart would break. 

Suddenly, however, she became calm and composed, which quite 

puzzled me, till she took my hand within hers, and said in a firm but 

deliciously soft voice: ‘Davy, dear Davy! forgive me for exhibiting so 

much weakness at a time when you most require comfort from me. But I 

am better now, the sight of this spot with its tender recollections shook 

all my firmness for a minute. Go to Australia, love! I am sure it is your 

Providential path, and I would not stop you for the world. I will not pain 

you by offering to release you from your engagement with me, for I 

know how you feel just now, dear. I am sure you love me fondly, and I 

know your inclination is now struggling with your sense of duty; I would 

rather strengthen your resolution than induce you to break it. I know not 

what is in the future, but I feel something within me assuring me that all 

will be well if we pursue the right path. I believe we shall happily meet 

again, and that hope will sustain me under the pangs of parting with you, 

for you know how dearly I love you, Davy. Go, dearest, and ever believe 

that your Nanny is faithful to her sacred, betrothal pledge. I will not 

promise to act in opposition to my father's wishes, you would not have 

me do that, I am sure, but I feel that in some way, which I cannot at 

present see, his decision will be over-ruled. However that may be, I 

promise I will be your wife, Davy, or I will die Nanny Roseley. Go, 

dearest! and may the great God of heaven and earth go with you.’ 

“Was not that nobly said, Mr. Boomerang?” exclaimed Mr. Dovecott, 

pausing to stroke his wife's silvery hair again, and to look a volume of 

love into her glistening eyes. 

“Well, sir, I parted with Nanny that night, after we had said many soft 

things to each other near the romantic spot where I had fished up the 

little shoe, and I then walked towards my mother's cottage with a heavy 

heart, for I dreaded her sorrowful pleadings far more than I had Mr. 

Roseley's wrath. Judge my delight, sir, when I entered the cottage to see 

the dear old lady smiling sweetly, though her poor thin face bore traces 

of recent tears. She clasped me in her arms and sobbed out in a peculiar 

manner, between a laugh and a cry, ‘Davy, my son! my darling boy! You 

may go to Botany Bay; and your poor widowed mother's blessing will go 

with you. I have been on my knees, Davy, ever since you went away, and 

I have had such comforting answers to my prayers, that my poor old 

heart has danced for joy. Though I scarcely dare hope to see you again in 

this world, Davy, I can give you up, for I feel it will be for your good; 

and I stay my heart upon the comforting belief that we shall surely meet 

again in the life beyond this, where there will be no more sorrowful 

partings. Go my boy! and may God bless you! I will not wound you by 

asking you not to forget your poor old mother; I am sure you will never 

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 

you is more than my poor unassisted nature could do, but I have received 

strength from above, Davy. My heart trusted in God and I am helped; 

and am enabled to bow submissively to what I believe to be God's will.’ 

The dear old soul could not wholly conquer nature though, for she then 

gave vent to a flood of tears, though she seemed smiling all the while. I 

struggled manfully against betraying weakness, but it was no use, sir, and 

presently I burst out crying too, and our sobbing and shouts of ‘praise 

God,’ were heard in the village smithy, and would you believe it, sir? the 

wicked old blacksmith told the tapster next door that I was tipsy, and was 

giving my poor old mother a good beating before I went to Botany Bay. 

“Next morning I was up before the sun, and hastened across the fields 

to the old churchyard, and dropped a silent tear on the graves of my 

father and sister. Then I crossed the wood, cut this hazel stick on my 

way, sir, took a last look at Nanny's house, and at old Dame Tingle's 

school, stopped at the brook to take a long drink, and to fill my waistcoat 

pockets with pebbles, which are carefully preserved in yonder cabinet; 

then returned home damp with dew, to eat my last breakfast under my 

mother's thatch. I pass over the tender scene of parting with my mother, 

sir, for I do not think I can trust myself to tell it. At nine o'clock I 

mounted the London mail coach, and in ten minutes more my swimming 

eyes took a last fond glimpse of Beechwood, my native village.” 

The old gentleman's voice here grew husky, and he paused in his 

narrative to polish his spectacles; so I took that opportunity to make a 

few remarks to his affectionate spouse. She smiled, and with a half 

coquettish glance at her husband, said, “Ah, poor fellow, he did not know 

how eagerly I was watching him that morning from my bed-room 

window, and what I was suffering. As the coach descended the hill out of 

my sight, such a cloud of sorrow burst upon me that my poor racked 

mind was almost overwhelmed. I threw myself on my knees, and had 

such a cry; while I sobbed out prayers to God for comfort. I shall never 

forget, sir, the help I received in that time of need. I seemed to be 

directed to my little text book, and on opening it I read the consoling 

words, ‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ My heavy 

load of anguish began to diminish at once, and I cried with happiness. In 

half an hour I descended to my dairy work with my heart full of hope.” 

“Ten days after that I was on shipboard bound for Sydney, Mr. 

Boomerang,” continued Mr. Dovecott, who had recovered his natural 

tone of voice, and lost the ominous tinge from the tip of his nose. “It 

would not interest you much to give you the particulars of our voyage; to 

tell how we were dismasted and had to put into Rio, how we ran short of 

water, then short of provisions, and other mishaps and miseries which 

were common enough in those days, when ships trading here were of a 

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 

safety, and was soon afterwards installed to my office. 

“Viewing the enlightened state of the colony at the present time, you 

could form but a faint conception of what it was nearly half a century 

ago, sir; but I do not mean to allude to that subject further than my story 

requires me to do. Of course, you know that there were comparatively 

few free settlers here in those days, and there was not much free labour 

to be obtained. I had a large number of convicts, or assigned servants, to 

superintend, and the duty was not a light one, I assure you. Some of my 

men were very difficult to manage, in fact were incorrigible rogues; but I 

could give you many cheering instances of fidelity and good principles 

which I experienced in others under my charge. I could also tell you 

some harrowing stories of cruel scenes which I have witnessed, if there 

were any advantage in recurring to the revolting annals of those penal 

times, which will surely never be revived in this land. 

“I had many disagreeables and privations to bear, and many dangers to 

encounter during the first five years of my residence in this colony; and 

often as I sat in my lonely cottage in the interior, have I been disposed to 

doubt the prudence of the step I had taken in thus isolating myself from 

civilized society, and from those near and dear relatives and friends for 

whom my heart yearned with a fondness which at times induced 

melancholy thoughts and purposes. Those seasons of sadness were 

transient, however, for I usually felt buoyed up with a hope that good 

would spring from it; and I was not without occasional little proofs of 

that which it would perhaps not be modest of me to further mention. 

“The postal communication too, in those days was very irregular, and 

often protracted; still every ship which arrived from England brought me 

letters from my mother and Nanny, full of endearing tokens of affection 

and fidelity. I wrote them by every opportunity, and I need scarcely say 

that I remitted to my mother ample funds to provide her with every 

comfort she required. Rather strange to say, sir, I had a man as house 

servant (a convict transported for poaching) who was born in the next 

village to Beechwood, and at one time had worked for Mr. Roseley. You 

have no idea, sir, what pleasure it used to afford me on dreary winter 

evenings to hear that man talk about the woods and fields around my 

native home, of old Mr. Roseley's peculiarities, and his pretty daughter 

Nanny's excellencies, though of course he did not know how warmly I 

was interested in that young lady. Poor Jem Traps was an honest fellow, 

though he was a convict; and his simple stories of rustic life around 

Beechwood were as entertaining to me as a fiddle is to a sailor. But I 

soon got more agreeable companions than Jem to cheer my drooping 

spirits. An important change took place about that time in my position 

and my prospects.”

Chapter IV. 

“As I before remarked, sir, an important change took place in my 

affairs, after I had been about six years in the colony,” said Mr. 

Dovecott, while his face began to glow like the rising sun just emerging 

from a fog bank. “One morning at daybreak, I was lying on my stretcher 

bed, trying to kick myself cool, and cogitating whether I should turn out 

and have a shower-bath, or take another nap, for I had passed a very 

restless night. The weather was excessively warm, and the mosquitos had 

probably mistaken me for a ‘new chum,’ for they were unusually vicious; 

my skin was covered with the marks of their sharp little snouts, and my 

ears had been annoyed all night long with their satirical songs, after 

drinking my health. While keeping my involuntary vigil, I was thinking 

as usual about Nanny and my mother, and roaming in imagination 

through every lane and leafy nook around my native home; until I 

actually fancied I would rather be a fox in Beechwood Copse, with a 

fox's freedom, and the society of other foxes, than be in my isolated 

position, with all its prospective honours and emoluments. There was 

I — I thought — pining away my prime in forced celibacy, and yonder 

was the darling of my heart at the other end of the earth, pining for me 

like a little jenny-wren with her mate caught in a brick trap. And this 

waste of love was all caused by the stupidity of old Roseley, who 

obstinately believed that one of the finest countries in the world was as 

much to be dreaded as the cells of Old Bailey. 

“But those gloomy musings were not very lasting, for I seldom 

encouraged such thoughts. Hope was a prominent bump in my cranium; 

still I suppose the most sanguine of men have occasional seasons of 

dumpiness, especially in close muggy weather, when their gastric 

secretions are apt to get disarranged. I was doubtless suffering to some 

extent from the enervating effects of the sultry weather, and the 

depression which the sight of ruin and semi-starvation induced, for it had 

been a season of protracted drought, and I was obliged to put my men 

upon reduced rations. However, there I lay, rolling about on my 

stretcher, and avenging myself upon the gorged mosquitos on the slabs, 

by tapping them on the head with my slippers, when suddenly Jem Traps 

entered my room in a state of great excitement, and handed me a letter 

which a special messenger had just brought from Sydney. The missive 

informed me of the sudden death of my superior officer, through eating 

toad-fish, and intimated that I was required to proceed to head quarters at 

once, and fill the important post which had become vacant by his 

decease. 

“I must avoid details, Mr. Boomerang, or I shall keep you here for a 

week listening to my story. By that sudden event I was promoted to a 

position of influence and honour, with a large income, and a fine

commodious house, replete with every convenience and comfort I could 

desire, except one — that first essential in a house — a wife. That 

desideratum was wanting; but as I was now able to offer a home, with 

every luxury the colony could afford, I thought the time was come to 

send for Nanny. Then came the next posing question, how was I to win 

her father's consent. I did not for a moment think of her coming without 

his sanction; but how to overcome his obstinate prejudices was the 

question which knocked my bump of hope as flat as a florin. Many 

sleepless nights I spent considering that difficulty; and many times, both 

by day and night, I sought Divine direction in the matter, for I felt how 

essential a wife was to my happiness, and to my usefulness too. At length 

my mind seemed directed to a certain course just on the eve of a ship 

sailing for London. The vessel was a regular trader, and I was well 

acquainted with the captain, so I explained my plans to him 

confidentially, and arranged with him for the accommodation of my 

darling Nanny, old Mr. Roseley, his son, and his son's wife and children; 

also for my dear mother, my sister's orphan children, and an uncle and 

aunt, with a lot of cousins, who were barely earning a livelihood in 

England. Every kith and kin belonging to the Roseley and Dovecott 

families were to be comfortably accommodated in the ‘Dolphin’ at my 

expense, if they chose to come to Sydney. The captain promised to see 

them personally, and try his best to induce them to accept my liberal 

offer before he let his cabins to other passengers; but he would use 

special efforts to bring out Nanny and her father, and my mother. At the 

same time I sent home money sufficient to provide them all with 

necessary outfits; and I promised to do my best to settle them 

comfortably in the colony, and to have board and lodging ready for them 

on their arrival. No one will be able to tell me that I was shabby enough 

to neglect or scorn my poor relations after I had risen in the world, Mr. 

Boomerang; and though I have not often met with grateful returns, I am 

satisfied at having performed my duty, if some of those I have helped 

have neglected theirs. 

“Now comes a very remarkable part of my story, sir. About two 

months before the Dolphin reached England, old Mr. Roseley's house 

and barns were burnt to the ground; so he and his son Matt were totally 

ruined, for they were not insured. Of course it was a sudden downfall to 

them, and they felt it severely, for they were all rather proud in their way, 

except Nanny. They had lots of sympathy while their buildings were 

blazing, in fact a good deal more than they wanted, but it vanished with 

the smoke; or the only tangible shape it assumed was in a subscription to 

buy the old man a razor grinder's barrow, for he was remarkably handy 

with edge tools, and had never seemed happier than when he was doing 

odd jobs as an amateur tinker. His simple-hearted friends thought they 

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 

borrowing or begging from them. So the barrow was bought, and old 

farmer Vetch drove off in his cart to deliver it, with as much pride and 

good will as though he were going to present a new organ to the parish 

church. His surprise was great when after reading the brief address of the 

donors, Mr. Roseley, instead of expressing gratitude for the gift, cursed 

the barrow and all the contributors too. A storm of high words ensued 

and frightened the horse, which bolted off, upset the cart, and broke the 

barrow to little bits. Nothing was saved but the grindstone. 

“My mother offered a temporary home to Nanny and her father, which 

they gladly accepted. Soon afterwards, Nanny arranged to go to Squire 

Leveret's, as nursery governess, though she did not much like the idea, 

for some of the children were as rough as their father. But on the very 

morning she was preparing to start for the Squire's, my letter arrived, and 

caused no small commotion amongst them, you may be sure. Strange to 

say, old Mr. Roseley was the first to propose that they should all get 

ready to start as soon as possible. ‘Botany Bay, or any other cannibal 

country was preferable to Beechwood,’ he said, ‘now he had no other 

prospect than a tinker's barrow or the workhouse. Feed me on kangaroos 

and cornstalks, if you like, but deliver me from the neighbours who 

would mock my misfortunes, and send me about the country grinding 

scissors! A fugitive and a vagabond, and a poverty-stricken old tramp 

tinker! Come along, Nanny, my girl! I am ready. I can tie all my traps in 

a bundle handkerchief, so let us be off as soon as possible.’ 

“A day or two after that, Captain Luff went down to Beechwood. He 

had no difficulty in persuading them all to accept my offer, though some 

of the younger ones shuddered at the mention of Botany Bay, as if it 

were the favourite watering place of old Bogy and his crew. 

“I remained in suspense as to the result of the captain's mission, for we 

were unusually long without a mail. Several months had elapsed since 

the arrival of a ship from England, and as the time for the return of the 

Dolphin drew near, you may imagine how anxiously I watched the signal 

staff from day to day, and how often my fancy pictured in dreams at 

night the arrival of my fondly expected ones, but only to teaze me on 

awakening to a sense of my dreary bachelorhood. Ugh, those days of 

single misery! of odd stockings and changed collars, broken buttons and 

yellow linen. Mr. Boomerang, I assure you, I would not be single 

again — even for six months — for all the brass bedsteads and other 

bachelor traps in the world and a cart-load of beadwork slippers to boot. 

Not I, sir; ha, ha, ha! Not I. Give me my wife, and water-gruel diet, if 

you like, and you will see me happy — jubilant; but give me the range of 

an oriental palace, with all Rajah Rumanputtee's diamonds to play with, 

and a daily fare of curried peacocks, and without my wife I should be as 

miserable as an old jack tar who had lost his tobacco box.”

Mr. Dovecott here arose from his chair, kissed his laughing spouse on 

both cheeks, and told her that she was sweeter than a ton of barley-sugar. 

He then made a feint to dance a fandango, but was seized with a twinge 

in his left leg, whereupon he reseated himself, rubbed his hands in merry 

ecstacy, and laughed again, then resumed his narrative. 

“One morning, directly I had got out of bed, I looked as usual from my 

window at the flagstaff, and to my great delight there was a black ball on 

the south yard arm, and a square blue flag at the mast head. Hurrah! there 

is a ship to the southward, perhaps it's the Dolphin! and then I merrily 

sang as I pulled on my holey stockings: — 

“ ‘Haste, Nanny! I'm weary of living alone.’ 

“I dressed myself extra smart that morning, and oiled my bushy beard 

and whiskers. I dare say my servant was a little doubtful of my taste, in 

preferring the external air to hot coffee and mutton ham for breakfast, for 

I would rise from the table every now and then and pop my head out of 

the window to see if the ship were signalled. Presently I saw an angular 

red flag run up under the blue one. Hurrah! I shouted; a ship from 

London! ‘Tell Trap to get my boat ready immediately,’ I said to the 

astonished servant. ‘Hurry, Duff, hurry: then you can clear the table. I 

don't want any more breakfast.’ 

“Half an hour afterwards I was dashing down the harbour under all sail, 

with a strong southerly breeze, and as I rounded Bradley's Head I could 

see the Dolphin tacking up to her anchorage. How can I possibly 

describe the alternations of hope and fear which filled my breast at that 

exciting time, Mr. Boomerang? But I see you understand them, sir, by 

your sympathizing muscular movements; you look as earnest as though 

you were preparing to spring on deck to catch Nanny for me. I thank you 

for the interest you display in my recital, sir. My well manned boat sped 

swiftly over the waves, and in a very short time I was within hail of the 

ship, and the first persons I distinguished on the poop, were my darling 

Nanny and my devoted mother, side by side, waving their white 

handkerchiefs in token of recognition. 

“ ‘Ods, bobs, take hold of the tiller, Trap! boo — hoo — whoo!’ I 

blubbered, in spite of all my manly efforts to look composed and 

dignified; then dragging my handkerchief from my pocket, I buried my 

face in it; and, as Paddy Spudd, the bowman, afterwards explained to his 

hut mates, ‘I cudn't cry for laughin', and I cudn't laugh for cryin', nor I 

cudn't spake for kissin' the girls afther I got on boord the ship.’ 

“Oh what an ecstatic meeting that was, sir! I can no more describe it 

than I could paint a landscape. I mounted the gangway, and the first thing 

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, 

which set me crying. Then I embraced Nanny — very gently, of 

course — which set me — but I cannot explain all my emotions on that 

blessed morning, you must imagine them, sir — and I must shorten my 

story. 

* * * * * 

“Ten days afterwards, the bell in old St. Philip's round tower rang out 

like fire, and almost all the bunting in the colony was fluttering in the 

breeze to celebrate my marriage with Nanny Roseley. Good old 

Archdeacon Cowper united us, and after a sumptuous dejeuner at my 

house (which was partaken of by numerous guests, including thirty-five 

of my relatives and friends, who had just arrived in the Dolphin), we 

drove off to Parramatta to spend our honeymoon, and a bright moon it 

was too. 

* * * * * 

“Now tell me what you think of that for a tale of true love,” said Mr. 

Dovecott, who was evidently well pleased with it himself. “Is there not 

more honest wholesome material in it — though badly dressed — than in 

those insipid hashed-up love stories of the age, full of broken hearts and 

hobgoblins, and all that sort of calf's head stuffing, which, I am sorry to 

believe, sell as readily as ripe gooseberries! What do you think of it, sir?” 

“In brief, sir, I think your career has been singularly marked by 

Providential circumstances, and that it is highly suggestive,” I replied. 

“But pray tell me what became of your friends who came out in the 

Dolphin; I should like to hear a little more about them.” 

“I will tell you in a few words, sir. My dear mother lived for fifteen 

years with us in peace and comfort; and Nanny will certify that her 

experience belies the cynical report, that mothers-in-law are always very 

troublesome in a household. My mother was a help and a blessing to my 

wife, and I can testify that I never heard a note of discord from either of 

them; on the contrary, thanksgiving and the voice of melody filled my 

home from morning till night. She is now in her home above. Her tomb 

is on the Sand-hills, and the memory of her many virtues is embalmed in 

my heart. Poor Mr. Roseley is gone to heaven too. He lived to a good old 

age in a nice little cottage on the Rocks, and his time was spent in doing 

good to every one around him. He often blessed the hour when his house 

and barns were burnt, as it was that Providential circumstance which had 

led him to Sydney. He had the happiness of seeing his family all 

flourishing in temporal things — but best of all, of knowing that they 

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 

of his descendants are now filling positions of honour and usefulness in 

the colony, as you are aware, sir. My uncle and aunt unfortunately drank 

themselves to death. My sister's children and my cousin's all prospered 

amazingly. They are well known in the south, and in the west country, 

for their hospitality and other sterling virtues. Their descendants are 

branching off in all directions, and some of them are becoming lights in 

the land. So you see, Mr. Boomerang, that my coming out here as 

pioneer, was — through God's blessing — the means of establishing two 

families in respectability and affluence; in removing them from poverty 

to a ‘land flowing with milk and honey.’ ” 

I freely expressed my opinion on his interesting narrative, and on the 

useful lessons it was calculated to teach, to young men especially; 

showing the advantage of strictly pursuing the path of duty with manly 

courage and perseverance, and of acknowledging God in all their ways. I 

then said, “I should like to hear a little of your marital experience, Mr. 

Dovecott, if you have no objection to relate it.” 

“Come in and have some supper, sir,” said the old gentleman, with a 

significant glance at me. As we walked towards the parlour, he added, “I 

will finish my story by and bye, if you wish to hear it; but I must first 

persuade Mrs. Dovecott to go to bed, for there are some subjects which I 

must allude to that would touch her feelings acutely. She is as tenderhearted 

as a little ‘budgery ghar,’ bless her! It would be improper for me 

to praise my wife, I know, but I must say that she is a model woman; in 

short, the nearest resemblance to an angel that I ever saw. That is a fact, 

Mr. Boomerang.” 

Chapter V. 

“NOW, my precious koh-i-noor, you had better go to bed, for Mr. 

Boomerang and I want to have a chat upon a subject which would not 

delight you,” said Mr. Dovecott, addressing his wife, after we had 

finished supper. “You will forgive me for staying up an hour later than 

usual, I am sure, for it is not often that our old friend spends a night with 

us.” 

Mrs. Dovecott rose, made a few pleasant remarks on the advantages of 

retiring early to rest; then intimated to me that I would find extra bedding 

behind the door if I needed it, shook hands with me, and retired to her 

chamber. 

“Take the sofa, and make yourself comfortable,” said my host, at the 

same time he threw himself into an easy chair and began to rub his nose, 

his usual expedient for stimulating his ideas in drowsy seasons. “You 

wish to hear some of my conjugal experience, sir, but it will be 

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 

into one puncheon, would be as feasible a task as to give you in one 

sitting even the most meagre description of forty years of growing love 

with that estimable creature who has just gone up-stairs. But I will try, 

sir; and as I heard a celebrated lecturer from London say a few years ago, 

‘I will throw out a few jets of thought for your after consideration.’ 

“Well, sir, my young wife took charge of her household with as much 

grace and dignity as if she had been accustomed to control a large 

establishment for years. Nobody ever heard her fussing and grumbling 

about trifling troubles, peculiar to the colony, or complaining that she 

had not been used to this or that inconvenience, as weak-minded women 

often do, thinking thereby to increase their importance; whereas such airs 

are usually to be regarded as signs that they never had half so many 

conveniences before. Nanny was kind and considerate to her domestics, 

still she was firm and mistress-like, and they all loved her. We had a 

dozen assigned servants about the house, and with a few trifling 

exceptions — scarcely worth mentioning — I never had any trouble with 

them. Of course there was occasional wrangling among themselves, 

which I did not pretend to hear. I seldom noticed trifles which did not 

positively infringe my rules and regulations. Nanny managed her 

household by the rule of kindness, and, on the whole, things went on 

with perhaps rather more regularity than our town clock in those days. 

Several of our servants stayed with us after they had received their 

tickets-of-leave, and one woman lived with us for ten years after she 

became free, in fact she lived with us till she died. For obvious reasons I 

refrain from mentioning real names, sir, but I could give you — if there 

were any advantage in doing so — the history of several of our servants, 

who became thoroughly reformed characters, who lived useful lives and 

died happy deaths, and whose descendants now deservedly rank among 

the patriots and the benefactors of the country. 

“About twelve months after her arrival, my dear Nanny presented me 

with a darling little boy, which seemed to open a fresh avenue in my 

heart for love to enter. I know you are fond of little boys and girls, sir, 

for I have seen you hopping about like a kangaroo with a lot of children 

after you screaming with fun; so you will understand how I loved my 

precious boy, who, as he grew up and began to toddle about, seemed to 

fill the house with rare music, and my heart with new joy. How dearly 

Nanny and I prized him! too much, sir, I fear, for we almost idolized 

him. By his thousand engaging pranks, and his winning little ways, he 

wound himself round our hearts so tightly, that other and higher love was 

almost excluded; and I believe that is why God saw it would be a mercy 

to take our idol from us, and to ruffle our too even course of happiness a 

little. 

“Sickness prostrated our darling boy, and day after day, and night after

night we watched him with that anxious interest which none but fond 

parents know. Gradually he sank under the wasting influence of fever, 

which no human skill could allay. His round rosy cheeks became pale 

and sunken, his plump little limbs were wasted and shrivelled. The merry 

laughter, which had sounded like the music of spring birds in our home, 

gave place to a low piteous whine, and the smiles on his pretty dimpled 

face were changed to the sharp wince of suffering, which racked our 

hearts to witness. Our house was silent as a sepulchre, for all the servants 

were fond of little Charlie, and sadness beclouded each face as the doctor 

went away day after day without saying a word to encourage a ray of 

hope of the recovery of our loved one. I need not tell you, sir, that I often 

prayed to God to spare my boy, and my dear wife prayed too. But I did 

not ask unreservedly for the life of my child; to my earnest pleadings for 

him I always added the condition, ‘Lord, Thou knowest what is best: 

help me to say, Thy will be done.’ Still I felt it very, very hard to say, 

‘Take my boy, Lord, if Thou seest it best to do so.’ Oh how difficult it is, 

sir, to see wisdom and mercy in such a dispensation, while our spirits are 

crushed down by the afflictive stroke. 

“One afternoon there was an apparent improvement in him, and hope 

revived in our hearts. Our darling's eyes looked brighter, there was a 

slight colour in his cheeks, and he smiled while he faintly lisped our 

names. How carefully Nanny and I watched him that evening, and how 

we cheered each other with the promise of his recovery. How we 

admired his pretty sleeping form, with the curly locks clustering about 

his noble brow. How we sat and drew bright pictures of our future 

happiness in training him up to manhood. But all those hopes were 

suddenly blighted, and the pride of our eyes faded before us like the 

ephemeral tints of a rainbow. About midnight an unmistakable change 

stole over our beloved child's features, and while we stood beside his cot 

gazing on him with streaming eyes, his gentle spirit soared away home. 

Oh, sir! what a crushing blow that was to us. But you have experienced a 

similar loss, so you understand it. May God comfort all those who are 

now mourning as Nanny and I mourned on that memorable night of 

death. 

“The loss of that dear child was an intense grief to us for several 

months; but time softens down our heaviest sorrows, and we tried our 

best to bear our trial with resignation. Dear Nanny gathered up all 

Charlie's clothes and toys, and everything that had belonged to him, and 

locked them in a separate drawer of her wardrobe. Nothing that could 

recall the memory of the dear little fellow was to be seen, and we rarely 

ventured to speak of him for several weeks. It is marvellous though how 

small a thing will suddenly re-open the springs of sorrow, when we think 

they are almost dried up, as the following little incident will show. One 

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, 

Charlie's pretty little pussy as he used to call it, and which he had put to 

bed in my paper basket, as I remembered, the very evening before he was 

taken ill. The sight of that little simple toy proved to me that I had not 

forgotten my darling boy, and that my tears would still flow in spite of 

my reason. In fact, sir, I have not forgotten him to this day, nor shall I 

ever do so while memory holds her seat. But my sorrow is turned into 

joy and gratitude, for I cannot have the shade of a doubt that he is safe in 

Heaven, and I shall soon re-unite with him, for the sand in my life's glass 

has not long to run. Yes, he is safe, I know; but had he been spared to me 

when I so earnestly longed to keep him, how can I tell what sad fate 

might have befallen him? It is awfully possible that I might now be 

weeping in bitterness over his poor wrecked soul. 

“Oh, Mr. Boomerang! depend upon it, it is all right when God takes 

our children from us in early life, painful though it be for us to part with 

them. It is all right, sir, and more a matter for thanksgiving than for 

sorrowful repining, which many parents have owned after the keen edge 

of their grief has been worn down, and they are able to see through the 

cloud that overshadowed their spirits. 

“About two years after Charlie's death, we were blessed with another 

bright-eyed boy to fill his place, and our hearts again rejoiced. But I must 

allude very briefly to this subject, sir, for reasons which you will shortly 

understand. At four years old little David was seized with a dangerous 

epidemic, which had carried off many children in Sydney. I was almost 

frantic at the idea of losing him, and I never felt so much opposed to the 

Almighty's dispensations. I believe I prayed to God unconditionally, to 

spare my child, to save myself and my wife the bitter pang of losing him 

as we had lost our first-born. He was spared, sir,” continued Mr. 

Dovecott with increasing emotion. “He grew up to manhood. I will 

forbear to ‘draw his frailties from their dread abode.’ He is dead. He died 

a violent death. Oh, God! Oh, God! Would that I had buried him in 

infancy! Poor boy! My poor ruined boy!” 

The old gentleman was so overcome by the sad recollections of the 

untimely death of his son, (who I afterwards learned had committed 

suicide), that he could not continue his narrative. I refrained from 

inquiries on the distressing subject, and after a few words of sympathy I 

bad him good night and went to my chamber, pondering over the 

mysterious dispensations of Providence, as displayed in the late touching 

recital. 

Next morning — rather to my surprise — Mr. Dovecott was almost 

merry, but I now ascertained that his cheerfulness was studied, in order 

to prevent his wife suspecting the gloomy nature of his conversation on 

the previous night. After breakfast I took a pleasant stroll through the 

garden with him, when he thus continued his story: —

“My career in this country has not been an unruffled one, far from it, I 

have had my trials, sir, but I believe I have not had more than was 

essential to keep me humble; for uninterrupted prosperity is very 

dangerous, and is apt to engender pride and self-importance. But 

whatever troubles I had in my business affairs, I had always peace and 

comfort at home; and with the exception of one blighting source of 

anxiety, which I alluded to last night, my home circle was always a 

happy one. When reverses overtook me, it was then that I most felt the 

sympathy and cheering counsel of my dear wife; and I found that the 

stormy blasts of adversity only made her cling closer to my side. 

Twenty-three years ago I was all but ruined, in common with many other 

wealthy colonists. I had extensive landed possessions certainly, and 

sheep and cattle too, but, commercially speaking, they were almost 

valueless, for a monetary panic over-spread the country, and there was 

scarcely a possibility of selling property, either real or personal, except at 

mere nominal prices. I must tell you that I had retired from my office 

some years before, an independent man; in fact, I supposed myself to be 

wealthy, and had lived in a style proportionate to my means. 

“I recollect going home one evening very much cast down with the 

pressure of my pecuniary embarrassments, and I said to my wife, 

‘Nanny, my love, I have tried as long as I could to save you from the 

anxiety of knowing our involved circumstances, but I can't longer 

conceal from you the fact, that we are on the verge of ruin.’ How do you 

think she bore the news, sir. Did she cry, do you suppose, as some 

women would have done, and reproach me with want of judgment, or the 

like? or did she shudder at the approach of poverty and say, that she 

could not do without this or that luxury or comfort? Nothing of the sort, 

sir. She clasped her hands round my neck, and with her usual cheering 

smile, said, ‘Davy, dear, I am sorry you did not tell me this before, that I 

might have shared your burden of anxiety. But cheer up, love! we both 

know how to work, and we are not too proud to do anything that is 

honourable. We have a good reputation left to us, and good health too 

— let us be thankful for these blessings. Above all, “we know that all 

things work together for good, to them that love God.” And that is a 

consolation which we may claim, for we both love God, and have 

hitherto trusted in Him. “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be 

afraid.” Listen to some of my plans, dear. We can take a small house, and 

manage with only one servant, or without a servant at all if needs be; and 

it will surprise you how little money I shall require to keep house with, 

for I know how to bake, and to make candles, and butter, and a score of 

other things which will save outlay of money. Then we can do without 

new clothes for a year or more, and who knows what may take place in 

that time? Cheer up, Davy, dear! “The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness 

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 

season of drought, and my heart was as light as a poppy head in a 

minute. How I did bless the day when I first saw her dear face! Seeing 

that she could bear trouble so nobly, I opened my mind freely to her, and 

I was really surprised at the solidity and practical character of her 

counsel, and her ready plans for retrenchment. We did retrench, sir — we 

dismissed all our servants except two, dispensed with our carriage, and 

economised in every way we could; and though our circle of fashionable 

visitors was lessened in consequence (which we found to be an 

advantage), our real friends did not desert us, and we had the satisfaction 

of knowing that we were gradually recovering ourselves. My wife's 

inspiriting conduct put new courage into me, and I went to work like a 

skilful mariner to save my shattered bark from foundering. The fortunate 

expedient of boiling down sheep and cattle, saved me the necessity of 

sacrificing my real property, and though it was a hard struggle with us 

for several years, we eventually weathered the storm. Times gradually 

improved, as you are aware, sir, and soon after the gold was discovered 

in the colony, I found myself in more affluent circumstances than I had 

ever been before. 

“My children have grown up to comfort me in my old age — you know 

the positions they occupy in society, sir. Poor Davy was the only sad 

exception, and his case was a powerful warning to the others. One of 

these days, I may tell you in confidence some of the particulars of his 

deplorable career, and what was the cause of his fine constitution being 

ruined, and his intellect shaken to idiocy. Oh, sir, I often shudder when I 

see the thoughtless way in which some parents discharge the responsible 

duties devolving upon them, and I long to speak to them and offer some 

hints on matters which it is important to study, if they value their 

children's souls and bodies. I have had the pain of seeing many young 

persons cut off in the bloom of life, through yielding to certain debasing 

practices acquired in childhood. I need not speak plainer to you, sir, for I 

think you will understand me, but if not, I refer you for information to 

‘Todd's Student's Manual,’ chap. 4. The testimony of an eminent 

philanthropist, (whose recent death was a great loss to our community) 

has proved how deeply he thought upon that subject to which I allude. 

Moreover, I have in my desk a cleverly written treatise, in manuscript, 

from the pen of one of the first physicians in the colony, which not only 

depicts the terrible consequences of the sinful habit, but proves, alas, that 

it is sadly prevalent. I heartily wish that I could ensure the perusal of that 

treatise by every parent in the land. I am sure it would arouse them to 

watchfulness. 

“A short time ago I heard a Rev. Doctor relate an anecdote of a poor 

widow who lived near a railroad, on some part of the sea coast of 

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 

widow knew that a mail train would pass along the line at a certain hour, 

and that if unwarned it would rush with all its living freight to 

destruction. So she arose, and facing the pelting storm, waded through 

the snow to some distance along the railway; then lighted a fire, and 

watched beside it till the arrival of the train, which was thereby saved 

from sudden ruin. That is the spirit which should actuate every heart, sir, 

when a fellow-creature is in danger. It is that spirit, I trust, which 

prompts me to caution parents whenever I can, to carefully watch over 

their children, lest they should unhappily acquire habits which will 

— apart from the moral aspect — as surely shatter their physical health, 

as the worm at its root will destroy the vitality of a young tree.” 

Chapter VI. 

“I HAVE uttered a good deal of nonsense, Mr. Boomerang, while 

speaking of my wife, and I daresay you think I am a silly old fellow; but 

bear in mind there was fun as well as folly in my remarks, and I did not 

mean all I said, of course not. I have called my Nanny an angel, and a 

bird of Paradise, but bless her heart she is only a woman after all, I know 

that very well. She is as wingless as an emu, and has not even got a 

feather on her bonnet. My whimsical figures are not intended to be 

subjected to matter of fact scrutiny, and I don't suppose they would go far 

with a common jury in establishing my wife's superiority, or my common 

sense either. Still, for all that, I can and will say in sober earnestness, that 

she is a superior woman in every way, mentally and materially; that I can 

prove by a thousand evidences. But even superior women have little 

marks of human nature about them, and the man who expects to find a 

wife without them had much better remain a bachelor all his life. 

“As I have said before, sir, Nanny was free from all fussy whims and 

fancies, which some young wives think it pretty to exhibit, still she 

was — she was — well, sir, she was not an angel — that is the best way 

to express it. She was not perfect, so I began to study her little 

pecularities or idiosyncrasies, and in a short time I could keep her in tune 

as mellow as my German flute. She was subject to nervous depressions, 

poor thing, owing to spinal weakness. Those sufferers who understand 

what that means, will readily sympathise with her; but persons with no 

nerves usually laugh at such disorders, which they call by a variety of 

ridiculous names, and treat the victims of them with contempt rather than 

with pity. When at home, her father (who knew no more about nervous 

disorders than a brewer's horse) used to try to rally her out of her 

mopishness, as he called it, by blustering at her in his characteristic style, 

or recommending half-a-dozen rough remedies in a breath, which usually 

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 

whims and fancies as her father said it was. I knew when her nervous 

attacks were coming on, and I used to contrive to take some little 

business trip into the country for a week or so, and to take her with me. 

Change, and cheerful companionship were the best remedies for her 

complaint, I knew, and after a time she got much better. 

“It would take too long, sir, to tell you all the little methods I adopted 

in order to mould her to my own mind. I had had plenty of time to think 

over that important subject in my lonely bachelorhood, and I used to 

reason thus. ‘I take a great deal of pains to break in my hack horse to 

casy paces, and to keep him from buck-jumping, bolting, stumbling, or 

shying; and I find it necessary to know the dispositions of my servants, in 

order to manage them efficiently, and shall I neglect to study the 

characteristics of my wife when I get her? Not I, indeed! that shall be my 

chief delight.’ That's the way I used to argue to myself, sir, as I lay 

rolling about on my bachelor bed on warm nights; and I carried out my 

principle when I got married. My wife showed her appreciation of my 

kindness by studying all my little whims and oddities, in a way that no 

one had done before; and I became under her gentle treatment, as 

tractable as a tame lion. Therein lies the grand secret of our life-long 

happiness, sir, we carefully studied each other's weak points, and tried to 

strengthen them, while we mutually learned to ‘bear and forbear.’ There 

was perfect confidence between us, and we rarely had a thought or a 

wish concealed. I certainly kept from Nanny for a time, the knowledge of 

our pecuniary embarrassment, but I regretted it afterwards, and I always 

found my troubles reduced by acquainting her with them. 

“I will not say that we never had a ‘tiff,’ as it is called, during our forty 

years intercourse, or you may be disposed to doubt me, but I can truly 

say, sir, we never ‘let the sun go down on our wrath,’ if there was any 

wrath at all in our tiffs. I am rather fidgety at times, sir, as you have 

doubtless observed, and I dare say if some women had the management 

of me, I should be known as the ‘great bear,’ by all the gossips in the 

colony. But dear Nanny can cure my fidgety fits as cleverly as she can 

cook a plain dinner. She knows exactly how long to let my ill humours 

simmer, or ferment, and when to pass her gentle hand over my brow and 

kiss me into good humour. She can tell at a glance if it would be safe for 

her to steal up behind me and tickle my ear with a straw, or playfully 

take hold of my whiskers and say, ‘Davy, you rogue! what do you mean 

by looking so cross? kiss me this minute, sir, and be a good boy!’ Of 

course I never could help smiling under such discipline, and before I had 

time to recollect my cause of vexation, she would be clinging about my 

neck and saying all sorts of funny things to me, which would make any 

man laugh if his house were on fire. Sometimes I have gone into my 

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 

thing if every one had a sanctum to cool down in. In about half-an-hour 

my door has been gently opened, and Nanny has just peeped in with her 

mouth screwed up into kissing shape, and with an arch look such as she 

well knew how to put on, she has gazed at me for half a minute, then 

with a roguish toss of her head muttered, ‘I don't care for you!’ shut the 

door and ran away before I could throw my slipper at her. In ten minutes 

more she would slyly open the door again and peep in to find me 

laughing, of course, how could I help it? That is the way the dear soul 

would gently chase away little petty vexations from my heart; she took 

other methods in serious matters, but with invariably the same results. 

“Now, sir, I will try to picture for a moment what might have resulted 

from my impatient temper, had Nanny behaved to me in the teasing spirit 

which I have seen some very good, but thoughtless wives exhibit when 

their husbands have been temporarily ruffled. Suppose, when I had gone 

into my study to cool down my wrath, as I before explained, that Nanny 

had followed me in and said carelessly, or perhaps sharply, ‘What is the 

matter now?’ or ‘What makes you look so glumpy?’ I should probably 

have been vexed at her intrusion, and replied hastily, ‘I will tell you 

presently, my dear; leave me just now, if you please.’ 

“Suppose she had replied, ‘I am sure it must be something dreadful to 

make you look so cross, and I want to know what it is?’ 

“ ‘I ask you to leave me, Mrs. Dovecott!’ I might have said 

emphatically; perhaps I should have said something much sharper than 

that, for I confess I am not particularly polite when irritated, and I can 

easily imagine how a regular storm might have been raised had she 

retorted in my own pungent style. Had she, too, adopted a popular 

expedient and ran for her father, or her brother and his wife, or some of 

her cousins to adjudge our quarrel, their interference would perhaps have 

provoked me to fighting pitch, and a furious family brawl would have 

been the result. The parson of the parish would perhaps have been sent 

for to repair the breach, and seeing faults on both sides he would not 

have been able conscientiously to decide in favour of either, 

consequently he would have offended us all, and would probably have 

lost us from his congregation, for staying from church is the usual silly 

plan people adopt for evidencing their dislike to their minister, and 

avenging themselves on his pocket at the same time. The fracas would 

have been as relishable as hot muffins and eschalots to the gossips of the 

neighbourhood, and through their influence the mischief might have 

spread far and wide like a dust storm. Of course it would have been 

reported that Mr. and Mrs. Dovecott lived ‘a cat and dog life.’ Friends 

would have poured in sympathy and condolence on both sides, and 

thereby fomented strife; thenceforward family brawls would have been 

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 

Nanny and I would be perhaps pining apart at this day in solitary 

sadness, or abusing each other in bitterness of spirit. 

“If you think this an over-drawn picture from fancy, Mr. Boomerang, 

here is an analogous one from real life. I could give you more, but one 

such specimen is sufficient for you, I'm sure. A young married couple 

were debating on the tender subject of choosing a name for their firstborn. 

The husband's choice was Peter, but the wife, after sharply 

condemning his taste, declared she would sooner call the boy Poker or 

Pitchfork. High words ensued — for they were two simpletons — and 

grew into a violent quarrel, when the wife, with an hysterical outburst of 

feeling exclaimed, ‘I'll go and tell father!’ and ran off to her sire, who 

lived not far away, and soon he was hastening to the house in a red hot 

rage with his excited daughter behind him. It is no marvel that the young 

husband, goaded to fury by his father-in-law's abuse and undue 

interference, kicked him out of the house. The old man's litigious spirit 

was aroused, an action for assault and battery — with heavy damages 

— was begun forthwith, and that trumpery quarrel, which has taken me 

two minutes to tell of, extended over two years, drove the husband into 

the Insolvent Court, and forced the wife to earn a separate maintenance. 

Whether they are reunited I cannot say, but I am half inclined to say 

— for the sake of posterity — I hope they are not. 

“ ‘What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,’ is a solemn 

injunction, which if more generally observed, would wonderfully add to 

the peace of many disjointed families, and to society at large. I have 

known the happiness of a household completely blasted by the 

interference of relatives or friends, with perhaps the best intention too. 

When either a husband or a wife begins to even whisper of each other's 

faults or short-comings to a third person, Ichabod is written on the door 

of their home. That is my opinion, Mr. Boomerang, and I would 

affectionately warn married folks — young couples especially — to be 

very watchful against those rankling sources of discord and hatred, and 

to bar their doors as carefully against idle gossips and scandal-mongers 

as they do against midnight robbers. 

“I knew a married couple, good old folks they were, too. I believe they 

loved everybody but themselves — and they would have loved and 

respected each other, if busybodies had not tampered with them. They 

had occasional tiffs about trifles not worth a penny cabbage, but instead 

of going into their sanctums to cool, and to pray at the same time, then to 

come out and kiss away their contentions, they were in the habit of 

sending for a neighbour to settle their disputes, and he usually made 

matters worse, though I dare say he strove to mend them. Mr. 

the said neighbour — was a worthy man in his way, though not 

overstocked with common sense, or he would have declined the

thankless office. Of course he told his wife all about the rupture when he 

returned home from his unsuccessful missions, and his wife told her 

grown-up children, so by a natural process, the petty brawlings of Mr. 

and Mrs. Glumps were soon as public as other sporting intelligence, and 

the poor old pair were the table-talk of all the vulgar gossips in town. 

“I wish I could have the privilege of speaking to the world for even 

half-an-hour before I die, Mr. Boomerang,” said Mr. Dovecott, with 

earnestness. “Among many important items from my long experience in 

the world's ways that I could quote, I would say to young folks who are 

on the look out for partners in life, or rather I would say to their natural 

guardians, for they are most responsible, ‘Be careful that there are no 

striking disparities between these inexperienced lovers, or they cannot 

reasonably expect conjugal happiness. Above all, see that virtuous 

principles are alive in their hearts, for where they are lacking, the 

consequences may be anything that your imagination can picture that is 

dreadful.’ A moment's sad reflection on passing events is sufficient to 

convince us of that, Mr. Boomerang. Let your fancy picture a youthful 

pair tripping jauntily up to the altar in God's house, to be united in holy 

wedlock, and while the bridegroom is promising to love, honour, and 

cherish the blooming girl whose hand he clasps, just conceive, sir, that it 

is awfully possible, that in less than twelve months' time he will go home 

drunk, beat his wife savagely, and throw her bridal wreath of orange 

blossoms behind the fire. Ay, more horrible still, that in less than five 

years hence he will murder her. It is a frightful conception, sir, but true to 

life. Alas! it is true to life in our very midst. Where virtue is not the 

guiding principle of the heart, the Devil rules supreme; and what limit is 

there to his power for evil? 

“Then I would say to young newly-married folks,” continued Mr. 

Dovecott, “ ‘You are setting out together on a toilsome journey, friends, 

and whether it be a long or a short one to you, it is for life; so you had 

better arrange the cushions in your travelling car so as to prevent bumps 

and bruises by the way. In other words, you had better begin at once to 

study each other's tempers and dispositions, and be resolved to mutually 

yield where principle does not imperatively forbid you. Set up God's altar 

in your household and take God's word for your guide, and you will be 

happy.’ 

“To old folks who are tottering down the hill of life, and throwing glass 

bottles and sharp pebbles in each other's pathways, I would say, ‘Friends, 

sit down a-bit, and listen to reason. Apart from the sin of your acts, they 

are irrational, as you must admit if you reflect even for a minute. How 

much wiser it would be for you to smooth each other's way and jog along 

comfortably — to be mutual helps instead of hindrances. What cripple is 

so impolitic as to whittle his crutches, and thus weaken or destroy his 

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? 

Husband! what warmer friend have you in the world than your wife? 

None: certainly not. Cleave to each other then in love; and live in 

preparation for another world “where they neither marry, nor are given in 

marriage.” ’ 

“Why old folks should not love each other as tenderly as young folks, 

Mr. Boomerang, I can see no reason at all; but I can see strong reason 

why they should do so. Surely the recollection of ten thousand acts of 

kindness and love should foster tender feelings. There are many old pairs 

in the land who live jarring lives, and I wish it were otherwise. But it is 

not too late for them to alter their conduct, and hence-forward to live in 

amity and peace. The following little story conveys a useful moral, 

though it is not so new as some of my stories. An old couple, who had 

long been notorious for their quarrelsome tempers, suddenly reformed 

and became loving and gentle. The change excited the curiosity of a kind 

neighbour, who one day inquired of the old man the cause of the marked 

change, when he replied, ‘that they had lately taken two bears into their 

house.’ The gentleman smiled, while he thought that formerly, when the 

old man and woman were at home, there certainly were two very savage 

bears in the house; he then asked the old man for an explanation, when 

he replied, ‘Why, sir, this is it: Sally and I have lately learned to bear and 

forbear with each other's failings, and since we have taken those bears 

into our house, we have lived in peace and happiness.’ 

“But we have had a long walk, Mr. Boomerang,” said Mr. Dovecott, 

“so come in doors and take a little fruit and rest awhile. It is no use to 

offer you wine I know. Nanny! Nanny!” he shouted, as we entered the 

house. “Come this way, love; I want you. Now, sir, walk into the 

drawingroom, and I will show you something that I only show to my 

most intimate friends. Nanny, dear, give me the key of the cabinet.” 

“Take a careful look at this,” continued Mr. Dovecott, walking towards 

me, after taking from a cabinet in the corner, a little rose-wood box, 

inlaid with pearl, and placing it in my hands. “Take a good look at it, 

sir.” I did look at it scrutinisingly, and admired the workmanship. 

“Bother the box! but look inside, sir. Open it.” I did open it, and to my 

surprise, I saw therein a little old leather shoe, with ancle straps and a 

rusty button. “There, sir,” said Mr. Dovecott exultingly, while tears stood 

in his eyes, “that is the identical little shoe that dear Nanny was crying 

for when I first saw her sweet face, sixty-nine years ago, on the margin 

of Beechwood brook. And this, sir,” he added, holding up a coarse linen 

bag, with a tape string in it, “this, sir, was my dinner-bag, that I used to 

carry to Dame Tingle's school, and these white pebbles I picked from the 

brook the very last time I set foot on its well-remembered crossingplace.” 

“At some future time, sir, I should like to philosophise a little on the

mysterious influence which even minute circumstances sometimes have 

on one's whole life,” said Mr. Dovecott, handling the little shoe as 

affectionately as if it was a pet bird stuffed. “Look at that fracture in the 

upper leather, sir; and reflect that to that lucky little hole I owe the 

possession of one of the best wives in the world! for it is clear to me that 

if the shoe had not leaked it would not have sunk, and Nanny would have 

recovered it without my aid, and would perhaps have gone home singing, 

instead of standing by the brook crying, for me first to pity her, then to 

love her, afterwards to marry her, and after living forty years with her, to 

love her forty times better than ever! Ods, bobs! talk about love stories! 

where did you hear one to equal mine? Why there is romance enough in 

it to make a book twice as big as ‘Robinson Crusoe.’ ”

Widow Giles's Little Grocery Shop. 

A GLANCE at Widow Giles's little shop would suffice to convince an 

observant person, who knew anything about shopkeeping, that she was a 

thriving trader. The stock was well selected and nicely kept; there was a 

display of taste as well as tidiness in the arrangement of the goods on the 

shelves, and there was no litter anywhere. Her counter was always clean, 

and the brass scales upon it shone like sovereigns. No one ever saw an 

unsightly accumulation of scraps of bacon, fragments of cheese, or heads 

and tails of dried fish wasting on the corner of her counter, for she never 

allowed “odds and ends,” as she called them, to collect, well knowing 

that they did not improve by keeping, and she usually sold them at a 

reduction in price, to get quit of them. If you sent to her shop for a pat of 

fresh butter, you might be sure of having it free from dust, for she always 

kept a clean damp cloth over her butter dish. If weevils invaded her rice 

bag, or her pearl barley drawer, she got her boy Billy — when he came 

home from school — to sift them out into a tub of water, in the backyard. 

The mice never had a chance of nibbling at her mould candles, and 

soiling them at the same time; for she always kept a lid on her candlebox. 

In fact, there were not many mice to be seen in her house, for there 

was no garbage to entice them, and food of all sorts was usually kept 

beyond their reach; besides, the cat kept a sharper look after them than 

even her mistress did; and mice very soon desert a house where they see 

such unmistakable signs that they are not welcome in it. 

Mrs. Giles had a drawer under her counter for waste paper which she 

used for wrapping up rough articles. No one ever saw her wastefully tear 

a piece off a large sheet of new paper, to wrap up a pound of candles, or 

soap, or a red herring; in short, she was an economical woman, and 

though she certainly did not make large profits out of her little shop, she 

made a comfortable living, and was enabled to keep her children 

decently clad and to give them a suitable education, which was the height 

of her ambition. She could get credit at more than one wholesale house in 

Sydney; but she had a wholesome dread of going far into debt, and 

usually bought her little stock with ready money; consequently she often 

got better bargains than some of the neighbouring shopkeepers, who 

bought on credit, and were not very punctual in their payments. 

Widow Giles was careful, though not parsimonious; she was fair and 

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 

firmness in refusing to open her shop door on Sundays; but she gained 

many others, who respected her consistency; and, what was better still, 

she had the consciousness that she acted uprightly, and she had faith in 

the promise of the God of the widow and fatherless, that, “He would 

never leave them nor forsake them.” 

If my readers have patience to follow my simple story, they may learn 

how Widow Giles got her nice little grocery shop. 

Peter Giles, her late husband, was a joiner, and a very good hand at his 

trade. He worked for one of the best masters in Sydney, and always got 

full wages. But Peter never saved money, and friends often wondered 

why he could not do so, for his wife was a very thrifty body, and he was 

by no means an idler or a drunkard. The fact of the matter was, Peter had 

never studied that fundamental principle of domestic economy — viz., 

“taking care of the pence.” He would have shrunk at wasting a pound, 

but pennies were of little value in his eyes, and he recklessly parted with 

small sums, which in the aggregate represented a tolerably large sum at 

the year's end. For instance — he usually spent three or four “threepenny 

bits” every day, for beer; and on Saturday nights he thought he was 

moderate in allowing himself two shillings or half-a-crown to “stand 

treat” to his shop-mates. Still, he never got drunk; he would have scouted 

the idea of thus disgracing himself in the eyes of his family and his 

neighbours. Then he liked good clothes for Sunday wear, and he would 

have the best tools; but he had not an economical way of buying them, 

for instead of saving his small money until he had sufficient to buy what 

he needed, he generally bought on credit, and paid by instalments; thus 

he doubtless paid a higher price than he otherwise would have done. To 

describe his character in the briefest manner, he was not a thoughtful or a 

provident man, though he was an affectionate husband, and an indulgent 

father. 

On the afternoon of a public holiday some years ago, Peter was sitting 

on a form in Hyde Park, watching his children, who were sporting about 

on the green sward, when an old gentleman seated himself on the same 

form to rest, for he looked weary. Presently little Bobby Giles ran up to 

the stranger, and, child-like, began to play with his walking-stick, which 

had rather an attractive top to it. 

“Bobby, come here, sir,” said his father; “you mustn't be rude.” 

“Let him alone, sir, if you please,” said the gentleman, kindly. At the 

same time, he produced a few lollipops from his coat pocket, and gave to 

the curly headed little fellow, who soon proved that he liked lollipops. 

Then the gentleman asked Peter how many children he had. 

“I have five, sir — these four, and a baby at home with its mother.” 

“May I ask if you have made any provision for the poor little things if 

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 

making the inquiry in an inquisitive or meddling spirit. 

“Well, I've never thought much about it, and that's the truth, sir,” 

replied Peter. “I'm a strong healthy man, thank God, I haven't had a day's 

sickness for the last ten years, and I don't think I am in danger of dying 

yet awhile. The young ones will grow bigger, and by-and-bye they'll be 

able to shift for themselves, as thousands of other children have to do.” 

“That is true to some extent,” said the gentleman. “But you look like a 

sensible man, so you don't want me to remind you of the uncertainty of 

life, even with the strongest of us; and you know, too, that thousands of 

poor children make very bad shifts for themselves. You heard of that sad 

accident to the workmen on the railway line, last week, I dare say.” 

“Yes, sir, I did. Ah, that was a bad look out for those poor navvies, and 

for their wives and families too.” 

“They were men of the strongest class, and yet you see death passed by 

many weaker men to clutch them. I fear their families will be very badly 

off.” 

“Yes, that they will, sir,” said Peter, “and these are hard times for poor 

lone women to struggle along, and support young families. I pity them, 

poor things!” 

“I hope you will excuse me for putting such a plain question to you,” 

said the gentleman, “but if you were taken off by death, as suddenly as 

those navvies were, would it not be a hard struggle for your wife to bring 

up your young family comfortably?” 

“Ay, that it certainly would,” said Peter, with a sigh, “but I hope she 

will not have to do it, poor lass, for she is not one of the strongest women 

in the colony.” 

“I hope she will not, indeed,” said the gentleman, “but as it is awfully 

possible, would it not be humane of you to provide as far as you can, 

against such a calamity?” 

“There is no doubt about that, sir, and I'd do it too if I knew how; but I 

can't work harder than I do, and I don't know that I am over extravagant 

in anything. All the money that I could put in the savings bank wouldn't 

be much good to them, I'm afraid.” 

While Peter was speaking, the gentleman took a piece of paper and a 

pencil from his pocket, and began to jot down a number of figures. 

Presently he said, “Will you excuse me asking your age?” 

“I shall be thirty-six next August,” replied Peter, who was rather 

puzzled to conceive what the old gentleman was doing with his pencil 

and paper, and had some idea that he was making his will, and was going 

to leave little Bobby a good legacy. In a few minutes he handed the slip 

of paper to Peter, remarking as he did so, “You will see by these simple 

calculations, that for £8 11s. 3d. a year — which is less than sixpence a 

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 

insure for £100, by paying £2 17s. 1d. a year, which is less than 

twopence a day. Did you ever think of making a provision for them in 

that way?” 

“Never, sir. I joined a benefit club when I was in England, but I have 

never thought of anything of the sort since I came here. I have heard tell 

of assurance societies, but I don't understand them; and I haven't much 

time to bother my head with such things; for when I have done work I'm 

generally pretty tired, and don't care to think about things that are 

troublesome.” 

“I am a stranger to you,” said the gentleman, “but I assure you I have 

no other object in offering you advice than your good, ‘and the interest of 

your family. Take that little slip of paper home with you, and think over 

it to-night, as you will not be tired from hard work to-day. I am sure you 

can afford to pay the premium on a life assurance policy; and it will 

afford you great comfort to know that your wife and children will not be 

left in poverty, as well as sorrow, if it please God to take you from them 

suddenly. There are profits of the assurance association or bonus 

additions, which you would share in if you became a member, so that the 

longer you lived the more valuable your policy would become, if you 

chose to allow the bonuses to be added to your policy instead of drawing 

them periodically as they are declared. I have not time to explain all that 

to you thoroughly, but I advise you to apply at the office of the Mutual 

Provident Society, in Pitt Street, or to any other assurance office for 

further information. I will only add my strong recommendation to you, to 

lose no time in insuring your life, ‘For you know not what a day may 

bring forth.’ ” The old gentleman then arose, wished Peter good 

afternoon, and went on his way. 

After tea that evening, Peter sat down in his armchair, lighted his pipe, 

and began to look over the paper which the chatty old gentleman had 

given him. His wife was sitting opposite him darning the children's 

socks. Presently Peter looked at her seriously and said, “Jenny, do you 

think we can save sixpence a day?” 

“Sixpence a day!” exclaimed Jenny, opening her eyes and dropping her 

needle. “What do you want it for?” 

“Never mind, Jenny: can you spare it? that's the question,” said Peter, 

with a half-comical, half-serious look. 

“No, my dear, I am sure I can't spare it. You have no notion how I have 

to cut and contrive, to keep the children tidy, and to get a good dinner for 

you every day. I shall want a warm shawl or a cloak for winter; but I 

don't know how I can get it without going on trust, and I would rather not 

do that if I can possibly help it. I really cannot save sixpence a day, Peter, 

and that's the truth.” 

“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 

money, and if I go without beer altogether, I dare say I shall be none the 

worse — indeed Tom Bevil is always trying to persuade me that I shall 

be very much better in every way if I adopt his plan, and drink nothing 

stronger than tea. He has managed to save money enough to build a snug 

little house for himself. I can and will spare sixpence a day, Jenny; and 

I'll tell you next week what I want it for, but not before then, so don't ask 

me there's a dear.” 

* * * * * 

About ten days afterwards, Peter Giles handed his wife a large printed 

paper, in an envelope, and told her to put it away carefully in her 

drawers. It was a policy of assurance on his life for £300. 

* * * * * 

Boxing Day of 186 — was a sorrowful day for poor Mrs. Giles and her 

young family. Peter went out that morning, in company with several of 

his shopmates, to spend the day on the harbour in a boat. That afternoon 

a furious squall of wind from the south did much mischief to the small 

vessels in port, and, amongst other distressing casualties, Peter's boat was 

upset, when he and two of his companions were drowned. 

I need not try to depict the grief of poor Widow Giles and her five 

young children, when the lifeless body of her husband was brought to her 

home the next day. It was a very sad trial for her; but, happily, she had 

not to bear poverty in addition to her intense grief, for Peter had kept his 

premiums punctually paid to the assurance office, and in a short time she 

received about £320, being the amount assured for, with bonus additions. 

That was the capital which enabled Widow Giles to stock her nice little 

grocery shop. 

Instead of speculating on the forlorn condition which Widow Giles 

would have been placed in, if her late husband had not made that 

fortunate provision for her, I will close this chapter with the following 

quotation from a London journal (which I read some years ago), on the 

“moral duty of Life Assurance.” The writer in question, says, “It may be 

felt by many, that their income is insufficient to enable them to spare 

even the small sum necessary as an annual premium for life assurance. 

The necessities of the present can in their case so great, that they do not 

see how they are afford it. We believe there can be no obstacle which is 

apt to appear more real than this, when an income is at all limited, and 

yet it is easy to show that no obstacle is more ideal. It will be readily 

acknowledged by every one who has an income at all, that there must be 

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 

£350. Now if these persons live on £350, why may not he do so too, 

sparing the odd £50 as a deposit for life assurance? In like manner, he 

who has £200 may live as men do who have only £175, and devote the 

remaining £25 to have a sum assured upon his life? And so on. It may 

require an effort to accomplish this, but is not the object worthy of an 

effort? And can any man be held as honest, or any way good, who will 

not make such an effort, rather than always be liable to the risk of 

leaving in beggary the beings whom he most cherishes on earth, and for 

whose support he alone is responsible?”

Commercial Hobgoblins. 

IN the course of a recent ramble in the city, I called at the countinghouse 

of a mercantile friend, whom I found intently poring over his billbook. 

I briefly apologised for intruding upon his studies, and as I had no 

business to transact, I was about to retire, but the cordial tone in which he 

said, “I am glad to see you; take a seat,” reassured me, so I took a seat, 

and silently waited till he had totted up a long column of figures. 

Presently he raised his eyes from the book, and sat abstractedly gazing at 

nothing for two minutes. Fearing that he would soon miss his beard, for 

he was unconsciously pulling the bristles out two at a time, I ventured to 

ask him “if he found that reading his bill-book was a refreshing mental 

exercise?” My question aroused him. He shut up the book, pushed it into 

an iron safe and turned the key, with the grim look of a gaoler who had 

just locked up a thief, then, rubbing his hands to warm them, he replied, 

“I would rather read Hervey's ‘Meditations among the Tombs.’ Still, 

there are moral lessons to be learned in bill-books, and I believe that if 

they were studied a little more, it would be beneficial to the world at 

large, and be especially gratifying to bank managers.” 

By degrees my friend's face grew solemnly smooth, and with true 

philosophy, worthy of imitation in these exciting times, he remarked, 

“Scanning over my bill-book is not an exhilarating pastime just now; far 

from it. It is a stern duty, which requires no small amount of courage to 

perform; still, I dare not neglect it, or I should soon get as bemuddled and 

panic-stricken as some of my neighbours. There are figures enough in 

that book to frighten me if I were to yield to despondency; but I hope for 

the best, while I prepare to meet reverses with courage, energy, and 

patience. Most of my bills receivable may turn out as good as gold; so I 

will cling to that comforting hope till I am obliged to relinquish it; but if 

they should all prove bad, it would be folly for me to make myself bad 

too, by fretting over them. Depend upon it, sir, nothing wears a man out 

sooner than worry of mind. It impairs his digestion, disturbs his sleep, 

sours his temper, destroys his vital energy, and makes a coward of him; 

aye, and it will soon make a dry skeleton of him too. Bother it all! I won't 

yield to it,” he added, with a shrug, as though he were dislodging a toad 

from the nape of his neck. “I'll tell you a tale of the times, Mr. 

Boomerang, just to divert my thoughts; then I hope you will tell me 

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 

folks outside hear that we are merry in here, it may help my trade, and do 

them good too; for mirth is as contagious as melancholy. It's my belief, 

sir, that if something could tickle all the business men in Sydney, and 

make them roar with laughter, even for ten minutes, that the banks would 

relax their hold upon their hard cash, and be glad to accommodate all 

their customers, except ‘kite-flyers’ and bubblemongers.” 

My friend reclining in his arm-chair, stroked his beard tenderly, and 

related the following queer little story (which I have slightly varied), and 

if it did not tend to encourage his mercantile hope, it evidently helped to 

make him forget his doubts for a while, and to look as waggishly 

independent as a man who had neither money nor merchandise to worry 

him. 

He said that a short time ago a merchant was issuing from his store, 

when he met a doubtful customer from the country. “Good morning, Mr. 

Linsey; I am just going in to make up a parcel,” said the countryman. 

“Humph! a — a — good morning, Mr. Mopus,” stammered the 

merchant, who was ruminating on the most delicate way of refusing to 

give him a parcel on credit, for he suspected the man was a schemer, 

because his competitors in trade said that he sold goods much cheaper 

than they could buy them. 

“I'm going to pay half cash,” continued the countryman, without 

appearing to notice the other's hesitation. 

The little word “cash” was as welcome as “whoa” to a jaded cart-horse. 

At the magical sound the merchant's eyes glistened like pearl buttons, 

while a tinge of yellow happiness overspread his care-wrinkled face, and 

he excitedly said, “Pray walk in, sir; we'll do the thing well for you.” 

Skipping up three steps at a stride, he preceded his rustic customer to the 

wareroom, and, with a look full of honest earnestness, said to his head 

salesman, “Mr. Mopus is going to make up a good parcel with us this 

morning, Mr. Tabb, so put things in to him at the lowest figure, cut 

everything as fine as you possibly can.” 

“Yes, sir, certainly,” replied the salesman; and forthwith he began to 

draw his customer's attention to some attractive piles of soft goods in the 

front warehouse, and to expatiate on the large quantity of scarce articles 

“they had in the harbour.” 

Mr. Mopus made line upon line, with a pleasant boldness most 

cheering to the salesman, for it put him in mind of the golden times, 

when everybody was independent; and as his ever-watchful ears had 

caught the glad echo of the word “cash,” when it softly floated up the 

stairway, he naturally thought that Mr. Mopus was a man of metal. Mr. 

Tabb loved his master; so his joy was proportionate, as the countryman 

bought package after package of well-paying goods, with a child-like 

confidence in the recommendation of the salesman, which, alas, few

good customers display in these distrustful days; and after Mr. Mopus 

intimated that he had bought enough, and Mr. Tabb's gentle pressure had 

ceased to be operative, he escorted his customer to the front door as 

affectionately as a father, and while he grasped his hand at parting, 

assured him that the invoices should be quite ready and all the goods on 

the drays by the following day at noon. 

The last dray was loading as Mr. Mopus entered the store next day, 

with cheque-book in hand, and, according to agreement, paid for onehalf 

of his purchase by cheque, and the other half by bill at four months. 

“Now,” said Mr. Mopus to the merchant, “I think you ought to make me 

a present of something handsome for my wife, considering that I have 

left you £500 this morning. Times are hard, you know. Money is scarce, 

and you don't get such a customer as I am every day. Come, now, be 

liberal, Mr. Linsey: give me something good to take home to Mrs. 

Mopus; a blessing, as the old ladies say in my part of the country.” 

“Hum — a — em — I don't see how I can do it. We have put 

everything in very low, and I can't afford to — a — a — however — I'll 

see — em — Mr. Tabb, fetch that parcel of shawls from the back store; 

the lot marked P ses Q, you know,” said the merchant, musingly, while 

he gazed at the cheque with affectionate interest. Soon Mr. Tabb returned 

with the parcel, when his master selected a shawl worth a few shillings, 

and handed it to Mr. Mopus, remarking as he did so, “that it was rather 

against his practice — in fact, he could not afford to be generous these 

times.” 

“Woogh! Do you think I would take my wife such a thing as that?” 

said Mr. Mopus, with excitement. “Blow it all! she hasn't come to that 

yet. It might suit her servant Biddy, but — — ” 

“Don't be vexed, sir,” said the merchant, with a quizzical smile. “I did 

not mean to slight Mrs. Mopus in the least, and I would rather give five 

hundred pounds than you should think so. Here is something handsome; 

suppose I make her a present of this bill which you have just given me; 

what will you say to that?” 

“Give me the cheque,” said Mr. Mopus, “and I will say that you have a 

becoming respect for my good lady.” 

“I can't spare the cheque; but you had better take this,” said the 

merchant, holding the bill for £500 before his customer's eyes. 

“No, no!” said Mr. Mopus, with a roguish wink, which made Mr. 

Tabb's face turn as blue as book muslin. “Ha, ha, my boy! Walker! Keep 

the bill; I don't want it; give me the shawl — that is worth something.” 

* * * * * 

I will not further describe my interview with my friend, the 

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 

face their perplexities as cheerfully as he did, there would be far less 

commercial depression than there is at present. I had better state that I do 

not vouch for the accuracy of the foregoing story, though I can solemnly 

declare that I have both seen and felt “bills at four months,” which were 

quite as valueless as Mr. Mopus's. Though it be apocryphal, it may help 

to clear up the mystery which has perplexed many simple ones, and 

explain how certain traders can afford to undersell their honest 

neighbours, and live in furious style too. 

Soon after leaving my friend's office, I saw a man hurrying down the 

street towards me, with his head down, his clenched hands swinging 

rapidly, and his whole mien as fierce as if he were in chase of a rogue 

who had run away with his wife. I had known the man slightly for a long 

time. Formerly he was a thriving mechanic, but of late years he had 

called himself a “wholesale man.” It was supposed that the bulk of his 

merchandise was kept in bond, for he displayed very little in his business 

premises, and the piles of cases near the doorway echoed very 

suspiciously if struck with a stick. 

“What is the matter, Mr. Fluff?” I asked, as he stopped to speak to me. 

“Matter, sir? why, everything is going to the dogs, and I am almost 

bothered out of my wits,” he replied. 

“That is very likely. Excuse me for speaking plainly, Mr. Fluff, but I 

am sure it would be better for you to resume your trade; you will then 

have less anxiety, and better health than you now have, and you will be 

doing your part towards remedying the present commercial depression, 

which is mainly owing to overtrading. The continual excitement of 

carrying on a business such as yours with insufficient capital is wearing 

your constitution much faster than the hardest work at your trade would 

do. But what special trouble have you just now? if it is right for me to 

ask the question.” 

“I want to get this bill done, to take up another which falls due tomorrow. 

Do you think you could find a friend who would oblige me, sir? 

It is drawn by Bladders and Co. — first-rate marks — for £223. I will 

take £200 for it. It has only sixty-nine days to run, and is perfectly safe.” 

I told him that I should probably have to run sixty-nine days, or 

perhaps seventy-nine, before I found any one to do his bill; and my 

reputation would not be very safe while running on such an errand. I was 

certain that no person, whom I could call my friend, would lend money 

at such exorbitant interest, or have any bill transactions with Bladders 

and Co. Moreover, I said that money jobbing was quite out of my line, 

and advised him to get his bankers to discount the bill for him, if it 

represented, as he said it did, an honest business transaction; but of 

which I was more than doubtful, having had some experience of Mr. 

Bladder's financial talents.

“I did put it in my bank yesterday, and they threw it out,” said Mr. 

Fluff, with a dreadfully injured look. Then he belched out a volley of 

invectives, which would have made the board of directors uneasy, had 

they heard him. Fearing that I might be supposed by the passers-by to be 

conspiring with Mr. Fluff to cause a run on the said bank, I bade him 

good-bye, and pursued my way homeward, reflecting on the vast amount 

of misery some men suffer for the sake of keeping up a false appearance. 

* * * * * 

“There is a great depression visible in the city,” remarked a nervous 

neighbour, who soon afterwards overtook me, and who was homeward 

bound too. 

“There is a good deal of excitement,” I replied, “but there is more 

dread than danger. It puts me in mind of the commotion that I once 

witnessed on board a ship, at a false alarm of fire. The passengers were 

all running about, looking as scared as a lot of sheep with a dog amongst 

them; but not one of them coolly investigated the cause of the smoke, 

which was merely the cook putting out his galley fire with a bucket of 

water; so it was nearly all steam after all.” 

“But there is real commercial distress at present, and no doubt about 

it,” said my sombre neighbour. 

“It would be unreasonable to dispute that, Mr. Croke,” I replied. “In 

fact, the colony is suffering from a periodical bill-ious disorder, 

accompanied with an extraordinary tightness in the chest. But some of 

the causes are palpable enough for any one to see, who wants to see 

them. I have long held the opinion that there are far too many persons 

engaged in the mere business of exchange, both in town and country; 

from merchants down to street hawkers. Sellers multiply much faster 

than buyers, and trade is too much divided: an unhealthy competition is 

the result, which honest traders heavily feel. I have just now given a little 

advice to a pseudo-merchant, which I should like to give to a thousand 

others who, like him, are struggling to get a living by buying and selling, 

instead of working at their trades. The man I refer to has no capital 

beyond some accommodation paper of his friend Bladders, who is in a 

similar pecuniary position. His bankers have, I suppose, at last 

discovered the doubtful character of Mr. Fluff's paper capital, and have 

very properly refused to discount it; so he is, commercially speaking, 

‘smashed up,’ and I think he is trying his utmost to raise a panic and 

‘smash up’ some of his neighbours, in the hope that his own downfall 

may be less noticed in the general wreck. Had not poor Fluff been 

tempted by that accomplished old schemer, Bill Bladders, to throw aside 

his tools and go into business upon a fictitious capital, he would probably 

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 

something tangible, instead of being a drag on our commercial 

machinery, as all such traders are.” 

“It's my opinion that the colony is going to ruin,” said Mr. Croke, with 

a grimace, ending in a sigh. 

“My opinion is quite different to that, sir,” I replied. “This monetary 

panic, as you call it, will doubtless cause loss and inconvenience to a 

good many persons, but it will not last long, and it will be as beneficial to 

our commercial atmosphere as a ‘southerly burster’ after a hot wind; 

which, though it makes a great dust, and begrimes a good many of our 

smartly-dressed citizens, it nevertheless rids the air of an accumulation of 

noxious vapours, and we all breathe more comfortably after it is past. I 

could give you more of my views on the causes of the present 

commercial excitement, but here is your gate; good day, Mr. Croke: keep 

your spirits up, sir. Though times look bad at present, there is far more 

reason to hope they will mend, than to anticipate the national ruin which 

you have just predicted.” 

* * * * * 

It is my deliberate opinion that bills are the main-springs of mercantile 

disasters in general. I do not mean honest trade bills, but kites, windbags, 

blow-flies, or by whatever other nicknames they are known to the 

initiated. They are most treacherous things to handle, hazardous as 

nitroglycerine, blasting-powder, or any other combustible that is likely to 

blow your house up, or rather to blow it down, and damage your 

neighbour's houses too. They are as deceitful as will-o'-the-wisps, and 

have inveigled many good, simple men into a moral bog, where their 

reputation has been bedaubed with indelible dirt. They encourage 

idleness, extravagance, reckless trading, lying, cheating, and a host of 

other evils too ugly to print. They are the commercial hobgoblins that 

breed panic and distrust, knock poor men out of work, and make their 

children go hungry and shoeless. They have caused more sleepless nights 

than gout, lumbago, painter's colic, and “cats on the tiles” combined; in 

short, they are a curse to a community, and I heartily wish I could warn 

everybody against being lured into having anything to do with them. 

I do not altogether sympathise with my broken-down friend Stumps, 

who refused to humour his wife by calling her little son “William,” after 

his maternal grand-sire, lest the boy should by-and-bye be called “Bill.” 

Neither do I go so far as the other over-scrupulous man, whom I heard 

of, who, “on principle,” declines to accept even a handbill from a 

draper's boy in the street, still I have a wholesome dread of bills in 

general, and if they savour in the least degree of accommodation, I would 

almost as soon handle a bagful of detonating powder, or anything else

that would certainly damage me.

“Why Don't You Speak to Him?” 

ONE dreary afternoon, I was pacing the quarter-deck of a beautiful 

little brig, bound to some of the evergreen islands of Polynesia. A fresh 

south-east gale was blowing, and the white curling billows ran high, 

while the little stormy petrels, on their rapid wing, whirled about in the 

wake of our wavebeaten vessel — now lost for a moment in the hollow 

of the seas, and again mounting to the foaming crests — standing, as it 

were, on their very summits, and dipping their black bills into the water 

to pick up some precarious morsel of food. 

“Up and down, up and down; 

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown; 

Amidst the flashing and the feathery foam, 

The stormy petrel finds a home.” 

Pity the luckless passenger who should kill, or in any way maltreat, one 

of those ominous birds! — he would be sure of the scowling looks and 

illwill of the sailors for the remainder of the voyage, and would be 

blamed for every casualty that occurred. I have met with but few seamen 

who have not had a superstitious regard for stormy petrels, or “Mother 

Carey's chickens,” as they are more commonly called. They are supposed 

to be the harbingers of bad weather, and may generally be seen, in some 

latitudes, whirling over the troubled waters with surprising velocity, and 

apparently in high enjoyment. 

Our little vessel was under double-reefed topsails, reefed courses, and 

storm staysail, and trembled from keel to truck, as she struggled through 

the heavy seas, which presented formidable barriers to her rapid 

progress; while she would occasionally plunge her bows deep into the 

hissing waves, and send a shower of spray as far aft as the mainmast. The 

flag at the mainmast head, bearing the figure of a dove with an olive 

branch, denoted the peaceful character of the vessel, which was then on 

her way to various mission stations, with annual supplies, and a hearty 

welcome awaited her from many anxious ones, who were daily looking 

for her over the sea with straining eyes. 

My sea legs have been pretty well drilled; and I was never afraid of a 

little spray; so I buttoned on my overcoat, and continued my unsteady 

promenade. As I did so, I could not help noticing the ghastly look of the 

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 

wildness in his manner; and when the vessel plunged her bowsprit under 

water, he seemed to lose nerve, and looked actually terrified. 

Such an unusual exhibition in a “Jack Tar” aroused my curiosity to 

know the cause of the infirmity which the poor fellow was suffering. 

“Haul up that mainsail and furl it,” cried the captain, as he stepped out 

of his cabin on deck and addressed the officer of the watch; then added, 

while he joined me in my walk: “It's no use trying to force the ship 

against this heavy head sea; we shall only tear and chafe everthing to 

pieces. I think I'll close reef the topsails before dark, and make all snug 

for a dirty night. There's mischief in those clouds to windward; and the 

glass has fallen two-tenths since eight bells. It will blow blunderbusses 

before midnight.” 

“Well, captain,” I replied, “we have a good tight vessel under us, with 

plenty of sea room, and above all, we know whose Almighty hand can 

control the winds and waves, so we need not fear. But tell me, if you 

please, sir, what is the matter with that poor man at the wheel? He looks 

as fierce as a heathen Fijian; and that terrible knife in his belt makes me 

almost shudder to look at him.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the little captain; “I'll warrant he won't eat you, 

while he has got a full allowance of salt junk and yams; for you don't 

look very tender! Why, that fellow is one of the best sailors on board the 

ship. I'll match him for a day's work against the best man that ever 

handled a fid, or a palm and needle. He's been ‘bousing up his jib,’ lately, 

as sailors say, and now he's suffering from the tail end of the horrors, or 

delirium tremens; that's what makes him look so shaky and scared, but 

he'll be all right again in a week or two. He was drunk all the time we lay 

in Sydney, that is to say, all the time he was out of the watch-house — so 

it's no wonder he looks wild. I paid three grog scores for him just before 

we sailed, and I think he left one score unpaid after all. I never came 

across such a grog-thirsty ragamuffin before, in the whole course of my 

cruising.” 

“Poor fellow!” I exclaimed, “but did you never try to persuade him to 

keep sober, and not run up grog scores, captain?” 

“Pooh! what would be the use of doing that,” said the captain, with an 

incredulous curl of his lips. “I might as well try to coax that Samoan pig, 

under the long-boat there, not to eat cocoa nuts when he can get them! I 

know too much about drunken sailors to waste my wind in talking to 

them. That fellow will be sober enough, I dare say, until he gets back to 

Sydney, for he can't get any liquor to get drunk with; but you watch him 

as soon as the voyage is ended, and an hour or two after we are at our 

moorings, and the sails are stowed, if he's not dead drunk come and tell 

me, and I'll give him a certificate to that effect, or else none of his 

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 

— take my word for it. He is as incurable as a decayed tooth.” 

“I am of a different opinion, captain,” I replied. “There is something 

honest and good-natured in that poor fellow's face, now I look at him 

calmly. I do not think he is so incorrigible as you imagine; and I believe 

a few kind words would influence him, as I have known them to 

influence scores of persons in his state.” 

“Why don't you speak to him, then?” asked the captain. 

“Your question has suggested itself to my mind several times, captain,” 

I replied; “and I intend to speak to him the first favourable opportunity.” 

* * * * * 

One afternoon, Louis was sitting on the spars amid-ships, mending his 

clothes; it being his “watch below;” so I sat down beside him, and 

commenced a conversation on some subject, foreign to the one which I 

intended to introduce. He replied to me in imperfect English (he was a 

Swede), but in a respectful tone, which contrasted strongly with the wild 

expression of his emaciated face. He evidently felt that I had a kind 

motive in speaking to him, and in a short time he voluntarily gave me a 

few shreds of his history, which were horribly interesting. 

He had been educated for a chemist and druggist, but was wild, and 

had run away to sea. He had passed through many dangers, peculiar to a 

sea life, and had fallen into many disasters, owing to his fondness for 

strong drink. On one occasion, he told me he woke up from the effects of 

a debauch, and found himself in a ship bound for America; he had no 

recollection how he got on board, but afterwards learned that he had been 

smuggled on board, as a substitute for one of the crew, who had 

deserted — but whose name he was obliged to take, as it stood on the 

ship's articles. He said he had had delirium tremens, or horrors, several 

times; and the last time he was in Sydney, as the vessel lay alongside a 

wharf in Darling Harbour, “de teevil came on board, and roused him out 

of his bunk, and chased him on shore.” He then went and lay down 

beside a lime kiln in the vicinity of the wharf, when “de teevil came 

again, and roused him out of that, and chased him up into George Street,” 

where the constables caught him, as he was running and shouting 

murder, and put him in the watch-house. “But I vos not drunk then, sir,” 

he said, “I vos mad, that vos it. Oh! it vos terrible, terrible! My head vos 

full of red-hot vorms; my blood was burning with blue fire and 

brimstone; my heart vos boiling and bubbling like de pitch pot. I could 

not sleep, I could not eat, I could not be quiet; I could only howl, and 

shout, and vont to cut my throat; but I had got no razor, nor no knife, dat 

vos a good job. Oh, my Got! vot I did suffer, I never can tell. I vould vish 

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.” 

“I am better now, sir,” he added, “but I am very veak, and I cannot 

vork properly, because I shake like as if I had de palsy: and ven I go aloft 

I'm afraid I fall off de yard. Ough de grog! it close up killed me dis time. 

I did suffer dreadful agonies! oh! vot a fool I vos to spend all my money, 

to buy such teevilish torment.” 

Poor fellow! the tears coursed down his rough face, as he finished his 

horrifying narration. He had nearly wrecked a naturally robust 

constitution with his excesses, and had brought upon himself remorse 

and poverty, and, in addition to present suffering, he had laid up in his 

enfeebled body, the seeds of future pain and misery. 

I gave him some advice, and a little medicine, and the next day, when 

he was off duty, I had another conversation with him. I endeavoured to 

cheer him up and stimulate his hope, by showing him that many others 

who had sunk even lower than himself had been reclaimed, and had risen 

to positions of eminent usefulness. I gave him my own pocket Bible, also 

a copy of the thrilling autobiography of the celebrated John Gough, and 

several useful and entertaining magazines, for which he expressed 

thankfulness. 

On many subsequent occasions, I spoke to Louis, both in private, and 

also when assembled with all the other sailors on board, and I often had 

the pleasure of seeing him sitting on the booms, when off duty, reading 

the books which I had given him. 

On New Year's Day, being then on our homeward passage, I was much 

gratified at seeing Louis in company with every one on board — officers 

as well as crew — (except two), come aft and voluntarily sign the 

Temperance pledge! I did not fail to briefly direct them to the Divine 

source from whence alone they could obtain strength to keep their 

pledges. I could give some interesting facts from the subsequent history 

of several of those seamen, but I should too much digress from my 

present subject. 

A little more than six months afterwards, I was sitting one day alone in 

my study, when a servant informed me “that a gentleman wished to see 

me;” and in another minute Louis entered the room. He was so much 

improved in appearance that I did not know him, until he spoke to me; 

when I recognised his voice. He was really a fine-looking man, and as 

upright as a soldier. He informed me that he had just come off a voyage, 

and although there was plenty of spirits on board the ship, he had 

remained stanch to his pledge of total abstinence, and had tried to induce 

some of his shipmates to follow his example. He was in good health, and 

was happy and cheerful. Since I had last seen him, he had bought some 

good clothes, also a watch and chain, and sent a small sum of money to 

his mother, in Sweden. He expressed his gratitude to me for speaking to 

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 

the tears started from his eyes, and he grasped my hand with affectionate 

warmth, “I vill never part vid dat Bible!” 

* * * * * 

A few weeks afterwards, on looking over my newspaper one morning, 

I was startled by seeing Louis's name in a paragraph, detailing a casualty 

at sea. While stowing the jib, in a gale of wind, on board a ship bound for 

New Zealand, poor Louis, in company with another sailor, was washed 

overboard, and drowned. 

* * * * * 

Reader, you perhaps know some poor fellow who is groping his 

miserable way to ruin! if so, “Why don't you speak to him?”

How the Knipps Family Kept “Merry Christmas.” 

“I DON'T see why I should cook our Christmas goose for the Boozems 

to gobble it all up,” remarked Mrs. Knipps to her husband, as they sat at 

their tea-table, an evening or two before last Christmas Day. 

“Well, mother, please yourself,” replied Mr. Knipps carelessly. “For 

my part, I don't care whether we have a goose and plum pudding, or 

corned beef and doughboys for dinner; but the young ones will expect 

something extra, and I should like them to have it too, for custom's sake.” 

“You need not be afraid that I will neglect the children; they shall have 

their Christmas treat,” said Mrs. Knipps, “but the idea of having the 

house full of hungry Boozems, makes me downright cross. I have been 

thinking, Knipps, how we may get rid of them without telling fibs. It 

would be easy to say that we were going out for the day; and we could go 

out for a picnic somewhere, and save the bother of cooking at home. I am 

sure we are under no obligation to the Boozems, though we did spend 

last Christmas at their house; for they have had favours enough from us 

since then, in all conscience. They borrowed your bullock team several 

times, and you broke-in two colts for them for nothing, so I don't think 

we owe them anything. Their great ravenous boys and girls are enough to 

breed a famine in the district. I never did see such children to eat in all 

my born days.” 

“It's a sign they are healthy,” said Mr. Knipps. “There is one thing 

certain, Missis, if we stay at home on Christmas Day we must entertain 

them, for they are coming as surely as next winter; Joe told me so last 

week, and I said we should be very glad to see them all.” 

“That's just like you, Knipps,” said his spouse pettishly. “You don't 

consider who has all the work and bother of preparing for a houseful of 

folks. It is all very fine for you and Joe to sit in the verandah smoking 

your pipes, and talking about horseflesh — as you call it — but it is no 

joke for me to stand frizzling before the kitchen fire all the morning 

cooking dinner for a lot of selfish gormandisers. I won't do it, Knipps, I 

tell you plump and plain; I won't do it, so you may get rid of the 

Boozems the best way you can. Bother the people! If I could have my 

way, I would lock up the house, and when they came they would see we 

were not at home. Then we should get quit of them without a quarrel.” 

“No, no, Missis, that will never do,” said Mr. Knipps. “That ain't 

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 

day, and ask them to come some other time; that is the most 

straightforward way of doing it. Then, if you like, we will take some 

provisions with us, and go in the boat down the river to Bandicoot Brush, 

and dine under the green bushes. What do you say to that, Billy,” added 

Mr. Knipps, addressing his hopeful son of six years old, who sat at the 

table opposite to him, eating a thick slice of bread and treacle. 

“O my! that will be fun! won't it, Polly? May I take my fishing-line, 

father?” said Billy, his face brightening up like a new pannikin. 

“And may I take my doll's cradle, mother?” asked Polly, a merry 

looking little girl, a year younger than her brother. 

“Yes, yes, if you are a good girl: and baby shall have his new rattle,” 

said Mrs. Knipps, looking quite pleased at the success of her opposition. 

“Baby shall have his new pelisse too, bless his heart!” she continued, 

speaking to a chubby-faced infant, who was lying on his back on the 

floor, sucking a pewter spoon, and showing his utter contempt for 

drapery. Yes, and Billy and Polly shall have their new clothes too, if they 

are good: and we will spend such a merry Christmas, under the shady 

trees. Yes, we will, so we will, chucky, chucky, chucky! Hey diddle 

diddle!” As Mrs. Knipps gave vent to the last expressive sentiments, she 

seized her baby and tossed and tickled him, until the little fellow crowed 

with infantile ecstacy, while his brother and sister cut all sorts of merry 

capers, in the overflowing of their joyful anticipations; and made father 

laugh till he dropped his pipe from between his teeth, whereupon they all 

laughed in chorus. 

Mr. Knipps owned a small farm on one of the rivers to the north; but, 

somehow or other, as he himself expressed it, he could not get on in the 

world. To be sure he had had three consecutive seasons of disaster. Once 

he had been flooded out, and twice his crops were ruined by rust; still, he 

could see that some of his neighbours, who had been equally unfortunate, 

and who had rent to pay, were far better off than himself, and he could 

not comprehend it at all, for he thought he worked as hard as any of 

them. He had given Mr. Gritts, the storekeeper, an equitable mortgage 

over his farm, and that circumstance troubled him very much, for he had 

inherited the homestead from his late father, who, good, honest, old man, 

had a greater dread of liens and mortgages than he had of floods or 

droughts. 

* * * * * 

Soon after breakfast, on Christmas morning, Mr. Knipps baled his boat 

out, and spread some empty corn-sacks in the bottom of it, while Mrs. 

Knipps packed into a bushel basket, sundry creature comforts, 

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 

of new milk, and a bottle of Colonial rum. Half-an-hour afterwards they 

had all embarked in the boat, and Mr. Knipps was steadily pulling down 

the river with the tide, while his wife was singing “hey diddle diddle” to 

the baby, and Polly and Billy were towing little toy ships from the stern 

of the boat. 

In course of time they arrived at Bandicoot brush, where they landed, 

and fastened the boat to a mangrove bush. It was a very retired place, and 

the thick vines overhead formed a pleasant shade from the sun's fierce 

rays. Mrs. Knipps first of all spread a blanket on the ground, and laid her 

baby down to amuse himself with his new rattle. She then spread a tablecloth 

on the ground close by, and placed the contents of the bushel basket 

upon it. In the meantime Mr. Knipps had uncorked the bottle of rum, and 

refreshed himself with a strong dram after his long pull. They then all 

squatted in Turkish style round the table cloth, and made a hearty meal; 

the young ones paying special court to the plum pudding, and the new 

milk. 

After the feasting was over, Mr. Knipps mixed himself some more rum 

and water in a pannikin, then lighted his pipe, and seated himself with his 

back to the trunk of a wild fig-tree, and began, as he said, to make 

himself happy. Mrs. Knipps sat down on the blanket, and played bo-peep 

with the baby. Billy went fishing from the boat, and Polly rambled about 

the brush, picking wild flowers and native gooseberries. The greatest 

drawbacks to their comfort were the myriads of grey mosquitos, and 

soldier ants; the latter waggish little insects more than once made Mr. 

and Mrs. Knipps suddenly jump up and dance, without music; and the 

former raised innumerable lumps on the baby as large as grey peas. 

Nevertheless, so far from regretting their position, Mrs. Knipps smilingly 

observed “that she would rather be tickled by all the insects in the bush, 

than be bothered with the Boozems,” and she ever and anon chuckled out 

her satisfaction, that she had so cleverly managed to give her hungry 

neighbours the cut, without appearing to be mean. 

Mr. Knipps's eyes twinkled, and his nose glowed with gastric glory, as 

he sat beneath the fig-tree, puffing his pipe. Under ordinary 

circumstances, he was a man of few words and slow of action, but rum 

usually made an alteration in him. On this occasion it wrought an 

extraordinary change — perhaps it was extra strong — for he grew quite 

funny, and after his third pannikin he got up and danced the “nervous 

cure,” while his wife (who had some musical talent) played an 

appropriate air on one of her side combs with a piece of paper over it. In 

the midst of his comical fandango, which astonished the baby, he was 

suddenly struck serious by the shrieks of Polly in the adjacent brush. He 

hurried away, as fast as he could stagger, in the direction of the cries, 

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 

locust, and had slipped her footing; but a friendly branch caught her 

crinoline, and saved her from bruises of fractures. She was speedily 

extricated from her unnatural position; and after receiving a good 

“scatting” from her mother for tearing her new frock, she was told to sit 

down and not to stir a peg, under certain penalties, which Polly thought 

were very arbitrary. 

Ere they had recovered from that shock, and before Mr. Knipps could 

stimulate his merry mood to return, their boy Billy came into the camp, 

covered with mud, and in inconsolable grief at the loss of his new 

Christmas cap, which was drifting away to sea, with wind and tide in its 

favour. It appeared from Billy's blubbering explanation, that he had 

hooked a fine toad-fish, and in his haste to secure the prize, he had fallen 

head foremost over the stern of the boat into the mud. Billy's wet clothes 

were stripped off instanter; and while he was in that favourable condition 

for appreciating correction, his father administered the rod with an 

unsparing hand, then delivered him over to his mother, who rolled him in 

the baby's blanket, and seated him beside his disconsolate sister, 

remarking, in angry tones as she did so, “that no woman in the known 

world was ever so tried with children as herself;” being quite forgetful at 

the time of the great cause she had for rejoicing that one of her children 

had escaped a broken neck, and the other a watery grave. But such 

anomalies are of common occurrence, and many a poor child has 

received a severe beating from an excited parent, for its good fortune in 

escaping a fatal disaster. 

The most annoying part of Billy's mishap was, that it necessitated their 

returning home at once to get dry clothing for “the young monkey, lest 

he should catch his death of cold.” The fragments of the feast were then 

hastily tied up in the tablecloth, and the party re-embarked, with 

disappointment beclouding each face. Those of my readers who have 

experienced the peculiar difficulty of launching a boat from a bed of soft 

mud, would have readily sympathised with Mr. Knipps as he pushed first 

at the bow, then at the stern, of his stranded boat; and sometimes pushed 

himself so deeply into the yielding mud, that he had grave doubts if he 

should ever be able to work his way out of it again; in which case his 

name would become as unpleasantly familiar in colonial history as the 

celebrated cockney “Billy Barlow.” 

At length the boat was afloat; but navigating it back to Chickweed 

Farm was not so easy as gliding down with the stream to Bandicoot 

Brush, for two strong reasons, viz., adverse wind and tide, and the 

weakening influence of strong rum on Mr. Knipps's powers of sculling. 

The boat was heavy, and the oars were not light, still Mr. Knipps worked 

with spirit, sometimes standing up and pushing the oars, sometimes 

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 

the sunbeams. After working in that way for an hour, and finding that he 

had scarcely gained half a mile, he naturally enough began to feel 

discouraged, so he took some more rum to sustain him, and tugged away 

again for another hour with all his might. Never before had he felt his 

boat pull so heavily, even when he had two tons of potatoes in it. 

Something was the matter for certain, for he had not pulled it a quarter of 

a mile during the last hour. Her bottom must be dirty, he thought, though 

Daub, the boatman, had given it a coat of coal tar only a month before. 

Were the tides always stronger on Christmas Day? he wondered, or what 

could the matter be? The boat was as hard to move as a brewer's vat. 

As he was pushing away at the oars, and pondering over the mysterious 

cause of his slow progress, he perchance looked round, when he saw that 

Polly and Billy were towing the empty bushel basket behind — by a long 

line affixed to the handles — and were enjoying the fun of their mimic 

water-logged ship, in childish ignorance of the hard labour they were 

inflicting on their perspiring father. Mr. Knipps dropped his oars, 

dragged the basket into the boat, and slapped Polly and Billy's heads 

until their ears were as red as lobsters' legs. He then lighted his pipe, spat 

on his hands, and resumed the oars; but by the time he had done all that, 

the boat had drifted back nearly opposite to Bandicoot Brush. 

It would make a very long chapter were I to follow that dolorous 

Christmas party on their tiresome homeward passage, and describe all 

that they said, did, and suffered. Were I to tell how Mr. Knipps pushed 

and tugged against wind and tide, and gradually got weary, cross, and 

drunk. How he profanely cursed his wife, for persisting in hoisting a 

large gingham umbrella, which, he said, stopped the boat's way more 

than the bushel basket had done; and, finally, how he threw the umbrella 

overboard and the basket too. How Mrs. Knipps thereupon got spiteful, 

and nagged at her husband until he grew uproariously wrath, and 

threatened to pull the plug out of the boat, and drown them all together. 

How a fierce recrimination was kept up after they reached their home, 

until it got to fighting pitch; and after beating his wife with his bridle 

reins, and receiving in return a stunning knock on the head with the 

tongs, Mr. Knipps, in a paroxysm of drunken frenzy, smashed every 

portable article in the house, from the Dutch clock in the corner, to his 

grandmother's old-fashioned china tea-pot on the mantel-piece. 

It would be tedious, too, to record all the minor miseries of Mrs. 

Knipps and her children, consequent upon their day's pleasure. How the 

poor baby cried all that night (despite every attempt to soothe him, with 

rattle and spoon, and every article in the toy way that could be procured), 

until Mrs. Knipps, in tracing the cause of such unusual grief, discovered 

two Ticks in a tender part of her infant's person; and how she soon 

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 

water and mud. My readers may reflect, if they choose, over the 

summary of disagreeables in these last two paragraphs, and draw their 

own deductions therefrom; and however much opinions may vary on the 

merits of the story, there will doubtless be a unanimous conclusion that 

the Knipps family did not spend a very merry Christmas. 

* * * * * 

On New Year's-eve, Mr. and Mrs. Knipps were sitting in their parlour 

in moody silence; indeed, they had scarcely exchanged half-a-dozen 

words since their fracas on Christmas-day. At length Mr. Knipps rose 

from his seat, and walking over to his wife, kissed her affectionately; and 

with a look which showed that he felt more than he could express in 

words, asked her to forgive him for his late unmanly conduct, of which 

he felt thoroughly ashamed. 

“I have been fretting for the last five or six days, Polly; and I have been 

thinking very seriously all that time too. I can see plainly enough that I 

have been a downright fool for many years past, and I have resolved to 

mend. I know the reason why I cannot make my farm pay; why I am in 

debt and difficulties, and why I am so often in bad health and in bad 

temper. The bills on the file will show that I have had the rum keg filled 

ten times during this year, which is enough to make any man ashamed of 

himself. The cost of that stuff would have kept us all in clothes, or have 

bought half-a-dozen good cows; but the actual price of it is not, perhaps, 

the worst part of the evil; I have wasted hundreds of hours this year in 

squandering my strength and my money, and in acquiring pernicious 

habits. That is why I'm so much worse off than some of my steady, sober 

neighbours. Yes, Polly, the rum keg has been the blighting cause of our 

unhappiness, and has filled our home with discord; it is that which has 

withered the tender love we once felt for each other; which has 

mortgaged our farm, and made me miserable. It is strong drink which has 

so often made me surly to you and the poor children, and which tempted 

me to beat you, and smash all our little bits of things on Christmas-day. 

But it shall do so no more, Polly; for, with God's help, I am determined 

to put that curse out of my house entirely. Here, I give you my hand, 

Polly, and the word of a man who loves you dearly, that I will never taste 

grog again as long as I live. To-morrow is New Year's-day, and I hope to 

begin a new life altogether, and to set a Christian example to my 

children. May God help me to do so, for I am too weak to do it of 

myself,” added Mr. Knipps, bursting into tears. 

Polly's tears gushed forth too, as she returned the warm embrace of her 

repentant husband; and she sobbed out with a tenderness which she had 

long forgotten to exhibit:

“It is not all your fault, Bill, my dear! I feel I am very much to blame 

for not striving to make your home more happy, — for you always loved 

your home. I have often given way to a bad temper, and have said sharp 

things to you, when I, ought to have said soothing things, or have been 

silent altogether, and wore a smiling face. I have often, too, taunted you 

with running us into difficulties, when I ought to have tried to help you 

out of them, or to have borne our trials with patience. 

“I own how foolish and unkind I was, Bill, in refusing to entertain the 

Boozems on Christmas-day, after you had invited them; for I know you 

are fond of a chat with old Joe, now and then. You have a right to invite 

who you please to our house, of course; and I showed great disrespect to 

you when I objected to your doing so. I am sure I grieved you, for which 

I am very, very sorry. 

“I have done wrong, dear,” added Polly, throwing her arms round her 

husband's neck, “but pray forgive me, and I will promise never to grieve 

you in a similar way again. It cheers my heart more than I can express to 

hear you say you mean to make a fresh start, and I intend to start afresh 

with you. I will begin the new year in a new way of life, and, with God's 

help, I hope henceforward to see our home the abode of love, peace, and 

joy.”

Two Noisy Boys in a Belfry. 

AN old gentleman, whose varied experience has furnished me with 

many subjects for my pen, has supplied me with the following authentic 

incident, which I narrate for the special advantage of my youthful 

readers. Of course, adults can read my narrative, if they are inclined; but 

I trust they will kindly bear in mind that it is written to please and 

instruct young minds. 

“When I was a boy, which is a good many years ago, Mr. Boomerang,” 

said my venerable friend, who was reclining in an old arm-chair in my 

study. “When I was a curly-headed little boy, nine or ten years of age, I 

went one Sunday afternoon, as usual, to our village church, in company 

with my brother, who was about two years younger than myself. The 

church was a moderate-size building, and was graced with a small bell 

tower, surmounted by a conical spire, like the extinguisher of a kitchen 

candlestick. 

“On that afternoon, my brother and I seated ourselves in one of the 

galleries, instead of our accustomed place in the lower part of the church. 

Soon our attention was attracted to an open doorway, into a narrow space 

behind the organ, where a tall youth was pulling a bell-rope with great 

vigour, and with an evident sense of the importance of his work. 

Instantly I conceived a strong desire to have a pull at the bell — for I had 

never tested my skill in that kind of music. Upon communicating my 

longings to my brother, I found that he was anxious for a pull too; so we 

left our pew, and introduced ourselves — in boys' unceremonious 

style — to the youthful bellringer, who condescendingly allowed each of 

us to have a pull at his bell for a few minutes; but finding that we did not 

keep correct time with our ding-dong, and fearing that he might get into 

disrepute through our imperfect tolling, he declined our eager offers of 

further assistance at the rope, but consented to our going aloft to see the 

bell at work. Accordingly we ascended a dusty ladder, which led to a 

square wooden turret, just above the roof of the church, where a large 

bell hung on an oaken frame, with a wheel at one end of the axle, and a 

rope attached thereto, the end of which was in the hands of the lad below, 

who was apparently using extra exertions just then to astonish us — for 

the bell was in full swing, or ‘sallee,’ and shook the steeple so much that 

we could scarcely stand without holding to the bell-frame or to the bars 

of the windows.

“The noise was stunning, and at first positively startling; but we soon 

recovered our senses, and began to make our observations, and to 

communicate them to each other in unstudied phraseology, plain, though 

perhaps not polite — for boys are seldom remarkable for strict attention 

to etiquette. 

“ ‘Isn't it a big un, Jack?’ remarked my brother, with his eyes full of 

wonder. I saw his lips move on full stretch, and his countenance express 

awful admiration, as he nodded at the clanging bell, but I could not hear 

a word he uttered; so I replied at the top of my voice, ‘I can't hear you, 

Bob! you must squall like an upstairs lodger in a house on fire.’ 

“ ‘Isn't it a big un, Jack?’ repeated Bob, with the utmost emphasis, and 

with his hands to his mouth in boatswain's fashion, so that I heard him 

plainly above the deafening din. 

“ ‘Yes, a regular whopper,’ I replied; and then we commenced a 

dialogue (which I need not detail) in the same elevated key, and shrieked 

and hooted like a couple of owls, in order to fully satisfy ourselves that 

our voices could sound louder than the labouring bell. At the same time, 

we were innocently unconscious that we were creating a sensation 

beneath us, or we should have certainly chosen some other occasion and 

some other place for trying the strength of our lungs. We had no idea of 

making a disturbance in a church, above all other places — for, though I 

say it, Mr. Boomerang, we were too well-bred to be wilfully guilty of 

such ill manners, nay, such gross wickedness, as to desecrate God's Holy 

Temple. 

“In the meantime, however, there was quite a commotion in the church, 

almost amounting to a panic. The minister had ascended to his pulpit, 

and the clerk to his desk, when our shrill voices startled them and their 

congregation too. The mysterious question, ‘Isn't it a big un, Jack?’ and 

the equally mystical reply, ‘Yes, a regular whopper,’ sounded through 

the ventilators in the ceiling, almost as plainly as if we had been shouting 

in the body of the building itself, while our loud hooting and howling 

was heard even more distinctly, and which the trembling old sexton 

believed was a break-out among the ghosts in the vaults. 

“Some of the congregation looked at each other in amazement while 

the extraordinary riot was at its height, and others looked gravely 

comical. The parson looked at the clerk, and the clerk looked at the 

beadle, who looked as fierce as a Fijian warrior; then grasped his 

or rather his cane — as if fairly resolved to wreak vengeance upon the 

heads of those enemies to peace and concord as soon as he could find 

them, and waddled down the aisle as fast as he could move his ponderous 

body. It was some minutes before he could divine from whence the 

heathenish yells proceeded — for they were unlike the disturbances 

which he was so frequently called upon to quell. He had, alas! to his 

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 

porch, and to flog some of those thoughtless triflers who had so little 

veneration for the sanctity of God's House, as to create noises and 

disturbance during Divine Service, to the annoyance of the congregation, 

as well as to the distraction of the minister in the pulpit. 

“When Mr. Budd, the beadle, got outside the churchdoors, he soon 

ascertained that the objectionable sounds came from the bell-turret. So 

upstairs he hastened, and with difficulty squeezed his big body through 

the little door-way behind the organ, gave a terrible scowl, in passing, at 

the tall youth, who was still tolling the bell (which signified that he owed 

him a caning, and would not forget to pay him when he came down), and 

began to ascend the dusty ladder, which was not a very easy or dignified 

job for a bulky parish beadle with his best gold-laced Sunday coat on. 

“Just as my brother and I were singing with all our might, ‘How doth 

the little busy bee,’ the fat head and shoulders of Mr. Budd appeared 

through the trap opening of the turret, which put a stop to our music in a 

moment, and made us shrink into our humblest dimensions — for we had 

a wholesome dread of beadles, as most little boys have, or had, in those 

good old times, when beadles were men of more importance than they 

are now-a-days. In another moment or two my terrified brother Bob and 

myself were hopping about the shaking turret like scalded frogs, and 

humbly begging the irate functionary to have mercy upon us; but he 

totally disregarded our petitions, or our loud screams (which further 

astounded the congregation below), and flogged us until he was satisfied 

he had given us sufficient, or else was thoroughly winded and not able to 

cane us any more. While Mr. Budd was taking a rest and wiping the 

perspiration from his red face, my brother and I descended the ladder 

faster than lamplighters, and rushed out of the doorway behind the organ, 

receiving a savage kick each from the bellringer as we departed; then we 

made the best of our way downstairs, and out of the church, with 

hundreds of flashing eyes following us, and with more marks than we 

had ever before received in one day, some of which were plainly 

traceable seven weeks afterwards.” 

* * * * * 

Some readers may be inclined to think that there is nothing in the 

foregoing incident very creditable to my old friend's young head, or his 

heart either. So I think; and my old friend is of the same opinion himself. 

He did not tell the story exultingly — far from it; but he is especially 

anxious for the welfare of young people; and in his endeavours to 

instruct, as well as to amuse them, he sometimes refers to his own 

youthful follies or foibles — not for the imitation of others, but for the 

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 

journey, and which have invariably led him into a labyrinth of briars and 

nettles. 

This incident could be applied to a good many persons and positions in 

every-day life, and a useful moral drawn therefrom; many analogous 

cases are before my mind as I write. I can picture a multitude of 

thoughtless youths who are now shouting and hooting (like my friend 

and his brother Bob in the belfry) in the feverish excitement of sensual 

pleasures, and are unconscious that their riotous revelry is heard above 

the discord by which they are surrounded. But Mr. Budd will visit them 

very soon, in the shape of aches and pains, and shattered nerves — for 

they may be assured they will not transgress Nature's laws with impunity. 

They had better cease their uproar, and come down from the belfry to 

their proper seats, like good boys, before the beadle mounts the ladder 

with his rattan, and makes them smart. 

And those two half-tipsy youths, whose fresh, ruddy faces, and 

wrinkled coats indicate that they have just come on shore from the 

London ship, which dropped anchor last night in Sydney Cove. They reel 

along George-street, wildly exulting in their new-found liberty, in being 

able to indulge their long pent-up propensities without dread of 

admonitions from parents or guardians. They fancy, too, that as they are 

far away from home, in a strange place, where no person knows them, 

their debauchery will not attract attention to their prejudice. But they are 

egregiously mistaken, poor fellows! Mr. Budd, or his representative, will 

visit them by-and-by, and sadly they will feel the stripe of his castigatory 

cane. If they escape the talons of the birds of prey which are constantly 

on the watch for such green goslings, they will not wholly escape the 

notice of the respectable portion of our community, which they will, 

perhaps, soon discover to their great disadvantage. Many a young man 

has injured his prospects in the colony by indulging in riotous excesses 

on his first arrival with some of his fellow-passengers, under the foolish 

idea that he could do so with impunity in a place where he was a 

complete stranger; whereas, the fact of his being a new arrival had 

attracted special attention to his intemperance and his swaggering 

impudence. 

Examples — not among young folks only — might be multiplied of 

persons who are “wasting their substance in riotous living,” disturbing 

their peaceable neighbours, wrecking their health and their reputation 

too, and, worse than all, perilling their immortal peace; while they 

seem — like the boys in the belfry — unconscious of their folly and 

danger, or else utterly careless about it. Alas! we often see Mr. Budd 

come to such in the form of grim death, to startle them in their revelry, 

and to hurry them off to their doom which they have been preparing for 

throughout their lives.

“The path of duty is the path of safety” for either young or aged 

travellers. Had my friend and his brother attended to that maxim they 

would have taken their usual seats in church, like good boys, on the 

afternoon referred to, and thus saved themselves the subsequent disaster 

which befel them. In order clearly to perceive the path of duty at all 

times, it is necessary to ask for Divine light; and if we ask aright we shall 

receive plain direction and guidance for every day's journey.

Influenza Season. 

Scene: Sydney, King Street corner, on a drizzling day. Two friends 

(Minton and Timmins) meet, and shake hands; they are both suffering 

from the prevailing epedemic. 

Minton: Good bording, Bister Tibbids! How are you? I thought you 

were off to Boretod Bay — ha teez — ha teez! (sneezes.) 

Timmins: How are you, Bidtod? Dasty bordid, this. I've bid laid up with 

this confounded influedsa, ad bissed the steaber. How is Bissis Bidtod, 

and Biss Baria? ha teezer? ha teez? (sneezes violently.) 

Minton: They are all very bad at hobe. By-the-bye, Tibbids, what 

rebedy do you use for this epedebic? 

Timmins: Why, by bedical bad gave be sobe dasty bixture; I dod't dow 

what it is bade of, but I think it has dode be good. Whighezm! ha 

teezum! (sneezes hysterically.) 

Minton: You bust have bid precious bad, thed, if the bedicine has dode 

you ady good at all; for you — pardod me — you look just dow like a 

frost-bitted ghost. But dod't stadd there id the raid, Tibbids. Cobe with be 

to the Betropolitad Hotel, add have a basid of buttod broth. 

* * * * * 

If the above brief colloquy has the least resemblance to a joke, it is a 

very grim one, and thousands of folks in Sydney will confess that the 

influenza is as foreign to fun as a fly in your eye, or a splinter up your 

thumb-nail. Its peculiar effect upon the powers of speech of its victims is 

well understood, though that is the least distressing symptom of the 

malady, which oppresses both body and mind in a manner which no pen 

in the world could describe. 

I was recently in company with a gentleman, whose brain contains 

perhaps as extensive a variety of lore as any cranium in the land, and 

while trying to indite an ordinary letter, he passed his hand across his 

capacious brow, and confessed “that he had the greatest difficulty in 

drawing a single rational idea from his bemuddled organs.” While 

afterwards reflecting on that admission of a great mind, I was constrained 

to sympathise with all those persons whose professions demand the 

constant exercise of their intellect; and as I did so I wondered how far 

that fellow-feeling was general. How many readers of the morning

papers would soften their criticisms, in these suffering times, if they 

missed the usual force, sparkle, and point in the leading columns; and 

how many would sigh commiseratingly over the probability of those 

ideas having flowed from the aching brains of the writers as vapidly as 

mouldy ink from a rusty pen? How many persons in that sneezing 

congregation, yesterday, pitied the poor suffering parson in the pulpit, as 

he laboured to make his misty syllogisms as clear as sunlight. How many 

considerate souls sympathised with their worthy pastor's swollen nose, 

and awed down their smirks when he called “Moses” Boses, or when he 

languidly told them “to udite id siggig the didty-didth psalb.” And what 

proportion of the hearers went home complaining that the sermon was 

“not up to the mark,” compared with those who generously reflected how 

arduously their dispirited minister had toiled, for the last few days, to 

urge his flagging brain to its duties, and to think out that forty-five 

minutes sermon. 

Then again, I wondered if sympathy was active enough in mercantile 

circles? Whether that merchant would pardon his drowsy clerk, for 

making a few blunders in that complicated account-current? and whether 

that master draper, (who was rather cross because customers had been 

scarce lately,) would debit Influenza with the failure of his shivering 

shopman to persuade that strong-minded old lady to buy a “shepherd's 

plaid scarf,” instead of a “M'Gregor tartan shawl,” which was not in their 

stock? I thought a little too, about milliners' girls, and hard-working girls 

in general; many of whom have to please ill and irritable mistresses, and 

to look pleasantly at troublesome customers, while their interesting little 

noses look as mottled as blighted mazarine cherries. Then I began to 

commiserate schoolmasters and mistresses, and to wonder how they 

preserved their patience, amidst their hosts of little snifflers; but I 

suddenly remembered that it was holiday season, and that all those 

liberated ladies and gentlemen would probably be in bed; so I began to 

envy them, until I was seized with a fit of sneezing, which made me 

forget everything but my own discomfort, and created a mental 

uneasiness lest I should sneeze my hat off into the muddy street, and 

have a long chase after it; for the wind was gusty, and running after my 

hat is an exercise to which I am not at all partial. 

During one of the brief intervals of sunshine, last week, I ventured out 

of doors again, for an hour — muffled up to the nose like a Norway 

skipper — and in that short time I saw enough to keep my sympathies in 

exercise to the present moment. Of course I condoled with the two 

unlucky ladies, who slipped down, opposite to the celebrated Doctor's 

door, and woefully bedaubed their dresses and their kid gloves with 

whity-brown mud. Though I was not near enough to help them up again, 

I felt for their discomfiture, but I could not indorse their ungenerous 

insinuation, “that the doctor aforesaid, had pipeclayed his pathway to

increase his surgical practice,” for doctors in general have more than 

enough legitimate work at the present time. 

I took warning by the downfall of the two ladies, however, and picked 

my way along very warily, for a tumble in the mud is decidedly 

unpleasant to my taste. To say nothing of the risk of sprains, broken 

bones, and bruises, a person never looks so well, directly after he gets up, 

as he did before he fell down, and he always loses dignity, in proportion 

to the number of spectators around him, and the quantity of mire which 

may be sticking to his apparel. Besides, if he were to be unfortunate 

enough to dislocate his hip, or break half his ribs, five minutes would at 

least elapse before he saw signs of genuine sympathy among the byestanders; 

for it seems as natural for one person to laugh at another's 

downfall, as to laugh under the influence of tickling fingers. I observed 

as I went along that pipeclay footpaths are common in the eastern 

suburbs of the city; and if I confess that I wished two aldermen had 

slipped down, instead of the two ladies before mentioned, I hope it will 

not be supposed that I bear ill-will to the worthy civic dignitaries of that 

ward. On the contrary, I have great respect for them; but I thought it was 

probable, if such a mishap occurred to them, that they would take it as a 

reminder of neglected duty, and would forthwith send a few Corporation 

carts, and labourers, to sprinkle a little sand over those glycerine 

pathways. It is not likely that those poor ladies would have influence 

enough to effect so much public good; besides, I think that either 

pipeclay or clay pipes are less distasteful in the hands of the male sex, 

than in the gloved hands of delicate females. 

As I continued my walk, I noticed an unsavoury steam rising from the 

damp, mouldy dwellings in several of the narrow lanes of the city, where 

the sun's rays slanted down on them; and I wished that some Australian 

“Peabody” would come nobly forward, and erect model-dwellings for the 

poor, and do his own heart good at the same time. Then I began to 

speculate whether any of those persons who have lately found the 

influenza so terrible to bear, even when surrounded by all the comforts 

which wealth can produce, ever thought of their poor sick neighbours in 

some of those grimy hovels, who have to suffer amidst poverty and a 

lack of common necessaries. How acceptable a few old clothes, a few 

bags of coal, and a little delicate food would be to some of those 

unhappy ones, I thought; and how easy it would be for those rich folks to 

spare such trifles. 

The wild, murky clouds soon began to wrap up the sun, and to damp 

my spirits at the same time, so I hastened home again to my snug 

fireside, thankful indeed that I had those comforts, and heartily wishing 

that everybody else had a home and a fireside. Anon, the wind began to 

roar round my chimney-pot again, and the hard rain to patter on my 

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 

sailors on the lee shore, I soliloquised, while I gazed through my dormer. 

I hope all those who have not got a “good offing” have got good tight 

vessels under them; that they are not overladen, and that their rigging and 

sails are sound, otherwise we shall hear more sad news of wrecks in a 

day or two. Then I thought how miserable it must be for poor sailors who 

have the influenza, to stand shivering at the wheel in such a rough night 

as that. At the same time I pictured a drenched shepherd, hobbling home 

to his lonely hut in the far bush, after being out all day in the rain, 

watching his sheep; and I decided at once that I would rather be a sailor 

than a shepherd; for I should at any rate have my messmates to speak to, 

and there would be comfort even in hearing a fellow creature sneeze. But 

to go home to an empty hut, to make my own fire, and cook my own 

supper; then to sit moodily nodding at the back log in the chimney, and 

picturing “old bogies” in the smoke, until drowsiness drove me to my 

solitary couch; ugh! I shouldn't like that at all. I pity poor shepherds, for 

they have so few social privileges. Though I don't wish to make them 

discontented with their lot, I do wish they had a few more civilised 

comforts and conveniences, and the disposition to prize them; that they 

had plenty of nice books to beguile their many hours of loneliness. 

Perhaps some kind master or mistress, who may read this sketch, will be 

induced to look over their libraries, and send a box of books to their 

station, for the use of the shepherds, the next time the team goes up. 

At length I withdrew from my dreary look out at the window, and 

stirred my fire into a cheerful blaze; then I began to cogitate on brighter 

subjects. As my hope became stimulated, I soon perceived that although 

much mischief, misery, and inconvenience had been caused by the late 

inclement weather, that those evils are insignificant, compared with the 

blessings which the timely rain will confer upon this erst thirsty land. 

Happily the temperature has been genial for the season, and grass has 

sprung up rapidly where it was much needed. Sharp frosts will doubtless 

injure it, but only partially, and there will be plenty of fresh feed for the 

flocks and herds. The sun will acquire additional power each day, and we 

may reasonably anticipate a thriving spring, a luxuriant summer, and a 

plentiful harvest. In a few months the whole face of nature will be 

blooming with flowers, and new verdure; the orchards will be teeming 

with fruit, and the birds will fill the air with melody. Then this sneezing 

season of influenza will be forgotten, by most of us, for we shall have 

warm sunshine around us, and, it is to be hoped, we shall have health in 

our homes, and “summer in our souls.” 

“Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall. 

Some days must be dark and dreary.” — Longfellow.

Don't Forget Your Poor Old Mother! 

ONE afternoon, nearly twenty years ago, a young man was actively 

engaged behind the counter of a general store, in the interior of New 

South Wales. The day was wet, and customers were scarce; so Mr. 

Bustle, who was a careful economist of time, as well as of his means, 

employed himself in dusting and re-arranging the scanty assortment of 

goods on his shelves — for he wisely endorsed the old adage, “that 

goods well kept are half sold.” If rats and mice were not entirely 

excluded from his premises, it was not the fault of Benjamin Bustle; and 

they had not a very peaceable time therein. They were not allowed to 

nestle their mischievous brood among the prints and calicoes on his 

drapery shelves, nor to burrow undisturbed into the cheeses, packages of 

starch, or other favourite commodities on the grocery side of his shop. 

Mr. Bustle was an industrious man, and, although but a young beginner 

in business, with a very small capital, at a time of almost general distress 

and commercial stagnation throughout the colony, he was, nevertheless, 

a thriving man, because he managed to live below his income. Thus he 

gradually increased his stock, which, as I before stated, he took care to 

keep in good saleable condition. 

Mr. Bustle had just given the finishing touch to his haberdashery 

shelves, on the afternoon referred to, and was standing gazing on his 

little stock-in-trade (which he knew was all paid for), and wondering 

whether he would have sufficient cash, by the ensuing week, to enable 

him to replenish his store from the Sydney market, when in walked Mr. 

Dubbs, a gentleman who resided in the neighbourhood. 

“I have called to asked you, Mr. Bustle, if you will buy a bank draft on 

London for £25,” said Mr. Dubbs. “I received it a day or two ago, and, 

commercially speaking, it is of no use to me, for, you know, I am not in 

business. I shall be glad if you will cash it for me. You shall have it for 

£24.” 

“If I bought it, I should have to resell it in Sydney,” said Mr. Bustle; 

“and I do not know the present rate of exchange. I have no use for it 

myself, for I am not in a position to import goods from England, though I 

hope to do so some day. I am much obliged to you for offering the draft 

to me, but I must decline purchasing it.” 

* * * * *

“Is anything troubling you, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Bustle, when her 

husband sat down to tea, an hour or two afterwards, in an unusually 

thoughtful mood. 

“No, love; nothing is actually troubling me,” replied Mr. Bustle, “but I 

cannot remove an impression from my mind that I ought to buy that bank 

draft which Mr. Dubbs offered me this afternoon, and send it to my 

mother. Since the lamented death of several members of my family I 

have been uncertain as to her pecuniary position; and I feel a strange 

uneasiness on the subject to-night, nor can I reason it away.” 

“Well, my dear, buy the draft, and send it by the first ship that sails to 

England,” replied Mrs. Bustle. “If you think your mother wants it, send it 

by all means; it is a positive duty.” 

“I do not see that I can afford it,” said Mr. Bustle, musingly. “I want to 

go to Sydney to buy goods next week, and the purchase of that draft 

would take nearly half my stock of ready money. You know it is useless 

to ask for credit, now that failures are so frequent, and almost every 

person is viewed with distrust. No, I cannot afford to be over liberal just 

now. I will, however, write and ask my mother how she is 

circumstanced; and if I learn that she requires pecuniary aid from me, I 

will send it at once. A few months' delay will not matter much to her, and 

I shall be able to spare money more conveniently by-and-bye. I could 

turn that £24 twice over in the interim. Yes, that is the best plan,” added 

Mr. Bustle decisively; and then he began to converse upon some other 

subject, and tried to banish the bank draft from his thoughts altogether. 

That night, after he retired to bed, he was unusually restless, and in 

some unaccountable way his thoughts persistently dwelt upon the 

purchase of the draft. There he lay, rolling about as restless as if he had a 

heavy draft to pay, and no money to pay it with. Vainly he tried to woo 

“Nature's soft nurse;” she would not be wooed by him. At length he felt 

so strongly the desire to send the draft home, that he resolved to do it, 

and very soon after he had thus decided he fell asleep. 

The next morning he informed his wife of his resolution, and she 

kindly commended it. That same day the draft was purchased, and 

enclosed in a long loving letter to his dear mother, far over the sea; and 

then Mr. Bustle went about his usual occupations, cheerful and happy, 

under the sense of having performed an imperative moral obligation. 

* * * * * 

Reader, please to let your fancy fly forward a few months from the date 

of my story, and then take a long leap with me over the vast expanse of 

ocean, which rolls its rugged waves between this great continent and the 

dear little island almost beneath us, whither our hearts' fond affections so

often wander in rapture, tinged with melancholy. Accompany me, in 

imagination, into a humble, though comfortable cottage, in one of the 

rural parts of old England. 'Tis a cold winter's day; the leafless 

hedgerows are white with rime, and the north-east wind is howling 

through the tree-tops, like the weird voice of famine. Inside that cottage 

we see an aged widow bowed down with grief. She is sitting all alone, 

mourning for dear ones recently gone to the grave. She is sighing, too, 

for an absent son, far away — one whose manly arm she at one time 

fondly hoped would be the stay of her declining strength; whose youthful 

energy would be exerted to minister to her wants, when age and infirmity 

precluded all active efforts on her part. “Ah!” she sighs, “I once had a 

devoted son beside me, whose fond embrace often cheered my widowed 

heart, and whose endearing words often lightened my heavy burden of 

anxiety. Frequently in his boyhood days has he hung about my neck, and 

whispered in my comforted ears — dear mother! 

‘When thou art feeble, old, and grey, 

My healthful arm shall be thy stay!’ 

“Yes, he sincerely meant it too; and, were he near me now, he would 

shield me to the utmost of his power from aught that threatens my 

comfort and peace. But ah, dear boy! little does he know my present 

indigence, or, far as he is from me, he would find means to succour me. I 

will not doubt his affection. How can I? But he is far away from me, and 

months must elapse before I can let him know my position. Meantime, I 

am here alone — bereaved, and overwhelmed with sorrow. Gaunt 

poverty is at my door, and my threadbare purse contains my last shilling. 

Very soon my little household comforts, and all those treasured 

mementoes of happier days must be sacrificed to supply my actual 

necessities. My lot is hard, and I cannot but weep over it. 

“But, praise God! though cast down, I am not in despair,” says the 

widow, as a gleam of heavenly sunshine makes her smile through her 

tears. “I am not alone, for the ‘God of the widow’ hath promised never to 

leave me, nor forsake me. ‘I will trust and not be afraid.’ ” She reaches a 

book from a shelf beside her — the Bible — whose sacred pages her late 

beloved husband had often bedewed with tears of joy and gratitude 

during long years of sickness. “This precious book abounds with 

comforting promises,” says the widow, “and they are all as sure as the 

glories of Heaven.” She opens the book, and reads a text specially 

marked by the pencil of her late afflicted husband. “I have been young, 

and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed 

begging bread.” 

But look outside the cottage again for a moment, reader! See the 

village postman hastily approaching with his letter-bag strung before

him. Scarcely has the poor widow read the comforting passage just 

quoted, when she is startled by the sharp rap-tap of the postman at her 

door; she hastens to open it, and receives into her trembling hands a 

registered letter from her absent son, containing the bank draft for £25, 

and an affectionately worded promise that he will henceforward supply 

her with the means of procuring every material comfort she needs, as 

long as she shall live. 

* * * * * 

That promise was faithfully kept; and so far from growing poorer, Mr. 

Bustle rapidly grew rich. I have often heard him say, that it was one of 

the happiest reflections of his life, that he did not forget his poor old 

mother.

A Rustic Love Story. Jonathan Sprouts and Phoebe 

Skimmer. 

Chapter I. 

JONATHAN Sprouts loved Phoebe Skimmer, as fondly as schoolboy 

ever loved almond hardbake: and Phoebe loved Jonathan a little bit, but 

not a soul knew the delicate secret, except her bosom companion Betsy 

Brown, who lived within call of a shrill cooey. 

Jonathan was a roundheaded, honest young rustic, and at the time my 

story commences, had not been long out from the quiet little village of 

Dumplyn, in Devonshire. He was hired immediately after his arrival by 

Mr. Murphy, the market gardener, to drive a horse and cart, and to make 

himself generally useful. Phoebe was a dairyman's daughter, a buxom 

lassie of twenty-two, whose principal duties were to help milk her 

father's cows, polish the milk cans, and ride in a yellow cart with her 

brother Bob, twice a day, round their milk-walk. In addition thereto, she 

superintended the domestic affairs of the household, for her mother had 

been dead some years. 

Jonathan used to blush like a mangel-wurzel whenever he met Phoebe, 

and Phoebe used to feel as funny as if she had a live mouse in her pocket 

whenever she met Jonathan; but not one word had been exchanged by 

them on any other subject than the state of the weather, although they 

had passed each other daily for five months or more. 

Jonathan was a smart sort of fellow in his way; he could handle a 

spade, or a pitchfork, or any other farming tool with any man in his 

county, and could beat his master in loading a cart for market. He knew 

how to make the bunches of carrots and turnips look most tempting, and 

to turn the heads of the cauliflowers and the hearts of the lettuces to the 

best advantage: but he was puzzled how to turn the heart of Phoebe 

Skimmer in his favour; or to make known to her the tender state of his 

own heart; for he knew no more about love making than he did about 

making air balloons, or steam-engines. Long he had silently admired the 

pretty dairy-maid, and had spent many sleepless hours on his stretcher, 

making abstruse calculations on the amount of capital required for a start 

in the milk line himself, with Phoebe for a partner. I do not say that he 

had selfishly counted upon any direct advantages, from a union with 

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, 

for he believed the maxim “Better is a portion in a wife, than with a wife; 

and he who marries for wealth sells his liberty;” but as it is not 

uncommon for mercenary motives to influence the minds of young wifeseckers, 

in other grades of society, it is just possible that Jonathan may 

have encouraged such greedy speculations; though I must, in justice, say, 

I think the humbler class of mankind are seldom chargeable with 

meanness of that sort. His castle-building was, however, usually brought 

to a dead stand — by the puzzling question, how was he to woo and win 

the fair object of his daily thoughts and nightly dreams, who was almost 

as shy as himself? He had worn out two new magnum bonum pens in his 

efforts to compose a love letter, but had never got beyond the first fond 

sentence, “my dear Feeby;” there his pen stuck fast, like a cart in a boghole, 

and all his ideas were as powerless to help it out as a dead horse. 

Had he only been scholar enough to add but those two sentences, “I love 

you! Will you have me for your husband?” his doubts and suspense 

might have soon given place to the realisation of his tenderest wishes; for 

Phoebe understood plain English. 

I have heard of a similar laconic love letter being sent to a young 

Cornish lass by a love sick shepherd in the far bush, who sadly wanted a 

wife to comfort him, as many honest bushmen do at this present time. 

The girl was delighted with the straightforward declaration “I love you!” 

and was anxious to reply to the plainly put question, “Will you have me 

for your husband?” in the affirmative; but how to do it she scarcely 

knew, for unfortunately she could not write, and she was unwilling to 

entrust her secret to a hired scribe; so after some consideration, she had 

recourse to a symbolic correspondence. Having procured an eye from a 

sheep's head, she carefully cleansed it, and wrapping it in a lock of wool, 

sent it to her admirer, who of course rightly interpreted it to signify eyewool, 

or I will. That was enough for him, it was an unmistakable assent 

to his proposition, and the consummation of his happiness soon followed. 

I have seen many lengthy and highly elaborated love letters, which did 

not contain so much honest meaning as the comical correspondence of 

the shepherd and the Cornish lass: and I may add, for the edification of 

puzzled lovers like Jonathan, that a frank, common sense avowal of their 

feelings and wishes is all that is necessary in such circumstances. 

Had Jonathan added those two important sentences to “my dear 

Feeby,” although it is not probable that Phoebe would have had recourse 

to sheep's eyes and fleece, for she could write tolerably well, her reply 

would doubtless have been the same in effect, “I will,” and Jonathan 

would have been a rejoicing man at once. But the ideas never entered 

into his round head, so how could he get them out of it? Though he was a 

little man he had a big heart, and as it expanded with the increasing force 

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 

conjecture what the consequence would have been, had not the wheel of 

fortune suddenly turned in his favour, in a way which I shall briefly 

relate. 

One very warm afternoon, Jonathan was returning home from Sydney 

market, sitting on his cart laden with stable refuse, whistling “The maid 

with her milking pail,” and thinking as usual about pretty Phoebe 

Skimmer and the probability of her one day being Phoebe Sprouts. When 

as he rose to the top of a little hill in the road, he saw the well-known 

yellow cart coming towards him, with his charmer in her straw hat and 

cream-coloured ribbons, sitting beside her brother Bob, who was beating 

the old white horse with the butt end of the whipstick, in full assurance 

that there were no friends of animals near to remind him of “Martin's 

Cruelty Act,” or to give him in charge to a constable, to be punished as 

all such savages deserve to be. As the milk cart rapidly drew near, 

Jonathan's practised eye saw in an instant, by the eccentric rotation of the 

off wheel, that the linchpin was broken; consequently he judged that the 

wheel would soon be off altogether, and his beloved Phoebe would 

probably be upset, and her milk cans too. With a promptness which love 

alone can stimulate in such an emergency, Jonathan shouted at the top of 

his voice: “whoa! stop! Dang it young un! hould hard cant ee? Doan't ee 

see yer off wheel a wobbling about loike an old grindstone?” at the same 

time he slid down from his perch on the load of litter, as hastily as if it 

had suddenly become dangerously hot, or he had just discovered a nest 

of soldier ants beneath his seat. The boy Bob, however, mistook the 

meaning of the friendly outcry, and under the impression that Jonathan 

had some felonious design upon the milk cart and its passengers, instead 

of stopping or holding hard, he whipped the white horse into a gallop, in 

order to escape from the supposed bushranger. 

“Drat thee emperence! Thee art be-wattled, I do believe!” grumbled 

Jonathan, as he left his own horse standing in the road and ran after the 

yellow cart, throwing out his arms to denote danger, like an excited 

signal master, and shouting “whoa! stop! hould hard!” but with no other 

effect than to make the terrified Bob beat his horse harder. Presently the 

off-wheel parted company with the cart, and rolled into a dyke by the 

roadside, and simultaneously Jonathan saw, to his great dismay, the 

vehicle itself descend to the ground, and the next moment his charming 

Phoebe and her savage brother Bob were sprawling in a pool of spilt 

milk. 

With his blushing countenance covered with pity and perspiration, 

Jonathan ran to the rescue; gently raised the prostrate maiden, and 

stammeringly inquired whether she had hurt herself. 

“Not at all, thank ee,” said Phoebe, while her rosy face, bedewed with 

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 

sorry to trouble you.” 

“Doan't ee zay a word about that now,” said Jonathan, gallantly. “I 

wanted to stop en from tumbling down, but that young un there wouldn't 

whoa when I told en to do it. I be nation glad thee bean't killed, that I be, 

sure enough. Drabbit it! what a great gorbey thee must be, to ha druv'd 

along like mad, when I tould en to whoa, as loud as I could yell,” he 

added, with an angry glance at Bob, who was rubbing his grazed head 

and groaning dismally. “Coom an help un to get the wheel out of the 

dyke, an put en on again. Doan't ee stand there paking an rubbin all the 

hair off yer head. Dang it! thee beant half a man to go walloping that 

poor owld bony knacker so mortal hard: thee moight a smashed thee 

sister up, loike a basket of eggs, and it's a marcy thee didn't doot.” 

After putting on the straying wheel securely, and picking up the 

battered milk cans, and again telling Phoebe he was awfully glad her 

worn't murdered, Jonathan wished her good-bye, and returned to his cart, 

while she and her brother Bob retraced their way homeward for a fresh 

supply of milk for their afternoon customers. As she jolted along before 

her empty cans, her heart was quite full of affection for Jonathan, who 

had manifested such tender concern for her personal safety. 

Jonathan quickly remounted his elevated seat on the load of litter, and 

after gently waking up his horse with the whip, and telling it to “gee up,” 

he resigned himself to a delicious contemplation of the late occurrence, 

and the happy contingencies which might accrue therefrom. He 

recollected a thrilling story, which he had read in his boyhood, of a 

gallant young soldier, at great personal risk, stopping four runaway 

horses affixed to a carriage, in which was a young lady as beautiful as 

Phoebe Skimmer. The terrified steeds were about to take a flying leap 

from the top of some lofty cliffs into the sea, when the young soldier 

stopped them, by some means (not very clearly defined), and saved the 

young lady's life. The sequel of the story was, that the gallant young 

soldier married the grateful young lady, who was the only daughter of a 

wealthy baronet. 

It was not difficult for Jonathan to draw a pleasing analogy between 

that case and the one in which he had lately taken so conspicuous a part. 

Phoebe was certainly not the daughter of a wealthy baronet, but she was 

the daughter of an honest dairyman, and was perhaps worth a carriage 

full of titled ladies as far as domestic qualities and working powers were 

concerned. He regretted of course that he had not succeeded in stopping 

the milk cart, before the wheel wobbled off into the drain: there the 

analogy was again interrupted, still his kindly intentions were evidently 

understood by Phoebe, and he tickled his heart by believing that she 

would by and by show her appreciation of his zeal for the preservation of 

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 

for him: the runaway wheel had given a favourable turn to his prospects, 

for he now had a reasonable pretext for calling upon Mr. Skimmer, to 

inquire if the graze on the white horse's hip was healing, and whether the 

hair was beginning to grow over the wound on his boy Bob's head, and to 

explain to the dairyman his experienced views of linchpins and leather 

washers for cart wheels. At the same time he intended to keep a keen 

look out for an opportunity of declaring his love for Phoebe. 

Mr. Murphy was one of those good-natured employers who gave their 

men Saturday afternoon for recreation; so on the next Saturday after the 

above recorded event, Jonathan greased his boots and oiled his hair, and 

put on a clean shirt; then shouldering a gunny bag, in which he had put a 

newly-cut water melon, nearly as big as a milking pail — a present for 

Phoebe — he set off for Mr. Skimmer's farm, which was about two miles 

distant across the country. 

Mr. Skimmer was sitting on the top rail of a pigsty smoking his pipe, 

and watching some snubby-nosed pigs at their supper trough, as Jonathan 

drew near with the bag on his back. 

“Good evening, neighbour,” was Mr. Skimmer's salute to Jonathan, 

with whom he had previously a nodding acquaintanceship. 

“Good evening, Master Skimmer,” said Jonathan. “A foine evening 

this, only plaguey warm, and the skeeters are real spiteful across the 

swamps yonder, they do poke their horns into a fellow loike cranky 

young steers. How's the old horse's hip? and how's Bob's head?” 

“Nicely, thank ee,” said Mr. Skimmer. “You are the man who picked 

my girl up the other day, after she got spilt. She told me all about it, and 

I'm much obliged to you.” 

“That's naught, measter; doan't ee speak about it,” said Jonathan, 

modestly; at the same time he was about to ask if Phoebe was all right, 

but his heart suddenly seemed to shrivel up like a sunburnt mushroom, so 

he asked how the cows were getting on? 

“Capitally! they are as sleek as young rats in a barn,” said Mr. 

Skimmer, with a smirk of professional pride, like an encored fiddler, 

“there's a nice bit of feed in the paddocks after the last week's rain, and 

the cows look uncommonly well; put your bag down and take a look at 

them.” 

“There,” said Mr. Skimmer, holding up his hands in admiration as they 

entered a long shed. “There's as fine a lot of milkers as ever kicked a 

bucket. Look at their tails! thin as a stockwhip. There's breed in those 

cows, I can tell you. Whoa, Daisy! stand over. Now just look at this; 

pretty creature, ain't she? a regular pet, too. She belongs to Phoebe. Get 

up, Strawberry! Here now, take a good look at this one's flank, a perfect 

picture! She gives close up three barn gallons of milk a day, a regular 

gold mine for a poor man, that cow is.”

Jonathan made many admiring comments on the cattle, for he was a 

judge, and knew all their best points better than a butcher. They were a 

well bred and well fed lot of cows, so he could honestly say a good deal 

in their praise: but he was most eloquent on the qualities of Daisy, which 

was certainly a handsome animal. In thus expressing his opinion, he was 

not insensible to the fact, that he was on the most direct road to the 

dairyman's good graces, and before they had finished their survey, Mr. 

Skimmer thought Jonathan was a nice sort of young fellow, who knew a 

thing or two about cattle and dairy feeding. 

As they emerged from the cow shed, Jonathan's anxious ears caught the 

sound of cart wheels, accompanied by the jingling of tinware, which was 

sweeter music to him than the chords of a grand piano, for he knew that 

Phoebe had returned from her afternoon's milk service, and on turning a 

corner of the dairy, he saw her descending from the yellow cart, her 

pretty face blushing beneath her little round hat, like a ripe love-apple in 

a strawberry basket. 

“Hallo! welcome home, my girl,” said Mr. Skimmer, then he added, 

nodding towards Jonathan, “here's Mr. What's-his-name come to see us. 

Please to tell us your name, mate.” 

“Jonathan Sprouts,” was the modest reply. 

“Thank ee. Well, Mr. Sprouts will stop and take a cup of tea with us, 

Phoebe, so get the kettle boiling quickly, there's a good girl.” 

Chapter II. 

“WALK this way, Mr. Sprouts,” said Mr. Skimmer, proceeding 

towards the house. “What have you got in your bag? Excuse me for 

asking; but if it is anything that can run away, bring it inside.” 

“It's a foine ripe water melon. I carr'd an over from our garden, 'cos I'd 

a notion Miss Phoebe ud like to have en. I loike em uncommon; they be 

rate noice things to eat in warm weathur loike this,” replied Jonathan, 

turning up the bag as he spoke, and rolling the green monster to the feet 

of his deary, who smiled and said, “thankee, Mr. Sprouts, I am very fond 

of melons.” 

“Take a seat on the sofa,” said Mr. Skimmer, when they had entered a 

snug little parlour, neat as hands could make it. “I'll just go and have a 

wash, and put on my coat. I'll be with you again in a few minutes; make 

yourself happy.” 

Accordingly Jonathan seated himself, and while his host was at his 

toilet, and Phoebe was helping the handy little maid-of-all-work in the 

kitchen, he busied himself in taking stock of the comforts around him. 

The house, though small, was very convenient, and scrupulously clean in 

every part. There was not an atom of dust, or cobweb to be seen, and all 

the furniture shone like a black fellow's face.

“Her be's a tidy wench, sure enough,” muttered Jonathan to himself, as 

he gazed around in smiling admiration on the tokens of good 

housewifery, which were everywhere apparent, “I believe her do amost 

bate my dear ould mother, and sister Suke. I wish they could see this 

room. They wouldn't bother me any more to send for Dolly Daysel, I'll 

warrant.” 

Though it is commonly reported that “love is blind,” I doubt if it would 

have blinded Jonathan to the reasonable deduction, that he could have 

very little domestic comfort with Phoebe for his wife — however comely 

her person — had he seen evidence of slovenliness, wastefulness, and a 

lack of cleanliness, which is too often seen in country homes, and in 

town homes, too. Jonathan, though as shy as a wild turkey, was 

nevertheless shrewd enough in his quiet way, as most Devonshire boys 

are — and much as he had admired Phoebe Skimmer's neat appearance 

out of doors, had he seen anything to indicate that she was a “dolly” 

indoors, he would have resigned her to some lover less mindful of such 

important matters, and would have tried to subdue his passion, like a 

sensible man, while he looked elsewhere for a suitable wife. 

An intimate friend of mine — many years ago — fell suddenly in love 

with a young lady whom he had met at a picnic. She was the belle of the 

party; and in her flowing riding habit and feathery hat, she looked like 

Diana, or some other goddess. The first glances of her love-striking eyes 

went through his susceptible heart, like silver skewers; and her lisping 

tongue and sonorous laughter tickled his ears like cuckoo's feathers. For 

nine days his heart was in a simmer of adoration for Miss Birdy; and all 

the world seemed sad and dreary without her. On the tenth day he called 

at her mother's villa, in the forenoon, and found his Dulcinea en 

deshabille, lolling on the drawing-room couch, sighing over a sensational 

novel, entitled the “Blighted Heart, or the Midnight Vow,” while 

everything around her evidenced slovenliness, disorder, and genteel dirt. 

“How are you to-day, Miss Birdy?” asked my friend, as he entered the 

room, with a fluttering heart. 

“I'm very poorly,” replied the young lady, languidly raising herself into 

a sitting posture, and hiding the book beneath the sofa cushion; gasping 

the while with the exertion, like a little gosling trying to swallow a frog: 

then in a die-away drawl she began to describe the aches and pains which 

she was doomed to endure, but which my friend — who was rather a 

sagacious youth — at once saw were whims and fancies, produced by 

want of proper exercise of body and mind. He felt inclined to 

recommend her to put on her morning wrapper, and rub the dust and 

candle spots off her piano, and put the otherwise untidy room to rights: 

then to go into the kitchen and exercise herself with the rolling-pin and 

pastry board, while she heated the oven with the “Blighted Heart,” and 

scores of similar books, which littered her boudoir. He was too

courteous, however, thus plainly to express his sentiments to the young 

lady, but he wisely acted upon the judgment of her character, which that 

interview afforded, and did not in any way express his feelings. In a short 

time his hastily-formed attachment succumbed to the sober reasonings of 

common sense; at a month's end his love for Miss Birdy had flown away, 

and his heart was again his own. In due course he married a sensible 

young lady, accomplished and domesticated, and has since enjoyed many 

years of conjugal happiness. Miss Birdy married too, and although her 

husband's income was sufficient for a stylish establishment, her 

extravagance and want of management — in less than seven years 

— involved him in pecuniary difficulties. 

In a short time Mr. Skimmer returned to the parlour and put an end, for 

a time, to Jonathan's speculations. Soon afterwards, Phoebe — in a neat 

afternoon dress — took her seat at the tea table, which was garnished 

with a ham of her own curing, a loaf of her own baking, and some nice 

fresh butter of her own churning; which interesting facts Jonathan 

adroitly ascertained in the course of the social meal. Many were the 

loving glances which stole out of the corners of his eyes towards her, as 

she sat behind the big tin tea-pot; and when she asked him if his tea was 

agreeable, he was going to say, “that it would be as sweet as mead, even 

if she had only looked at it, and had forgotten to sugar it,” but he was 

afraid to attempt such a long speech. 

After tea, Mr. Skimmer and Jonathan smoked a pipe together, and 

chatted about cattle and cart wheels, and many other topics which they 

mutually understood, while Phoebe sat and listened, and at the same time 

nimbly plied her needle and thimble in the necessary repairs to some of 

her father's working shirts. About nine o'clock Jonathan bade farewell to 

his kind friends, and trudged homeward in the face of the full moon, with 

his heart full of love and pleasing anticipations, for he had ascertained, in 

a way unmistakably plain, though difficult to explain, that he had found 

favour in Phoebe's eyes; and he had also satisfied himself that she was an 

industrious and domesticated young woman; just the wife for him, and 

the very identical girl that his mother and sister Suke would have chosen. 

Jonathan had been scarcely twelve months in the colony, yet he had 

saved nearly thirty pounds (out of his pound a week with board and 

perquisites), besides sending ten pounds to his mother; which is a pretty 

good proof of his steady habits. As he went on his way, he was busy in 

forming plans for the future, for he was too wise even to think of rushing 

into matrimony, before he had the means of providing a comfortable 

home; he had seen too much misery ensue from such indiscretion. His 

master had promised him an advance of wages after Christmas, and he 

estimated that by the end of another year he would be worth seventy 

pounds, at least. Then he went into a calculation on the cost of a 

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 

Phoebe in twelve or fifteen months. How to enter upon the love-making 

preliminaries was the next subject of his cogitation, which he had not 

decided before he was fast asleep on his little bachelor bed. 

Soon after Jonathan left, Phoebe put on her hat, and skipped across the 

paddock to Betsy Brown's back gate, and in confidential whispers told 

her friend the particulars of Jonathan's visit, and all the encouraging 

things her father had said about him, after he had gone. She furthermore 

said that “she had made up her mind to take him,” for better or worse, if 

he offered himself; for he was the nicest man she had ever seen, except 

poor Barney, who had broken his neck on the Homebush Racecourse five 

years before. 

All the ensuing week, Phoebe Skimmer was constantly in Jonathan's 

thoughts, and no matter how or where he was engaged, her pretty image 

was ever before his eyes. Day and night he cudgelled his brain to devise 

some means for making known his love for her; and to get an 

acknowledgment from her that it was reciprocated. But he was an utter 

stranger to all conventional forms and phrases. He knew how he felt, but 

he lacked the power to explain his feelings. He could ride a kicking colt 

without a saddle, and could do many other things requiring nerve and 

energy to effect; but he could not even look at Phoebe Skimmer without 

feeling shaky. It was not fear, however, that made him shake; he was not 

a coward, but it was an unaccountable sensation which came over him, 

and which he was powerless to conquer or to control. Many bashful boys 

will understand his feelings without any further explanation. 

One morning, as he was hilling up some young cauliflowers and 

chipping out the couch-grass between the rows, an idea struck him all at 

once, and he began to think it out. “Nation hard stuff to get out of the 

ground, is this couch-grass,” thought Jonathan. “It's just like love; when 

it gets into a fellow's heart, it creeps all over him, with its thousand roots, 

and burned if he can get it out any how.” Then he resolved upon using 

that familiar figure to convey the state of his mind to Phoebe. She knew 

what couch-grass was, he was sure, for he had seen lots of it choking the 

marigolds in her little front garden; and he thought she knew what love 

was too, so she would readily understand his parabolic addresses. He 

would go over to her house next Saturday, and trim her garden beds, and 

then tell her that his heart was overgrown with love, and was in danger of 

being stifled, like her marigolds, with couch-grass, if she did not promise 

to be its keeper for life. Pleased with the happy concoction, Jonathan 

composed a few sentences, embodying the idea in his own vernacular, 

and rehearsed them as he prosecuted his varied duties day after day, until 

he felt assured that he had learnt them off, and could say them to Phoebe, 

without a stammer. 

Directly after dinner, on the following Saturday, he trimmed himself up

extra smart, and putting (with his master's permission) a large bunch of 

turnip radishes and some prime young cucumbers into the gunny bag, off 

he set with hasty steps towards the dairyman's house. As he approached 

it, he saw his precious Phoebe, with a bucketful of frothing new milk, 

walking from the stock-yard to the dairy, and looking like a bright star in 

the “Milky Way.” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sprouts,” was Phoebe's cheerful salute as he 

drew near, ruddy with health and the effect of his quick march across the 

swamps, with the bag on his back. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Phoebe, — I bean't used to be called Mister, 

and it sounds queer loike. I do wish thee'd call me Jonathan, stead of 

Mister Sprouts.” 

“Do you? Very well, then, I'll call you Jonathan,” said Phoebe, with a 

smile and a blush, “it's a very nice name.” 

Jonathan was just about to begin his prepared address, but checked 

himself by the recollection that it would be premature: he must trim up 

her garden-beds before she would see the full force of the grassy figure, 

with which he hoped to strike her into yielding tenderness, and ease his 

own breast at the same time. So, after presenting her with the contents of 

his sugee bag he offered — if she would furnish him with a hoe and a 

rake — to trim up her bit of garden, while she was gone into town with 

her milk. After a pleasant interchange of protests, against giving trouble, 

and taking trouble, Phoebe brought the hoe and rake, and Jonathan went 

to work with a will, among the marigolds, sunflowers, and other flowers, 

which were sadly overrun with weeds and couch-grass. Phoebe looked 

admiringly on for a minute or two, and then went into the dairy to 

prepare her milk for market; which process I am not able to explain. 

About five o'clock — nearly an hour earlier than usual — Phoebe 

returned, with the old white horse covered with lather and bruises, and 

her brother Bob looking quite fatigued with his exertions. Jonathan had 

wrought a surprising change in her garden during her absence, and was 

still busy weeding, when she walked up the centre path, and expressed 

her satisfaction at his handiwork. 

“Now's my time,” thought Jonathan, who had been muttering his 

prepared address all the afternoon. “Now's the time to clinch the nail.” 

“Phoebe, dos't thee see this couch-grass!” he asked, striking his rake 

vehemently into a heap of weeds just beside him; “dos't thee see this 

tough wiry stuff, lass?” 

“Ye — yes — Jonathan,” said Phoebe, rather puzzled at his sudden 

change of manner, “I see it,” of course, she replied, gazing at him, 

inquiringly. “What is the matter with it?” 

“Couch-grass, is — is a — wiry weed — my — stom — no — my 

breast is chock full of it — no, no, I don't mean that, burn it! It's nation 

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 

enough!” stammered poor Jonathan, colouring to the tip of his ears, and 

shaking like a frost-bitten sailor: then added in an excited tone, “Dos't 

thee loike artichokes, lass?” 

“I don't know,” replied Phoebe, timidly, shrinking back a few paces, as 

the idea that her lover was drunk, filled her mind with disgust and 

surprise; for she had a natural horror of drunkards; and she had 

previously entertained the belief that Jonathan was a thoroughly sober 

man; so she replied, rather sharply, “that she did not know anything 

about artichokes;” then hurriedly withdrew to the house, and whispered 

her suspicions to her father, while her eyes filled with tears. 

“Drunk, girl!” exclaimed Mr. Skimmer with warmth. “Pooh! nonsense! 

The lad is as sober as old Daisy in the shed yonder. Hasn't he been 

working away there all the afternoon, as if he were earning double 

wages, while I have been sitting beside him? Not a drop of anything 

stronger than skim milk has he tasted since he came here; that I'll 

warrant. Drunk indeed! what next will you fancy, girl?” 

“Well then, I'm afraid he is crazy, father,” said poor Phoebe, wiping 

her eyes with her little white apron. 

“Bother you, girl! I shall believe you are downright mad directly,” said 

Mr. Skimmer, pettishly. “The lad is hungry, that's what is the matter with 

him, I'll be bound; so go and get the supper ready, as soon as you can.” 

Then, putting on his hat, he went into the garden, where Jonathan was 

busy giving the finishing rake to the flower-beds; and having in a 

measure recovered from the terrible perturbation which his bungling 

failure and the sudden flight of Phoebe had caused him, he looked 

tolerably collected. 

“Well, mate, are you pretty nearly knocked up?” asked Mr. Skimmer, 

at the same time looking very closely at him. 

“Not a bit, not a bit, measter. This ground is as easy to work as a sandy 

flat, only there be's a plaguey lot of weeds and couch-grass in it, and it 

wants a few barrowfuls of dung.” 

“Crankey, eh! humph! He's as sensible as a judge's clerk, every bit,” 

muttered Mr. Skimmer to himself. Then, addressing Jonathan, he added, 

“Come inside, mate, and get a wash before supper. You've done a day's 

work in four or five hours, that you have. There, that'll do; heave your 

rake down, and come along; I smell eggs and bacon, and hot scons.” 

Without farther pressing, Jonathan put away his tools and scraped his 

boots, and in a few minutes more he was seated at the supper table, with 

his cleanly-washed face as rubicund as an earthenware flowerpot. 

Chapter III. 

HAD Jonathan been aware of the suspicion which Phoebe entertained

to the prejudice of his sobriety, or his sanity, his embarrassment would 

doubtless have been overwhelming, and instead of appearing at the tea 

table, he would probably have run away home as fast as he could, and 

hidden his diminished head in his nightcap. Fortunately, however, he was 

spared that poignant addition to the self-reproach and confusion, which 

his late love-making had caused him; still he felt as ill at ease as a dandy 

who had just slipped down in the mud. 

An incident, somewhat analogous, in the experience of an old friend of 

mine, just occurs to my mind. In his youthful days he had, one summer 

afternoon, engaged to take a young lady and her mamma for a sail in his 

smart little yacht; and being very anxious to make an impression on the 

tender heart of Miss Clara, a fascinating girl of seventeen, he dressed 

himself with extra taste in a blue blouse and white trowsers — the tout 

ensemble of a yachtsman of those times. His boat was dancing at her 

moorings, with sails hoisted and flags gaily flying from both masts, and 

his crew of merry-faced black-fellows, in blue shirts and red caps, were 

singing “Cree-an-dobbria.” The ladies were waiting on the jetty close 

by, when my friend — who by the way was rather a retiring youth 

— walked up in happy consciousness that he was looking rather striking, 

and that he was exacting the admiration of the groups of spectators 

— young and old — who were waiting to see him get underway, with the 

fresh breeze which was then blowing. While gracefully lifting his straw 

hat with one hand, and extending the other to grasp the pretty little 

gloved fingers which were held out to greet him, he put his foot into an 

unlucky hole in the jetty, and down he fell flat at the feet of his charmer; 

when almost simultaneously, his ears were assailed with the giggles of 

the grinning crowd, and the loud guffaws of his black crew. Of course he 

did not lie very long in that undignified position, but when he got up he 

discovered, to his inexpressible confusion, that he had damaged his 

apparel to such an extent, that common propriety at once prompted him 

to run away to the nearest cover, without stopping to look after his straw 

hat, which had rolled into the river, or to pick up the stray shillings which 

had rolled out of his waistcoat pocket. 

Although twenty-four years have elapsed, my friend still has a vivid 

recollection of his miserable feelings on that occasion, and of his 

blushing trepidation, when he re-appeared shortly after he had changed 

his dress, and limped on his scraped leg towards the ladies to receive 

their sympathy, while their lips were visibly twitching with suppressed 

laughter. He never enjoyed a cruise in his boat less than he did that 

afternoon, although the weather was most favourable, and his fair 

passengers professed to enjoy themselves very much; for he fancied that 

everything they said or did to provoke a smile, was but an excuse for 

venting their pent-up mirth at his luckless downfall; and every outburst 

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 

drawing of corks in his kitchen. 

Jonathan felt in a similarly comfortless condition, as he sat, solemnly 

looking at his plate, or picking up the stray crumbs on the table cloth, 

like a half-tamed robin; and scarcely daring once to lift his eyes to 

Phoebe's face, lest he should see a scowl, or a contemptuous smile. He 

was not sorry when the meal was ended; and when Mr. Skimmer asked 

him to smoke a pipe in the chimney corner, it was a relief as welcome to 

him, as the lowering of the prop-stick is to a jaded horse in a dray. His 

embarrassment, however, wore off after his pipe was fairly alight, and he 

was soon eloquently discoursing upon the comparative merits of English 

and Colonial systems of farming, and in so doing he displayed so much 

common sense and practical knowledge of the subject, that long before 

he left, Phoebe's misgivings had all vanished before the direct evidence 

of her senses, and Jonathan stood higher than ever in her estimation, 

while Mr. Skimmer had encouraged serious thoughts of proposing a 

partnership with him, and taking the adjoining farm to his own; which 

was to be had on easy terms, because no tenant had yet been able to 

make a living off it. About ten o'clock Jonathan said good night and 

departed, after receiving a pressing invitation from his host to come and 

see them as often as he could, and after observing at the same time an 

unmistakable love token in Phoebe's eyes, which plainly meant “I shall 

be very happy to see you too.” 

Love lords it over all, and has done so from time immemorial. From 

the prince to the peasant, from the lofty duchess to the tinker's pretty 

daughter Polly; few hearts are untouched by the torch of the ambrosial 

though inexorable little ruler: few are so crabbed and crusty in their 

nature as utterly to scare him from their breasts, lest their icy hearts 

should extinguish his torch and spoil his trade. An old song says: “ 'Tis 

love that makes the world go round.” Whether or not the little urchin has 

that mighty influence, it is certain there would soon be numberless empty 

houses in the world, if love were less active. But without stopping to 

analyse that sentiment or any other sentiment contained in the thousand 

of songs, old and new, on the same touching subject, I may record that 

love held full sway in Jonathan's heart, and influenced all his thoughts 

and deeds, whether he was bundling up greens, radishes, and rhubarb, for 

market, or digging, dunging, raking, or hoeing in the garden; whether he 

was greasing his cart wheels, grooming his horse, or oiling his harness, 

driving to town with a load, or driving home again without a load in his 

cart, he had always a load of love in his breast, heavier than a bushel of 

broad beans. Phoebe Skimmer's image was in his eye and in his heart 

too; and it would take a waggon load of artists' material and brushes, to 

paint all the bright pictures which his fancy conjured up, of home and 

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, 

and awoke him at morning dawn with their wild music, whistled Phoebe 

Skimmer, Phoebe Skimmer! as plainly as magpies could articulate: the 

curlews, which sometimes flew high over his dwelling at midnight, when 

a gale was brewing in the eastern sky, screeched Phoebe Skimmer, 

Phoebe Skimmer! The frogs on the flats that skirted her home, croaked 

the same sweet name, as musically as hurdy-gurdies; and even the sharp 

nosed mosquitos, which hovered about his ears just as he was dozing off 

to sleep, seemed to chant Phoebe, pretty Phoebe! 

“Phoebe must be moine,” quoth Jonathan, in a positive mood one 

evening, just as the six o'clock bell began to ring; at the same time he 

flung down his spade, and walked towards the house to partake of his 

solitary meal. “Phoebe must be moine, or my heart wull pretty soon split 

open loike a ripe apricot; barn'd if it woarnt. A notion has wriggled into 

my head whilst I a been diggin up them kidney tatees; and dash my 

buttons if I doant think it wull just settle the thing roight off, without any 

more bother. At all events, there bean't no harm in trying, as the 

Lancashire chap said when he took a job at mowing beans, and cut his 

toe big off the first stroke.” 

Lest I should make my story tedious, I will not detail Jonathan's 

cogitations in his own provincial dialect, but briefly explain that the plan 

which he had been pondering in his little spherical skull, was in the first 

place to ask Phoebe to accompany him on an excursion the following 

Friday — which was a general holiday — to “Kissing Point.” He had 

never been there, but had heard that it was a romantic place; indeed, there 

was something in its very name which suggested enjoyment, such as he 

sighed for; and he hoped that when there, he might be inspired with 

courting ideas, and also with courage to declare them like a man, and 

thus end his suspense, and set his love-laden heart at ease. After a hasty 

supper he put off his hobnailed boots, put on his best kangaroo bluchers, 

and away he went in the cool of the evening towards Syllabub Swamp, 

which, by-the-bye, was the name of Mr. Skimmer's location. 

He met with the usual cordial reception from the dairyman and his 

daughter; to the latter he presented a pocketfull of Jerusalem artichokes, 

and directed her how to cook them. While smoking a pipe in the kitchen 

half-an-hour afterwards, he asked Mr. Skimmer to allow Phoebe to 

accompany him on the ensuing Friday for a little bit of a jaunt in the 

country, as he hadn't had a holiday since the day he first landed in 

Sydney. Mr. Skimmer offered no objection, and Phoebe was most 

willing, provided her father would manage her milk properly, and serve 

her afternoon customers, which he cheerfully promised to do; so the 

matter was soon settled, and after a little more friendly gossip, Jonathan 

returned home highly pleased that his happy plan had so far succeeded. 

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 

indispensable duties, he began to dress himself with extraordinary care; 

and when he had completed his toilet, he looked thoroughly satisfied 

with himself. His worsted cord trousers were faultlessly clean; his red 

plush vest was as bright as a king parrot's plumage; his velveteen jacket 

was as sleek as his horse Billy's black coat; and when he stuck his bran 

new cabbage-tree hat on the back of his head, so as not to hide his honest 

face, he looked a likely lad to smite the heart of any milk-maid in the 

world. After breakfast he took another look at himself in the glass, 

combed his hair down smooth and straight, stuck a flower in his buttonhole, 

then put on his hat again, a trifle inclined to the left side, and off he 

set for Syllabub Swamp, with a quick step and a hopeful heart. 

Phoebe had returned from the early morning calls on her friends in 

town, and was busy at her toilet, with flushed face and fluttering heart, 

when Jonathan arrived at her house. Very soon she emerged from her 

chamber, in her best attire, and shily welcomed her admiring swain, who 

remarked that it was “a foine morning;” at the same time he mentally 

remarked, that “she was the finest maid he had ever ventured to look at; 

as much superior to Dolly Daysel, as a spring cauliflower is to a common 

curly cabbage.” 

After giving some final directions to her father, her brother Bob, and to 

the maid in the kitchen, Phoebe opened her sky-blue parasol and said she 

was quite ready. Away they went side by side, like Darby and Joan, and 

half-an-hour afterwards they were on board a smart little steamer, which 

was fast paddling up the Parramatta River. 

“Be's this Kissing Point, Phoebe?” asked Jonathan, when the steamer 

had moored alongside a jetty, about seven miles from Sydney. 

“No, Jonathan,” said Phoebe, “this is Bedlam Point. The next one is 

Kissing Point; a famous place for fruit.” 

“I'll trouble you for your fare, if you please,” said a tall, good-looking 

man, just then stopping before Jonathan, with a blue ticket-book in his 

hand. “Are you going to Ryde?” 

“Noa, I be going for a walk, as soon as I get ashore at Kissing Point, 

captain, thank'ee all the same.” 

A comical smile played about the mouth of the merry looking captain, 

as he handed a couple of tickets, and at the same time explained to 

Jonathan that Kissing Point is now generally called Ryde, being a more 

fashionable name. 

“I loike the owld name better than the new 'un, captain, a moighty deal; 

and I believe the old 'un is more fashionable, after all. I'd a rayther walk 

to Kissing Point any day, than ride on a thorough-bred racer, to any other 

point you could tell of,” said Jonathan, with a laugh and a shy glance at 

Phoebe, to see if she understood the point of his joke. 

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 

and firewood on the jetty, the courting couple walked slowly towards the 

charming little village on the hill. As they went along, with all their 

senses active, the warm bright sun shining upon such varied loveliness, 

had a remarkably mellowing effect on Phoebe's feelings, such as she had 

never before experienced. Her heart got as soft as a boiled turnip with 

loving sentiment; her eyes were swimming in tender emotion, and she 

occasionally glanced at the beaming face of her doting lover beside her, 

with Kissing Point on her pretty pouting lips. 

“Well, well, dash my wig! this is a nation noice place sure enough!” 

said Jonathan in a transport of admiration, as he suddenly stood still in 

the middle of a green paddock, and gazed at the rare blending beauties of 

hill and dale, and meandering stream around him, and sniffed in the 

salubrious air, rich with scents of orange blossom and sweet brier. 

“Blaimed if this bea'n't the prettiest place I've seen since I left Devon, an' 

no mistake! It minds me of the bank of the river Dart, a few miles below 

Totness, just avore ye come to Dittisham, where the plums grow in 

galores. Dost thee loike ripe plums, Phoebe?” 

Jonathan's tongue was now fairly loosened, and he was waxing warm 

while he was keeping as cool and collected as a fireman. He knew what 

he was talking about this time, and was careful not to make another 

blunder, and thus risk all his hopes; so when Phoebe said she did like 

ripe plums very much, he said her lips were like plums, and he liked 

them uncommon; and was just about to say something else equally 

poetical, when his eloquence was interrupted by Phoebe's calling his 

attention to the eccentric behaviour of a cow, with a young calf by her 

side, a short distance from them. 

“Drat the beast, what does her mean?” quoth Jonathan, as the cow 

elevated her tail, and began to bellow in a very ominous manner. “Stand 

still, Phoebe, and poke the parasol at 'un, whoile I run an' cut a stick; I'll 

soon settle the cranky owld creetur,” saying which he ran towards a tree, 

about a hundred yards distant, to cut a cudgel, but had scarcely got halfway 

there, when he heard a shrill cry, and on turning round he beheld 

Phoebe lying on the ground, and her hat and parasol blowing before the 

breeze, in the direction of a water-hole, while the cow was making 

towards him full speed, with head down and tail straight up, like a millet 

broom. 

“Whoa! drat 'ee, what be thee about, nasty toad!” shouted Jonathan, 

with uplifted hands, trying to strike respect into the cow by waving his 

cabbage-tree hat, but she paid not the slightest heed to his hat; onward 

she rushed with fury streaming out of her nostrils, and her glaring eyes 

looking like railway lanterns denoting danger. When he saw it was 

hopeless to try to stop her, either with arguments or antics, he promptly 

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 

got to cover, and tossed him up, ten feet at least, in a direct course 

towards the noonday sun. After turning a summer-sault and a half, down 

he came again head foremost, into a sweet brier bush, and there he stuck 

as fast as if he had grown up with the bush itself, and all that could be 

seen of him were his kangaroo boots, his pepper and salt socks, portions 

of well-developed muscles of his legs, and the bottom hem of his 

worsted corduroys; but that he was not dead was soon evidenced by his 

loud shouts to Phoebe, “to stand clear of that spiteful owld varmin, or she 

wud toss her into the hedge too.” 

Phoebe soon picked herself up, then picked up her appurtenances and 

re-arranged her straggling tresses. She was not at all injured, for the steel 

bars of her skirt rendered her as invulnerable to cow's horns, as iron-clad 

frigates are to the attacks of sword-fish. Moreover knock-down butts, or 

ill-tempered kicks from cows, were regarded by her as professional 

incidentals, so she was not much terrified by her sudden upset. She had 

seen Jonathan turning heels over head in the air, and had seen him 

rapidly descend into the hedge; but as she had not seen him make a 

struggle to get out of the hedge again, her anxiety for him was quite 

natural. It was very brief, though, for his loud words of warning assured 

her in a moment that his neck was not broken, and that no other vital 

organ was seriously injured, so she joyfully hastened to his assistance. 

Chapter IV. 

PHoeBE, though a courageous girl, was not fool-hardy; so, instead of 

rushing straight towards her disabled lover, and thus incurring the risk of 

again being tossed by the surly cow, she trotted across the paddock, crept 

through a fence, and arrived in a short time at the back of the bush, 

where Jonathan was stuck fast, with his head where his heels should be. 

Her proximity was known to him immediately; for he could see her 

plainly enough, although she could see no more of him than I have 

described in the preceding chapter. 

“Jonathan, I hope you are not hurt,” said Phoebe, in her softest tones of 

commiseration. “Can't you get out?” 

“Noa, Phoebe, I can't move half an inch, if I try; these prickly thorns 

push me amazing sharp. I bean't hurt much, but I be stuck in here as 

toight as if I wor rammed in with a pile driver. I must be cut out, loike a 

buzzy in a horse's tail. You can't get me out any other way as I can see; 

for if you pull me up by the legs, I shall be scratched all to rags and 

tatters.” 

“I'll run and get some help,” said Phoebe decisively, “I won't be long 

away. Poor fellow! keep your spirits up.” 

“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 

I can say it best now thee can't see my face. Phoebe, I tell thee what it is, 

I love thee loike a man, an' no mistake about it. If thee wull have me for 

a husband one of these days, I'll do all that a true heart and honest hands 

can do to make thee happy, and to keep a good whoam for thee. Say the 

word, will thee have me, Phoebe? Dos't thee love me? Now's the time to 

own it; don't ee be ashamed. Speak up, lass! One word from thee will 

make me as proud as the governor, though I be standing on my head in a 

brier bush.” 

“Oh, Jonathan! I can't say anything about it just now; I feel so flurried 

and tusselled. Don't ask me now, there's a good man,” said Phoebe, 

looking as confused as if the cow was coming again full gallop. 

“Then doan't ee try to get me out of this hedge, lass. I doan't want to 

coom out if thee won't have me. Just go straight whoam, like a good girl, 

and let the magpies eat me. Give me love to thee feyther and brother 

Bob. Send my money that's in the Savings' Bank home to my mother, 

and thee may have all my traps, lass. Don't forget to tell measter that 

Billy's off hind shoe be's loose; and that Mr. Nackrum, the omnibus 

owner, owes for the last load of green barley.” 

“Oh, Jonathan!” said Phoebe, softening to tears, “how can you talk so 

strangely. Let me help you out; I'll soon cut away these sticks. Do for my 

sake come out of the hedge, there's a dear man! Don't stand there on your 

head any longer; it will curdle your brain like sour milk, and turn your 

heart upside down.” 

“Wull thee have me then, Phoebe?” asked Jonathan, in a more lively 

tone, “say the word, lass; yea or nay; out with it honestly.” 

“Ye — yes, I will, Jonathan,” said Phoebe, tremulously. “I will have 

you for ever; for I love you dearly. If father doesn't say nay, I will be 

your wife by-and-by, and love you as long as I live.” 

“Bravo, Phoebe! I'll kiss thee as soon as I get out of this trap. Go to 

work, lass, and cut away some of this outside wood; but mind thee 

doesn't prick thee fingers. Here's my pruning knife close beside my nose, 

it tumbled out of my pocket; hook en' out with summat. Thee be'ist a 

brave girl sure enough! Codlins! how I love thee!” 

Phoebe hooked out Jonathan's knife from the bush, with the handle of 

her parasol, and went to work like a skilled hedger, while he plied her 

with compliments and promises of future payment. In a short time she 

had cut a great gap in the hedge; then taking hold of her lover's boots, she 

gently lowered him to the ground, when he wriggled himself out safe and 

sound except a few scratches on his hands and face, a thorn in his nose, 

and some trifling damage to his hat. 

“Phoebe, thee beest the prettiest maid I ever see'd,” said Jonathan, 

warmly, as soon as he had straightened himself up, “I love thee better 

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 

smacker, to bind the bargain, and show that thee bee'st in earnest. Lor 

love ee lass! thee'st made my heart as light as a yeast dumpling.” 

Phoebe might have borrowed the language of Shakespere's King Henry 

the Eighth, and said: — 

“Sweetheart: 

I were unmannerly to take you out, 

And not to kiss you.” 

But though she did not use such courtly words, her actions were in 

effect warmly expressive of the sentiment; for she heartily kissed 

Jonathan, or what amounts to almost the same thing, she allowed him to 

salute her plummy lips, with a smack like a small stock-whip, without 

even saying “don't.” 

Having thus extracted the thorn from his heart, she next volunteered to 

extract the brier from his nose, with the pin of her gold brooch; and after 

she had done that cleverly, Jonathan kissed her again for her services; 

then she dusted his jacket, and straightened his hat, and away they 

walked towards the hills of Ryde, talking as they went of their future 

plans and prospects, and looking as happy as the little birds which filled 

the air with harmony. 

It would be tedious to follow them and try to depict their joys; suffice 

to say it was a delightful day to them, notwithstanding their ups and 

downs. They rambled about, arm in arm, and talked freely of their future 

home and happiness, while their hearts were as glad as honest love could 

make them. 

“I tell thee what it is, lass, I'll vind out who owns that cow what tossed 

me head over heels, and I'll buy 'en. Her is a real likely-looking beast, 

and got some mettle in her too; if it hadn't been for her heaving me into 

the hedge, I'm veared I shouldn't have had the face to tell thee I loved 

thee to-day; I was so mortal shy and timid like. What a great gorby I be 

to be sure, to have been sighing and grizzling so long, and scared to look 

at such a pretty face as thee has got, Phoebe. Why, making love is as 

easy as sticking peas, when a man means what he says; he needn't be 

ashamed to speak out plump and plain, in his own simple way, when he 

means to do what is right and straightforward. That's my notion, lass. 

Those great, lazy, chuckle-headed schemers, who whisper soft lies into 

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 

leather them all with my horsewhip, or pelt them with swede turnips!” 

The blithesome pair returned to Sydney by the afternoon steamer, and 

at the usual time for tea they were sitting at the table in Syllabub Cottage. 

Any observer might have seen a marked alteration in Jonathan's looks 

and demeanour, and Phoebe looked as pleased as if somebody had given 

her a new bonnet. After tea, as he and Mr. Skimmer smoked their pipes 

together, Jonathan briefly explained the state of his feelings, and received 

a cordial recognition from the good-natured milkman, who at the same 

time looked sadly serious. 

“It isn't every young man that I would approve of for my daughter, I 

can tell you,” said Mr. Skimmer, emphasizing his words with his pipestem. 

“I have seen some parents who have thought less about parting 

with a daughter than they would about selling a favourite horse, or a 

prime milking cow: and that's why we so often see miserable homes. 

Such parents are shamefully neglectful of their duties; there is no mistake 

about that. I have been studying your character for some time past, 

Master Jonathan; for you know I had a notion what you were coming 

here so often for, with your water-melons and artichokes. I've had my 

day at that sort of fun — Ha, ha, ha! I have satisfied myself that you are a 

healthy, God-fearing, sober young fellow, and no nonsense about you; 

such as you are sure to make headway in the world, and not shame me. If 

you had not all those good qualities, I would not let you have Phoebe, if 

you owned a row of houses in the best part of Sydney, for I should be 

certain you would not care for your wife and home very long. 

Unprincipled men never do. They take a sudden fancy to a girl (they may 

usually find some one soft enough to be caught by their blarney, worse 

luck), and a few months after marriage they neglect them for the billiard 

table and the bottle, or even worse things still. My poor old heart aches 

when I think of the many neglected young wives that I know, who are at 

this very time pining their lives out in poverty and drudgery; while their 

lazy, sottish husbands are wasting their time and means without caring a 

flip for their wives and children. Excuse me for getting rather warm; but 

I can't help giving a little bit of my mind on that subject. You say you 

love my girl, and I believe you, for I have always found you truthful and 

straightforward. I know she loves you too, so take her, my lad, and may 

God bless you both. Here Phoebe, shake hands over the bargain.” 

Phoebe timidly entered from the adjoining room, and tenderly kissed 

her father. “There she is,” said Mr. Skimmer, with emotion, “and though 

she is my girl, I will say that you would not match her every day in the 

year. Her poor mother, who is now in Heaven, trained her from 

childhood in the right way; that is saying a good deal; and she has turned 

out a credit to her teacher. Treat her well, and she will prove the best 

friend you ever met in the world.”

Jonathan seized her hand, and pressed it warmly, and as her loving 

eyes met his, he drew her to his heart, and kissed her again. How could 

he help it? 

It is not necessary to describe the smooth course of their courtship for 

the next few months, or to notice the numerous preparations made by 

Phoebe and Betsy Brown for the coming event, so important in the 

history of Phoebe, and which most young girls look forward to with 

peculiar heart fluttering. Neither is it expedient to record all the 

preparations which Jonathan made to set himself off to the best 

advantage: his injunction to Mr. List, the tailor, about the cut and quality 

of his wedding suit; or his cautions to Mr. Welt, the bootmaker, about the 

shape of his wedding cossacks; those are minor matters, still they were 

all carefully studied. Their household furniture, too, was selected with 

taste and judgment; everything was good, serviceable, and consistent 

with their means and their station in life; and when their little cottage 

was ready for them, it centained everything that was necessary for 

comfort and convenience, and was quite free from gaudy trumpery 

— made for show and not for use — which is often seen in cottage 

homes, to mock the bad taste of the owners, and their extravagance, too, 

in lavishing money for what is wholly unserviceable, or, at all events, for 

what they could easily do without. 

The long anticipated wedding day at length arrived, and a bright 

sunshiny day it was. The bride and bridegroom, with brother Bob and 

Mr. Skimmer, rode to church in the yellow cart (without the milk cans), 

while Betsy Brown and her sweetheart, Sandy White, with three young 

lasses and three young lads, dressed in their best, and decorated with 

nosegays, followed in a furniture van belonging to Sandy. A casual 

observer might have fancied from their gladsome looks that they were all 

going to be married that morning except Bob and his father, who were 

evidently feeling rather sad at parting with Phoebe. When the solemn 

ceremony was over, they all returned to Syllabub cottage, where a 

luxurious luncheon awaited them. On the centre of the table, in the midst 

of some choice bouquets, some one had waggishly placed a miniature 

sweetbrier bush, the sight of which so excited Jonathan, that as soon as 

the guests had laid down their knives and forks, he told them all about 

his courtship at Kissing Point, and his being tossed up “head or woman” 

like a pieman's penny, and how he made his love declaration to Phoebe, 

while standing on his head with a thorn sticking in his nose, at which 

they all laughed long and heartily; and none more so than Phoebe herself. 

“Now just listen to me a minute or two, friends,” said Jonathan, as soon 

as he could control his risibility, “and I'll give ye a little bit of advice for 

nothing. If either of ye lads loves a young woman, dontee go moping and 

sighing for months, as I did, aveared to speak up; or somebody else 

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 

face merely, but just notice if her be's clean and tidy about her house, as 

well as about her person; if her knows how to cook a poor man's dinner, 

and how to wash and mend his clothes. Ye'll soon vind that out, if ye 

keep your eyes open; and ye may tell, too, by the way her treats her 

parents, and brothers, and sisters, if her be's a good-tempered, soundprincipled 

girl. If her be's all that, and thee has the favour of feyther and 

mother, pluck up courage and pop the question at once. Speak out like a 

man. ‘Lass, I love thee,’ that's enough, if thee can't say any more; her 

will understand thee, I'll engage; and if her doesn't answer thee all at 

once — which it is not reasonable to expect — thee will know what her 

means, by the look of her eyes. Of course I don't advise ye to get married 

right off; I know ye have too much good sense, lads, to think of doing 

that, until you have a comfortable home in prospect; take my word for it, 

that sort of love which is in such a hurry, is too hot to last long. Get a 

good home before thee get yer wife; but doantee go and spend all yer 

money in filling yer house with jimcracks that you doant want; because a 

little ready money may be handy for extras by and by. Then I advise each 

one of ye to do as I did last week. Insure your life, so that if ye should 

die, your wife would not be left destitute. Some pumpkin-headed 

sawneys choose a wife with as little study and forethought as they would 

buy a ready-made monkey-jacket. The fit beant of much consequence say 

they: but they soon find out their mistake, and if they are misfitted with a 

wife, they are as plaguey uneasy all their days, as a carthorse in chafing 

harness. Look well, my lads, before you leap into matrimony; in justice 

to yourselves, as well as in justice to the lasses of your choice: and if ye 

all vind such a jewel of a wife as I've got, ye'll be nation lucky fellows: 

that's all I've got to say.” Jonathan then sat down, amid the loud applause 

and congratulations of the company. 

* * * * * 

Jonathan had taken the neglected farm adjoining Mr. Skimmer's; and, 

by dint of hard labour and skill, turned it into a profitable market garden. 

His home was the abode of health and happiness; of smiles, and kind 

words; not a note of discord was ever heard within its walls. “He and his 

house served the Lord,” humbly and faithfully, and they abode in peace. 

Twelve months after their marriage, they were blessed with a little 

daughter, to complete their joys; and in the overflow of his heart, 

Jonathan wished to name it Sweet-brier. Phoebe, however, objected to 

the “brier” in her baby, but by way of compromise, called the little 

darling Eglantine, and their homestead Sweetbrier Lodge; in happy 

remembrance of “Kissing Point.” 

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 

owns some of the smartest carts and brightest cans that are to be seen in 

Sydney, and is a prosperous man; but he is troubled in mind because his 

trade necessitates Sunday labour the same as on other days. If his 

customers would but consent to take their Sunday's supply of milk in the 

early morning, it would enable him and his servants to attend Divine 

service, and give his poor horses rest. Phoebe has tried to cheer him up 

by pointing out how the plan could easily be adopted, for she says, in 

winter their milk will keep good for more than a day, and in summer 

time, by scalding what is to be kept till afternoon, it will keep quite sweet 

and good. She is sure when that is carefully explained, none of their 

customers will refuse to dispense with their afternoon milk, if they are 

respectfully solicited. 

Jonathan intends to follow his good wife's suggestion, to go hat in hand 

to his customers, and ask them to grant that great boon, “a day of rest,” 

to himself, his servants, and his horses. Reader, if he comes to you, don't 

refuse him!

Shrugs. 

“OF course you know Mr. Abel Goodenough!” said a merchant in this 

city, to a trader who had just come from the country to purchase goods. 

“I suppose you mean Goodenough the storekeeper, of Midgyborough!” 

“Exactly. What sort of man is he?” 

“He is a little man with a big nose, a bald head, and a — ” 

“Yes, yes, I know all about his physical peculiarities; but is he a safe 

man? or in commercial phraseology, is he a good mark?” 

An expressive shrug was the only reply to the questions. “Ah, I see: 

you would advise me not to trust him. I am much obliged to you for the 

hint.” 

“It is not safe to express opinions about one's neighbours; besides, I 

make it a matter of conscience never to do it,” said the countryman, with 

another grimace more portentous than the last. “Goodenough, you know, 

is my strongest competitor in the district, and that is a special reason why 

I decline to say anything about him, for he might hear of it again.” 

“I understand you. It is well to be cautious,” said the merchant. “The 

fact is, he has written to ask for a renewal of a bill, due on the 4th. Now I 

know what to say to him.” 

* * * * * 

A fortnight afterwards, Mr. Goodenough was in the Insolvent Court, 

and his sinister neighbour was enabled to secure some rare bargains at 

his clearing-out sale, while he chuckled over his successful ruse to get 

rid of a hated rival in trade. Thus an honest, plodding man was 

victimised, without knowing who had been the treacherous instrument of 

his ruin. Two shrugs and a wink had broken up his business, and made 

his family homeless, for a time. 

To record all the mischief and misery that I have known to be caused 

by such silent scandal — to tell of young maidens stigmatised, of wives 

made desolate, and husbands driven mad through causeless jealousy, 

would make a big book, and such a one as I have no desire to make. I 

notice the foregoing solitary specimen of commercial shruggery, to 

denounce such contemptible expedients which are especially dangerous 

in seasons of embarrassment and misgivings. 

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 

listened to some saddening recitals of real hardship. Passing by certain 

defaulters (the bare sight of whom makes me cross, and whose 

deservings cannot be mentioned in civil terms), I have had to sympathise 

with some industrious, honest men, who from sheer misfortune have lost 

the results of the toil and economy of years. Perhaps harder still, is the 

helplessness of their employés, who have been suddenly thrown out of 

work. Scores — or I may safely say hundreds of persons are thus 

circumstanced, through the mercantile disasters which have lately 

occurred, and they are now suffering, in many cases, far more severely 

than their late masters are doing. The failure of a business house, either 

in town or country, is productive of more misfortune than a mere surface 

glance will reveal. The more extensive the business ramifications, the 

wider spread is the mischief, and there are few persons in our community 

who are not either directly or indirectly affected, to a greater or lesser 

extent. The downfall of Simon Squash and other great shams have 

caused me no regret, for their sakes; on the contrary, I am glad to see the 

reckless career of such men brought to a close; but it is a real sorrow for 

me to know that their clerks and porters are thrown out of work, at a time 

when steady employment is very difficult to obtain. These contingencies 

are not so often calculated as they should be, but a very little reflection 

will show their reaction upon a community; hence self-interest — to say 

nothing of moral principle — binds every man to use all honourable 

exertions to counteract the present mistrust, much of which is as 

groundless as the alarm which is raised by the false cry of “powder!” at a 

fire. 

“But what can I do to quell this popular excitement!” asked a talkative 

person, to whom I expressed that opinion, a few days ago. 

“Though it be merely a negative duty,” I replied, “you can keep your 

tongue quiet. You can avoid raising or propagating mischievous 

rumours, such as those I have just heard from you, that certain 

persons — whom you named — are ‘shaky.’ ” 

“Well, I only told you what I heard: I know nothing about their affairs 

myself.” 

“It would be more prudent to be silent upon such matters, at any rate,” 

I answered, “but it is positively wrong to repeat statements that you do 

not know to be authentic. If those persons are really ‘shaky,’ as you say, 

prejudicial reports are likely to make them shake more, and perhaps to 

topple them down altogether, and involve others in loss or 

embarrassment. The wealthiest firm in the world may be brought to a 

stand, if public rumour assails its reputation: in fact it would only have 

been necessary for a few persons to shrug at a Bank of England note, 

some months ago, to have caused ‘a run’ upon that institution; and had 

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 

many knowing ones to have stopped them, and world-wide mischief 

would have resulted.” 

I was in the midst of at least a thousand dupes, on Blackfriars Bridge, 

one moonlight night many years ago. We were all intently gazing at the 

muddy water below, not one of us knowing what we were looking for. 

The most absurd speculations passed from one to another, though 

nothing tangible could be seen but the dark river, dotted with coal barges 

and dredging machines. I remember I caught cold, and had my pockets 

picked; and I dare say many pockets were picked besides mine. In a day 

or two it transpired, that some practical joker had made a large wager, 

that he would collect a crowd on three of the bridges of London within a 

given time; and he won triumphantly. The scheme he adopted was 

wonderfully simple, so were the people who were attracted by it. 

Stationing himself on a conspicucus part of the bridge, and looking over 

the parapet, he exclaimed in a loud key, “Hallo! there it is!” at the same 

time pointing to the river. After a minute's pause, he shouted with 

increased gesticulation, “Look, look! There it is again!” The passengers 

stopped to gaze and wonder, and a crowd soon gathered, each one 

eagerly inquiring of his neighbour “what was to be seen,” while all sorts 

of rare objects were suggested, from mudlarks to mermaids. In the 

meantime the joker slipped away, got into a cab, and drove to another 

bridge, to repeat the trick. He succeeded in attracting three immense 

crowds within the specified time — a few hours — thus strikingly 

exemplifying the old adage, that “One fool makes many.” 

Not much wiser than those gaping crowds, were some of the 

inhabitants of a certain suburb, who were recently deluded into the belief 

that one of our local banks was going to break. The rumour — I am 

told — was raised by certain panic-mongers, who hoped to make a little 

money by buying up the notes at a discount, regardless of the widespread 

mischief that might ensue. The growing uneasiness was, however, 

quickly allayed, by a tradesman of influence in the neighbourhood 

offering to give twenty shillings for every pound note of the said bank; 

for which timely exhibition of sound sense, and good feeling, he 

deserves a general vote of thanks. 

A few days ago a nervous gentleman brought me some startling reports 

about another banking establishment in this city. After he had calmed 

down a little, I ascertained that his fears had been aroused by overhearing 

the defamatory conversation of two persons in an omnibus, one of whom 

was drunk. 

“Now tell me candidly, Mr. Boomerang, if you had £500 in that bank, 

what should you do?” asked my fidgetty friend, his eyes looking like bad 

shillings, for want of sleep. 

“I should be very glad,” I replied.

“But seriously; in the present unsettled state of affairs, would you not 

be anxious to draw it out?” 

“If I had no stronger reason for doing so than you have, I should 

certainly not touch it. It is possible that those persons in the omnibus 

knew that you have money in that bank, and they were trying to alarm 

you, either from love of mischief or from more selfish motives. My 

advice to you is to let your money remain where it is, and avoid 

expressing anxiety about it, or making suspicious inquiries respecting the 

condition of the said bank, or you will soon gather an excited crowd 

around you, like the joker on London Bridge. I have good cause for 

believing that your bank is perfectly safe; in fact I believe that all the 

banks in Sydney are quite safe, unless, indeed, everybody should make a 

sudden rush at them, as you were inclined to do just now; which would 

indicate a total want of confidence; and without confidence all the 

relations of the civilized world would be paralyzed, commercial 

enterprise would be at an end, and general distress would ensue. I have 

no direct interest in any bank, or mercantile firm in the land,” I added, 

“so you may believe that the opinion I have expressed is free from 

personal bias, whatever else may be said of it.” 

* * * * * 

It is a pitiable fact, that unprincipled persons are very busy just now, 

trying to make bad times worse, to serve their own selfish or vindictive 

purposes: and it behoves right thinking men to use their influence to 

frustrate the base designs of such persons, and thereby prevent much 

suffering. Shrugs and winks are commonly used, because they are safer 

than libellous words, and quite as effective in such times as these. It is a 

small consideration to those incendiaries that the downfall of each 

mercantile house entails loss upon many persons besides the direct 

creditors, and it would be as vain to appeal to their sense of right, as to 

try to touch their feelings by pathetic descriptions of the domestic 

wretchedness which they are creating. 

I have been drawn to this subject by my interest in the public weal; and 

I would warn all my readers against being influenced by shrugs; and also 

to beware lest they catch the hateful infection, which is as contagious as 

cholera morbus.

“Joy Cometh in the Morning.” 

THERE are doubtless many persons in Sydney at the present time who 

can recal the rage for land jobbing which prevailed about twenty-five 

years ago; and many, too, will sorrowfully remember the disastrous 

reaction which soon followed that unhealthy desire for speculation. The 

land mania was not confined to Australia, but extended to neighbouring 

places, especially to New Zealand, which had not then been formally 

proclaimed a British colony, and was only partially known to Europeans. 

About that time, however, a current of emigration set that way. Many 

persons went there from Sydney, in the hope of making good bargains in 

land from the natives, before the British Government took possession of 

the islands, and put a stop to the one-sided traffic, while others went with 

a view of being foremost in the field of enterprise which a new country 

always offers. Numbers of young men went in the expectation of being 

employed as surveyors, or getting appointments, of some kind, under the 

new Government which was to be shortly established there. The 

majority, however, were sadly disappointed in their projects; and if the 

disclosure would be beneficial in any way, I might adduce some 

lamentable example of ruin. 

It would be difficult for me to offer a satisfactory explanation why I 

gave up a lucrative position to pursue an indefinite object. I had heard 

exciting stories of lucky men buying as much land as they could see from 

the top of a kauri pine tree for a few muskets, or a keg of tobacco; and I 

thought I should like to buy a nice little estate of half a million acres or 

so, upon some such easy terms. Perhaps, seeing so many others going to 

Maori-land, stimulated me to hasten away too, lest I should be too late 

for the prizes, which the Maori chiefs were distributing so lavishly. It is 

certain that many older and more experienced men than myself could 

give no better reason for going to New Zealand at that time than that they 

saw many of their neighbours going; and it is not the only time that I 

have seen multitudes of men following each other to misery, led away by 

the force of example. 

In the year 1840, I took my passage in a bark of three hundred and fifty 

tons, for the Bay of Islands, New Zealand. I shared the port stern cabin 

with a friend, named Archy Weedle, an astute gentleman, much older 

than myself, with whom I had planned that my future fortunes should in 

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 

pounds in gold and silver coin, which chiefly belonged to my friend. In 

those days the rates of insurance to New Zealand were very high, so we 

sailed from Sydney without effecting an insurance on our shipment. 

The first part of the voyage passed pleasantly enough: the captain was 

an intelligent and sociable young man; our fellow passengers were very 

agreeable, and our little party at the table was as united as a home circle. 

On the twelfth day out, we rounded the North cape of New Zealand, and 

that same night it began to blow hard from the north-east, with thick 

weather. Sail was reduced from time to time, as the wind increased; but it 

was necessary to keep a press of canvas on the ship, in order to claw off 

the shore, which was dead to leeward. The anxiety and discomfort on 

board the ship that night can only be comprehended by those who have 

been in similar exciting straits. The vessel plunged, and strained, and half 

buried herself in the waves, which rose higher and higher, as the wind 

increased to a strong gale. I was too anxious to sleep, and as I preferred 

the deck to the close cabin, and the companionship of my sea sick friend, 

I took my place beneath a tarpaulin in the mizen rigging; and there, 

throughout the night, I watched the struggles of the weatherly little bark, 

and also watched the faces of the captain and chief mate, which plainly 

indicated that their hearts were far from being merry, though they strove, 

with becoming manliness, to hide their anxiety from their passengers. 

Still I could tell by their frequent glances at the binnacle, their low-toned 

conferences, and their endeavours to gaze through the murky darkness to 

leeward, that they were conscious of danger. Neither the captain nor his 

officers had been to New Zealand before, and their charts could give 

them but little reliable information about the coast, which, up to that 

time, had not been properly surveyed. They were ignorant, too, of the 

currents, and could only guess the extent of our offing, which was less 

than five miles. 

Some of my readers can perhaps recall to memory a dismal night at 

sea, when the wind howled through the rigging of their tempest-tossed 

ship; when wave after wave has rolled on to the deck overhead, and the 

thunder's roaring has been heard above the noise of the flapping sails. 

They can recollect how eagerly they scanned the features of their trusty 

captain, as he entered the well-lighted saloon from the deck, with his 

oilskin over-clothing dripping with rain and ocean spray; and how much 

their troubled hearts were re-assured by the composure of his weatherbeaten 

face, or comforted by a few cheerful words from his manly voice, 

telling them that “he had made all snug for the night,” or that “he hoped 

to see a favourable change soon.” And with what pleasure did they see 

him seat himself at the table, and smile as placidly as if he had just been 

enjoying a moonlight scene, with a tropical breeze kissing the sparkling 

wavelets, instead of having been close reefing topsails and setting storm-

staysails, exposed all the time to the dangerous forked lightning, and 

fierce driving rain. Persons who have such recollections can understand 

why I so often gazed into the faces of the captain and chief mate 

throughout that anxious season of peril. Who can over-estimate the value 

of a cheerful look or a hopeful word in such depressing times! 

The next day the gale continued with unabated violence, and the seasickness 

of my friend, Weedle, was painful to witness. He had not left his 

cabin since the commencement of the bad weather, nor could he be 

prevailed upon to go on deck, even for a minute. He seemed to have 

given up all hope of our ship weathering the storm; and every time a sea 

broke on board he thought we were among the breakers. I tried to 

comfort him, for being quite free from that nauseating malady, seasickness, 

and being full of youthful vigour, my spirits were seldom very 

depressed from physical causes. Although I really had not much hope 

that the ship would be saved, the fear of death did not paralyze my 

efforts to escape from it. We had two Macintosh life preservers in our 

outfit, and my suffering friend lay in his berth, and eyed me with a 

ghastly curiosity as I sat on the cabin deck and inflated the belts. I then 

made the gold and silver coin into two packages, which I lashed together 

by a strong cord, and assured Weedle that if the ship went on shore, I 

would make a desperate effort to save his money, whether he helped me 

or not. I advised him to screw up his courage, and if the ship should 

strike, to put on his life belt and hasten on deck. With a promise that I 

would give him immediate notice of any fresh danger, I went on deck 

again, and took my old station under the tarpaulin in the mizen rigging; 

and there I stood, anxiously watching the bending spars, the loss of one 

of which would inevitably have sealed the fate of the ship in a very short 

time. 

Night came on again, and a wild-looking night it was. The ship had 

been wore round four times during the day, and each time we had lost 

ground (the ship would not stay in such a heavy sea, under the small sail 

which we could spread), and we had also drifted to leeward while the 

crew were replacing a close-reefed foretopsail, which had been blown 

away. About ten o'clock I overheard the captain say to the chief mate, 

“We must give her the reefed mainsail, Mr. Blocks.” 

“She won't stand up to it, sir; and if we spring a spar just now, we are 

done for, to a dead certainty,” replied the mate, who, by the bye, was an 

older man than the captain. 

“We'll try what she will do,” said the captain. “It does not blow so hard 

as it did an hour ago. Lay aft, all hands, and set the main course,” he 

added, in a stentorian voice, to his crew. 

The sail was set with difficulty, and the spray flew over the ship from 

stem to stern, as she plunged into the heavy head seas, under the 

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 

sometimes feared she would capsize altogether. 

“I would advise you to go below and turn in, sir,” said the captain, 

good naturedly addressing me. “You can do no good by stopping on 

deck, and you may get hurt. I will rouse you out smartly enough if 

anything happens; but I think the weather is breaking.” Just at that 

moment a heavy sea broke on board, which smashed all the weather 

bulwarks, and did other damage on deck, besides nearly knocking me 

overboard. Soon afterwards another green sea tumbled on board, and if I 

had not previously lashed myself to the rigging I should probably have 

been lost; so I went below, and, without undressing, turned into a berth in 

a spare cabin near to the companion way, and being wearied out with 

long watching, I was soon fast asleep notwithstanding the violent 

pitching of the vessel. 

I had had but one nap, and it did not then appear to me to have been a 

very long one, when I was awakened by a noisy kicking at my cabin 

door, and the captain, in excited tones, calling upon me to hasten on 

deck. 

“Heave out, Mr. Boomerang; quick, quick,” cried the captain, “bear a 

hand, sir; jump up on the deck, directly!” 

I was out of bed in an instant, and scrambled up the companion ladder, 

on my hands and knees, urged onward by extreme anxiety, and a 

resolution to save my life if possible. Never shall I forget the gushing 

emotions of my heart, as I stood on the quarter-deck and gazed around 

me, with a bounding joy which language can but feebly express. Of 

course I had expected to see the ship struggling in the breakers, and I was 

preparing to battle for dear life, amid the roaring of the surges and the 

blackness of death. Instead of which, my dazzled eyes beheld the 

morning sun, rising into a cloudless sky; illumining the rolling ocean, 

and tinging the wooded shores in the distance with golden light. It was a 

Sabbath morning, and ever shall I remember the holy calm which reigned 

around, and seemed to fill my spirit with feelings too deep for utterance; 

with a solemn sense of mercies experienced from God, for which my 

tongue could not utter my heart's gratitude. Suddenly the feeling changed 

to almost a delirium of transport, which tried to vent itself in extravagant 

outbursts. I rushed up to the smiling captain, seized his hand and uttered 

a rhapsody of thanks and compliments; then I turned to the mate, who 

laughed heartily as I shook his hand with true fraternal warmth; and I 

was almost running forward to hug every Jack tar on the forecastle, for I 

loved the brave fellows, who had worked so willingly during the late 

gale. Like a poor felon reprieved under the gallows, I felt rescued from 

the jaws of death. It was a transition from the darkness of the night of 

death to the brightness of a sunny, life-breathing morning; and the joyous 

emotion it wrought cannot be conveyed by ordinary figures.

I was glad, too, for the safety of my friend Weedle's money and 

merchandise, which I knew were all he possessed in the world, so I 

hastened below to gladden him; but I thought I would first shock him a 

little before I overwhelmed him with happiness. 

“Weedle! Weedle! Jump up on deck directly,” I exclaimed as I entered 

his cabin, after knocking loudly at the door; but my heart was so full of 

joy that I could not carry on the little harmless deception which the 

captain had so successfully practised on me, in order to increase my 

rapturous surprise. Neither could I bear to see my poor sick friend's 

woeful face, as he turned round in his berth, and declared that “he had 

not strength left to save his life, and must just die in his bed;” so I opened 

the stern windows to let in the sunshine, and the effect on his yellow face 

was like French-polish on an old stool. Archie Weedle was a living man 

again in two minutes; and in less than two minutes more he was standing 

on the deck with me, enjoying the glad prospect, and watching the many 

native canoes which were paddling off to the ship as she lay becalmed 

about midway between the outer headlands of the Bay of Islands.

Dropping in at Dinner-Time. 

A BULLOCK'S head suddenly thrust through the side window of a 

crowded omnibus, could not have caused more commotion amongst the 

astonished insiders, than did the announcement of a visitor by Mary the 

maid-of-all-work, just as Mr. and Mrs. Tiddle and the five young Tiddles 

were sitting down one day to dine off a roasted rabbit, which had been 

sent to them by a friend in the country, and which they all regarded as an 

extraordinary treat. 

“Please, sir, Mr. Grubb wants to see you,” said the maid, “but he says 

he will wait in the shop till you have done dinner.” 

“Patience me! that horrid old fellow has come again,” exclaimed Mrs. 

Tiddle, with a sort of farewell glance at the rabbit, and a vicious look at 

her spouse, as if he had been directly instrumental in bringing the 

dreadful nuisance into the house; while the children looked as scared as 

though there was a wolf under the table. “What are you going to do, 

Tiddle? You will not ask him in, surely! There is barely enough dinner 

for ourselves, and he usually eats as much as three of us. If he comes in 

here I shall be mad enough to snap off his legs. It's downright provoking, 

to think that greedy fellow should poke his nose in here at dinner time 

two or three times a week; and he always smells when we have anything 

hot and nice, that's the worst of it, he never comes on cold meat or stew 

days. What are you going to do, Tiddle? Why don't you speak to me, and 

not sit there like one of your shop dummies?” 

“Hem — I scarcely know what to do, my dear. You see how 

awkwardly I am situated. Grubb has recommended me to three 

customers, and he has promised to do all he can for me.” 

“Yes, indeed! and one of them run away in the suit of colonial tweed 

you made for him, and never paid you sixpence, the shabby cheat. You 

are much obliged to Mr. Grubb for that customer, certainly! Yes — give 

him all the rabbit, and let your wife and children go hungry! Ask him in 

of course!” 

“Oh, don't bother me, Becky, pray don't, my head's mithered. I won't 

ask him in, dear, if I can help it, but I don't want to offend him, I can't 

afford to lose customers these hard times. O dear, dear, there is so much 

ruinous cutting, and so many tricky people in trade now a days, that it is 

a hard matter for an honest man to get along and pay his way. I'm 

perplexed, Becky, but have patience, there's a dear.”

The poor little tailor certainly looked perplexed; the dread of his wife's 

frown and the fear of offending Mr. Grubb, added to the prospect of a 

short meal, made him look as dim as a rusty goose. 

“Don't stir, Tiddle — don't stir,” said his friend Grubb, putting his head 

in at the doorway, “excuse my intrusion, I am not coming in. How are 

you, Mrs. Tiddle, I hope the baby's better. Don't move, Tiddle, I've 

merely called to give you the address of another customer, and I'll wait in 

the shop till you've done dinner. I'll sit and look at your pattern books.” 

“Hem — a — won't you pick a bit with us?” asked Mr. Tiddle, in 

faltering accents, and with a timid glance at his spouse, who was looking 

knives and forks at him. 

“No thank you, no — a — I don't care much about dinner to-day. There 

is something the matter with me, I ate a hearty supper last night, perhaps 

that's it. Go on with your dinner, friends, I'll wait till you are done.” 

“We've just got a little rabbit, which a friend sent us as a rare treat,” 

remarked Mr. Tiddle, in an apologetic tone. “It's a tiny little thing, 

” 

“Rabbit, did you say? well, that is a rarity in this country. I haven't 

tasted rabbit since I left home, and it used to be a favourite dish of mine; 

I think I will be tempted to pick a bone with you after all,” said Mr. 

Grubb, walking in and putting his hat and stick in a corner. “It smells 

nice. I see you know how to cook a rabbit, Mrs. Tiddle.” 

“Ta — ta — take a chair, Mr. Grubb,” said the tailor, trembling from 

head to foot, “Becky, will you tell Mary to bring another hot plate?” 

Mrs. Tiddle called “Mary” in such a savage key that her husband 

turned pale, his appetite forsook him, and he mentally wished he were on 

Shark Island, dining off raw cockles. He eased off some of his feeling in 

a quiet sigh, then said to his second boy, “Say grace, Bobby; put your 

knife down, sir.” Bobby said grace, then his father took up the carving 

tools, and asked Mr. Grubb what part he preferred. 

“Ladies first, ladies first, always, sir,” said the guest, with a jocose 

smile at Mrs. Tiddle, who looked as sour as a green lemon. 

“I like to serve visitors first,” said Mr. Tiddle, helping his guest to a 

tolerably large portion of rabbit, for the meek little man had determined 

to dine off potatoes and salt, in order to save his wife and children from 

short allowance. 

Mrs. Tiddle coughed sharply, but her unhappy husband did not look 

up. He knew it was not a bronchial affection, for it was not the first time 

that he had heard that telegraphic sound. He knew very well that her 

cough meant to say “why did you give old Grubb such a big bit of 

rabbit?” But he was a conscientious tailor and a thorough man, though he 

was afraid of his wife's frown. He could not bear to ask any one to his 

table and act niggardly; in fact his heart was much larger than his means, 

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, 

Mr. Grubb?” asked Mrs. Tiddle, with hidden meaning in her words, 

which touched her husband's feelings like tailor's needles. 

“If you please, ma'am; I am very partial to pickled pork and peaspudding,” 

said Mr. Grubb, passing his plate. 

“It is a nice dish,” groaned Mr. Tiddle, trying to smile, but looking as 

ghastly as a pig's cheek overcooked. “We have no peas-pudding, but we 

have a taste of broad beans, will you take a spoonful, sir?” 

“Broad beans? O yes, by all means, they are my favorite vegetable, 

next to fried onions. My poor wife too was very fond of broad beans and 

melted butter, though they always made her peevish, poor thing. 

Thankee, Tiddle — plenty; I can come again, you know, thankee — I 

really begin to feel I have an appetite after all.” 

“Mary Ann, how dare you come to table in that dirty pinafore, Miss?” 

vociferated her mother, at the same moment giving her, what is generally 

mis-called a good box on the ear, and a peremptory command to go into 

the kitchen and stay there till she was called or sent for. 

“Poor Mary Ann!” sighed Mr. Tiddle, with a sympathising glance at 

his weeping daughter. “What part do you prefer, Becky?” 

“I don't want any,” said his wife sharply, “my appetite is clean taken 

away by that girl's dirty pinafore.” 

“Nonsense, love! Here's a nice cut with a kidney in it, and a lump of 

stuffing.” 

“It's the tenderest rabbit I ever tasted,” remarked Mr. Grubb, with his 

mouth full and his plate half emptied. “I really enjoy it. I wish my poor 

wife were here, she doted on rabbit dead or alive, — I'll trouble you for 

another spoonful of gravy, Tiddle.” 

“Billy, what are you poking your brother with a fork for? I see you, 

you young monkey. What do you mean?” shouted Mr. Tiddle, whose 

hungry ire was beginning to master his philosophy. The last fierce 

question to Billy was accompanied by a thump on the head, hard enough 

to knock him stupid for life if it had happened to have struck a soft spot. 

“Go into the kitchen to your sister, this very minute, sir! I'll give it you 

after dinner, you wicked boy.” 

The tender-hearted tailor almost immediately repented of his wrath, but 

the knock on Billy's head could not be rescinded, and that young 

gentleman was in the kitchen roaring bass to his sister's treble, so he did 

not hear his recall to his seat at the board. There he sat sobbing, and 

spitefully wishing that one of the rabbit bones which old Grubb was 

vulgarly fingering would slip from his grasp and stick in his throat; while 

his sister was making a variety of ugly faces and menacing gestures in 

cannibal fashion to mark her contempt for the greedy man who was 

eating up their nice dinner, and upsetting the peace and comfort of their 

home, by making mother cross and father miserable.

Angry and hungry boys and girls are in general prone to disagree, so it 

was not wonderful under the circumstances that Billy and his sister 

should begin to quarrel. They soon began to fight too, and Mary Ann, 

who inherited her mother's spirit, being aroused by her rude brother 

pulling her round the kitchen by her back ringlets, pushed him over a 

chair with his head in the bread-pan, which was broken to pieces by the 

collision. 

The noise of the affray reached the dining-room, when out rushed Mrs. 

Tiddle — glad of a chance to vent off her wrath upon some one — and 

gave her daughter a “good-dressing” with the handle of the hearthbroom. 

Mary Ann thereupon set up a squall equal in volume and effect to 

the strains of some amateur singers, while Billy dodged his mother round 

the kitchen to evade his just share of the broomstick. Stimulated by the 

sight of the broken bread-pan, Mrs. Tiddle resolutely vowed she would 

skin him when she caught him. But in order to catch nimble Billy to skin 

him it was necessary for her to put her best foot foremost; in doing so she 

put it into a hole in the oilcloth, and down she went in the narrow dark 

passage with a thud like a falling tower. Out flew Mr. Tiddle to see what 

all the noise was about, when he innocently tumbled over his prostrate 

wife, kicking the crown of her head with the toe of his boot, and grinding 

the tip off his own nose on the rough stone step of the kitchen. 

In the meantime Mr. Grubb, who had finished his dinner, rose up and 

departed, lest he should be called upon to arbitrate upon the complicated 

quarrel, and he dreaded family brawls worse than cold dinners. Two of 

the young Tiddle brats, who were left at the table, began to wrangle for 

the possession of a backbone which they had filched from their father's 

plate, while little Teddy, the infant, seized the favourable opportunity for 

helping himself to a red pepper pod from the mixed pickle bottle; but 

before he had finished eating it, he began to raise his voice in the horrible 

belief that his head was on fire. 

Never was heard a greater hubbub in any quiet tailor's house in this 

colony or elsewhere; but I must leave my readers to imagine the 

confusion and to put things to rights again according to their own 

fancies, while I admit that my fancy has helped me to colour the 

foregoing picture from every day life. 

I venture to think that few, if any, of my old friendly readers will 

mistake my meaning in the brief comments. I am about to make on the 

foregoing little episode in domestic life. Not one of them, I hope, will 

believe that I would grudge a meal to a friend let him drop in when he 

would, or that I would commend such a niggardly spirit in any one. It is 

those strong-nosed, systematic spongers that I dread at all times, men, 

who — as Mrs. Tiddle remarked — always smell when there is a good 

dinner on the table, and slide themselves in uninvited for the mere sake 

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 

everything on the table, play with the baby and talk nonsense to its 

mother, but who really care more for the cook than for any other member 

of the household — and if your bill of fare is reduced in consequence of 

a corresponding turn in your circumstances, they will never enter your 

door at all. Those are the creatures to whom I allude when I say that I 

dislike such droppers in at my table more than I do cold potatoes 

— which by the way is the sole diet I would prescribe for all such 

domestic marauders. 

Some time ago I went by invitation to dine on board a ship which was 

lying at one of the quays in Sydney harbour, when the worthy captain 

remarked to the mate in tones of surprise, that there were no “one o'clock 

boys on board that day.” On my asking what he meant by “one o'clock 

boys,” he said there was a host of persons of Mr. Grubb's class, who 

made a practice of foraging for a dinner almost every day, and they were 

a nuisance to him as well as to many other skippers in port. “Ay, and 

they are a pest to many good-natured housewives on shore too,” I 

remarked, with a shrug which old reminiscences stirred up. 

I would not wantonly annoy any one with my remarks, but I cannot 

here resist offering a word or two of friendly counsel to those who 

choose to take it. [In general, those dinner hunters cannot plead poverty 

as an excuse for their sponging habits, indeed a poor man with a manly 

spirit would rather dine off a brown biscuit any day than wheedle himself 

into a needy household if there was the least risk of upsetting their little 

domestic arrangements.] I would say to the Grubbs and the “one o'clock 

boys” of Sydney, go to some good restaurant, and get ninepenny-worth 

of dinner, or more if you want it, and go to your friends' tables only when 

you are invited. Try that manly method for twelve months or so, and you 

may probably regain your reputation, or at any rate lose some of your 

notoriety as mid-day nuisances. Then you may occasionally drop in at 

dinner time and your friends will not consider you are intruding but will 

perhaps be really glad to see you. But don't go exclusively for what you 

can get to eat or drink — bah! such selfishness is only worthy of the big 

monkey in the Government Gardens and his tribe in general.

“Shove It on Board.” 

“LET go the bow-line, and haul the stage ashore,” shouted the captain 

of a steamer, on board of which I was a passenger some time ago. 

“Hould on a bit, captain dear! Don't lave this little lock of corrn in me 

carrt, and good luck to yez,” said a farmer on the wharf, looking up 

imploringly at the captain on the paddle-box. 

“I can't take it,” said the captain, decisively, “my decks are lumbered 

up already, so that fat passengers can't get aft without climbing over the 

bridge.” 

“Arrah, captain, take this small lot; there's a dear man. Shure it won't 

make much odds to yez; there's ony tin bags, an' it's mighty light corrn 

too. I fetched it all the way from the farrm, onst afore, an' shure yer agent 

her tould me it shud go this trip, anyhow. What'll I do at all if yez lave it 

behind? Och captain, do take it, an I'll be everlastingly obliged to yez, 

I'm going down wid it meself, an me bhoy Teddy for-bye. Shpake the 

worrd now, honey, an long life to yez.” 

“Shove it on board,” said the captain, “and bear a hand about it, or we 

shall lose the tide, and be stuck on the flats all day. In with it — in with 

it.” 

While that colloquy was going on, I saw two men, in a boat alongside, 

pushing a coop of fowls on board at the after gangway, unobserved by 

the captain. In a short time we were paddling down the river, and the 

crew were busy stowing the deck cargo, and extemporising a pen, or sty, 

for a score or two of pigs, which would persist in making a noise, 

although the sailors were using strenuous efforts to soothe them, by 

beating their greasy backs with ropes' ends. Presently the steamer 

stopped to take in an old lady from a boat, which had put off from one of 

the farmsteads on the river bank. 

“I can't take any cargo,” said the captain, as the boatman began to hand 

up sundry packages. 

“Bless my heart alive! I have only two small boxes of eggs, and a little 

pig, and a keg of butter. You surely don't mean to say you won't take 

them on board, captain? What room will they occupy? Tut, tut, can't take 

them, that's all nonsense!” 

“Shove 'em on board, missis, shove 'em on board,” said the second 

mate, who was rewarded with a grateful glance from the old lady, while 

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 

the steamer was under weigh once more, and anon we called at another 

wharf, when the captain had an altercation with a miller, who finally 

succeeded, by sheer clamour, in shipping the cylinder of his steamengine, 

and sundry other heavy pieces of machinery, which he said he 

was taking to Sydney for repairs, as his mill was standing still, and it was 

full of grist from bottom to top. We scraped over the flats without 

sticking, and in due course arrived alongside the old wharf at Newcastle, 

when the usual scene of bustle ensued, and all the idlers in the City were 

active, for a season. 

“I can't take any cargo this morning,” said the captain to the agent's 

clerk, who was making entries in his manifest. 

“You will take my luggage, I suppose?” said a snappish-looking old 

gentleman, with a barrow full of boxes behind him, and who was 

evidently determined to have his luggage taken on board, or “know the 

reason why not.” 

“Well, I suppose I must take that; shove it on board,” said the captain; 

then he shouted to a fisherman with a sugee-bag on his back, “Hey, 

Mister Squidd, I can't take any oysters this trip.” 

“They'll stow anywhere, captain; put 'em on the sponson; there are only 

five bags,” said Mr. Squidd, appealingly. 

“I'll heave 'em overboard if you put them on my deck, so I give you 

notice; can't you see that I am loaded down to the port-holes? Confound 

it all! do you want to sink me at my moorings?” 

“The captain ought to be ashamed of himself,” said an old grumbler, 

who was usually to be seen on the wharf when the steamer was 

alongside, “it's scandalous to take a ship to sea in that trim. Why, she is 

nearly a foot below her loadline. If anything happens to that steamer, I'll 

kick up a row about it; mark my words.” 

“I should like to know what right the captain has to load his ship in that 

disgraceful way, and risk valuable lives?” said another bystander, who, 

like his friend beside him, gloried in grumbling, but very rarely helped to 

reform evils which he was so quick at discerning. Meanwhile, a 

consequential-looking gentleman was severely scolding the agent's clerk 

for promising to keep room for his horse, and failing to do so. 

“Where am I to put your horse, sir?” asked the captain, who had been 

appealed to. “Just look at my decks, fore and aft; there isn't standing 

room for a monkey.” 

“He won't take up more room than a bale of hay, captain,” said the 

gentleman. “You can tie him to the fore rigging, if you like; he is as quiet 

as a cat; passengers may rub against his legs, and I'll warrant he won't 

kick. You will much oblige me, captain, if you will take him — in fact I 

have right to — — ” 

“Shove it on board,” said the captain, who looked thoroughly

perplexed, and muttered that he “would rather be drowned than be jawed 

to death.” After taking in a number of empty beer barrels, a Bath chair, 

sundry bundles of cabbage-tree, and other “odds and ends,” (which — in 

the estimation of the owners — ” weighed nothing,” the ropes were cast 

off, and we slowly proceeded to sea. I saw that my luggage was safely 

stowed, with other passengers' effects, on the after skylight, then went 

upon the bridge and sat beside the captain, who had the reputation of 

being one of the most careful and experienced seamen on the coast. 

“You have a large cargo to-day, captain,” I remarked. 

“Ugh, cargo! we are smothered with it. They'll sink us altogether one 

of these fine days,” replied the captain, with a shrug; then he shouted to 

the crew forward, to “haul the chain-box over to starboard.” 

From my elevated position, I could scan the ship fore and aft, except 

under the bridge, where I had previously taken stock of four horses, 

sundry coops of poultry, a stack of wet hides, and some casks of tallow. 

The quarter deck was crowded with bales of wool and luggage, with a 

right-of-way left for thin passengers. One quarter boat was pretty well 

filled with dead wild ducks and wallabies, and live cockatoos in cages; 

the other contained vegetables, sofacushions, swabs, and other useful 

articles. In the forepart of the ship was a travelling carriage, sundry 

machinery belonging to the pertinacious miller before-mentioned, bales 

of hay, bags of grain, several fat calves, the pigs, and the horse aforesaid, 

and an assortment of odds and ends not worth particularising, including 

the five bags of oysters, which Squidd, the fisherman, had smuggled into 

the starboard sponson. The steerage passengers were sitting or standing 

wherever they could find room. Four men were lounging in the travelling 

carriage, smoking their pipes, and seeming as unapprehensive of danger 

as if the travelling carriage were on the Paramatta Road. The steamer 

lurched heavily from time to time, and the crew were obliged to shift the 

chain-box about, to help to steady her, at which extra work they did not 

fail to grumble, in sailors' peculiar fashion. Altogether the prospect was 

enough to frighten any one whose imagination was at all active, whose 

organs of caution were not concave, and who, moreover, had not a 

settled belief that he “was born to be hanged.” Fortunately the sea was 

very smooth, and by degrees my qualms subsided into a calm submission 

to my lot. 

“I think we shall have a light north-easter to-day,” I remarked to the 

captain, as he reseated himself, after he had given an order to his mate to 

send the topgallant yard on deck. 

“I don't think the wind will hold long in that quarter,” he replied, while 

his experienced eye scanned the horizon. “We shall have a ‘southerlyburster’ 

before long. It will blow like thunder before sundown, or I am 

very much mistaken.” 

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 

ominous looking clouds rising, and the air was sultry and oppressive. 

However, I took a hopeful view of our surroundings, and said I thought 

we might get to Sydney before the “burster” met us; adding, “we shall be 

in a dilemma if we are caught in bad weather, with all this deck lumber.” 

The captain merely shrugged his shoulders, by way of reply, which 

affected me like a shovelful of snow on my head. One can form an idea 

in a moment what an Englishman would imply by that kind of 

movement, though it is not easy to interpret a Frenchman's shrugs. After 

a few minutes' reflection on my future prospects, I asked the captain 

what he would do, if we met with a southerly gale. 

“Why heave our deck load overboard,” he replied. “we must do that or 

go down. You see I have a difficulty in keeping the ship upright at the 

present time; she is rolling about like an old water-butt in a tide-way. I 

am expecting every minute, too, that some of those passengers forward 

will get their toes under the wheels of the chain-box, and then there will 

be a hullabaloo and the doctor to pay. Overboard goes Paddy's corn, and 

everything else on deck except the live stock, if we fall in with a hard 

gale — that's certain.” 

“What troubles me most, is the dread that you will not begin to clear 

your decks soon enough, captain,” I replied; “I have been in bad weather 

with you several times, and I never saw you throw anything overboard, 

though you have sometimes been lumbered up almost as much as you are 

now.” 

“Well, you see, sir, it isn't a pleasant job to heave away cargo; no 

seaman likes to do it if he can anyway help it. I always hang on to it as 

long as I can, for I know there would be a pretty row when I went up the 

river again, if I were to throw it overboard. All the deck cargo is at the 

risk of the shippers, and most of them are poor, struggling men, who 

could very badly bear the loss. But there are lots of fellows who would 

make more noise about it than the poor shippers; and it is them that I 

most dread, for their tongues fidget me worse than thunder and lightning. 

You heard those two old fogies on the wharf at Newcastle abuse me for 

overloading my ship; and if we met with any mishap, they would 

exonerate the winds and waves, and blame me for all.” 

“That would certainly be unfair,” I replied, “for I have observed the 

difficulties you have encountered this morning; and that you had cargo 

thrust on board, in spite of your appeals, or your emphatic protests.” 

“Shippers actually force cargo upon us at every stopping-place; and 

they each think that their ‘little lots’ can't make any odds to a big 

steamer; like the old woman with her pig and her butter-tub, and the 

blustering miller with his iron-work. You saw, too, that I had to stow 

three bales of hay above the rail, to make room for Mr. Bang's horse.” 

“It was very unreasonable for him to wish you to take it, captain; and I

wonder that you did so.” 

“Well, you see, sir, he is managing-man for Messrs. Codger and Bloke; 

and as they are large shippers by our boats, I didn't wish to offend him; 

besides, he would have stormed my ears, worse than great guns, if I had 

refused. We are not always so jammed up as we are to-day; but there is a 

great rise in corn and hay just now, so all the farmers are anxious to get 

their stuff to market; and our agent up above has not very quiet times, I 

can tell you, for he can't ship everything and please everbody.” 

“But the shippers themselves ought to know that they run a great risk in 

putting their goods on board in this unconscionable manner,” I remarked. 

“Phoo! what do the bulk of them know about loading a ship?” replied 

the captain, with a faint smile. “Look at happy old Paddy Murphy, sitting 

on the fore-hatch, smoking his pipe; do you think you could persuade 

him that his little ‘lock ov corrn’ made any difference in the trim of the 

vessel? Not you, indeed; he would tell you it was only like a butterfly on 

a bullock's back. He is, perhaps, thinking how lucky he was to get it on 

board, and of the good price he will get for it to-morrow; but he has 

never once thought of the probability of its going overboard. And I'll be 

bound that that miller, who is fast asleep in the bath chair, is not 

dreaming that his cylinder, and cog-wheels, are in danger of going down 

to Davy Jones's locker. If I had not taken them on board, he would now 

be at home blessing me for keeping his mill idle, and all his hungry grist 

customers would have cried shame upon the captain, who wouldn't be so 

obliging as to take three little bits of iron to Sydney, to save a whole 

district from a potato diet. 

“The captain of a coasting steamer has more anxiety than most persons 

are aware of, Mr. Boomerang, and the ordinary risks of the sea are not 

the main cause of it. Do you think I should be so fidgetty about those 

clouds that are rising yonder, if my ship was in seaworthy trim? Not a bit 

of it, sir. If I had no deck-load I shouldn't be afraid to face any weather, 

for this is as good a sea-boat as ever floated; but what can a man do with 

a whole farm-yard on his deck, and a flour-mill and a cab-stand beside?” 

“I don't wonder that you feel anxious, captain; but pray, what remedy 

would you suggest for this reckless system of overloading vessels, at the 

imminent risk of life and property?” 

“Why, the best remedy that I can see is to take no deck cargo at all; that 

is a matter for the Legislature to look after, and the sooner they begin 

about it the better. It would be easy enough for agents and captains, and 

all concerned, to do their duty, if steamers were not allowed to take cargo 

except under hatches; for the most unconscionable shipper could be 

convinced, in a minute, when a ship was full below. Then passengers 

might travel in safety and comfort; but it is plain enough they cannot do 

that in my ship to-day.” 

“But there is a law regulating deck cargo in steamers, captain,” I

emarked. 

“Is there, sir? well, you can see how much it is respected,” replied the 

captain, with a grim chuckle; then he shouted to the crew, “Haul the 

chain box over to port: and stop those pigs from crowding up to the 

hawse holes.” 

The dinner bell soon afterwards rang, so I went below and seated 

myself at the bottom of the table. Next to the advantage of being out of 

danger altogether, is perhaps the happy unconsciousness of its proximity; 

that is to say, when one is powerless to avert it. Thus I silently reasoned, 

as I glanced along the table at the double row of gentlemen eating ox-tail 

soup. I could not discern the merest tinge of anxiety on a single face; and 

the extended angles of each mouth were expressive of gastronomic joy, 

for the soup was rich. It was evident that the fear of death or personal 

damage, was remote from the minds of those happy diners; and that the 

pleasures of the present time were not marred by apprehensions of future 

famine, or any other troublesome contingency. Probably not one of them 

had even the slightest foreboding, that in a few short hours he would be 

as helpless and undignified as a swaddling infant; that he would be — 

but I am anticipating my story. 

Soon after the cloth was removed I went on deck, and remounted the 

bridge. The captain was standing on the starboard paddle-box, gazing 

alternately at the gathering storm and at his struggling vessel, while his 

face bore evidence of intense anxiety, though not alarm or trepidation, 

for he was a thorough sailor. I did not speak to him, though I longed to 

put a question or two to him, and I wished he would speak to me. I 

usually try to observe a prudent reticence in seasons of peril on 

shipboard; and it would be well if all passengers would adopt that course. 

I have seen a captain perplexed with silly questions at times when his 

mind was anxiously engaged on some important duty, and I have heard 

him miscalled “a surly man” for giving sharp answers to the thoughtless 

querist. Presently the captain stepped down from the paddle-box, and 

laconically remarked, as he nodded his head towards the southwest, 

“There's dirt there.” 

“There is a heavy storm gathering,” I replied, “but I hope we may fetch 

abreast of Broken Bay (which was about twelve miles distant) before it 

comes on.” 

“No such luck for us to-day, sir,” said the captain. “It will be down 

upon us in twenty minutes; don't you see how fast that long, bolsterlooking 

cloud is rolling along? That is not scudding before a gentle 

zephyr, I can tell you.” Then he called to the chief mate. “Send that 

foretopsailyard on deck, and house the topmast. Bear a hand about it.” 

In rather less than half an hour I hastened below, to escape the heavy 

rain which began to descend, accompanied with a violent squall of wind, 

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! 

is there a shift of wind?” 

“Yes, sir, there is indeed,” I replied, “and I think we shall have a very 

rough night.” 

“Dear, oh dear! I'm sorry for that,” said Mr. Bang, “I shall be awfully 

sea-sick. Steward, bring me a couple of pillows.” 

Before I had equipped myself in my waterproof overalls, for the deck, 

nearly all the gentlemen had taken up positions on the sofas, and were 

being supplied with pillows, et cetera. With much difficulty I regained 

my post on the bridge, and the scene around me was terrifically grand, 

with a dash of the ridiculous in it too. The sea was white with foam, the 

lightning played about the masts in dazzling streams; the thunder and the 

wind seemed to be arguing which could roar loudest, while the thick 

glots of rain descending on the backs of the pigs, made them squeak loud 

enough to be heard above the warring elements. The four steerage 

passengers had discovered a leak in the roof of the travelling carriage, 

and were hurrying out of it; at the same time the miller woke up from his 

nap, in the Bath-chair, and ran below faster than any invalid could have 

done. Poor Paddy Murphy saw his bags of corn covered up with a 

tarpaulin, then took his little boy Teddy under his arm, and descended to 

the fore-cabin, where, I imagine, the inmates were rather too closely 

packed to be comfortable. The sailors, in their oilskin jackets, were 

wheeling the chain-box about (their sick baby, as they called it), and 

were deprecating the exercise in solemnly quaint ejaculations. The 

steamer seemed to have merely steerage-way, still she was kept head to 

the wind, and nobly she struggled against the contending elements. In 

about an hour the worst of the storm was past, but a strong gale set in and 

the sea rose very fast. 

The captain stood and watched the curling waves with steady nerve; 

and every now and then gave orders to ease the engines, when an 

unusually heavy sea rose ahead of us. By that precaution the steamer 

rode over the waves more easily, but her onward progress was 

considerably retarded; in fact, at times she scarcely appeared to make any 

headway. When the tea bell rang I again went below, and a moving scene 

of noisy misery presented itself. Nearly all the late hearty diners were 

hors-de-combat, and looked almost as despairing as a ward full of 

patients in a blazing hospital. I pitied Mr. Bang least of all the prostrate 

ones; and whenever I heard his “Yaawk” which smothered all the 

whoops of his neighbours, I called to mind his bilious attack upon the 

polite clerk on the wharf at Newcastle; and I mentally muttered, “Ah, 

Mr. Bang! it is plain that you wanted a short sea voyage, sir. After this 

day's extensive delivery you will perhaps be in a better temper for a 

while. So yaawk away, sir; your wife and children will be gainers by 

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, 

if you live till then.” 

Several of the gentlemen made sombre inquiries of me as to our 

position, and if I could see Sydney lighthouse? To which I replied, that I 

could see nothing but black clouds and white-headed waves; as to our 

position, I could only tell them that we were not far from Broken Bay. 

After partaking of a cup of tea, I again went upon the bridge, and there I 

stood for some time beside the captain without speaking a word, but 

longing for him to speak to me. Presently he said, “There is an awful 

ugly sea on.” 

“There is, indeed, captain; may I ask if you have any idea of running 

back to Newcastle?” 

“Back, eh?” he replied; “I dare not put her round; she would almost 

certainly capsize with all this load on deck.” 

“Why don't you begin to throw it overboard?” I muttered rather 

pettishly, but I did not let him hear me. I cannot depict the anxiety I 

endured for the next hour as I sat upon that melancholy bridge in silent 

meditation, and watched the seething waves which tossed and tumbled 

around like monsters preparing to swallow us; while the wind roaring 

over the top of the big funnel sounded like grim death playing a funeral 

dirge. My mental calculations as to the consequences of a heavy sea 

breaking on board (which I momentarily expected), were by no means 

encouraging, but I could not school my mind to any more cheerful 

exercise just then. There were about fifty bales of hay and wool on deck; 

and assuming that each bale would soak up a quantity of water equal to 

its weight, and allowing three or four hogsheads for the Bath-chair and 

the carriage; I inferred that the vessel would founder before we could 

sufficiently lighten her. My second calculation was as to the result, if the 

pigs should break down their temporary barrier, and crowd together 

under the topgallant forecastle, and thus bring the steamer down by the 

head; but I had not quite completed that sum when I was aroused by the 

captain calling me. I staggered towards him, and stood holding on by the 

fore shroud of the funnel. “Do you see land on the starboard beam?” he 

asked. 

I gazed into the darkness till my eyes ached, then replied, “No, captain, 

I can't see it. Can you?” 

“Yes; I see the North Head of Broken Bay.” 

“Bless me! what extraordinary eyes you must have. I can see nothing 

but thick darkness, like a wall of pitch built up to the sky. Are you going 

into the bay, captain?” 

“I'll try for it, if I see a chance of putting her round smartly,” he 

replied. “Ease her!” 

In about half an hour he gave orders for the chain-box to be wheeled 

over to port, and lashed there; and soon afterwards he shouted, “Haul the

fore sheet aft! Port the helm!” 

It was a critical time, and a month's anxiety seemed to be concentrated 

into those few minutes. The vessel slowly paid off, and floundered into 

the trough of the sea, where a huge mountain of water rose on our port 

beam, as if about to fall on us and crush us. 

“Hold on, Boomerang! here's a sea coming on board!” cried the 

captain. I held on instinctively, while I commended my soul to my 

Maker. The heavy combing wave came hissing towards us, and struck 

our port paddle-box; the vessel lurched violently over on her beam ends, 

and some of the cargo rolled overboard. I thought of my loved ones at 

home; I muttered a prayer for them, and I bade the world good-bye. In 

another moment I heard the captain shout, “All right! all right!” and I 

whispered, “Thank God!” The sea did not break on board; and soon 

afterwards we anchored in Pitt Water. 

“There you see, I've saved my deck load again, Mr. Boomerang,” said 

the captain, rubbing his hands with glee, after the last of the cable was 

paid out. “It's a blessed good job we are safe and sound in here, but we 

had a narrow escape in rounding to, and I made sure that big topper of a 

sea was going to swamp us altogether.” Then he called to his mate, 

“Hoy! Mr. Keel, get a lantern and see what's the matter with that horse; I 

think he's griped.” 

A light was procured, and Mr. Bang's horse was found with his fore 

legs over the rail and his hind legs stretched apart on the deck. It was 

supposed that when the vessel had given the heavy lurch, the poor beast 

had tumbled halfway overboard; and in his struggle to right himself, he 

had received some serious internal injury, for he was dead. Several of the 

pigs were dead too, and all the deck cargo was more or less damaged. 

* * * * * 

“What would have been the probable result if that heavy sea had 

tumbled broadside on us?” I asked the captain, as he was sitting at the 

supper table, an hour afterwards, looking as composed as if he had just 

come from church. 

He shut his eyes, drew down his features, and laconically replied, 

“Down among the dead men.” 

“That is precisely my opinion, captain,” said I, as I instantly interpreted 

his ominous gesticulation. “It would have been too late to throw your 

deck cargo overboard, and we should have gone to the bottom of the sea. 

Well, thank God, we are safe,” I added, solemnly. “But had we capsized; 

with my last breath I should have denounced deck loads, and it is very 

likely that my ghost would have hence-forward been seen, in the wake of 

overladen steamers, screaming ‘Murder!’ ”

* * * * * 

Some of my readers may impatiently ask, “What is the use of making a 

long story about a common-place event, which took place years ago?” In 

anticipation of such an inquiry I explain, that a sense of duty impels me 

to help, as far as I can, to remedy a systematic abuse, which I believe is, 

alas, too common all over the world; and I have written this sketch to 

illustrate the discomforts and dangers which passengers are frequently 

subjected to, in these present times, and on our iron coast. I have no facts 

to warrant me in stating, that the causes of the late melancholy disasters 

were other than the act of God; but I can state as a fact, that the last 

steamer I voyaged in, not long ago, had not less than from twenty to 

twenty-five tons of butter and coal on her deck. And I can state, as 

another fact, that the last sailing vessel I voyaged in, the registered 

tonnage of which was only 198, had 304 tons of coal on board. By whose 

authority it was put on board I know not, but certainly it was not the 

captain's. He took his ship to sea, though he admitted to me that she had 

at least forty tons more cargo than she could carry with safety. He hoped 

to have had a smooth passage to Melbourne, but had a very rough one, 

lengthened to twelve days; and during most of that time the sea broke on 

board in such a dangerous manner, that to take the hatches off to attempt 

to lighten her, would have been to sink her in five minutes; and it is 

firmly impressed on my mind, that if she had not been a remarkably 

strong vessel, and well found, and withal very skilfully managed, that she 

would have foundered with all hands. 

Those are two facts which I can vouch for. I could give many more 

from personal experience, equally striking, but those are sufficient, and I 

would respectfully commend them to the consideration of our legislators. 

It might be thought invidious to appeal to them through the strongest law 

of nature, and remind them that they themselves sometimes travel in our 

fine coasting steamers, and that their families, and their friends, 

sometimes travel in them, too; a sense of their duty, as guardians of the 

public safety, will surely be sufficient to stimulate their zeal in this 

important matter, especially as we have lately had so many mournful 

reminders of the perils which beset “them that go down to the sea in 

ships.” 

If any person should say, “there is a law regulating the deck lading of 

steamers,” I would reply, that stringent measures are necessary to insure 

its being obeyed; for that it is very frequently evaded is a glaring fact, 

which I challenge anyone to confute. * 

I believe that such a measure would be hailed with gladness by the 

agents and officers of steamships in general; for, from causes which I 

have glanced at, those gentlemen are not always able to control the 

eagerness of persons to ship goods, in certain states of our markets; and

in these days of active opposition, agents and officers are doubtless 

anxious to please their customers, the bulk of whom are as unconscious 

of extra hazard, when sending their shipments, as Paddy Murphy was 

with his “little lock of corrn,” or the old lady with her pig and her butter 

tub. 

With earnestness I repeat my conviction, that if immediate measures 

are not adopted to insure the safe lading of steamers and sailing vessels 

out of our port, it will not be very long before more brave seamen are 

sacrificed, and more broken-hearted widows are seen sorrowing over 

their helpless children. 

* A gentleman has recently been appointed to the important office of 

Inspector of Steamboats, and I believe that he efficiently discharges his 

onerous duties.

How Goliah Trump Cured Widow Blunt's Lazy Donkey. 

MR. GOLIAH TRUMP was a man of his word, and if he promised to 

do a good turn for a friend, it was not his fault if it were not done in due 

course. He was not a highly polished man, and at first sight did not 

always make a favourable impression; still he was a good-natured fellow, 

and that quality compensated for his minor defects and peculiarities with 

those who knew him intimately. 

Though Goliah moved in a good position, was a thriving merchant, and 

a good mark in a mercantile sense, his nativeborn idiosyncrasies did not 

alter with his improved circumstances. He very lightly esteemed the 

conventionalities of refined life, and rather prided himself on the 

provincial idiom, the honest bluntness, and the eccentric manners of his 

worthy old sire, who was as jovial an old English gentleman as ever 

enjoyed a mug of sharp cyder or a squab pie, or rode after a pack of foxhounds. 

Goliah was a portly man approaching to middle age, with rather a 

handsome face, and eyes full of fun and frolic. There was a dash more of 

the latter in his manner than thoughtful persons would approve of, but he 

would not try to alter his nature to please the taste or fancy of any one; 

indeed, I doubt if he could have done so for more than five minutes, had 

he been promised a prize medal for the exertion. It would take too much 

space to detail the virtues of Mrs. Trump, so I simply say she was one of 

the excellent of the earth, “respected most by those who knew her best.” 

Goliah was a man of impulse. He rarely thought long or deeply on any 

subject, so when he conceived an idea of going home to see his “dear old 

daddy,” he was not long in deciding to do so, as the “ways and means” 

were within his compass. In three weeks' time his comfortable 

establishment was broken up, and he was on shipboard with his loving 

wife and family bound to old England. After enduring the blasts of Cape 

Horn and other inevitables of the long homeward voyage, he arrived 

safely in the land of his birth. 

Previous to leaving Sydney, Goliah had promised his friend Sam Blunt 

to go and see his widowed mother, who lived in a rural village less than a 

hundred miles from London. But an afflictive event prevented his 

fulfilling his promise for several months. At length he wrote Widow 

Blunt that she might expect to see him on the following Tuesday. 

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 

with her dear boy Sam. There are fond mothers in Australia too, who 

would hail such pleasure as the happiest holiday they could have, and 

would sit and listen to good news from their absent sons or daughters 

with far more delight than they would listen to a grand concert. 

On the appointed day Marigold Cottage looked extra stylish, and the 

widow's cap was unusually prim and stiff starched. The savoury odour 

which floated from her little kitchen, and the snow-white table-cloth 

spread in her front parlour, indicated that some one was coming out of 

the common circle of her visitors, and the good old lady's face was 

beaming with happy satisfaction. Many longing glances did she cast up 

the lane for signs of the approach of her expected guest as the hours 

dragged lazily on; and many gentle bastings did she bestow upon the 

poor birds before the fire, which had long since been done brown. It was 

two hours past dinner-time, and her sharp appetite had given place to the 

peculiar faintness produced by dinner delayed, while her heart was 

beginning to grow sick with “hope deferred.” The ducks were 

overcooked, and as dry as stuffed shags in a museum; the green peas 

were boiled to green paste, and the batter pudding was getting hard as 

beeswax; in fact, the nice dinner was spoiled and not fit to set before her 

son's friend, who she imagined was a particularly prim and stately 

gentleman. The widow was just going to sit down and have a good 

cry — as she called it — when suddenly she began to laugh, for she saw 

a gig stop at her gate, and heard a strange, comical voice shout out, 

“Hallo, there, be's that Mrs. Blunt's cottage?” 

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” exclaimed the widow, hastily toddling along the 

garden path. “Are you Mr. Trump?” 

“E'es, sure enough I'm he, come to see thee at last. How be'est thee, 

then?” said bluff Goliah, shaking hands with the widow till he nearly 

shook her cap off, and made her sneeze. In another minute he was sitting 

in the best parlour, telling in his broadest style all the interesting news he 

could think of about her son Sam, his devoted wife, and their boys, Dick, 

Tom, and Harry. Oh, what a happy afternoon that was for Widow Blunt! 

she will never forget it. How she sat and laughed and cried alternately, as 

her loquacious visitor poured out his budget of news from the far-off 

land, and told her all the pleasing things he knew concerning the loved 

ones who were as dear to her as her life. All her late troubles about her 

shrivelled ducks and waxy pudding were forgotten in the joy she felt at 

the good tidings which Goliah had brought her, and which his fertile 

fancy assisted to make highly amusing, while his occasional outbursts of 

laughter made the cuckoos in the adjacent woods wag their tails. 

Oh, ye restless seekers after new sensations, did you ever try the 

refreshing excitement of raising up a down-crushed spirit? or ever sit and 

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 

ever try that luxury? If not, look out for an opportunity of doing so, and I 

promise it will yield you a pleasure immeasurably surpassing the 

excitement of the most improbable love or ghost story, and a delightsome 

relish such as M. Soyer and all his fry could no more imitate than they 

could make a live turtle. 

Next morning, after breakfast, Widow Blunt expressed a desire that 

Goliah should see her dear relatives, the Goodwins, who lived at a farmhouse 

a few miles off, but she added hesitatingly, “I really don't know 

how you will get there, unless I can send a messenger to cousin Peter to 

bring his gig for you.” 

“How be'est thee going, then?” asked Goliah, in his own peculiar tone, 

and with a comical twinkle in his eye. 

“Oh, I'm going in my little donkey chaise; I have a nice quiet beast that 

I can drive myself, but I should not like to ask you to ride behind an ass, 

you would not like it, I am sure, for we shall meet a lot of people by the 

way.” 

“Bless thee heart, mother, I'm not so grand as thee thinks, though I 

come from a golden land. Where's the animal? I'll harness 'en up in no 

time. Not ride behind a donkey, indeed! Why, your son, Sam, wouldn't 

speak to me if I was too proud to ride with his mother. I don't care a flip 

who sees me do anything that isn't wicked — that's the way to say it. 

Where's the moke?” 

The donkey was soon put into a two-wheeled gig, which was perhaps a 

size too small for Goliah and his rather stout companion; however, they 

wedged themselves in with a little exertion, and off they set, Widow 

Blunt taking the reins. “Gee up, Jacky! gee up, my boy!” she exclaimed, 

mildly, and gave the reins a gentle jerk at the same time. Jacky looked 

round at his extra load, then moved his long ears to and fro, and shuffled 

along at the rate of four miles an hour, which was the pace the widow 

usually travelled at, for she was fearful of driving fast; indeed, Jacky 

would not have moved faster had she tried to persuade him with her 

kindest words, and she was afraid to whip him lest he should damage the 

dash-board with his hoofs, and perhaps injure her at the same time. 

“Won't he move along faster than that?” asked Goliah, who was 

probably thinking of the fine paces of his mettle-some prad in the colony. 

“No, he won't go faster,” said the widow. “He is very obstinate 

sometimes, and won't mind a word I say to him; still he is a good 

donkey, he never offers to run away with me, and he only kicks when I 

begin to beat him.” 

“Oho, Mister Jacky! a pretty character I hear of thee! That's the way 

you behave to your kind missis, is it? Now let me tell thee, thee'st got her 

son, Sam's friend, Goliah Trump, behind thee, so the sooner thee begin'st 

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. 

Hallo, there! barn it, what dost thee mean by poking along at this pace, 

like an old cow with a sore leg? Ods dampers and doughboys! what do'st 

thee mean, eh? Lazy rogue, come up! Hallaballoo! hobgoblins and 

blunderbuses! get along, or I'll cut thee into catsmeat!” 

Goliah shouted thus in very loud and gruff tones, and at the same time 

threw his gigantic arms in the air in a manner formidable enough to 

frighten the stubbornest donkey in the world. The effect upon the poor 

brute was marvellous, and perhaps it is worth noting for the advantage of 

those who are fond of assinine studies, or who have to do with other 

obstinate animals. When Goliah first addressed him, Jacky laid his ears 

flat aback in token of astonishment, and looked out of the corners of his 

eyes, as though he were taking the measure of his strange driver. Then he 

showed his teeth — as marks of opposition, he also slightly elevated his 

hind part, revineing contempt, and at the same time a disposition to kick. 

But as Goliah poured out the torrent of hard-sounding words, Jacky's tail 

began to twitch in a peculiar manner, then to stand up as straight as a 

boat's jigger-mast, plainly indicating extreme fear and a desire for peace, 

by hoisting an apology for a flag of truce. After uttering three heavy 

sighs and a grunt, his pace improved into a quick trot, hence it was quite 

clear that Jacky was subdued, his stubborn will was broken, and much as 

it may have annoyed him to be thus humbled before the good old lady, 

who had been the victim of his lazy tricks for many years, it was 

nevertheless a fact, which he could not deny, that he was mastered, 

thoroughly cowed, as most donkeys are when spoken to by men of spirit. 

A good moral lesson may be learned by a consideration of the 

metaphysical aspect of that sudden surrender of the donkey's will. It is a 

striking example of the power of mind over mere animal propensity 

— but I must go on with my story. The widow was highly delighted, and 

laughed like a merry maiden. “I do think you have cured his obstinate 

temper,-Mr. Trump,” she remarked; “indeed, there is a surprising change 

in him all at once; I declare I did not fancy he could trot so fast. Well, 

well, who'd have thought it? Well done, Jacky, my boy! you shall have 

some beans by-and-bye.” 

“I'll show thee what he can do in a minute,” said Goliah — then, 

addressing the donkey, he roared out more furiously than before, “Hallo! 

get along, thee lazy scamp; dos't think I'll see thee impose on my friend 

Sam's mother in this way? Barn it all, I'll skin thee in a minute, I will. 

Halla-balloo! bullseyes, and blowpipes! get away with thee good-fornothing 

rascal! I'll let thee see what's o'clock, I'll warrant. Come up thee 

sleepy-headed rogue!” at the same time he stamped with his big boots on 

the bottom of the gig, which shocked the donkey to such an extent, that 

he trembled while he tore along with the gig at a mad gallop. Never 

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, 

women, and children — to gaze at the passing phenomenon. They 

shuddered for the fate of widow Blunt, and turned pale as they whispered 

the name of the person whom they supposed was driving her; while 

Goliah continued to roar and shout, and stamp his feet purposely to 

increase their wonderment, until all the children ran indoors again and 

hid themselves under their beds from the “terrible old Bogy who was 

flying away with poor old Mrs. Blunt.” 

“Oh, for goodness gracious sake, Mr. Trump, stop the donkey; we shall 

be upset! O dear, dear me, do stop him, pray do, sir! The wheels will 

come off, I'm sure. Woa, Jacky,” said the widow, in a state of intense 

trepidation. 

“Barn him, I'll give it him!” roared Goliah, louder than ever. “Lazy 

jackass, I'll let thee know thee'st got a Sydney man behind thee, and I'll 

teach thee to shew better manners to a Sydney man's mother. Hoogh! 

Hoogh! Hoogh! get along thee lazy rogue! Blurr — r! I'll blow thee into 

beanskins.” 

The poor donkey was scared into a perspiration, and he had never been 

known to perspire before. As he had no winkers he could see the furious 

antics of the burly man beside his mistress, and he flew along at a rate 

that he had never even dreamt of, and which made all the old superannuated 

asses that were grazing under the hedges “hee hau” with 

astonishment. Onward he sped with outstretched head, and his tail as stiff 

as a crow-bar, and not an effort did he relax till his eccentric driver 

pulled him up, or rather pulled him down on his hind quarters at the gate 

of cousin Goodwin's farm, then began to laugh till the joints of the old 

gig rattled again, and all the little Goodwins ran out to see “what was the 

matter.” 

“O lawk a mercy me! how you have frightened me, Mr. Trump,” 

exclaimed the widow, jumping out of the gig with unusual agility for a 

lady of seventy-two. “I declare I'm all of a shake. But I'm thankful we are 

not killed. Dear, deary me! I shall never forget this terrible ride, never.” 

“Bless thee dear old heart, mother! there was no danger. I could have 

pulled him down in a second. Don't thee believe I'd have risked thee 

neck, not I, thee son Sam would shoot me when I got back to Sydney, if I 

had only hurt his darling mother's little finger nail. That dose will do 

master Jacky more good than a bundle of sticks would do about his back. 

That's what I call moral suasion. Thee saw I didn't beat him a bit, I only 

spoke out like a man, and that's the right way to deal with asses of all 

sorts, for barn em, they haven't got more courage than goslings.” 

* * * * * 

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 

word to Jacky, and to let her drive. But the donkey evidently knew that 

his late tormentor was behind him, for he trotted along like a butcher's 

cob. If he showed the slightest symptom of relaxing his speed, Goliah 

would merely cough — he did not speak — and Jacky's tail seemed 

electrified in a moment, and he began to gallop till the widow pulled him 

into a trot again. 

* * * * * 

That extraordinary occurrence served for many an evening's chat 

around the firesides of the wonder-stricken villagers. Some of the 

unsophisticated natives still dispute about the human identity of the 

roaring donkey driver, and others shudder to this day at the bare mention 

of Australia; for they imagine that Goliah Trump, as he flew through 

their streets in the widow's gig, is a fair specimen of the inhabitants of 

this famous continent, consequently they infer that we are an awfully fast 

and furious nation. 

Widow Blunt has not forgotten her exciting ride, and the recollection 

of it has made her laugh away many a melancholy moment. In her 

subsequent letters to her son Sam, she has often alluded to the comical 

affair, and has told over and over again how that funny Mr. Trump 

frightened her poor old donkey to death; for he died three years 

afterwards. 

But Jacky never forgot the lesson to the last day he dragged the gig; 

and if it were not a perfect cure for his laziness, it was a wonderful 

corrective. Ever after that, if he showed symptoms of his old habits 

returning, it was only necessary for the widow to shout through her eartrumpet 

“Ods dampers and doughboys!” when Jacky's tail would begin to 

work like a pump-handle — for the bare idea of those Australian edibles 

was as terrifying to him as bombshells. But if his mistress at the same 

time put on her clogs and made a clatter on the bottom of the gig, his ears 

would fall flat aback, and his tail would point to the moon, and off he 

would gallop as though he thought Goliah had come again; for of course 

his stupid head did not know that that worthy colonist had returned to the 

other side of the world. 

* * * * * 

I am not quite sure that Goliah's “moral suasion” would be effective on 

lazy asses of another sort, and I fear he would be impatiently disposed to 

substitute material “dampers and doughboys,” and to aim them at the 

heads of his subjects, as boys apply snowballs, which of course would 

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 

fitting subjects, and if he were only moderately successful, there would 

be plenty of scope for his peculiar gift, which by diligently exercising he 

might greatly ADVANCE AUSTRALIA.

Mr. M'Faddle's Pic-Nic Party. 

THAT Port Jackson is a delightful place for boating excursions, few 

persons deny who know anything about it. For my part, I cannot think of 

a more agreeable way of spending a holiday, or a more efficient way of 

rallying vapours from a wearied brain, than a trip in a carefully handled 

sailing-boat, with a fresh breeze, in and out of the lovely bays and coves, 

or round the many green islands, which grace our matchless harbour. 

Away from the excitement and jostle of city life, with nothing but the 

smoke in the distance, and the softened din of cart wheels, to remind one 

that mankind were not all asleep, the mind finds rest and quietude; while 

the physical senses are refreshed with the uncontaminated air of heaven. 

Often have I started from home with mind and body impaired by 

sedentary duties and cares which increased with indoor nursing, like 

fungus on the mouldy walls of a vault. Sometimes I have been favoured 

with the company of a congenial friend, who needed gentle out-of-door 

exercise as much as myself, and was equally disposed to relish an aquatic 

trip. After selecting a boat to our mind, from the well-kept fleet at the 

Subscription Boat Club, we have hoisted our sails to the breeze, and 

bounded over the billows, as rejoiced at our liberty as a couple of 

seagulls just released from a week's confinement in a ship's hen coop; 

and a few hours afterwards to have seen us seated on a rock, eating hot 

mutton chops (which we had cooked al fresco on a wooden gridiron) and 

roasted potatoes, would have astonished a gourmand, and made him long 

for such an appetite as we displayed. I have pleasing recollections of 

many such invigorating trips, and can with confidence recommend an 

occasional treat of that sort (with such extemporaneous meals) to persons 

suffering from dyspepsia, a disorder which is frequently laughed at — as 

an imaginary old bogy, by persons who, fortunately for themselves, do 

not know what they laugh at, or they would confess that a man with 

fractured ribs, might with equal reason be made the subject of ridicule. 

But while I so heartily recommend aquatic pleasures, I would at the same 

time remark, by way of caution, that there is necessity for using 

judgment in choosing favourable weather, and securing efficient boats' 

crews, or your excursion may be anything but enjoyable; as the following 

little story will exemplify. 

Mr. M'Faddle loved fresh air, and rightly appreciated its invigorating 

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 

obliged to sit pretty closely to the shopboard, in order to support them 

comfortably, without running into debt. 

Happily for the working classes of Sydney, holidays are numerous 

during the summer months; and that they are thoroughly enjoyed 

— especially in fine weather — is apparent from the rosy-faced folks of 

all ages, who may be seen thronging the steamboats and railway trains, 

or lining the rocky shores of the harbour in various parts, with their 

provisions spread out on grassy tables in holiday profusion. There fathers 

and mothers, and their adult friends, sit and enjoy a little pleasant social 

chat beneath the shady trees; and old grandfather, who is fond of fishing, 

throws out his long line from the top of a rock, then lights his pipe and 

sits down patiently to wait till he gets a bite; and dear old grandmother, 

in her best bonnet, has a merry romp on the soft sward, with little Beckey 

and Billy; while the elder boys and girls frolic about in the sunshine like 

young Wallabys. Thousands of happy maidens anticipate those 

periodical treats for weeks or months, and eagerly their half awakened 

eyes peep through their bedroom windows at the signs of the weather, 

when the first blushes of their holiday morning tinge the horizon. If the 

sun is about to rise in a clear blue sky, what gladsome faces are reflected 

by their dressing-glasses, but how sad they look if a drizzling mist hides 

the sunshine. I always share in the general sorrowful feeling, if heavy 

rain clouds appear on such days, to cast a pall over the recreations of so 

many hopeful ones, and spoil their holiday apparel. May no grudging 

soul ever try to curtail those seasons of healthful enjoyment to the 

humbler classes of Sydney! But I am digressing from my story, with my 

reflections on homely joys. 

Mr. M'Faddle and his family had looked forward to one of those 

holidays, in the early part of the present year, as a day for a special treat, 

i.e., a pic-nic to Rose Bay. Mr. M'Faddle loved boating, and fancied he 

could pull an oar with anybody; but he seldom enjoyed that pleasure. On 

the present occasion, Archy Twist, a fellow-workman, had been offered 

the loan of a boat by his cousin, who was mate of a coasting schooner; so 

an excursion was arranged for the following Wednesday. Mr. and Mrs. 

M'Faddle, with their two adult daughters, and two half-grown daughters 

in short frocks, two big boys in jackets, and one little boy in 

knickerbockers; Mr. and Mrs. Twist, and their two grownup girls, with 

their cousin Jane, made in all fourteen souls; and considering that nine of 

them were ladies, in holiday skirts, it will be inferred that the boat was 

not a mere dingy. 

On the day fixed, which had been eagerly anticipated, and plentifully 

provided for in the victualling way, the whole party assembled at a jetty 

in Darling Harbour, at nine o'clock exactly; and soon afterward they had 

safely embarked in the boat, taking with them two large baskets of

provisions, a keg of water, and sundries. After all the ladies were 

comfortably seated, and Mr. M'Faddle had scraped his way through a 

mass of muslin and steel bars to his seat at the helm, the boat was pushed 

off, and away they went right merrily, though slowly, with the two young 

M'Faddles at the paddles, and Archy Twist sitting, tailor-fashion, in the 

head sheets, smoking his pipe, and joking the boys on their pulling. 

The morning was warm and sunny, with a light puffy breeze from 

north-west; and not one of the excited pleasure seekers had the slightest 

misgivings about the weather, for the sky above them was blue, the 

rippling water around them was flashing with sun beams, and their hearts 

were all full of holiday thoughts and hopes. What if they had left empty 

cupboards at home, had they not two full baskets in the boat? Let care of 

to-morrow wait till to-morrow, they were going to enjoy themselves today. 

So thought every leaping heart, as away splashed the boat under 

Pyrmont Bridge, and along the eastern shore, Archy Twist keeping a 

good look out for ferry steamers and mooring buoys. As the tide was at 

strong flood, and the boat was bluff bowed and heavy, the young 

M'Faddles soon began to show symptoms of distress, and by the time 

they had pulled abreast of Blue's Point, they were purple with over 

exertion, and perspiring like stokers raking out clinkers. 

“That's richt, tak it easy, laddies,” said Mr. M'Faddle, as the boys 

stopped to examine the gathering blisters on their hands. “Take it easy, 

my sons; we are nae in haste; there's naebody expects us to dinner in any 

of yon big hooses doon the harbour; but I think we maun try to mak' the 

sail do some wark, for the wind is wi' us if there's nae muckle of it. Rig 

the mast, Archie, ma freend! rest yersels a wee bit, boys.” 

The mast was rigged, and the sail set, with some difficulty, for Twist 

knew less about boats than about broadcloth and buttons, and the boat 

glided along at the rate of two knots an hour. The sun, as it rose higher in 

the sky, began to glow fiercely upon their heads, and to tinge their 

cheeks and noses with crimson. However, they were out for a holiday, 

and were evidently resolved that minor inconveniences should not put 

them out of humour; so the ladies opened their parasols and said they 

were very happy; whereupon M'Faddle said he was very happy to see 

them happy; and, to give vent to the pressure of his high spirits, he 

volunteered a Scotch song with a lively chorus, and after that was over, 

Twist gave an Irish song, with plenty of racy humour in it, which 

provoked a laughing chorus. Then they all sang “Cheer boys cheer,” and 

“Row, brothers, row,” until they re-echoed with a row, which must have 

astounded the crabs, and made the periwinkles ready to jump out of their 

shells. After they had finished singing, they chatted, and joked, and 

laughed and giggled, until the boat's topsides groaned with the shaking of 

the seats. A happy holiday-group were they! A merrier lot never 

crammed themselves into a collier's jolly boat.

“Phoo! poo, poo! What on earth is that?” squealed Mrs. Twist, 

suddenly, and at the same time twisting her face into expressive crinkles, 

as the boat was passing the red buoy off Fort Macquarie. “Patience me! 

what a wicked smell. Did you ever!” 

“It is only the main sewer,” said Twist, who, having been accustomed 

to work in a London cheap tailoring establishment, was not unacquainted 

with peculiar odours. “It is a fine place for fishing, just here, only the 

stench is apt to knock one up, especially on warm days like this.” 

“Knock one down, I should think,” said Mrs. Twist, with her nose 

tightly compressed between her fore-finger and thumb, “It is enough to 

kill a currier: and I mean to say it is shocking bad manners of the sewer 

makers to empty out their nuisances directly in front of Government 

House, and right into the mouth of the main cove in Sydney harbour. For 

pity's sake, let us get away from this horrible fume, or I shall faint.” 

The wind being now scarcely strong enough to make the boat stem the 

tide, the sail was rolled up, and M'Faddle and Twist began to pull, while 

one of the boys took charge of the tiller. A discussion then began, as to 

where they should land to spend the day. One of the ladies said her 

favourite spot was Rose Bay, another said she liked Milk Beach, and a 

third preferred Vaucluse. Mrs. M'Faddle had tender recollections of the 

first three days she spent in the colony, at the Quarantine Station, and 

proposed to go to Spring Cove; but Mr. Twist said it was no joke to pull 

that heavy boat nine miles against tide, which opinion Mr. M'Faddle 

instantly endorsed, and wanted to land on Garden Island. 

“Ha, ha, ha! You are tired already, mate,” laughed Twist, “and I have 

been thinking for the last ten minutes that the boat would go just as fast if 

you were fast asleep. But you can't land on Garden Island, because the 

Government has taken possession of it, more's the pity, for it was a nice 

place for picnic parties, and so near home too.” 

After a good deal more discussion, it was decided that they should call 

at Clark Island, to rest for half an hour, then cross the harbour to 

Bradley's Head, there to boil the kettle, cook the potatoes, and make 

other preparations for their feast. The two tailors then threw their full 

power into the paddles, and at about half past eleven o'clock, the boat 

bumped on the rocks of Clark Island, which stopped her instantly. The 

whole party then landed, and leaving Johnny M'Faddle to look after the 

boat, the others ascended to one of the caves at the northern end, where 

they seated themselves, and gave voice to their appreciation of the 

refreshing shadow of the rock above them, and the charming natural 

grotto which held them all comfortably. 

Had any of them possessed even ordinary powers of observation, they 

might, an hour before, have seen a heavy bank of storm clouds gathering 

above the south western horizon; and had one of the older colonists 

reflected a minute, he would have remembered that hot puffs of wind

from north west are usually the precursors of hard squalls from the 

opposite point of the compass. But neither of them observed, or thought 

of anything that was disagreeable until a strong blast of wind whirled 

into the cave, and caused a scramble to secure the bonnets and mantles 

from being blown into the water. 

“Ma goodness! it's gaen to bloo, I'm thinking,” said Mr. M'Faddle, 

while the wind roared like thunder among the rocks and caverns, and 

made the previously glassy surface of the harbour seethe and foam like a 

boiling fish kettle. “Wha on earth wad he thocht it wad a ben sae rough, 

all in a minute like? Hey! deeckins! luke at the boatie, it's ganging off 

without us; as true as my name's Mac,” he added, pointing to the boat, 

which was fast drifting away from the island, with the sail flapping, and 

shaking the mast furiously. “Archie, what's to be done, mon? Why dinna 

ye speak? Why do ye stand there gaping like a swine?” 

“Can't you swim after it?” asked Twist, with a bewildered look. 

“Toot mon! are ye daft althegether? The sharks wad bite the legs aff 

me, before I had kicked out thrice: besides I could na mair catch the 

boatie, by swimming, than I could catch a Jew fish. What in the warrald 

shall I do now?” 

As Mr. M'Faddle asked that unanswerable question, he raced down to 

the rocks below, and the first thing he did there was to well baste his boy 

Johnny with the leg of an old Chinese chair — which was unluckily 

lying close to hand — and at the same time scolded him soundly, in 

broad Scotch, for being “such a gowk as to let the boat gang adreeft.” 

Johnny acknowledged the basting with a series of howls, louder than 

the wind, then hobbled away as fast as he could to a stump, where he was 

sitting rubbing his bruises, when the rest of the party came down to the 

shore to learn the facts of the case, which were simply this, the boat 

having been imperfectly fastened, had broken adrift with the first puff. 

“I say, Sally, what part of the harbour does Johnny most resemble just 

now?” asked Nick M'Faddle of his sister, as he pointed to his discomfited 

brother in the distance. “Do you give it up, Sally? Well, I'll tell you; he is 

like Sirius cove (serious cove). Ha, ha, ha! that's good, isn't it? I made 

that out of my own head.” 

“That's good, too, see what you can make out of that,” exclaimed his 

mother, crossly administering a big box on Nick's ear, which sounded 

like a cracker. “I heard your impudence, you young monkey. You 

deserve the leg of the chair as much as your brother every bit. Now what 

cove do you look like?” 

It would lengthen my story into a volume, were I to detail all the 

misadventures of the unlucky islanders. How Mr. M'Faddle scolded his 

wife for boxing Nick, and Mrs. M'Faddle abused her husband for basting 

Johnny. How Mrs. Twist's satin bonnet blew into the water, and Mr. 

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 

down on a slimy rock, and went limping the rest of the day, although she 

declared that she had not even scratched herself. How Miss Twist's 

parasol was blown inside out and ruined; and her cousin Jane cut one of 

her best boots, and one of her big toes with an oyster shell. How the 

infant M'Faddle swallowed a periwinkle, and grew black in the face, 

until his mother succeeded in curing him by thumping him on the back. 

How Nick and Johnny while walking round the island, in search of stray 

edibles, found a cocoa-nut, and began at once to fight for the ownership; 

but after boxing each other until they were winded, they discovered that 

the nut was rotten, which incident, if they remember it, may teach them a 

good moral lesson for after life; it would also be useful — if calmly 

studied — to older persons than they, who are fighting for rotten nuts, or 

snarling over matters equally worthless. 

I might also describe the vain struggles of the party to “cloy the hungry 

edge of appetite,” with native oysters, of the smallest size and the most 

obstinate tenacity for their rocky beds. But I pass over all these details, 

and briefly record that hungry, jaded, cold, and cross, they all 

reassembled in the cave about three o'clock, there to confer upon the best 

thing to be done to avert impending starvation. Twist moved the first 

impromptu resolution (as he sat shivering in his wet garments beside his 

bonnetless wife), which was, “that Mr. M'Faddle should swim over to 

Darling Point, with his clothes on his head; then walk to Rushcutter's 

Bay, and borrow a boat from somebody.” The motion was not seconded, 

but somebody moved that Twist was a brute for wanting to drown his 

neighbour. Numerous other suggestions and objections were made, and 

ill temper was beginning to show itself in the senior ladies, when, 

perhaps luckily for their caps and curls, one of the boys suddenly called 

out, “Oh crikey! here comes a boat! Hoorah!” 

Every neck was stretched, and every eye directed towards the welcome 

boat, which was off Shark Island, plunging her way up the harbour under 

double-reefed canvas. I may here remark that, in consequence of the 

tempestuous state of the weather, there were very few boats afloat that 

afternoon. 

“Coom awa, coom awa, doon on the rocks,” said Mr. M'Faddle, 

starting up in exciting haste. “Stand althegether, an when I tell ye to 

skreel, skreel like bogles every ane of ye.” 

Down the whole party hastened to the water's edge, and as the boat 

came abreast of the island, Mr. M'Faddle gave the word of command to 

skreel. 

Never was heard such a chorus on Clark Island since the last 

corroboree of “Old Gooseberry,” and her maids of honour: the caves 

behind them echoed back the sounds, like the cries of tormented, water 

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 

their course. 

“They hear us plain enoo, but they are na cooming to our help,” said 

Mr. M'Faddle; “skreel again, girls, an wave yer linen.” 

Another screeching chorus shook the island, accompanied by a 

fluttering of white handkerchiefs in the wind, when all the sailors stood 

up in the boat, whirled their hats in the air, and shouted hurrah! hurrah! 

hurrah! until their cheers died away in the distance. The jolly tars 

evidently mistook the cries of distress, for an enthusiastic salute to their 

pennant. 

The discomfiture of the hungry excursionists for the next three hours 

was trying in the extreme. A little before sundown they attracted the 

notice of a boat bound to Sydney with a cargo of fish. The humane 

fishermen quickly embarked the shivering party, who huddled together 

among the schnappers and flathead, which furnished very cool seats, 

although rather slippery. Soon afterwards they all landed at Soldiers' 

Point, looking as weather-beaten as shipwrecked sailors. The next day 

their boat was found on the rocks in Mossman's Bay, badly damaged, and 

with sails blown to pieces; their provisions, also, were damaged by the 

combined influence of saltwater and sunbeams. 

It will probably be long before those sufferers forget that day's treat, or 

before Twist's cousin will again lend his ship's boat. Mr. M'Faddle, 

however, gained wisdom by the mishap, for he declares he will in future 

“keep his weather eye open,” but especially when he goes into a boat. I 

heartily commend his resolution to all novices who venture on to the 

tempting, though somewhat treacherous waters of Port Jackson; and I 

also advise them, in sultry, north-west winds to “look out for squalls.”

Change of Scene, and Fresh Air. 

MR. MOANS was as difficult to move as a dead elephant, when he had 

a job in hand, as he called it. He was a busy old man, in his way, though 

some of his neighbours wondered what trade he followed, for he made 

no more noise with his tools than an old matron darning stockings. Long 

after many folks in the city were asleep, a light was usually to be seen in 

Mr. Moan's laboratory; and if any curious person had mounted to the 

roof and peeped through his dormer window, they would have seen him 

setting up specimens of various sorts, and looking as weary and worn as 

most men do who sit up late at sedentary work. 

His friends often advised him to try a change of scene and fresh air, to 

recruit his diminishing strength, though they seldom persuaded him that 

he needed a change. “Phoo!” he would exclaim, with a smile, “where in 

the world can I find fresher air than is wafted through my window, from 

the north-east? and where can I behold more enlivening scenes than the 

verdant domain and the sparkling harbour afford, without the trouble of 

moving from my bamboo chair? Only just peep out of my window, to 

your right hand, and if you have a poet's or a painter's eye, you must be 

charmed with the picturesque view of Darling Point, and the villacrowned 

hills beyond; with Craig-end windmill in the foreground, and 

St. Mark's church in the distance, with the light-house far away on the 

cliffs! Change of scene indeed! Fiddle-dee-dee! ‘You'll find no change in 

me,’ as the old song says.” 

One day — not long ago — Captain Gimble called to see Mr. Moans; 

and being an intimate friend, he was shown at once into the laboratory. 

The captain, (who was a fine robust specimen of the bracing virtues of 

fresh air, and salt water,) had been away on foreign voyages for several 

years, so the pleasure of seeing him was proportionately great, and Mr. 

Moan's yellow face shone with gladness. After a long and pleasant chat, 

the captain pressingly invited his debilitated friend to spend a few days 

on board his ship, before he sailed for Hong-Kong. 

“My good friend!” whined Mr. Moans, passing his hand across his 

brow, “I cannot spare time to go anywhere, for several months to come. 

Besides, I have not so much faith in changes as some folks, who would 

try to persuade me that moving about in strange places will put flesh on a 

wooden leg. But, if I could take my work with me, I should very much 

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 

accounts of foreign travels.” 

“Never mind your work when you are going to play,” said the hearty 

skipper. “Heave all your curiosities into the locker, and forget them for a 

time; you may find some funny specimens to study on board my ship. 

Come, rouse up, my friend! Let me take you in tow, and I'll engage you 

shall return to Sydney in a few days, with your nerves braced up as tawt 

as weather backstays. Now then, get your monkey-jacket, and come 

away with me at once.” 

A few days afterwards, Mr. Moans might have been seen walking the 

deck of a fine rakish-looking bark, which was lying at anchor, in a busy 

port not far from Sydney; and as he gazed up at the tapering masts, and 

down again at the graceful hull of the vessel, his old roving desires 

awoke, and he wished he could take a voyage in her; but his work at 

home rose before his mental vision, and checked his longings. Just then 

Captain Gimble came alongside in his boat, and after nimbly stepping on 

board, he said, “What do you say to a trip to Melbourne, Mr. Moans?” 

“Melbourne, Captain! — hem — I thought you were bound for Hong- 

Kong!” 

“Well, you see, sir, we are far too deep for a long voyage. While I have 

been away in Sydney, some of those folks on shore there have loaded my 

ship down to the scupper-holes; and I cannot take any coal out of her, 

without trimming the whole cargo fore-and-aft, which would be 

expensive, as I am short-handed, so I intend to go to Melbourne with this 

lot; then to return here and load for China.” 

“But I imagine, captain, if the ship is too deep to go to Hong-Kong, she 

is not light enough to go to Melbourne, or elsewhere,” said Mr. Moans, 

with a look of concern for the safety of his friend, and his smart ship. 

“That's true enough,” replied the captain; then, after a minute's 

reflection, he added — “It is only a short run to Melbourne, and it's the 

fine-weather season, so ‘I'll chance it,’ as the colonial boys say, and as 

lots of collier-skippers are obliged to do all the year round, poor fellows! 

Let me persuade you to go with me. The trip will rouse up your digestive 

organs, and make your brains as bright as my anchor buttons.” 

I need not trouble the reader with all Mr. Moan's arguments, or his kind 

friend's characteristic replies. He longed for the trip, but all his 

specimens seemed to speak up together and urge that if he wished to 

complete them in time, he must work as long hours as a druggist, or 

journeyman tailor. On the other hand the charms of a cruise in such a 

smart clipper, with such agreeable captain and officers, presented 

themselves with irresistible force. He glanced at the cosy little cabin on 

deck, he thought of the benefit his brain might derive from the rest and 

relaxation, he thought too of the probability of meeting with some rare 

specimens in his travels, and finally he resolved to go; at which decision

Captain Gimble smiled complacently, then hastened on shore to clear his 

ship at the Custom House, and to get a few extra stores for his passenger. 

Early next morning, a steam tug was alongside, and before Mrs. 

Moans, in Sydney, was aware of her erratic husband's movements, he 

was at sea, rolling along with a fair wind towards Melbourne, and 

looking as pleased as an Irish piper. 

“Well, this is really delightful!” muttered Mr. Moans, as he paced up 

and down the clean flush deck; now and then stopping to give the sailors 

a pull up with a sail — as the ship was short-handed — and fancying 

what an agreeable promenade he had, and how pleasantly he could walk 

up and down, and think about nothing; and thus exercise his legs, rest his 

head, and at the same time refresh his lungs with pure saline air. The 

“Wild Duck” dashed along in gallant style, passing every other vessel in 

company with her, and as the wind increased Mr. Moan's rapture 

increased, till he began to wish he was a sailor. Suddenly, however, his 

ardour was damped by an intrusive wave, which dashed in at the waist on 

one side, and out at the other side, filling his boots in its transit, and 

convincing him directly that he could not walk the deck dryshod; indeed, 

he soon discovered that no one on board expected to do so, as was 

evidenced by “all hands” wearing diggers' long-boots. 

“This is rather a moist ship,” said Mr. Moans, walking up to Captain 

Gimble. “I wish I had brought my goloshes, — but, lack-a-day! now I 

come to remember, I have brought nothing with me but my red nightcap, 

and a toothbrush. Of course I did not anticipate taking this voyage, or I 

should have attended to my outfit. What shall I do, captain?” 

“Never mind,” said the good-natured skipper, smiling at his friend's 

concern about his scanty wardrobe. “I will lend you a pair of sea-boots, 

and anything else you want; but you had better get on top of deck-house 

if you want a walk, for you will find the main-decks all awash, as the sea 

gets up.” 

“I have found that already,” said Mr. Moans, with a a glance at his wet 

legs. “As for a walk on that house, as you call it, — which is not much 

bigger than a spring-cart — I think a dance on top of a sentry-box would 

be almost as rational, and much safer exercise. I am afraid I shall grow 

giddy and tumble overboard, if I get up there; so I will have a quiet 

ramble round the cabin table instead. But bless me, captain! I had no idea 

that your smart-looking ship was so wet. Your main-deck is a regular 

duck-pond.” 

“Did you ever see a vessel, deeply laden with coal, that was very dry 

on deck?” asked the captain, with a comical look. 

“No, I cannot say that I ever did, for the fact is I have never sailed in an 

overladen collier before, though I have been in a good many craft since I 

first smelt bilge water.” 

“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. 

Hold on, Sir, here is a sea coming over the quarter.” 

“Hold on, indeed!” ejaculated Mr. Moans, while he ran away as fast as 

if the water were boiling, and just escaped into the little deck cabin as the 

wave curled over the taffrail. “I think I had need to hold on and never let 

go, if I don't want to be washed overboard amongst the sharks. Well, 

well, this is something entirely new to me,” he added, throwing himself 

on a couch. “This change is as unsatisfactory as getting twenty bad 

shillings for a new sovereign; or a shocking bad hat for a good one at any 

evening party. I have change of air now, and plenty of it certainly, but it 

is too strongly seasoned with salt water to be agreeably fresh. If the 

‘Wild Duck’ ship seas at this rate in fine weather, I am afraid she will 

duck us under altogether, if we fall in with foul weather.” 

The moon rose punctually at its appointed time that night, but Mr. 

Moans could only gaze at it through the cabin window; for the flying 

spray precluded his going on deck with a dry skin, so he soon turned into 

bed, and there he lay thinking of his specimens at home, and thinking 

too, what a rare specimen of a disappointed man he was; for instead of 

the delightful moonlight walks on deck with his friend Captain Gimble, 

which he had anticipated, the only chance he had of having a dry chat 

with his friend, was by mounting to the top of the house like a prowling 

tom cat. About midnight he was aroused from an uneasy doze by the 

well-known whistle of a “southerly burster” among the cordage; and then 

began the most extraordinary night in his sea experience, which he is 

anxious to have recorded, for the special study of certain shipowners who 

may never have had the advantage of a night's lodging in one of their 

overladen colliers in a southerly gale; and in the hope of arousing their 

sympathies for the perils to which their seamen are exposed. 

In a short time the sea began to boil and bubble, or to tumble about in a 

very confused manner, owing to the sudden shift of wind. Wave after 

wave leaped on the deck of the “Wild Duck;” and as she wallowed from 

side to side, they had no chance to escape overboard again, except by the 

small scupper holes; so they met amidships, and knocking their heads 

together, like fighting goats, sent fountains of spray flying upwards, to 

descend in cooling cataracts on the heads of the shivering crew; while 

heavier billows thundered against the ship's side, like breakers on the 

rocks at Bondi. Mr. Moans had often heard poets warble about “dancing 

waves;” but he never before completely realised the pretty idea; and he 

thought he would like to see the poet who could make a pleasant song 

about those waves, which were dancing on the deck of the “Wild Duck.” 

He had never seen or heard such a strange corroborree before. They 

hissed and seethed like a thousand fryingpans full of eggs and bacon, and 

seemed madly resolved to tear the tarpaulin off the main hatches, and 

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 

watched the commotion of the elements through the cabin window, and 

wished he had a poet's fancy that could be tickled with the scene. But 

even the grim satisfaction of gazing on that strange “meeting of the 

waters” was denied him, for a lively little wavelet — as though in playful 

mockery of his plaintive singing, “What are the wild waves saying” 

— flew directly at his face, dashed through the cabin window, and 

deluged the sofa and the cabin floor, while an extra lurch at the same 

moment caused a select library of books to descend about his ears, from 

a shelf in the corner; two weighty volumes of “Good Words” giving him 

some bad blows on the head. Thankful that the wave had not invaded his 

berth, Mr. Moans hastily jumped into bed again, and there he lay and 

tried to calmly contemplate the sublimity of the storm without, to 

calculate his chances of ever seeing his quiet little dormitory again, and 

to reason with his doubts about his intellectual faculties ever finding their 

way back to their proper bumps after being shaken and jostled up with 

the subordinate organs in his cranium like gingerbread nuts in a tin 

canister. 

Presently he heard a clanking noise like a fire-engine, and he soon 

ascertained that all hands were at pumps, so he reasonably concluded that 

the ship had sprung a leak, and he began to estimate how long it would 

be before she sunk, as she had scarcely more than six inches of a side. 

But before he had satisfactorily worked that problem out, a thumping sea 

struck the deck-house, close to his ear, making the ship shudder from 

stem to stern. His mind was thereby diverted into the fidgetty 

anticipation of a sudden launch over the lee rail in his berth. He had often 

read of deck-houses being knocked off the deck, and had seen a cook's 

galley, full of coppers and saucepans, washed overboard; and while 

gloomy recollections of those casualties helped him to draw a mental 

picture of his deck-house being swept away by the next heavy sea that 

struck it, the contemplation of the event was even less composing than a 

view of his next door neighbour's blazing house would be while looking 

out of his own attic window. The most favourable speculations on such a 

mishap yielded him no comfort, for even should the deck-house be 

toppled upside down in its transit over the rail — to say nothing of the 

bruises he would probably receive by being toppled upside down too 

— the house would be sure to leak at the doors and windows, and he 

could scarcely expect to navigate it to Sydney without sails, oars, rudder, 

or other nautical convenience. But if it should happen to go overboard 

with its roof uppermost, of course he would be as badly off as a man in a 

diving bell, without an air-pump. As sea after sea continued to strike the 

deck-house, he felt his tenure to be peculiarly uncertain, and was wishing 

that he could spread his blankets below upon the coals, and at the same 

time haul those gentlemen with him who had put too many coals on

oard, when Captain Gimble, glistening with spray, entered the cabin, 

and smilingly asked him “How he was getting on?” 

“I am not happy, Captain,” replied Mr. Moans, sitting up in his bed. 

“The fact is, I am frightened, and fear terribly interferes with a person's 

enjoyment, either on sea or on shore. I have seldom, if ever before, 

experienced such a feeling on shipboard, but really this ‘dreadful noise of 

waters in my ears’ makes my flesh creep. The clanking of those pumps 

sounds like a horrible mill, grinding up the bones of drowned sailors to 

make putty for worm-eaten planks; and the creaking jaws of the maingaff 

seems to me like Satan laughing approvingly at his friends, who, for 

the sake of a few pounds of freight-money, imperil the lives of all on 

board. Have you stopped the leak?” 

“Not yet: the spear of one of the pumps is disabled; but we will soon 

get it to work again. The carpenter was laid up sea sick; so I went down 

to his berth just now, and gently hinted to him that the ship was sinking, 

and that he had better turn out and mend the pump spear. Ha, ha! my 

blocks! he roused out as smartly as if there was a buck rat in his bunk! I 

never before saw such a prompt cure for sea sickness.” 

“Pray what is your real opinion of our present position, Captain?” 

asked Mr. Moans. “Don't scruple to tell me the worst, for after all I am 

not afraid of death, let it come in whatever shape it may. Thank God I 

know that before the ship got to the bottom of the sea, if she sank just 

now, my soul would be far beyond the influence of storms and tossing 

waves. But it has never been my disposition to lie down and die. ‘Never 

let the ship sink for want of pumping’ is an old maxim of mine: so I will 

turn out and take a turn at the pumps, if you like, Captain.” 

“There is no necessity for your doing that,” said the Captain; “our 

present position is not very enviable certainly; still we might be much 

worse off, under bad owners. Our ship is only leaking in her top sides, 

through baking so long in the sun, and her seams will probably take up in 

a few hours. Then our hull is sound and strong, our rigging and sails are 

good, and we have plenty of sea room. Our shipping so much water, and 

making such bad weather of it, is of course owing to our being 

overloaded; but we cannot help that now, it would not be safe to take off 

the hatches, to lighten her. Fortunately she is not straining at all, and 

though it is certainly disagreeable for you, there is not much danger if we 

don't lose our masts. That is my candid opinion, as you have asked me 

for it. But if any of those old leaky coasting colliers have got caught in 

this breeze,” added the Captain with a shrug of horror, “there will be 

more sailors' orphans, and sorrowing widows and mothers, to remember 

this night's fatal work; for a rotten ship could not weather it out.” 

“Tell me, Captain, why are owners permitted to send rotten vessels to 

sea?” asked Mr. Moans, with earnestness. 

“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 

could send any old clumbung to sea; in fact he might rig out a 

weatherboard barn, and no one would stop him. There was an old hooker 

lying abreast of us this morning; her crew had been pumping her nearly 

all night; all her sails were as patched as Paddy's breeches; and there was 

scarcely a fathom of her running gear strong enough to hang a monkey; 

yet she put out to sea as deep as a sand-barge.” 

“But how is it that owners find crews for their old clumbungs, as you 

call them, Captain? Sailors love their lives, I suppose, as all other mortals 

do.” 

“Why, sir, sailors don't always know the character of ships before they 

get to sea, and then it is pump or sink, of course. But there are always 

men hard up, and glad to earn a crust; and hunger sometimes blinds men 

to hazards. Hope is a strong trait in a sailor's character, and he has much 

need of it, too. I was talking with the skipper of a little schooner the other 

day; he was waiting for a change of wind, with his vessel loaded almost 

to sinking point. I asked him why he loaded so deep? when he told me 

that his owner insisted on it that his vessel would carry one hundred tons, 

and if he did not take that quantity on board — though she could only 

safely carry ninety tons — he would be walked ashore as soon as he got 

to Sydney, and another master would be put in his place, while he went 

whistling for another ship; and very likely he would be tauntingly told he 

was no sailor, simply because he valued his own life and the lives of his 

crew.” 

“But is there no remedy for those monstrous evils?” asked Mr. Moans, 

looking very fierce, and dashing his red nightcap on deck as though he 

were hurling an imaginary anchor and cable on the toes of the niggardly 

owner just alluded to. 

“Of course there is if it were applied,” said the captain, “and that is a 

nice little job for a philanthropic legislator to take in hand; but I can't 

stop below any longer, I must go on deck and shorten sail again. Take 

care of yourself.” 

“Humph! Take care of yourself indeed! that's what Paddy said to his 

wife, just before he dropped a sack of potatoes on her head,” mumbled 

Mr. Moans, then he lay down again, and amused himself, considering 

what he would do to the owners of “old clumbungs” if he were “monarch 

of all he surveyed.” 

* * * * * 

After a stormy passage of twelve days, he arrived safely in Melbourne; 

and though he had had such an extraordinary tossing about, he was glad 

of it when the danger was past, for it had wonderfully added to his 

nautical experience, and opened his eyes to the risks which many of our

coasting seamen are mercilessly exposed to. 

Mr. Moans derived much benefit from the trip; and can feelingly 

recommend change of scene and fresh air for all overworked students; 

though he certainly would not advise delicate men to take a voyage in an 

overladen collier.

Mr. Moans' Visit to Melbourne. 

IN the preceding chapter I have explained how Mr. Moans was induced 

to go to Melbourne for “change of scene and fresh air.” I am not about to 

chronicle all he did, said, and saw there, or I should far exceed ordinary 

limits, and it would probably be uninteresting to the general reader; but I 

purpose taking a cursory glance at a few of his movements, and noting 

some of his observations in that metropolis, and its populous suburbs. 

“Pray what is your opinion of Melbourne compared with Sydney, Mr. 

Moans?” asked an intelligent friend, who very kindly acted as cicerone 

through that surprisingly busy city. 

Mr. Moans was an old Sydney man. All his dearest social interests 

were centred therein. He venerated even its crooked streets and narrow 

pathways — for they were crowded with happy recollections of youthful 

days; in short, his home was there, and he loved it; and he was prepared 

at all times to maintain the credit of the good old city. Moreover he had, 

on several occasions, observed a disposition in some “fast” Victorians 

when in Sydney, to underrate that mother-city, in their enthusiastic desire 

to extol the magnificence of their own colossal capital; so, (though he 

well knew he need not expect such an exhibition of bad taste in his friend 

beside him) he cautiously replied to the question — “Melbourne is 

undoubtedly a very fine city, sir.” 

“You will of course admit that it is much larger than Sydney?” 

“It would be absurd to deny that, sir,” said Mr. Moans. “Your harbour 

too, is very much larger than ours, and has larger waves in it when the 

wind blows fresh; as I observed during the two days that I was stormstaid 

on board the ‘Wild Duck,’ at the anchorage off Sandridge. Those 

are facts which I must admit; still, for beauty of scenery, apart from other 

considerations, your harbour would suffer as much in comparison with 

Port Jackson, as a large potato-field would beside a choicely-stocked 

parterre; and the Yarra Yarra is a mere dyke compared with our romantic 

Paramatta River.” 

“Stay, sir,” said Mr. Titler (the name of his cicerone). “Have you seen 

the Yarra above Princes Bridge?” 

“Not yet, sir; that is to say, I have not been far up it; but I allude to the 

lower part of the river, where your bone-boilers, tar-refiners, and other 

fume-raisers combine to suffocate every little indigenous flower that 

struggles to open its petals to the sunshine; and where the water is

usually as thick as tanner's refuse, or Thames mixture.” 

“You must see the Upper Yarra before you leave, sir,” said Mr. Titler, 

smiling. “Though I fear it will make poor Paramatta River appear to your 

fancy, in future, as unromantic as its mud oyster banks at low tide. That 

is our new General Post Office, or rather a part of it,” he added, stopping 

short and gazing exultingly before a magnificent building in course of 

erection, large enough — in the opinion of one patriotic old Victorian 

lady — to hold all the letters in the world. “What do you think of our 

new Post Office, sir?” 

“It is much finer than our old one; but how it will compare with our 

new one I cannot positively say just now,” replied Mr. Moans, who could 

not fail to be struck with the extent and the ornateness of the structure. 

“Have you a building in Sydney to equal it?” asked Mr. Titler, with more 

Victorian pride than he had before exhibited. 

“Yes, I think our University excels it. But, as I am not an architect, my 

judgment may be at fault. When you come to Sydney, I will show you 

some private buildings which will surprise you.” 

“Humph! — have you been to our Public Library, Mr. Moans?” said 

Mr. Titler, looking like a rifleman who had just hit the bull's-eye. 

“I have, sir, and was very much pleased with my visit. In all my travels 

I have not seen a Public Library equal to it, out of London; and I wish we 

had one only half as good in Sydney. It is an honour to your colony, as 

well as an inestimable boon to the population, and your statesmen have 

shown wise foresight in thus caring for the moral and intellectual 

improvement of the people. Vast as must have been the cost of that noble 

institution, it is money well laid out, and will probably save a hundred 

times that amount to future rulers in the gaol and police estimates; while 

in a higher point of view, the blessings it may confer on this young 

nation are incalculable.” 

“You have not such fine wide streets in Sydney as these, Mr. Moans,” 

said Mr. Titler, who was evidently pleased at the last observations of his 

friend. 

“We have not, sir; nor yet such wide gutters to cross in wet weather, 

and to crack our carriage springs at the street junctions. I suppose it to be 

on account of the low level of your city that you have these gaping drains 

in every street. But I cannot say that the sewerage of our City of Sydney 

is as perfect as it might be made, considering our natural facilities for 

drainage.” 

“If we had such facilities in Melbourne,” said Mr. Titler, “we should 

have had underground sewers in every street long ago. But we have 

plenty of Yan Yean water to flush our gutters in dry weather, so we are 

not much inconvenienced by foul odours.” 

“I wish I could say the same of our Sydney gutters,” said Mr. Moans. 

“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 

of a clever medical neighbour, that the public health is periodically 

affected thereby. Pray, what is that new building?” added Mr. Moans, as 

they suddenly sighted a stylish-looking edifice, near the foot of Prince's 

Bridge. 

“That is our new Fish Market,” said Mr. Titler. “It belongs to the City 

Corporation.” 

“Fish Market!” exclaimed Mr. Moans, with as much surprise as though 

the whole tribe of peripatetic fish vendors of Sydney had suddenly 

shouted ‘all alive O’ in his right ear. “That a fish market! why it is 

handsome enough for a town hall. I must take a good look at it 

tomorrow. We sadly want such an establishment in Sydney; for though 

our coasts and harbours abound with fish, the supply to the citizens is 

scanty and precarious; and, in general, it is too high in price for poor 

persons to luxuriate in. Such a market in Sydney would do away with the 

monopoly which has long been enjoyed by a score or two of barrowmen, 

and certain middlemen or agents, who, I am told, make large profits 

by giving the public small quantities of fish, while the poor fishermen, 

who have all the perils and certainly the largest share of the labour, have 

but a minimum portion of the gains. Fish market! Hail Victoria! I feel 

quite enthusiastic, and inclined to shout out the matutinal song of our 

Sydney piscators, ‘Here's your fine fresh fish!’ A slice of Murray River 

cod, fresh from the slate tables of your model Billingsgate, would be a 

treat.” 

“I think you mentioned the Town Hall, just now, sir,” said Mr. Titler; 

“I will show it you, presently; you had better take a look at the Town 

Hall at Prahran, too, before you leave.” 

“And you had better come and take a look at our new Town Hall at 

Sydney, when it is finished,” drily remarked Mr. Moans. 

“That is a fine church, sir,” said Mr. Titler, pointing to a tall handsome 

spire in the distance; “I doubt if you have an ecclesiastical edifice in 

Sydney to equal that.” 

“Then it is plain to me that you have not seen our Anglican Cathedral 

in George Street,” said Mr. Moans, in a pleasant mood. 

“Oh! yes, beg pardon — that unfinished building near the old burial 

ground. I forgot that — by-the-bye, have you seen the Melbourne 

General Cemetery?” 

“I have, sir, and a beautiful place it is too. There is much taste 

displayed in laying out the grounds, and they are kept in admirable 

condition. Among many good rules for the management of the cemetery, 

I remarked one in particular, which is worthy of being adopted 

elsewhere. It is that no inscription shall be made on a tomb or headstone, 

that has not been submitted for the approval of two of the trustees. That 

is an admirable way of preventing the exhibition of questionable taste or

eccentricities which often interfere with our serious reflections when 

rambling through grave-yards. You are perhaps not aware, Mr. Titler, 

that we have a general cemetery now, situate off the line of railway, 

between Sydney and Paramatta.” 

“I am glad to hear it, sir,” said Mr. Titler, “for crowding the dead 

among the living is an evil which cannot be too carefully guarded 

against. You have not yet seen our public parks and gardens, I suppose, 

Mr. Moans? I should like to hear what you will say to them.” 

“I have visited some of them, sir; and while I honestly tell you I have 

not seen anything to equal our picturesque domain in Sydney, I must say 

your government is very liberal in granting land for public purposes. You 

Melbourne folks are admirably provided with recreation grounds; and 

you apparently spare no labour in improving them. I very much approve 

of your taste in rearing trees wherever there is room for them. The 

advantages of their refreshing shade and fragrance in this warm climate 

are inestimable, and grateful pedestrians will doubtless often bless the 

men who planted those trees, which I have observed growing on the 

sides of some of your suburban roads. We Sydneyites are certainly 

behind you in exhibitions of taste in that way, though we are improving, 

as anyone may observe, who will make an inspection of our public 

grounds.” 

* * * * * 

I shall not further follow Mr. Moans and his communicative friend, Mr. 

Titler, or detail his dialogues with other Victorian friends, upon moral, 

social, sanitary, and political subjects; as the foregoing specimen will 

show, that while candidly admitting the excellences and the grandeur of 

the precocious city of Melbourne, he was not slow in defending his own 

honoured capital from invidious comparisons or ungenerous 

depreciation. 

During his stay he enjoyed some pleasant rural drives in Mr. Titler's 

carriage; and though he could not be persuaded that any scenery he saw 

was comparable to that between Sydney and South Head, there was 

much that was undoubtedly beautiful, and evidenced the highest artistic 

skill and taste. While driving through some of the suburban towns, he 

noted many things which he thought might with advantage be imitated 

by the suburbanites of Sydney, more especially the wide streets and 

roads, the extensive public reserves, and the prevailing disposition for 

planting shrubs therein. Mr. Moans had also many agreeable saunters 

through Melbourne proper, and noted many more things than I have 

space to enumerate. Among other striking objects, he observed more men 

walking about with their hands in their pockets, than he expected to have 

seen, with the numerous avenues for steady labour in that busy

metropolis; and considering, too, the facilities for getting into the 

interior, and the liberality of the Victorian land law: moreover, where 

there was such a splendid free library, accessible to the humblest classes, 

at all hours of the day, and till a late hour at night. But it was explained 

by a lively friend, that hands in pockets was not regarded as an idle 

symptom; for since “peg-top pantaloons” had become fashionable, the 

practice was general; indeed it was considered the “correct thing” by all 

grades and ages of Melbourne males. At the same time he admitted that 

there were many men who had unfortunately no remunerative 

employment for their hands; but he thought, in a majority of instances, 

the causes might be traced to their own indiscretion, or incapacity; and 

notwithstanding all that had been said and written by interested persons 

and grumblers to the contrary, he believed there was still ample room in 

the land for tens of thousands of honest industrious men and women, for 

the resources of the country — apart from its gold — are almost 

unlimited. 

* * * * * 

“If any man, who had the free range of a choice flowergarden, chose to 

go sniffing among the African marigolds in preference to inhaling the 

balmy fragrance of moss roses and violets, his taste might be justly 

questioned.” Thus reasoned Mr. Moans to himself, as he quietly rambled 

through some of the well-paved streets of Melbourne. “And instead of 

choosing to look at the many beautiful objects around me,” he 

soliloquised, “if I preferred to turn into some of the back lanes for the 

express purpose of finding disagreeable subjects to talk about when I 

returned home, I should be lacking in taste.” Mr. Moans preferred the 

moss roses and violets, or, in other words, he chose to employ his limited 

time in observing matters and things which are most pleasant and 

profitable to contemplate, and to converse with men of corresponding 

minds. Still he was not wholly unobservant of other things; and the 

sombre walls of the Gaol, the Refuge, the Hospital, and other receptacles 

for crime and suffering, and the haggard looks of many poor besotted 

loungers at public-house doors, often reminded him that all was not 

coleur de rose around him. 

He met with much hospitality and kindness from old friends, and from 

new friends too; and he left the monumental city of Melbourne, strongly 

impressed with the indomitable spirit of advancement displayed by its 

inhabitants in general. He had remarked, however, that there was rather 

more commercial steam or gas introduced into private life than is 

observable in Sydney society. He noticed, too, that a few of the 

mercantile men looked fidgety on Sundays, and while they gazed round 

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 

with two or three light-hearted men too, (who were as inflated with civic 

pride, as smoke-dried cockneys showing their country-cousins the 

wonders of London from the top of St. Paul's), and he felt constrained to 

reduce their jubilant boasting by gently reminding them that “after all, it 

was a Sydney man who planned their grand city — except the 

sewerage,” and he added “that if the Victorians were richer and more 

influential than some of their neighbours, they should be thankful, and 

remember that it would be very discreditable to them if it were otherwise 

with their enormous revenue, and the million of spirited men and 

women, whom the Victorian gold mines had attracted from all parts of 

the world.” 

On the whole, Mr. Moans is of opinion that Victoria is a great land, and 

that it is destined to become still greater; and as modesty is a 

concomitant of true greatness, he expects that quality to increase. While 

congratulating that sister colony on her good fortune, and recognising her 

claim to the respect of the world, he does not yield a jot of the honour 

due to his own part of the continent; nor does his admiration for his 

neighbour's excellences lessen his fealty to his own adopted colony, or 

wean his affection from its old associations. Friendly emulation is 

commendable, and he thinks a better acquaintance with each other will 

tend to foster that feeling, and at the same time uproot or retard the 

growth of envy, from which would eventually spring hatred and all 

uncharitableness. With that desirable end in view, Mr. Moans would 

recommend all the good folks in Melbourne to visit Sydney now and 

then; the well-bred citizens of Sydney will return the calls, of course; and 

if they all enjoy their visits as much as Mr. Moans enjoyed his, they will 

heartily join him in the glad shout, “Advance, Victoria!” while the 

Melbournites will stroke their beards, and smilingly reply, in their 

Columbianized phraseology, “Go ahead, Sydney.”

“Stone Blind.” 

SOME years ago, a fine vessel owned by my friend Simon Guldman, 

was stranded, in a gale of wind, within a hundred miles of Sydney. She 

was laden with flour and maize, and was uninsured. Though much 

strained, the vessel held together; and when the weather had sufficiently 

moderated, my friend succeeded, with much labour and expense, in 

hauling a considerable portion of the cargo through the surf on to the seabeach, 

and eventually in getting the vessel afloat and safely moored in an 

adjacent harbour. 

Mr. Guldman had camped near to the wreck for several nights and had 

undergone no small amount of hardship, as well as annoyance from 

volunteer helpers, some of whom were most anxious to spare him the 

pain of ever again beholding such mementos of his misfortune as were 

not too heavy for them to carry away. He therefore resolved upon 

offering the vessel and salvage of cargo for sale, while any salvage 

remained; so he employed a respectable auctioneer; and, at the time 

appointed, a crowd assembled on the Queen's Wharf, where samples of 

the damaged cargo were exhibited, and opposite to which the battered 

ship lay moored, with the crew on board singing cheerily, as they worked 

at the pumps. 

Mr. Guldman soon discovered that the majority of those present were 

neither bidders nor buyers, but were perhaps attracted to the spot by the 

craving desire, which is almost everywhere manifested by a certain class 

of persons, to investigate disasters; generally with a keen eye to 

contingent personal advantages. 

“Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “you have heard the terms and 

conditions of sale, and you must admit they are very liberal; favour me 

with an offer to commence with, at per bushel, for all the maize now 

spread on the ship's sails, on Misery Beach. At per bushel, favour me 

with a bid, gentlemen. Don't delay now; what shall I say? Start me a bid, 

gentlemen, at per bushel.” 

“If you please, sir, do you warrant it sound corn?” enquired a lisping 

little man in spectacles, whose occasional waggish winks and 

whisperings to his neighbours, made my jaded friend doubt if the little 

oddity were really as simple as he appeared to be. “I'm very particular 

about my pig's diet. Is it sound, sir, do you think?” 

“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. 

Now, gentlemen, with all faults, favour me with a bid, at per bushel; 

don't wait. At per bushel, what shall I say; favour me with a bid. Mr. 

Phungus, what do you say? it would suit you as a speculation; corn is 

worth five and ninepence in Sydney just now; come, gentlemen, fav — 

— ” 

“If you please, sir,” interrupted the little lisping man again, speaking 

with his mouth half-full of maize, “it tastes like bad nuts, soaked in sour 

beer. I don't think my pigs would like it.” 

“If you give your pigs that corn, Spikes, it will give 'em the measles,” 

said a greedy-looking man, who was afterwards observed to be the only 

person who really made a bid for the cargo, which was not badly 

damaged. “You had better be careful, or you won't save your bacon, 

Spikes, that musty corn would physic your swine, and make 'em squeak 

like bagpipes.” 

“Ah, I think I'll take your advice,” replied Mr. Spikes; “I shouldn't like 

to make my pigs unhealthy. You had better send it to Sydney to make 

coffee, sir,” he added, addressing the auctioneer, “it would make very 

good corffee, sir, I think.” 

Numerous sallies of wit, about equal to the above samples, were 

indulged in by one or other of the grinning group, to the prejudice of the 

salvage, and to the discomfiture of my crest-fallen friend, who felt as 

fidgety as an old lady in a menagerie, with all the monkeys loose; and, 

notwithstanding the auctioneer exerted his lungs to the utmost, and 

flourished his hammer most peruasively, only the man, beforementioned, 

bid for the cargo, a less sum than it had cost to get it on 

shore. Feeling certain that there was a combination among some of the 

bystanders to cheapen his corn, Mr. Guldman, much to their 

disappointment, withdrew the sale of it, and instructed the auctioneer to 

offer the vessel. 

“Ay, put up the ship,” roared a burly sea captain, with a head like a 

rock-cod; “put up the ship; she'll do for a coal hulk, if her back isn't 

broken, and if it is, she'll make a mud punt; I'll bid fifty pounds to start 

yer, I sha'n't lose much, if I am forced to break her up; though she's an 

old craft, with iron fastenings.” 

“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Mr. Guldman, excitedly, “she is only a 

five-year-old ship, and is copper-fastened throughout; she is well found, 

and is one of the fastest vessels on the coast.” 

“Yes, I'm sure she's a very nice ship, Captain Swob,” lisped little Mr. 

Spikes, with a look of virtuous reproach at the burly sailor for his 

depreciatory remarks. “She'd be a very pretty ship, indeed, if she was 

mended; I only wish my old uncle Bartimeus could see her, he'd give a 

thousand pounds, ready money, and be glad of the chance.” 

Amidst the depressing jibes and banter, the least exhibition of rational

feeling was to some extent comforting. Mr. Guldman felt half-grateful to 

the little goblin in spectacles, despite his dubious remarks about the 

maize. After a minute or two's cudgelling of his excited brain, Mr. 

Guldman decided to ask Mr. Spikes whether his uncle lived in the 

neighbourhood, and if so, to invite him to go on board the ship and 

inspect her. He thought possibly Uncle Bartimeus was a capitalist, 

desirous of being a ship-owner, and might be glad to buy a smart vessel 

cheap. In fact, my friend was very anxious to sell, and like vendors in 

general in such cases, he eagerly hailed the prospect of a buyer. 

“Will you oblige me by informing me where your uncle lives, sir?” 

politely asked Mr. Guldman of Mr. Spikes, who was in the middle of the 

crowd, looking as sedate as a parson sitting on a hearse. 

“Oh, yes, sir, certainly,” said the little man; “look there, sir, you see 

that long white thing, on top of the hill yonder, like a little lighthouse 

without a lantern. Well, sir, if you go just behind that, and look down, 

you'll see a great big gully; uncle's house is right at the bottom. He calls 

it Bat's Hole. He'd be precious glad to see you.” 

“Do you think he would like to come and see the vessel?” asked Mr. 

Guldman; while the auctioneer ceased his vociferous appeals to his 

company, to listen to the result of the private negotiations, which every 

one present seemed interested in. 

“Ah, he just would like it, and no mistake, sir,” replied Mr. Spikes; he'd 

give a thousand pounds if he could see her; for he's been stone blind for 

five years.” 

A loud burst of laughter from the assembled company followed the 

little man's rejoinder; while his face at once altered to an expression of 

shrewdness and waggery, at which my friend could not help laughing, 

despite his chagrin at having been so befooled. After whispering to the 

auctioneer to stop the sale altogether, Mr. Guldman quietly withdrew 

from the spot, and was half-way towards his dilapidated ship before the 

noisy crowd had finished laughing at Mr. Spike's wit.

Gone to Heaven. 

A BELOVED friend of mine, was sitting near the couch of his dying 

infant, about midnight. It was the second night of his painful vigil, and he 

was weary and depressed in body and mind. He had listlessly opened an 

illustrated volume of Longfellow's poems, which lay on a table: and just 

above an engraving, representing an angel soaring to Heaven with an 

infant, were these lines — 

“She is not dead — the child of our affection — 

But gone unto that school, 

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ Himself doth rule.” 

* * * * * 

At that moment the nurse exclaimed “baby is gone!”

“Call Again.” 

“HERE, Jerry,” said a decent, hard-working tradesman in Sydney, to 

his son, one Saturday morning, “put on your best hat and coat, and try if 

you can collect a few accounts, for I must have some money to pay the 

man's wages to-night. You know I have been working early and late 

since Monday, binding those music books and manuscripts for Madam 

Twangit, of Woolloomooloo, and when I took them home just now, she 

told me that she would call and settle with me in a few days. I was afraid 

to be too pressing lest I should lose her future custom; though she might 

have seen, by my disappointed looks, that I wanted the money. O dear, 

dear! what a terrible inconvenience this credit system is to poor, 

struggling tradesfolk. Some persons do not know it though, or I think 

they would be more considerate. Now, Madam Twangit has plenty of 

money, and could just as well pay me to-day as a few days hence; and I 

dare say, too, she would be sorry if she knew the worry and trouble 

which will accrue to many persons to-day for the lack of those few 

pounds, for she is really a kind-hearted lady. In the first place, there will 

be the loss of your time, Jerry, in running about collecting, or trying to 

collect money. Then our butcher's, baker's, and grocer's weekly bills will 

not be paid to-night, and our credit may suffer, and they, too, in their 

turn, may be inconvenienced, for they have their payments to make to the 

wholesale traders. Then I heard your mother promise Betsy a new bonnet 

for Sunday. Poor girl! she will be disappointed, and perhaps will not be 

able to go to church to-morrow; and I intended to have given you a new 

waistcoat to-night, Jerry. But it's no use grumbling; I must have some 

money, however, to pay our man, for he had only half his wages last 

Saturday night; and the poor fellow wants his money, so go away, my 

boy, as fast as you can, and try your best to collect some. Here's a long 

list, and some of the accounts have been a long time owing. Tell the 

parties they will oblige me very much by paying you to-day, for I really 

want the money.” 

Poor Jerry took the list, and sallied out as moodily as if he were going 

to a funeral. He had good cause for not being over sanguine, for many a 

long trudge had he had before in his unsuccessful endeavours to collect 

the numerous small accounts, few of which exceeded ten shillings; and 

he felt that he would rather turn a grindstone in the back yard all day, 

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 

office door of Mr. Putemoff, whose name stood first on the list. “Come 

in,” said a voice as soft as a flageolet. Jerry's hope revived a little as he 

walked in, and making a low bow, began to state the object of his visit. 

“If you please, sir, I've called — — ” “Oh, ah, yes,” ejaculated Mr. 

Putemoff, interrupting him. “You've come again for that little account, of 

course. Bless me! hasn't it been settled yet! It ought to have been paid 

before, but I quite forgot it. Yes, ah! I have the account somewhere 

amongst my papers,” he continued, musingly, as he opened a drawer, and 

began to rummage among a host of small documents. “Um, dear me; I'm 

sorry I can't find it, my lad; I must trouble you to ‘call again,’ when my 

clerk is in. Yes; just look in again, if you please.” “Very good, sir,” 

replied Jerry, as he bowed his way out of the office, pleased that the 

stinging words, “call again,” had been uttered in a civil tone. 

“What do you want?” enquired Mr. Bluff, the butcher, as Jerry stepped 

into his shop with a timid air, as if he owed the butcher a long bill and 

could not pay a penny. “If you please, sir, I've called for that little 

account for binding your old books — seven and sixpence. My father 

says he'll be very much obliged — — ” “You must call again; can't you 

see I'm too busy to attend to you?” said Mr. Bluff, as he chopped away at 

a bullock's tail. “If you please, sir,” urged Jerry, meekly, “father is — — 

” “Call again, I tell you. Don't bother me now!” roared Mr. Bluff, 

grinning the while like a shark who is just going to swallow a sailor, 

which frightened Jerry out of the shop in a minute. 

With a heart as heavy as a bag of shot, he next entered the shop of Mr. 

Mull, the mercer, and civilly asked for the payment of nine shillings, 

which had been owing for some time. “Where's the account?” asked Mr. 

Mull, hastily, as he lifted up the flap of his desk and looked inside, 

remarking at the same time that those petty little bills bothered him twice 

as much as all his big ones. “I've never seen your account,” said Mr. 

Mull, after an apparent fruitless search in his desk for it. “I have left it 

twice, sir,” said poor Jerry, with an imploring look. “Ah, then it's been 

mislaid. You must call again with it, and don't come here again on 

Saturday, d'ye hear?” 

“Master's gone to lunch,” said a small boy, who was seated on a butter 

tub, eating a saveloy, as Jerry stepped into the store of Mr. Baggs, the 

commission agent, in the hope of collecting five shillings and sixpence; 

so Jerry stepped out of the store again, wishing that he could go to lunch 

too. 

His next essay was at Messrs. Braceup, Sharp, and Co.'s, the ship 

chandlers. “You've called on the wrong day,” said a little old gentleman, 

as stiff as a ship's figure-head. “It's only eight shillings, sir,” said Jerry 

with half a dash of warmth, as he reflected upon his previous nonsuccess. 

“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; 

but Tuesday's our pay day, so you must call again.” 

“Well, well,” muttered Jerry, as he looked over his list again, “I've had 

bad luck thus far. I almost wish it were punishable by a fine, to say ‘call 

again.’ I'd rather have a tooth pulled out any day than have a job like this; 

at least, I think so just now, for I am tired and hungry, and I have not 

collected the price of a mutton pie. I'll call upon Dr. Dosem; he knows 

the difficulty of collecting small accounts, I'll be bound, and he'll pay me 

out of sympathy.” Jerry was again disappointed, however, for the doctor 

had gone out to visit a patient. 

Obedient to his father's instructions, Jerry went through his list, and at 

each place of call got more pathetic in his appeals; but, with two trifling 

exceptions, he met with no success. Various were the excuses, most of 

them ending with the tormenting words “call again.” Mrs. Phubbs' 

husband was not at home; Mr. M'Muffin's wife had gone out, and had 

taken the keys with her; Mr. Steddy had no change; and Mr. Screwdup, 

whom Jerry met in the street, had unfortunately brought no money out 

with him, and had left none at home either. Mr. Gruntall would call and 

see his father, as there was an overcharge of ninepence in his bill. Mr. 

Doutt was almost sure he had paid the bill before, but would search 

through his papers for the receipt; and Mr. Bull couldn't be bothered with 

such paltry accounts, they must be taken to his private house at Balmain. 

Jerry returned home late in the afternoon, with a sad heart, and with 

pockets nearly as light as when he had set out in the morning. 

“I am sorry to say I have had plenty of excuses, father, and rather more 

scolding than I liked,” said Jerry, “but I've got very little money. Here's 

five and sixpence from old Mrs. Rackem, the teacher; and half-a-crown 

from Mr. Scrapard, the currier: that's all I've got; and I could have earned 

nearly as much if I had been in the workshop all day.” 

“Well, it's a hard case, Jerry,” said his father, passing his hand across 

his brow. “There is a matter of twenty pounds owing me, in small sums, 

and if I had them, I could pay all my debts and be an independent man. 

As it is, I see no alternative but to pawn the tools again, so take the 

basket to Mr. Balls, Jerry; ask him to lend me £5. The man must have 

four pounds to-night, and we must make the best shifts we can at home. 

But what we are to do for the tools on Monday morning I don't know. 

However, there is no use thinking about that just now; and I hope I shall 

be kept from thinking about it to-morrow. Well, well, it's downright cruel 

of folks to be so thoughtless. Most of those whom you have called on 

could pay their little accounts easily enough, if they chose, for they are 

mere trifles to them individually, but in the aggregate a most important 

sum to me. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire;’ but it is pretty plain that 

he does not always get it. Oh! Jerry, Jerry,” added the poor man with a 

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: 

it's sinful to repine. I have yet the means of paying the man's wages tonight, 

and we shall have a trifle to take home besides, so dry up your 

tears, Jerry, and don't let mother know we've been obliged to pawn the 

tools.”

Woes and Worries of Mrs. Lemonpip. 

Chapter 1 

“DRAT the door!” grumbled Mrs. Lemonpip, as she bustled along the 

passage from the kitchen; her hands and arms bespattered with pancake 

paste, and the tip of her strawberry nose garnished with saucepan soot. 

“Drat that door, I say! I wish I could make the knocker red hot, and keep 

it so, then I'll warrant those cadgers, and costermongers, and other 

nuisances, would not be so fond of playing rat-tat-tat, to worrit me till 

I'm savage enough to bite everybody. What do you want?” she asked 

sharply, as she opened the door just wide enough to show her face, but 

not her figure, which was the most comely part of her person. “What do 

you want?” 

“Con you help a poor mon, missis?” said a poverty-stricken individual, 

with a basket before him, filled with boxes of matches. “I coom'd out 

from whoam a week or two agone, wi me wife and three young uns, and 

they be all zick.” 

“Go and nurse them then,” said Mrs. Lemonpip. “You ought to be 

ashamed of yourself for leaving them if they are sick. There now be off, 

be off: I don't want to hear any more of your grievances, which I dare say 

are half sham, I have nothing to give away, and if I had I would not give 

it to you for your impudence, in rapping rat-tat at my door as if you were 

an alderman. Be off, or I'll call my bull dog.” 

“Will you buy a dozen o' matches, missis? you shall have them for 

ninepence. Do, mar'm, and God bless you.” 

“No, I won't buy a farthingsworth,” shrieked Mrs. Lemonpip, with a 

look at the poor fellow almost fierce enough to set fire to his basket. “Go 

and work, you lazy lump, and don't come here any more with your 

matches or your miserable stories either: I won't encourage hawking, 

which is very often a mere blind for begging, and begging means 

stealing. I believe it was somebody like you that stole my door scraper 

last Monday morning. Be off, I say again!” She then slammed the door in 

the poor hungry fellow's face, and bustled back to the kitchen, to peel the 

potatoes, and make other preparations for her gude man's dinner; and to 

vent from time to time little accumulations of ill-humour upon the head 

of the cat, in the absence of any other animate creature, that she could 

make uncomfortable.

Mrs. Lemonpip had seated herself on a kitchen stool, and began to 

operate on the eyes and skins of the potatoes in her lap, and to knock the 

cat's nose now and then with the handle of her knife, when rat-tat-tat 

rattled the brass knocker again, in a sort of imperative mood. 

“If this is another hawker, or beggar,” exclaimed the little woman, 

rising and taking off her kitchen apron, at the same time looking 

wrathfully round, as if for some deadly weapon, “I declare, if this is 

another of those pests of my life, I'll knock him down with — with this 

bar of soap; (which happened to be the most formidable instrument of 

torture within her view at the moment,) or kick his basket into the gutter. 

Eleven times this blessed morning have I danced along the hall to the 

tune of that tormenting knocker, and that's quite enough to wrinkle the 

smoothest temper in the world. Confound the knocker, I say, I've a great 

mind to unscrew it and throw it down the well, for its clatter annoys me 

more than the three pianos in the boarding-school next door.” Thus 

grumbled little Mrs. Lemonpip, as she again trotted to the front door, her 

puckered face red with the combined influence of wrath, kitchen fire, and 

“old tom.” 

“Hey day, Betsy, my little pigeon!” shouted a fat, merry-faced old man, 

stepping into the passage when the door was opened wide enough to 

receive him. “Why what's the matter, ducky? have you scalded your foot 

again, or knocked your bad knee, or has the soot choked up the kitchen 

stove and spoiled your cookery and your temper too. What ails my little 

popgun! cheer up and tell your Jacky all about it,” continued the merry 

old man; at the same time lovingly attempting to kiss his wife. But she 

looked as combative as a live lobster, and snappishly told him to have 

done with his nonsense, and monkey tricks, or she should lose her temper 

and perhaps slap his face and then be sorry for it. “I'm fairly mithered to 

death with kitchen work and that noisy knocker,” whined Mrs. 

Lemonpip, making her way into the kitchen again, closely followed by 

Mr. Lemonpip, who was trying his utmost to comfort her, but with 

scarcely any perceptible effect, for she was inconsolably cross, and 

instead of cheering up, as her hopeful husband advised her to do, she sat 

down and rubbed her tearful eyes with a rough roller towel, until they 

looked like pickled onions in red cabbage liquor, and as she rubbed, she 

vociferously declared that there was not a woman in Sydney so wofully 

troubled as she. 

“Come, come, Betty, my bird! don't fret, don't fret,” said Mr. 

Lemonpip, soothingly, “some of your troubles will soon be over, deary, 

and I'll take good care you shall never have this scullery maid's work to 

do again, for it spoils your natural amiability, sours your complexion, as 

well as besmuts it, and makes me as downhearted as an old buttonless 

bachelor, or a bear chained to a post. When is our new maid to be here, 

Betsy?”

“To-night, I hope and trust,” said Mrs. Lemonpip, in a very desponding 

tone, while she wiped out the frying-pan and put it over the fire; then 

wiped the perspiration from her soot-begrimed face, and sighed like a 

strong breeze. “She is to come to-night, and I wish I had made her 

promise to come this morning, if only to save me from that plaguey 

door.” 

Rat-tat-tat-tat, went the knocker just then, which made little Mrs. 

Lemonpip jump up five inches at least, and at the same moment drop a 

pork sausage off the fork among the cinders. “There's that goblin of a 

knocker again,” she muttered with closely set teeth. “It has nearly hunted 

me to death this morning; rap, tap, tap, like an undertaker's hammer. I 

shall do mischief if I go to the door; I am sure I shall. I could skewer a 

knocker maker this very minute,” she added, while she made a violent 

probe at some imaginary enemy with the carving fork. 

“Hush! calm yourself, my pop,” said Mr. Lemonpip, “Go on frying the 

sausages, and I'll open the door. Folks must use the knocker you know, 

dear, else how should we know that they are at the door? Do you want a 

little round table, Betsy?” shouted that complaisant old gentleman, after 

he had opened the door. 

“Round table, no! What on earth will they hawk about the streets next? 

They ought to be punished.” 

“Or a step ladder, my dear?” asked Mr. Lemonpip, with something like 

a comical curl at the left corner of his mouth. 

“No!” vociferated Mrs. Lemonpip, “what the plague do you think I 

want with a step ladder? slam the door in that fellow's impudent face; he 

was here the day before yesterday with his nuisances. I'll ladder him, if I 

catch him here again. These hawkers are ten times worse pests than the 

rats and cockroaches in the kitchen.” 

Mr. Lemonpip dismissed the ladder merchant, rather more gently than 

his wrathy little wife had recommended — and returned to the kitchen, 

with a happy smile on his face, and the desire in his heart to make 

himself agreeable and useful to the utmost of his ability. 

“Now, Betty, my love! only tell me how I can lighten your load, and it 

will do me good,” said Mr. Lemonpip, “I'm your humble and most 

obedient servant, for any little light job; such as cleaning the knives and 

forks, filling the coal scuttle, trimming the moderator, or anything else 

within the compass of moderate powers. What can I do for you, my 

blackbird? just tell me and I'll jump to do it, as nimbly as a Jack tar in a 

squall.” 

“Just get out of the kitchen and don't worrit me — that's all I ask you to 

do,” snapped Mrs. Lemonpip; “I wonder what in the world has brought 

you home an hour before your usual time. I hope you have not been 

turned away from Tubbs and Co.'s, I shouldn't wonder if you have 

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 

matter, I'm sure, and I should like to know what it is.” 

“I will tell you all about it, my pet, if you will let me sit down quietly 

and hold the frying-pan while you look on and rest a bit. I like to see 

pork sausages frizzle in the frying-pan, and I like to smell them, too, so 

long as I can keep my imagination within wholesome bounds. I fancy too 

they have such a pathetic look, after you have pricked them with a fork, 

just like fat lovers fretting.” 

“Stuff and nonsense! now be off out of the kitchen, Lemonpip, unless 

you want to get your best coat splashed all over with pork fat and 

pancake. I hate to see men making mollies of themselves. I'd as soon see 

a woman drive an omnibus or a railway engine. If you will fetch me a 

little drop of old tom out of the black bottle in the chiffonier, you will do 

me more good than by interfering with my cookery. Get me just a 

thimblefull, neat, before I begin to fry the pancakes; I feel my 

troublesome spasms coming on again.” 

“Oh, Betty, Betty! a thimbleful of gin will do you harm instead of 

good — it will increase your irritability, and perhaps increase your 

spasms too. However, I won't begin an unpleasant argument, although I 

feel that I am paying an awfully dear price for peace.” Away trudged Mr. 

Lemonpip to the cupboard for the gin, with as much shrinking reluctance 

as if he were going to handle a live badger. 

For the purpose of my story, it is not necessary to enter upon lengthy 

biographical details; still it would be interesting to the reader to know a 

little more of the characters just introduced: so I will briefly describe 

them, in order that the subsequent part of my story may be better 

comprehended. 

Mr. Lemonpip was clerk to an old established mercantile firm in 

Sydney; in which employ he had been for many years; and had been 

several times stepped over, or superseded, by younger men in the same 

employ. He was what is commonly called “a slow coach,” or a “steady 

going old stager;” still he was faithful as a mirror, and the personification 

of cheerfulness and good nature. He might have risen to a higher position 

in the world, or even have become wealthy, had he exercised worldly 

wisdom, and studied his own immediate interest a little more, and his 

neighbour's a little less. But he did not covet high position nor patronage. 

He had in his heart “Godliness with contentment,” and that he proved to 

be “great gain.” He knew that he had made “free selection” of an estate 

of inestimable value — redundant of “green pastures and still waters,” in 

the region of light itself; where the shades of night, and the gloom of 

sorrow, are alike unknown; where he would by and by enjoy peaceful 

possession, free from the encroachments of litigious neighbours, 

bushrangers, floods, droughts, diseases, or ought else that could mar his 

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 

a title perfectly free from flaws, clearer than sunlight. He expected the 

ancient messenger to call for him, and convoy him to his new possession 

very soon; indeed, he lived in daily anticipation of the signal to shuffle 

off his mortal clogs, and soar away home. Why then should he let his 

heart be troubled because he did not possess a super-abundance of the 

world's goods, seeing that he could carry no luggage with him to his new 

settlement? He saw occasionally some wealthy neighbour pass away 

from commercial scenes as suddenly as if he did not possess a pound 

note; one day worth tons of gold, and perhaps toiling with all his might 

to make another ton, the next day in his coffin — and not personally 

worth one of the brass-headed nails which studded the top of his narrow 

tenement. Why then should he overstrain his nerves in the race for riches, 

which after all yielded comparatively little solid comfort, and were held 

with a very uncertain tenure? 

Thus reasoned Mr. Lemonpip whenever he reflected upon money, 

which was not often, for he had generally more sterling subjects for 

reflection. Still I hope it will not be supposed that he was one of those 

moody mortals who are always groaning about worldly vanities (which 

are out of their reach), condemning rational appropriation of wealth, with 

short-sighted envious policy, expressing contempt for riches, honours or 

distinction, and a lugubrious disapproval of innocent recreations! Far 

from it; Mr. Lemonpip had a goodly share of common sense in his head, 

as well as philanthropy in his heart; and one glance at his honest face 

would have sufficed to assure the intelligent beholder that he did not 

belong to that mischievous corps of misery-mongers and impostors. He 

did not affect to spurn money, for he knew its value, and would gladly 

have possessed a little more of it, if he could have got it honestly — for 

the sake of helping those who were in need. He properly viewed money, 

and the influence it commands, as talents which are bestowed upon 

certain honoured individuals, to be appropriated by them to God's glory, 

and the welfare of the world; and he pitied those persons whom he 

sometimes saw rolling in wealth, and selfishly clutching it as if it all 

belonged to them, forgetting that “the silver and the gold are the Lord's, 

and also the cattle upon a thousand hills.” 

Such was Mr. Lemonpip — or, to give the substance of the foregoing 

delineation in a few words, he was a Christian. I wish I could say as 

much of his wife, of whom I must give a brief description: it will not be 

necessary to say a great deal, however, for the reader has doubtless 

formed an opinion of her from the few colloquial extracts I have already 

given. The old nursery rhyme is a tolerably apt portraiture of Mrs. 

Lemonpip. 

“There was an old woman, and what do you think,

She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink. 

And victuals and drink were the chief of her diet, 

But yet this old woman could never be quiet.” 

Mrs. Lemonpip lived upon victuals and drink, and not very small 

quantities either; but as it is not gallant to refer to a lady's gustatory 

affairs, I will touch as delicately on that subject as possible. In person she 

was short and stout, with a round, batter freckly face, like a pudding 

sprinkled with allspice. Her nose was the most cheerful looking feature 

belonging to her, for it was always more or less rubicund, and had a 

comical turn up at the extreme tip, as if it were trying to provoke the 

sharp grey eyes just above, to cut it off — or pertly challenging the 

clamorous mouth below to storm it from its snug position, between two 

wrinkles, or rolls of fat face. 

Mrs. Lemonpip was forty-six years of age, though she might have been 

mistaken for fifty. Her temper was seldom sweet, or even quiet, except 

when she was asleep. Her manner was rarely, or never inviting, and at 

times she was as unapproachable as a prickly pear tree. Poor old 

Lemonpip was always patient under the petticoat despotism of his better 

half, and quietly bore nagging and threatening, which would have 

provoked many less prudent men to acts of violence, or to run away to 

California. 

I once heard of a burly Yorkshire farmer who always stood still and 

grinned while his choleric little dot of a wife thumped his hips and ribs 

(she could reach no higher) with all her might. On being asked one day 

by a wondering looker-on, why he did not stop her fierce pugilistic 

attacks on his person, the farmer good naturedly replied, “whoy she 

loikes it, and it doan't hurt me.” 

Mr. Lemonpip, perhaps, made similar generous allowance for his 

wife's unamiable weaknesses, but he did not imitate the tantalising 

indifference of the Yorkshire farmer. Mrs. Lemonpip was often cross and 

disagreeable, but her good husband did not taunt or tease her, on the 

contrary, he tried all he could to soothe her. He loved her, as all good 

husbands love their wives, and he could not bear the idea of death 

separating them for ever, so he earnestly prayed for her reformation; and 

at the same time he set her an example of meekness, temperance, charity, 

and other Christian virtues (which her every day acts proved that she 

sadly lacked), for he endorsed the maxim “that those are the best 

instructors whose lives speak for them.” 

Chapter II. 

THE preceding chapter introduced Mr. and Mrs. Lemonpip, but I may 

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; 

and to help them to pay their rent, they boarded Mr. Dugald McSkilly, a 

Caledonian dentist (about nine months out from Dundee), and lodged 

him in the back attic. 

Mr. and Mrs. Lemonpip had sat down to their dinner-table. The pork 

sausages were steaming in a dish before Mr. Lemonpip, and the mashed 

potatoes were steaming in another dish before his spouse, whose nose, 

by-the-bye, had deepened in colour a shade since she had taken the 

thimbleful of gin from the black bottle in the cupboard; and though the 

little woman was really anxious to know what had brought her husband 

home so unusually early that morning, and what made him look so 

mysteriously waggish, she was too much ruffled in spirit to ask any 

questions on the subject, but sat and ate her sausages in silence. Presently 

Mr. Lemonpip arose, and dipping his hand into his breast-pocket, 

produced a small parcel, which he untied, and exultingly held before his 

wife's little gooseberry eyes a very chaste gold brooch, with his own 

photograph in it, and kissing her most affectionately, he presented the 

glittering gem, while his face looked the picture of gladness in a frostcovered 

frame. 

“Now I'll tell you what has brought me home so early to-day,” said Mr. 

Lemonpip, smiling and nodding his head sideways, in the most facetious 

style, “I've got a half-holiday, and I'm going to treat you to a trip to 

Manly Beach; for don't you know, ducky, this is our wedding-day. The 

twenty-fifth anniversary of our happy nuptial morn, when we drove to 

church in your father's tilted waggon, with bells on the horses' hames, 

and old Godfrey Walloper the waggoner, in his best white smock-frock, 

and a bunch of marigolds pinned to his breast. Ha! ha! ha! don't you 

remember that delightful day, Betty, my bird? Mr. Docket, our head 

wharfinger, with his wife and children, are going to Manly Beach too; 

and I have promised to meet them on board the two o'clock boat, at 

Woolloomooloo Bay. We will have a nice pleasant afternoon together on 

the sea-beach, ‘jolly companions every one,’ as the old song says.” 

“Pooh! sea-beach, indeed,” snapped Mrs. Lemonpip, “I shall see no 

sea-beach to-day; I've got to clean the kitchen out, and get things straight 

for the new girl who is coming to-night. The place is like a pig-sty from 

bottom to top.” 

“Never mind the kitchen, ducky,” said Mr. Lemonpip, “let the new girl 

clean it when she comes, or send for old Mrs. Dudds, round the corner, 

and let her do it, she will be glad of the job, poor thing!” 

“Ah, poor thing, indeed! you are always thinking of some poor thing or 

other, to empty your pockets, and keep you poor. If I wasn't to look out a 

little sharper after the main thing than you do, we should have been out 

of house and home long ago. Send for Mrs. Dudds, indeed! I shall do no 

such thing, Lemonpip. If I help all your poor things, I shall soon be a

poor thing too.” 

“Well, well, my dear, don't be vexed; I'm sorry I named it; let us lock 

up the house, then, and be off. Come, come, make haste, love, put on 

your best bonnet and tippet, and lock up the house — that's the best 

plan — nobody will run away with it.” 

“Lock up the house, eh? I dare say. Pray, who's to take in the milk, and 

open the door for Mr. McSkilly when he comes home to tea at six 

o'clock? How thoughtless you are, Lemonpip; I never saw anybody like 

you in all my life. Manly Beach, indeed! I'm as jaded as a butcher's 

horse, and more fit to go to bed than to go trapesing about a sandy beach. 

I won't go outside this blessed door to-day, and you know I mean what I 

say, when I speak plainly; but you can go if you like; you are fond of 

gadding about, with a tribe of noisy children at your heels, like a Jack-inthe-green.” 

“I don't like to go without you, my pop,” said Mr. Lemonpip, with a 

sweet glance at his sour little spouse, and then he added, “but you have 

not told me how you like your new brooch, nor you haven't admired my 

picture, deary: you have surely forgotten that.” 

“The brooch is very good, if it is real gold, but I daresay you have been 

taken in again, as you were with that brass chain and the gingerbread 

watch, which you bought for me seventeen years ago. I think you had 

better have saved your money, than fool it away for things we don't want, 

or that we can do very well without. As for your photograph, I wouldn't 

give fourpence for it, for I don't like it at all, that's speaking the plain 

truth. You are too fat to look well in a brooch, and so I should have told 

you if you had asked my opinion before you went and wasted your 

money. There is far too much waistcoat to look commonly decent. I 

wonder that you will persist in going out and doing things without 

consulting me.” 

Mr. Lemonpip was too well accustomed to that sort of rating to be very 

much pained by his wife's ungracious remarks; and he was too patient 

and peace-loving to reply to her in her own nagging style, for he well 

knew that it would speedily raise a storm, before which he would have to 

scud away, like a ship in light ballast trim. Besides, from experience, he 

knew that it would be useless to reason with her, when her red-hot nose 

and fierce little eyes indicated that her temper was as acrid as gin and 

weariness could make it; so after another gentle, though fruitless attempt 

to induce her to accompany him, he put on his best hat, and hurried away 

to join his friends on board the Phantom steamer. In due course he 

arrived at Manly Beach, and there with Mr. and Mrs. Docket, and their 

seven children, he enjoyed himself in that thorough style, which only 

such simple, honest souls as Mr. Lemonpip can understand. He was a 

complete boy among the boys and girls, and entered into their sports with 

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 

almost cried at the antics of the merry group before them, the merriest 

amongst which was their respected friend, Mr. Lemonpip. 

In the meantime little Mrs. Lemonpip was as joyless as a pelican with a 

broken bill. Never was a woman so teazed and tormented as she, that is 

to say, she thought so. Nine times during the afternoon did she answer 

that clamorous brass knocker, at the summons of two beggars, four 

hawkers, the postman, the milkwoman, and Mr. McSkilly; and as each 

time the self-persecuted little body had to apply to the black bottle for a 

thimbleful of comfort, by the time the last-named knocker arrived, Mrs. 

Lemonpip was, as she herself admitted, as cross as two sticks; or, as Mr. 

McSkilly whispered, in his own ears, “The auld body was mair than half 

fou.” 

“It is half-past six,” exclaimed the wrathy little woman, as she filled up 

the tea-pot from the hissing kettle on the hob. “It's half-past six, and 

Lemonpip ought to have been home long ago; he very well knows our 

tea-time, and I shall not wait another minute, nor yet half a minute,” so 

down she sat to the table, with her lodger, and began to pour out the tea, 

and to pour into his unwilling ears a dolorous report of her woes and 

worries during the day, to which he listened with as much display of 

sympathy as she might have expected from a wooden highlander outside 

a snuff-shop. After tea, which was hastily partaken of, Mr. McSkilly 

went out for a walk, leaving his landlady “to nurse her wrath, and keep it 

warm,” until the return of her henpecked husband. 

Rat-tat went the knocker again, soon after eight o'clock. Mrs. 

Lemonpip thought it was her late-staying spouse, so she hastened to the 

door, hissing as she went, like a squib just before it goes bang; but, lo! to 

her relief it was her new maid of all-work, with a band-box and bundle. 

The next hour was occupied in showing Jemima the holes and corners of 

the kitchen, and in explaining to her the routine of her duties, to which 

Jemima every minute briefly replied, “Yes, mum.” 

About nine o'clock Mr. Lemonpip returned home, very tired, but 

pleased with the way he had spent his half-holiday; the only drawback to 

his enjoyment was, he said, the absence of his little pop-gun. He soon 

saw, however, from unmistakable signs, that the less he said to his popgun 

that evening, the less probability there would be of an explosion; so 

after explaining that he had taken tea with Mr. and Mrs. Docket, he took 

a book and quietly sat down to study it, until Mr. McSkilly returned 

home, when they had family prayer, and a little bit of supper, then they 

all retired to rest, Mrs. Lemonpip having previously taken another little 

drop of Old Tom, as usual, by way of a night-cap. 

In a very short time Mr. Lemonpip was performing a sleeping 

voluntary on his nasal organ, with open diapason, for he, happy old soul, 

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 

had never trifled with his naturally strong constitution; and as he always 

lay down in peace with God, and at peace with all the world, he passed 

very few sleepless hours in his bed. His wife, on the contrary, seldom 

slept throughout the night, and very often her sleepy spouse was aroused, 

and pestered with her fidgety “night thoughts,” or her interminable 

“curtain lectures.” On the night in question, Mrs. Lemonpip lay rolling 

about as comfortless as'a seal in a warm bath, and every stray mosquito's 

note sounded like a bugle in her excited ears. Her favourite Old Tom, 

instead of soothing her and sending her to sleep, helped to increase her 

irritability, and keep her awake. Poor soul! she had been bubbling over 

with ill-humour all day, and had not had the satisfaction of pouring the 

usual measure of wrath upon her docile partner; moreover, she had had 

no servant to scold, which was an additional trial to her patience. She 

was by no means pleased that Mr. Lemonpip had spent an agreeable 

holiday, and spent a good many shillings too, while she had been so 

bothered and overworked at home; and she knew that it would be vain to 

try to compose herself to sleap, until she had fully unburdened her mind 

of that matter. In fact, she had made up her mind to give him a long 

lecture; and having thus resolved, she was not long in framing a pretext 

for awakening him from his peaceful slumber; so she administered a 

preliminary nudge in his ribs with her elbow (which made him cough), 

and exclaimed sharply, “How you do snore, Lemonpip! I should like to 

know who can sleep, while you make that noise?” 

“Bless me! was I snoring? I beg your pardon, my duck,” said Mr. 

Lemonpip, half awaking and turning over. “I'm very sorry I disturbed 

you. I suppose I was lying on my back, and I believe I do breathe hard 

when lying in that position.” 

“Humph! lying on your back, or lying in any other way, it is all the 

same with you, after you have been holiday-keeping, for you always 

make a noise like an over-fed calf.” 

Mr. Lemonpip was dosily conscious that a storm was brewing inside 

his wife's breast, so he pulled his nightcap over his ears in silence, and 

tried to go to sleep again. 

“I smell fire! Are you sure you put that kerosene lamp out, Lemonpip?” 

said the little mischief-maker, who was well aware that nothing would so 

soon arouse her husband as an alarm, or even a suspicion of fire. 

“Eh, what, fire?” exclaimed Mr. Lemonpip, who was thoroughly awake 

in a moment, and sitting up in the bed he began sniffing and trying his 

utmost to smell the element he most dreaded. 

“Lie down, Lemonpip,” said his wife pettishly, “you are letting the 

wind into the bed, and making me shiver. Lie down I say, directly.” 

“Well, my dear, I don't like to lie down if the house is on fire. I can't 

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 

right.” 

“Think! that's just like you: you ought to be sure about such a 

dangerous thing as fire. You are the most careless man I ever saw, 

Lemonpip; you have no more gumption than a donkey.” 

“Where are the matches, my dear?” asked Mr. Lemonpip, who had got 

out of bed, and knocked his toe against the towel horse. 

“Matches! You don't want a light to see if the house is on fire, surely! 

if you do, it will be all the same, for we haven't a single match in the 

house: I forgot to send Jemima for a box before she went to bed. You had 

better get into bed again, and don't be pottering about there in the dark. I 

think the fire has gone out, for I can't smell it now.” 

But Mr. Lemonpip thought as he was out of bed, he might as well 

assure himself that the house was quite safe; (for he was not certain that 

he had put out the lamp; though he could not recollect that he had ever 

failed to do so one single night since he first owned a lamp,) so he began 

to descend the stairs, while his wicked little wife lay still, and further 

plotted against his peace. She knew that on his return to bed he would be 

as wide awake as an owl, and she resolved to tell him a considerable bit 

of her mind before he slumbered again, by way of easing off a heavy 

load of ill humour, and at the same time punishing her spouse for being 

happy out of her society. 

Thump, thump, thump, went Mr. Lemonpip's heavy heels on the 

carpetted stairs, until he got to the bottom; when lo! on a sudden, the 

house was filled with the most horrible sounds that ever distracted 

human ears. 

“Waa! Wa-er! Wounds! Woes!” shrieked a terrific unknown tongue, in 

the hall (at least so Mrs. Lemonpip interpreted the awful yells, which 

nearly drove her frantic,) followed immediately by a frightful cry from 

Mr. Lemonpip, who felt himself in the clutches of some evil spirit, which 

was clawing his flesh with demoniacal fury. Almost at the same moment 

a crash, like the downfall of a brewer's chimney, filled the whole house, 

from the coal cellar upwards, with an uproar and clatter alarming in the 

extreme. A few low moans followed, then all was silent as an empty 

church. 

Mrs. Lemonpip sprang out of bed in a moment, though she was rather 

stout, — and ardently did she wish for a box of those matches, which she 

had abused the poor Lancashire man for offering to sell her that very 

morning. She was afraid to go below, lest the evil spirit, or whatever it 

was, should catch her too; so she rushed to the head of the stairs, and 

cried Lemonpip, in her most authoritative tone; but the only reply was a 

rasping guttural sound, which made her flesh creep, and her teeth chatter 

with terror. She rang the bell for Jemima, but she might as well have rang 

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 

unconsciousness of her mistress's distress, and her master's disaster, or of 

the active bell in the kitchen lobby. 

To describe the perturbed state of Mrs. Lemonpip's mind at that trying 

juncture is too much for my pen: all her cruel persecution of her poor old 

man, rushed like a turbid torrent upon her distracted senses, and she 

howled with terrormingled grief — ” Lemonpip! my own Lemonpip! 

Dear Jacky! speak to your pigeon: only one word, say you are not dead, 

and I shall be happy!” But not a single word did her dear Jacky utter, a 

stifled death-like groan was the only response, which ascended through 

the darkness, and penetrated Mrs. Lemonpip's awakened conscience like 

a rusty spike. 

Chapter III. 

IN a terrible state of excitement, Mrs. Lemonpip hastened up stairs to 

the back attic, and called loudly upon Mr. McSkilly for help and counsel, 

in the extraordinary trial which had visited her. She had previously 

shouted fire! in order to arouse her lodger. Receiving no answer to her 

verbal application, she drummed at his door with her knees and knuckles, 

loud enough to stun the thickest head in Sydney; and when that appeal 

failed to elicit a response, she boldly opened the door and entered the 

room, when, to her further bewilderment, she discovered that her lodger 

was non est. The window was wide open, and the full moon was shining 

into the empty bed, from which Mr. McSkilly had most unaccountably 

vanished, she knew not whither. Various articles of wearing apparel were 

lying in confusion on the floor, but not even the shadow of the owner 

could be seen; and all sorts of supernatural notions flitted through Mrs. 

Lemonpip's excited brain, as to the aërial flight of her lodger, and also as 

to the horrifying fate of her poor husband; while she intimately 

connected Satan himself with the mystery and the mischief, both upstairs 

and down. 

Alarmed beyond measure, and apprehensive of personal damage by 

remaining, Mrs Lemonpip rushed into the front attic, threw up the sash, 

and, arrayed merely in her night robe and cap, she slid down the dewy 

slates into the leaden gutter, and made the best of her way to the front 

attic window of the adjoining house, or number one, which was a young 

ladies school, kept by Mrs. Backboard. In that attic were three young 

lady boarders, and a pupil teacher. The latter young lady was just about 

to put the extinguisher on her candle, preparatory to jumping into bed, 

when she heard a tapping at the window, and at the same time saw the 

purple nose, and white frilled nightcap of Mrs. Lemonpip, which was all 

that could be seen of her, for the window was five feet from the leaden 

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 

lady boarders, and they all screamed too; while they tumbled out of bed 

as nimbly as sailors in a sinking ship, rushed out of the attic to the floor 

below, and aroused all the other boarders and Mrs. Backboard, with the 

startling report that a ghost was in the gutter on the roof, and knocking at 

their bedroom window. 

An indescribable commotion filled the house, and the utmost efforts of 

Mrs. Backboard to restore order and discipline, failed altogether. Threats 

of long lessons, and “bad marks,” on the morrow, had no perceptible 

effect in quelling the panic, which possessed every fluttering young 

heart, and blanched every fair face. The housemaid positively refused to 

go for a policeman, and received a week's warning there and then; and 

the cook, with insubordination in her eyes, declared that she would not 

stir a peg at that time of night, for the best place in the colony. The pupil 

teacher suggested that they should all shout together from the drawingroom 

windows, and she was sure they would be heard at all the police 

stations in Sydney; but she was peremptorily ordered to be silent, and to 

go and look for the wooden rattle in the lumber room, which orders she 

very reluctantly obeyed. 

Mrs. Backboard was a strong-minded woman, and had always 

professed a thorough contempt for spirits of all sorts: so she took a 

candlestick, and requesting six of the senior boarders to follow her, 

boldly ascended to the front attic; but had no sooner entered it, than she 

turned round and hastened out again, with her face as white as the wax 

candle in her hand; for she had beheld Mrs. Lemompip's night-capped 

head at the window, and had heard her bony knuckles knocking against 

the glass. The startled school mistress did not wait an instant to see or 

hear more, but descended to the second floor, almost as quickly as the six 

senior boarders, who had skipped down the stairs in double quick time, 

each one believing that the ghost was close behind her. 

Meantime Mrs. Lemonpip was shivering on the wet slates, in a state of 

mind bordering on despair. She had failed to gain ingress to Mrs. 

Backboard's and was unable to regain her own house, for she could not 

reach the window unassisted. She was afraid to apply for admission at 

number three, as they kept young men lodgers; so in her helpless misery 

she squatted down in the leaden gutter, and there indulged in reflections, 

bitter as the soot which tattooed her scanty attire. Reverses had befallen 

her, sudden and severe, and withal shrouded in a horrible mystery, which 

her reason vainly tried to unfold. But a brief hour before she was the 

most important member of the house, upon the roof of which she now sat 

shivering, like a robin in a hard frost. She was now learning the sternly 

practical lesson of the instability and the uncertainty of human positions. 

An hour before, she had a superfluity of comforts at her command, and 

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 

was a poor miserably wet widow, apparently shut out from society 

altogether, bereft of her husband, deserted by her lodger, slighted by her 

next-door neighbour, scared out of her house by Satan, or some of his 

emissaries, and left all alone beneath the treacherous full moon, in that 

cold comfortless gutter to bemoan her unprecedented misfortunes, and to 

unbosom her woes before those frowning chimney-pots, and creaking 

cowls. 

But the smallest grains, by attentive culture, sometimes produce a rich 

harvest. Adversity often teaches a wholesome lesson, and “he is the man 

of power, who controls the storms and tempests of his mind, and turns to 

good account the worst accidents of fortune.” It would perhaps be wrong 

to give Mrs. Lemonpip credit for much philosophy, but she was not 

devoid of feeling. She had a woman's heart in her breast, although 

unfortunately it had become rather callous and sour, through long 

feeding on imaginary woes and worries, petty grievances and old tom; 

and in brooding over her self-made troubles, she had overlooked the 

many mercies and comforts with which her lot was crowned. A sensible 

scribe says, “Women sometimes do not prize their husbands as they 

ought. They sometimes learn the value of a good husband for the first 

time by the loss of him. Yet the husband is the very roof-tree of the 

house — the corner stone of the edifice, the key-stone of that arch called 

home. He is the bread-winner of the family, its defence and its glory; the 

beginning and ending of the golden chain of life which surrounds it, its 

consoler, its lawgiver, and its king. And yet we see how frail is that life 

on which so much depends. How frail is the life of the husband and the 

father! When he is taken away, who shall fill his place? When he is sick, 

what a gloomy cloud hovers over the house! When he is dead, what 

darkness and weeping agony.” 

Little Mrs. Lemonpip felt all the loneliness of sudden widowhood; and, 

added to her grief for the loss of a kind devoted husband, was the bitter 

regret that she had been the indirect cause of his fatal disaster 

— whatever it was — and the regret too, that she had so very often 

grieved his loving heart by her pettishness, or positive cruelty. 

Recollections of the thousand fond acts of her dear lost one rushed into 

her mind, and tears simultaneously gushed into her eyes — those eyes, 

which for years had never been suffused except by tears of vexation, 

began to overflow with genuine contrition. She remembered all his 

kindness, and solicitude for her comfort and pleasure, as evidenced even 

that very morning — but which kindnesses she had so often slighted, or 

indignantly spurned. Then she called to mind his constant example of 

gentleness, meekness, patience, — his wonderful forbearance with her 

bad manners, and his frequent prayers for her reformation; and her 

conscience condemned her, whichever way she viewed her conduct.

As she sat in searching judgment upon herself, she became clearly 

convinced of the cause of her irritability and furious temper, which had 

not only made her life miserable, but had made her dreaded and disliked 

by all her acquaintance — by every one in fact, but the dear, kind, 

charitable soul which she had cruelly hunted out of his body. She became 

bitterly conscious of the way she had been befooled by the tippling 

tempter for years past; and she fancied she saw at the same time the evil 

one before her eyes, sitting in the gutter, mocking her misery. Yes, there 

sat old tom (the arch fiend, whom she had daily hugged to her bosom, for 

many years) in the shape of an immense goggled-eyed toad, croaking and 

spitting fire at her. There he sat, with all the malignity of Satan himself; 

and as she gazed she hated him, and hated herself too for allowing that 

deceitful enemy to tempt her into such shameful neglect of her sacred 

conjugal duties; and she there and then resolved, that as soon as she got 

her boots on again she would crunch old tom beneath her heels. Never 

more should he enter her household, to breed disorder therein, and to ruin 

her body, and soul too. 

* * * * * 

The pupil teacher at number one having found the watchman's rattle in 

the lumber room, Mrs. Backboard seized it, and entering the front 

balcony as bravely as a fireman, she rattled a rattle, louder than a sackful 

of Chinese crackers all alight, which soon brought a posse of policemen 

before the house, and a large concourse of excited spectators too. 

Considering it imprudent to admit policemen, or any other men, inside 

her doors at that hour, Mrs. Backboard explained to the inspector, from 

the balcony, that a mysterious white figure was on the top of her house. 

“Perhaps it is a white cat, madam,” suggested the inspector politely, 

while some of his men were observed to wink. 

“It is neither a cat nor a dog, sir,” replied Mrs. Backboard, with stately 

emphasis, “I saw it with my own eyes, and I request that you will get a 

ladder and catch it, whatever it may be. It has no right to trespass on my 

roof, and disturb the peace of my household. I give it in charge.” 

A ladder was procured, when a policeman mounted and peeped 

cautiously over the parapet, just as Mrs. Lemonpip was vowing total 

abstinence for life. As she caught sight of the man's head and shoulders, 

she uttered a shriek, which made the multitude in the street shudder, and 

made the man on the top of the ladder hasten to the bottom again faster 

than he went up. 

“What is it? What is it?” asked a hundred voices, as the terrified 

policeman regained the roadway. 

“It's a great big ghost, sitting on the slates,” said the man, wiping the 

cold perspiration from his brow.

“Pooh! a great big goose!” sneered the inspector, with an angry glance 

at his shaking subordinate. — “I'm ashamed of you, Wilkins.” 

“There's the ghost! There he is, hooray!” roared the excited crowd, 

pointing to the roof, where, sure enough, Mrs. Lemonpip was leaning 

over the parapet, and with outstretched hands was calling loudly for help. 

“Get out of the way,” said the inspector, as he pushed through the 

throng to the ladder, with laudable determination in his looks, and 

nimbly mounted to the roof just as Mrs. Lemonpip had fainted away, 

fairly overcome with terror and fatigue. The inspector summoned two or 

three of his men to his assistance, and with their united strength they 

lifted the insensible little woman through the window into her own front 

attic. 

* * * * * 

I must now try to explain the cause of the sudden flight of Mr. 

McSkilly, which the reader doubtless is anxious to learn. When he was 

first awakened by the unearthly yells which had so alarmed Mrs. 

Lemonpip, and after he had heard his landlady's loud cries of fire, he 

sprang out of bed, scrambled out of the window, and hastened to the 

back attic window of number three. But with characteristic caution he 

dragged a hair trunk after him, which contained all that he owned in the 

house, except the scattered garments on the floor, which he would not 

stay to put on his person. 

In the back attic of number three lay a little Celtic doctor, who had 

recently arrived in Sydney as surgeon of an emigrant ship. He had taken 

up temporary lodgings in the house of Monsieur Blowitt, a professor of 

music, and on the night in question, there he lay on a curtainless 

stretcher, blessing the mosquitos, and other triflers with nocturnal repose, 

which are not scarce in Sydney in the summer season, as most new 

comers are aware. The doctor had, a short time before, made a vigorous 

attack on the mosquitos with his waiscoat, and fancying that he had 

driven them all out of the window, he had put his head beneath the top 

sheet and began to dose off. He was dreaming that he was crossing the 

Line again in the good ship Diver; and that his 340 emigrants were 

dancing with Neptune's crew on the deck over his cabin, just as Mr. 

McSkilly was dragging his hair trunk along the roof over the doctor's 

dormitory. 

On arriving at the open window, Mr. McSkilly unhesitatingly inserted 

one half of his tall bony body into the attic, without asking permission, or 

indeed without knowing whether there was any person there to consult 

on the subject; and having thus secured an entry for himself, he was 

leaning forward with his long arms trying to drag in his hair trunk from 

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 

undefinable apparition darkening his chamber window and making a 

rumbling noise on the roof, like a barrowful of bricks, so that in far less 

time than it takes me to record it, the fiery little Celt decided upon a 

course of prompt action to punish the bold invader of the sanctity of his 

chamber, and the noisy disturber of his slumbers. 

It is said that an Hibernian sire once gave this parting advice to his son, 

who was starting out on his travels in foreign lands. “Phelim, me bhoy! 

whiniver yez hear of a row hurry to it; an whiniver yez see a head, hit it 

wid yer sthick.” Dr. O'Flaherty probably held similar views respecting 

the policy of hitting heads; at any rate he was not disposed to allow heads 

or bodies either to intrude upon his privacy unmolested, so he sprang out 

of bed in a twinkling, seized his shillelah, which was always handy, and 

dealt Mr. McSkilly a mighty crack — or rather thud — not on his head 

exactly, because his head was outside the window. He hit him very hard, 

however, and his head very soon came inside the window to see what 

was the matter behind him, and to ascertain who it was that had behaved 

so inhospitably; and then commenced an awful fight between the doctor 

and the dentist, which I must describe in my next chapter, where I will 

also explain the primary cause of all these extraordinary occurrences. 

Chapter IV. 

DOCTOR O'FLAHERTY was not deterred from hitting Mr. McSkilly 

on the head, in the first instance, by any particular respect for that 

member, but merely because the head was outside the attic looking after 

the trunk. The correctness of that assumption is very clear; for no sooner 

had the astounded Scotchman drawn his head inside, than the choleric 

little doctor began to rap at it like a volunteer bandsman beating a kettle 

drum. 

“Hook toot mon!” cried McSkilly. “Dinna be fechtin me, I'll gang out 

of yer hoose agen, if I'm na welcome intil it. I wadna fecht for ony 

money, I'd rather rin awa ony day.” 

“What do you mane by poking your ugly carcase inside my window? 

You cat-a-walling thief!” With that the doctor made his stick rattle again 

on McSkilly's head, while the poor bewildered fellow stood for a 

moment, uncertain whether to fight or flee. 

“Don't you know better manners than to come into a gintleman's 

apartment in that haythinish fashion? And is this the way you trate your 

supariors, in this part of the worrld?” saying which the little Celt 

moistened his hand to grip his shillelah again, and hopping round the 

astonished Scot, alternately attacked his head and his shins, until his 

peaceable spirit was aroused to fighting pitch, in pure self-defence. With 

a rapid outpouring of Caledonian compliments, he rushed upon his

unknown assailant, like a kangaroo dog attacking a terrier, and the little 

doctor was hors de combat in an instant, being unable to stand against 

the resistless force of his tall sinewy antagonist. With a crash, which 

nearly shook the house down, the two combatants fell to the floor, and 

there they lay rolling about, pommelling each other without mercy; and 

anathematising in their own peculiar style, until everybody in the house 

was aroused by the extraordinary riot, and jarring medley of epithets. 

In the bedroom beneath the combatants lay Monsieur and Madam 

Blowitt, the landlord and his lady, quietly enjoying their first nap; until 

the grand crash just described, which knocked down half the plaster of 

the ceiling on to their bed, which soon awakened them. Monsieur Blowitt 

hastily scrambled from beneath the debris of fallen mortar, and with a 

revolver in one hand, and a bedroom lantern in the other, he rushed up 

stairs to the back attic, with mischief in his flashing eyes, and murder in 

his violent gesticulation. 

“Morbleu! qu'est ce que c'est donc!” roared the infuriate Frenchman. 

“Vat you kick up dis von great big row, you beggers! Vat for you knock 

my house down, eh? Morbleu! Vat for you do it: vill you tell me dat? I 

vill shoot you dead, and kill you both vid dis fusil.” 

A scene of confusion and uproar ensued, equalled only by a sea fight 

among a forecastle full of tipsy sailors. Fortunately there were no caps on 

the revolver, or it is probable murder would have been committed. 

Monsieur Blowitt soon perceived that there was a stranger in the room; 

when he, without any formality, allied himself to the doctor, and poor 

McSkilly got a woeful beating between them. In vain did he try to 

explain the cause of his nocturnal intrusion, and beg for mercy or fair 

play; they evidently mistook him for a burglar, and although he warmly 

appealed to his trunk on the roof, to attest his honest intentions, and 

emphatically asked them, “if they ever kenned a thief to tak his box 

o'claes wi him, when he broke intil a hoose?” his furious assailants 

disregarded all his appeals, and would not listen to his reasoning, nor 

look out of the window to investigate his box, but dragged him down 

stairs, and handed him over to the policemen, whom the uproar had 

attracted to the spot. Followed by the usual noisy street rabble, the 

bruised and bleeding dentist was escorted to the station house, vainly 

protesting all the way there against the illegal seizure of his person, and 

imploring somebody to look after his trunk. 

I must leave Mr. McSkilly to his ruminations in the lock-up, (and his 

self-congratulations on his escape from the “deil himsel,”) and return to 

Mrs. Lemonpip. I would here remark, that these thrilling incidents 

occurred rather quicker than I have been able to record them; for they 

occupied but little more than three hours, from the first outbreak to the 

dénouement. 

Mrs. Lemonpip soon recovered from her swoon, and after borrowing a

ull's-eye lantern from one of the policemen, she hastened to her 

chamber to put herself into more becoming attire; while the inspector and 

his men, at her request, went down stairs to investigate the cause of such 

varied disasters. In a few minutes Mrs. Lemonpip descended the stairs 

too, with a palpitating heart, and the first object her gratified eyes gazed 

upon was her much prized husband — all alive — sitting upon the hall 

mat, replying to the numerous questions of the inspector. 

“My dear, dear Jacky!” exclaimed Mrs. Lemonpip, rushing up and 

throwing her arms about his neck with a warmth of affection which she 

had long disowned. “My own dear Lemonpip; I am so glad you are not 

dead! Forgive me, pray forgive me, Jacky, my love! It was all my fault 

that you got into this terrible trouble, but I will faithfully promise and 

vow, never to grieve you again as long as I live.” The little woman was 

here fairly overcome with emotion and gave vent to a flood of tears, 

which slightly affected the inspector and all his men. “Oh! I am so glad 

you are alive, Jacky! You can't think, and I can't tell you all I have felt 

about you; I have had an awful time, I can assure you, I never was so 

frightened in all my life before. But do tell me, dear, what has been the 

matter with you; you needn't mind these gentlemen, they are all friends. 

Tell us all about it, dear, what it was that knocked you down and hurt 

you? Where all this blood came from? What it was that made that 

frightful noise?” 

Thus entreated, Mr. Lemonpip began to explain all he could recollect 

of the tragical occurrences of the last three hours. In descending to the 

hall in the dark, he had unfortunately trodden upon something soft, 

which was coiled up on a dogskin mat at the foot of the stairs. The 

goblin, or whatever it was, had very reasonably shrieked out, under the 

pressure of Mr. Lemonpip's fifteen stone person, and had at the same 

time made violent efforts to claw and bite off the leg which had crushed 

it; as witnessed the marks on the limb itself. The unexpected attack of 

some unknown, though formidable teeth and talons, and the startling 

shrieks too, had naturally enough made Mr. Lemonpip jump — as the 

saying is — and in doing so he had knocked his head against the 

ponderous umbrella-stand in the hall, and overturned it; then falling 

down upon it he so stunned himself, that he had lain for an hour or more, 

totally unconscious of what was going on around him. When his reason 

returned his nervous system was so shaken, that he had been afraid to 

move hand or foot, or his tongue either, lest he should again step upon or 

otherwise arouse the dreaded fury of the mysterious enemy, which had so 

painfully lacerated his left leg, and so terribly frightened him besides. 

There he had lain upon the cold oil-cloth, silently watching for daylight, 

and wondering what all the riot was about outside his house, and inside 

his neighbour's houses on either side of him. There he lay surmising all 

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, 

and the still more welcome smiles and embraces of his precious little 

pigeon, had restored gladness into his looks, notwithstanding his wounds 

and bruises. 

That was all Mr. Lemonpip could tell them about his mishaps. In 

making a search, however, in order further to elucidate the mystery, they 

discovered Mrs. Lemonpip's favourite old tom cat, lying on the dogskin 

mat, pressed as flat as a volume of acts of parliament. He was quite dead, 

of course, but his mouth was wide open, as if he had died in the act of 

making that awful noise, which had so terrified Mrs. Lemonpip and her 

lodger too, and which she afterwards regarded as the friendly outcry of 

the animal against that dangerous rival in his mistress's house, and in her 

heart too; as if he with his last outtrodden breath had exalted his voice to 

a supernatural pitch, to warn her of the diabolical character of that other 

“old tom” in the black bottle; her overweening fondness for which, had 

caused the untimely death of one of the best rat-catching cats in the 

colony; it being quite clear that it was the mischief-making gin which 

had incited her to send her husband down stairs on that disastrous 

occasion. 

It did not fail to strike Mrs. Lemonpip as a remarkable coincidence, 

that at the very time her poor old tom cat was giving his last kick at the 

bottom of the house, beside her prostrate spouse, she was sitting on the 

top of the house in solitary sorrow, resolving upon the total abandonment 

of the old tom in the cupboard, or in figuratively crunching him beneath 

her heel. Although she could not but lament the painful end of her 

faithful old cat, she was ever afterwards consoled when looking at his 

stuffed skin in the glass case on the side board, that tom's dying cries had 

been instrumental in arousing her to a sense of her danger of becoming a 

downright drunkard, and had led to her totally forsaking the pernicious 

and expensive habit of tippling, or taking a “little drop of comfort” every 

hour of the day — a habit which had long since sapped the foundations 

of all her domestic comfort, had chilled the natural warmth of her heart's 

affections, and made her a misery to herself; a dreaded nuisance to her 

friends — and, what is infinitely worse than all, had destroyed her hope 

of the life to come. 

The inspector soon comprehended the whole affair, and smilingly 

withdrew with his men to explain as much as was expedient to the 

excited populace outside, in order to induce them to disperse. He then 

went to the watch house and liberated Mr. McSkilly, and although it was 

some time before that honest Scot would accept of his “free pardon,” and 

talked loudly of bringing actions for damages against Dr. O'Flaherty, 

Monsieur Blowitt, and the whole police corps; after a while, his good 

nature prevailed over his litigious disposition, and he laughed heartily at 

the seriocomical events, then shook hands with the inspector, said “gude

nicht, freends,” to all the constables, and hastened home to look after his 

hair trunk. As he limped along on his bruised legs, he could not fail to 

remember Dr. O'Flaherty's shillelah, and, doubtless, he reflected at the 

same time that had he but displayed manly courage, and a true friendly 

spirit, he would have saved his host and hostess the disagreeable exposé; 

and his next door neighbour on either side the annoying disturbance of 

that eventful night, and would have saved himself too the beating, and 

the ignominious association with the usual nightly denizens of the watchhouse. 

* * * * * 

“The world rings with answering echoes:” writes a popular authoress, 

“they come not alone from braes and hills, but from hearts and lives. 

Some are soft and low as the sound of the wind among the leaves; some 

wild as the eagle's scream, or sullen as the ocean's roar. Like produces 

like is the law. Storm clouds blacken the earth, sunshine brightens it. 

Thunder is answered by thunder; bird song by bird song; petulance and 

distrust by petulance and distrust; kindness by kindness.” 

Mr. Lemonpip understood that law, for he was a philosopher in his 

way. He knew “that as a cross word begets a cross word, so will a kind 

one beget its likeness;” and that it is by little acts of watchful kindness 

that affection is won; the comfort of social life is preserved, and a 

softening influence is secured over hearts which an opposite conduct 

would repel, or overload with acerbity.” 

Mr. Lemonpip had long grieved over his dear wife's infirmities of 

temper and habit, and had tried with affectionate solicitude, and by every 

means which kindness could suggest, to restore her mind to that serenity 

which she once enjoyed, and which had in former days filled his house 

with happiness. The accursed thing in his household — the blight of his 

domestic comfort, was his wife's fondness for stimulants, which had 

gradually increased to a dangerous excess. It was yielding to that 

debasing passion which had soured her temper and turned her into a 

shrew. Mr. Lemonpip had tried every means, and had used every effort, 

both of example and precept, to induce her to abandon that slavish 

besetment, but apparently without effect. His kind words and tender 

solicitude, however, were not unappreciated by her, and they were 

gradually producing their softening effects. That memorable night was 

the turning point in her life, for she had resolved to banish “Old Tom” 

or the ginbottle — from her house for ever. The resolution was partially 

carried out next morning, when the black bottle was smashed, and she 

solemnly promised that she would never again taste strong drink. 

The joy of Mr. Lemonpip may be imagined at observing from day to 

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 

her voice. With her head free from the bewildering excitement of strong 

drink, she could calmly review her actions for many years past; and the 

result was a thorough self-renunciation. She saw with abhorrence the 

cruelty and ingratitude of her conduct to her over indulgent husband, and 

the disgrace she was bringing upon his fair reputation. Above all, she 

saw that she had been sinning against God, and madly rushing to eternal 

ruin. She sincerely repented of her sins, and humbly sought pardon 

through the merits of Jesus Christ; and as no one ever earnestly sought 

for peace in that way without finding it, Mrs. Lemonpip found it, and 

from that happy time to the day of her death, a more earnest, zealous 

Christian could not be found in the colony. Nor could a happier man be 

found than Mr. Lemonpip: indeed they were a blithe old pair, whose 

hearts were full of love. Not a jarring word was ever heard in their house 

from that time forward, except on one occasion, Mrs. Lemonpip forgot 

herself for a minute and began to scold her Jacky, when he looked at the 

glass-case on the sideboard with a merry twinkle in his eye, and quietly 

ejaculated “poor old tom.” The cloud on Mrs. Lemonpip's brow 

disappeared instantly, and she burst into a hearty laugh, in which her 

light-hearted husband joined, and declared, while he kissed her 

affectionately, that “there was not a man in Sydney who was blessed 

with such a loving little pop of a wife as his own darling Betty, who was 

worth her weight in diamond rings.”

Sailors' Yarns! 

“DID you ever sail from port on a Friday, Mr. Boomerang?” asked a 

weather-beaten old skipper, who was walking the deck of his vessel, 

smoking his pipe. It is not necessary to mention either the name of the 

vessel, or the latitude and longitude of her position. 

“Yes, captain, I have often sailed on short coasting trips on Friday; and 

I can recollect on two occasions putting to sea on a long voyage on a 

Friday.” 

“Humph! and did you not get into some unlucky scrape or other before 

the voyage ended?” 

“We certainly did, sir,” I replied; “for each time we put back disabled.” 

The captain chuckled, as though he rather enjoyed mischief, then gave 

me a catalogue of disasters which were reported to have been caused by 

certain captains recklessly persisting in sailing on that ill-famed day. 

“But I should be more disposed to think that the disasters, which I 

alluded to, captain, resulted from a desecration of Sabbath days, if I 

believed that special days had any influence at all on the events of a 

voyage: for on one occasion the ship was coaled on a Sunday, and the 

second time we put back, the various congregations of worshipping 

Christians in the town, off which we were anchored, were disturbed by 

the ringing of blacksmiths' hammers, as they repaired certain machinery, 

the breakage of which had obliged us to return to port.” 

“Well, sir, there is a smacking of sound sense in your remarks,” said 

the captain. “I have seen so many disasters happen to ships after sailing 

on Sundays, that I have given up the practice entirely; for I believe illluck 

attends it. I don't think I would trip my anchor, on that day, to oblige 

my father, unless it were to get my ship out of danger, or some such 

emergency. I will tell you what happened to me the very last time that I 

got under way on a Sunday, I could give you plenty more examples of 

the same sort, but one fact is as good as forty to elucidate the point I am 

arguing; and I don't want to spin you too many of these dry yarns, lest 

you should scud away below, and leave me to talk to the moon. 

“I was once upon a time lying in a certain port to the northward of 

Sydney, with a fleet of other vessels, waiting for a fair wind. There were 

not so many steam-tugs in those days as there are now, and vessels of 

heavy draught of water usually waited for a leading wind out of the 

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 

from the north-west, with a clear sky overhead; so I said to the mate, ‘If 

the breeze freshens at all, after the tide has slackened a bit, Mr. Shackles, 

we'll up stick and be off; so see all clear for a start.’ 

“ ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ said the mate, but he looked rather dismal at me, for his 

wife and children lived in a little house on the hill, just abreast of us, and 

I think they were expecting him on shore for the day. However, he didn't 

grumble, poor fellow! and I was sorry after a bit, that I had not let him go 

on shore to say good-bye to them. Well, away he went forward and 

turned the hands to, to hoist up the boats, and secure the deck lumber. 

About ten o'clock I saw a lot of other vessels getting ready for sea, so I 

gave the orders to heave the cable short, and cast the gaskets off the 

yards. Just at that time I saw a boat put off from a rakish-looking 

schooner, lying at anchor about a cable's length to wind-ward of me; and 

as the boat passed close under the stern of my ship, I hailed the captain, 

with whom I was slightly acquainted. 

“ ‘Halloa, friend; where are you bound to?’ said I. ‘Arn't you going to 

get under way, with this fine leading wind? or are you going for a day's 

fishing?’ 

“ ‘No, sir,’ said he, ‘I'm going to church. I never sail out of harbour on 

Sundays, for there is nothing gained by it, and it is not fair play to my 

men to deprive them of their lawful day's rest. Besides, my owner 

wouldn't allow it.’ 

“ ‘My blocks and sheaves! that's a superfine yarn, too,’ said I. ‘It's no 

wonder you did not stay long in Messrs. Bousem, Tawt, and Co.'s 

employ. Now I understand why they so soon unshipped you; for I 

recollect hearing old Bousem himself arguing that very point, like a sea 

lawyer, with one of his skippers; and proving, to his own satisfaction, 

that it was right and proper to sail on Sunday; indeed, he showed very 

clearly, that in some cases it was a sin not to do so. For instance, if the 

wind was fair, he argued that it would be a contempt of God's 

providential favours not to make use of it; consequently, the captain who 

would not top his boom and be off to sea, if his ship was ready, was a 

wicked sinner. It's a lucky thing for you, my friend,’ said I, ‘that old 

Bousem is not your owner now, or you'd nap it pretty smartly for going 

to church, and letting this fine fair wind blow to waste.’ 

“ ‘I have listened to old Bousem's logic,’ replied the little skipper, 

smiling, ‘but it never induced me to ignore the Divine command, to keep 

holy the sabbath day. My principle is to obey that law, even if I offend 

owners. You had better pay out your chain again, captain, and come 

ashore with me; and let your hands enjoy a day's rest, which is their due, 

and you have neither legal nor moral right to deprive them of it.’ 

“ ‘Hoist the fore top-sail, Mr. Shackles,’ said I to the mate. My friend 

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 

dashing along ten knots an hour, with a fresh breeze and smooth water, 

and a regular fleet of coasters astern of me. But I soon met with bad luck; 

for just before sundown it came on to blow one of those hard southerly 

bursters, which are so frequent on your coast in the summer months; and 

before I could get sail off the ship, I carried away the fore-top gallantmast 

and jib-boom, and sprung the main-yard, besides splitting some of 

the sails. It blew hard from the southward for three days, and an ugly sea 

got up, which strained the ship a good deal, for we were coal-laden, and 

as deep as a barge. On the fourth day the wind hawled round to the 

eastward, and we lay our course, with fresh breezes and fine weather, 

which we carried all the way up to Melbourne heads; so we did not make 

such a bad passage after all. On the eighth morning, soon after daybreak 

I espied — about three miles ahead — a smart-looking schooner, going 

through the ‘Rip’ without a pilot; and sure enough it was my little 

church-going friend. In he went, with his colours flying, as if he were 

crowing over me; and by the time I got up to the anchorage off 

Williamstown, there lay the schooner alongside the jetty, all ready for 

discharging cargo. I felt a bit nettled, though I didn't say anything to my 

mate, for I could see he was mightily pleased at it. Next day I met the 

little skipper, in Sandridge, looking as happy as a boy in his first 

breeches. He told me that he had spent a very comfortable Sunday on 

shore, and had allowed his officers and crew to go to church too; that he 

had lain in port, setting up his rigging and titivating his ship off, (and she 

really looked as smart as a new fiddle), until the gale had broken; and as 

soon as the sea had gone down a bit, he up anchor and away. He had 

beaten every vessel bound to Melbourne, which sailed on the Sunday; 

and while several of those he had passed had lost spars and bulwarks, he 

did not carry away a ropeyarn, or strain a stick; in fact, he scarcely 

shifted a sail throughout the run, but carried a fair wind and fine weather 

right up to his moorings. 

“That yarn is as true as my chronometer, Mr. Boomerang,” continued 

the captain, laying down his pipe. “And when you come to think of it, sir, 

it is only reasonable to expect good luck when you are doing what is 

right. I mean to say it is not acting fair and square to the sailors, if you 

don't give them a day's spell once a week. Poor fellows! they get extra 

work enough, in all conscience, especially on board some of those old 

leaky colliers, or in the coasting steamers. It is a positive injustice to your 

officers and men to make them do unnecessary work on Sundays, to say 

nothing of the sin and folly of setting at open defiance the laws of God, 

who could blow us all to the bottom of the sea in a minute. As for the 

risk of putting to sea on Fridays, that is all moonshine, and I was only 

joking when I appeared to be talking seriously on that subject just now. I 

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 

sinful to do it — except in cases of necessity; — and if sinful, it is 

dangerous, and he is a f — a — is not a sensible man, who wilfully runs 

into danger. That's a little bit of my logic, sir, and I don't think you can 

find many rotten strands in it; at all events, you wouldn't convince me 

that it isn't sound and honest, if you wished to try. I have firmly resolved 

that I never will again put to sea on a Sunday, to please the best owners 

in the world — but avast, that is stupid talk, for the best owners would 

not ask me to do it, in fact, they would very soon unship a master who 

would have the conscience to do it; except, as I said before, in case of 

necessity; and such owners are by no means scarce. 

“I am afraid I have wearied you with that long prosy story,” said the 

captain, “but don't go below yet, sir. I'll tell you a very lively yarn about 

Captain Lindley and the monkey, if you would like to hear it.” 

“I should like to hear it, captain,” I replied; “but please to tell me first 

about the poor carpenter, to whom you alluded at dinner-time.” 

“Ah! that is an awfully tragical story, and always makes me shudder. 

You had better let me tell you about the monkey while I am in the 

humour. I never can spin a lively yarn just after talking about poor Tom 

Gouge.” 

“Up goes the monkey, then, but I am sorry you don't know Captain 

Lindley, because you will not half appreciate my yarn unless you can 

fancy Lindley is spinning it, for none but he can tell his stories with 

effect. It was as pleasant to me as a good dinner, any day, to sit and listen 

to him for an hour or two, for his coil of yarns was like paddy's rope, 

there was no end to it. But it topped all, to hear him tell about Jacko and 

the roast beef. There was more fun in his honest face then, than in a cage 

full of monkeys; and he would actually thump the table, or hammer away 

at the bulk-head with his fists, in his excess of mirth, while he described 

Jacko scudding up aloft with a hot carrot in his mouth; and when he 

wiped his eyes, after his ecstacy was over, you would almost fancy he 

was fretting because he could not laugh any longer. Yes, ‘a merry old 

soul was he,’ as scores of his passengers will smilingly testify; and any 

man who could sit and look at him while he was enjoying his roast 

monkey — I mean his yarn of the monkey and the roast beef — any man 

who could even look at him then without laughing till he cried, would 

have no more tickle in him than my figure-head yonder. But let us sit 

down on the hen-coops, sir, if you please, for it is hard work to walk and 

spin a tough yarn while the ship is knocking about in this chopping sea; it 

tumbles all my ideas together, like prize-tickets in a lucky bag.” 

“When my friend Lindley was third mate of the ‘Billy Button,’ he was 

on the watch one afternoon, and was waiting for the steward to bring his 

dinner on deck, for the captain and passengers had gone below to dine. 

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 

the mizen mast. The poor brute was half killed with the coddling and 

petting of his owner, a whimsical old bachelor, who was a passenger on 

board; and Lindley, thinking that an hour's run would be a treat to Jacko, 

cast off his moorings, when he began to dance about the deck like a 

dandy in a ball-room. 

“Presently Lindley went aft to heave the log, and after he had finished, 

and had made the entry on his log slate, he looked round for his 

frolicsome friend, but he was gone from the poop. Fearing he would get 

into trouble with the old fogy below, who was as particular about his pet 

as if he were his son and heir, Lindley began to hunt for the fugitive; but 

he had not to hunt long, for on looking over the break of the poop, there 

he was, actually perched on a prime joint of roast beef, which the cook 

had a minute before placed on the deck, ready to be put on the cabin 

table, after the steward had cleared away the soup-plates. Yes, sure 

enough there sat Jacko on the nice savoury roast, with his long tail 

floating in the gravy, and evidently pleased with his warm seat, as well 

as with the flavour of the carrots, which garnished the sides of the dish. 

“ ‘Confound your carcase!’ shouted Lindley, at the same time throwing 

a cringle at him, which would have spoilt his appetite, if it had hit him, 

but Jacko was off in an instant. Stuffing a long piece of carrot into his 

mouth, he bolted up to the mizen top, and there he sat munching and 

licking his fingers, like a regular gourmand. Of course Lindley was up 

after him pretty smartly, but it was not an easy job to catch him, for he 

climbed right up to the mizen truck. Lindley did catch him, though, and 

brought him down to his old quarters, and gave him a handsome tickling 

with the end of the signal halliards. Then looking over the break of the 

poop, Lindley saw that the dish was gone. ‘Why, blow my buttons off!’ 

said he to himself, ‘the steward has never taken that foul joint into the 

cabin!’ As he said that, he hurried down the ladder and peeped through 

the cuddy window, and sure enough there was the beef on the table, and 

the company were evidently enjoying it too, for it was very tender and 

juicy, and they did not get roast beef and carrots every day. The old 

bachelor had the outside cut, which he always preferred, because he liked 

his meat done brown. Of course, you know, Lindley had much better 

have said nothing about the monkey sauce, seeing that the meat was half 

eaten, and the gravy had been equally divided amongst them; for I 

daresay, sir, we all eat worse tack than that sometimes, without knowing 

it. But Lindley was always square and honest, so without thinking twice 

on the subject, into the cabin he goes, and began to overhaul the steward 

for presuming to carry a joint of meat into the captain's table, after that 

mangy monkey had been sitting astride of it, and had bathed his ugly tail 

in the gravy. 

“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 

though they were poisoned, and ran in various directions. The old 

bachelor darted on deck, and after bowing his head humbly over the side 

of the ship for a minute, saying his grace, I suppose, he rushed up and 

kicked the monkey twice in one place. But you must fancy the rest, Mr. 

Boomerang, I cannot spin the yarn as Lindley does, and it spoils a good 

thing when it is badly dished.” 

* * * * * 

“Now you shall hear the story of the drunken carpenter,” said the 

captain, after he had ceased laughing at the foregoing yarn. “His name 

was Tom Gouge, and he was with me two voyages when I commanded a 

barque in the sugar trade; he was a smart tradesman, but an awful fellow 

to curse and swear. By-the-way, sir, that is a habit which many lads 

acquire when they first go to sea, and, like other vices, it grows upon 

them by degrees, till at length it becomes almost as natural to them to 

curse as to eat their rations. No doubt they think it makes them look 

manly, and sailor-like; but it is a very great mistake, for coarseness and 

profanity never can be indications of true manhood, or good seamanship. 

Pooh! it would be quite as rational to say that wens and ulcers on a 

horse's back are marks of high breeding. I wish all swearers — and 

young ones especially — knew how contemptible they look in the eyes 

of sensible people, and I'm sure they would set about mastering the bad 

habit immediately. I think Tom Gouge must have studied the awful art of 

cursing very diligently, for he was the most inveterate swearer that I ever 

heard, either on sea or on shore. He could scarcely speak on ordinary 

occasions without an oath, and if at any time he were roused out of his 

berth to shorten sail, or put the ship about, it was horrible to hear his 

blasphemies. He has been heard to say, like a fool, that there was no God 

at all; and at other times, in his fits of passion, he has defied all the 

powers of light, and darkness too. He got a cutting reproof one day from 

a young fellow — a steerage passenger — who had been drying some of 

his clothes on the booms, when Gouge came up in a surly humour to pick 

out a spar for a new fore-royal yard, to replace one which had been 

carried away the night before. ‘Move your duds off the spars,’ said 

Gouge, with an oath, of course. ‘Where shall I move them to?’ asked the 

young man mildly, at the same time he seemed shocked at Tom's awful 

language. ‘Move them to hell, if there is such a place,’ said Tom, with 

another curse. The young fellow took up his clothes, and gently said, ‘If I 

were to move them to heaven they would be more out of your way.’ 

Gouge looked rather abashed for a minute, but he was too tough to be 

seriously affected, even by such a reproof as that; long persistence in evil 

courses had made his heart as hard as a snatch-block.

“Well, sir, we had come home from Jamaica, and were lying off the 

West India Docks, ready to go in the next tide. Gouge had been on shore 

for an hour or two that morning without leave; and when he came on 

board again, I could see he was half drunk. Knowing his foul tongue, I 

did not say anything to him, until I saw him take the axe on his shoulder 

and prepare to go up the main rigging; when, thinking it was unsafe for 

him to go aloft in liquor, I said to him, ‘What are you going aloft for, 

Chips?’ 

“ ‘To knock the stun sail boom irons off the yard arm,’ said he, surlily. 

“ ‘You had better find a job on deck,’ said I, ‘for you are not fit to go 

aloft just now.’ With that he began to curse and swear like Satan himself, 

and vowed ‘he had not drank a sup that day.’ 

“ ‘That's right, my man,’ said I, ‘out with all the dirty language that's 

fouling your heart; you will never be sweet till you get that nasty stuff 

out of your limbers. That's right, Chips, bouse it all out at once; it's 

horrible rubbish.’ 

“At that he began to swear worse than ever, and up he went, in the 

spirit of defiance, on to the main yard, and began to knock the boom iron 

off the starboard yard arm. The iron was rusted on, and was rather hard 

to move, so Gouge kept striking with his axe, and cursing at every blow, 

on purpose to annoy me. I had logged down a few of his sayings, and 

intended to have had a reckoning with him the next day, when he was 

sober; but I was spared that duty in an awfully sudden manner. After 

many hard knocks Gouge had started the iron, and was slipping it over 

the end of the yard, when I called out to him, ‘Make a rope's end fast to 

that boom iron, Chips, or it will capsize you.’ Whether he understood my 

order or not I am not quite sure, but I heard him utter a fearful oath, and 

at the same time he slipped the iron off the yard, when its sudden weight 

overbalanced his tipsy brain, and down he fell like a shot seagull. The 

yards were braced sharp up, so he fell with his back across the poop rail. 

I heard the horrible crunching of his bones, then overboard he went, and 

the thick waters closed over his miserable body. Of course I gave the 

alarm, and all hands were aft in a minute, but it was impossible to save 

poor Gouge. A few bubbles rose to the surface of the turbid stream, and 

as I looked at them, I shudderingly wondered whether they were curses. 

A few days afterwards his body was picked up in the mud off 

Greenwich; and upon examination it was found that his back was broken. 

This was the wretched end of the poor swearing carpenter.”

Fire! Fire! Fire! 

I HAVE vivid recollections of the cry of fire arousing me on one 

occasion from my midnight slumbers, the lurid glare which illumined my 

chamber, at the same time alarming me with the belief that the rooms 

beneath were in a blaze. After hastily dressing, I rushed into the street 

— thankful that I was not roasted — and joined the excited citizens, who 

were running to the scene of disaster. 

The fire-bells were sending forth their clamorous dingle, dingle, dingle, 

through the night air; and the fire engines, with their glaring lamps and 

galloping horses, and loaded with brave, helmeted men, were racing 

towards the scene of their hazardous labours, with the impetuosity of war 

steeds, or express trains. 

Soon I arrived at the spot where the fiery element was doing its work 

of destruction; and getting, as far as I could, from the jostling noisy 

crowd, and the mounted policeman's horses, I stood and gazed upon the 

exciting scene before me. 

The flames leaped from floor to floor of the devoted building, and 

belched out of each door-way and window with the fury of volcanoes; 

crackling, hissing, roaring, and sending myriads of bright sparks into the 

air, amidst dense volumes of smoke; while the crash of falling beams and 

rafters, the clanking of the engines, the loud shouts of the leaders of the 

fire brigade, added to the hubbub of the assembled multitude of gazers, 

created a din which was awfully distracting. 

The firemen, with an intrepidity which I cannot too highly extol, at the 

risk of their lives and limbs, mounted to giddy parapets; and there, with 

hose in hand, stood and combated with the greedy flames. The 

policemen, too, were exerting themselves bravely to keep the crowd from 

dangerous proximity to tottering walls; and the rabble, as usual, were 

pouring forth indignant protests against the arbitrary encroachments on 

their rights and liberties, and loading the persevering officers with slangy 

abuse. 

Meanwhile, the tenants of houses adjacent to the burning building were 

hurriedly removing their stocks and furniture n to the street, aided by 

willing volunteers, and further aided by a horde of nimble thieves, to 

whom the catastrophe was a joyful “harvest home.” In a short time the 

roof of the doomed house tumbled in, and, soon afterwards, floor after 

floor tumbled in also. All danger of the extension of the fire being then

over, I hastened home to bed. 

For an hour or two next morning. there was a stir in the city among 

commercial men; and the enquiry, “Is he insured?” was made by many 

anxious creditors — some hoping, others fearing, and perhaps vainly 

reflecting upon their want of prudent foresight, in omitting to ask that 

important question before allowing Mr. Keen to get so far into their 

books, and wisely resolving thenceforward to make that special enquiry 

before opening an account with a new customer. Before the day was 

over, however, all doubts were dissolved: Mr. Keen was insured to the 

value of his stock; and a day or two afterwards it was announced in the 

advertising sheets that he had taken temporary premises in — — street 

until his old stores were rebuilt. Mr. Keen's creditors were relieved from 

anxiety, and his new offices were thronged, from day to day, with 

brokers and vendors of various classes, offering tempting bargains to restock 

his new stores, and all having a wistful eye to the ready money 

— for the insurance offices, in such undisputed cases, always paid claims 

in prompt cash; so they inferred that Mr. Keen was pretty flush of 

money. Doubtless he was inconvenienced by the disaster; his business 

arrangements were unsettled for a time, and he suffered personal 

disquietude; but those were very trifling matters in comparison with the 

ruin which would have overwhelmed him, if he had not been insured. 

A case, of an opposite character to the foregoing, just occurs to my 

mind; and I will give a brief outline of it to illustrate the disastrous 

consequences of neglecting the common-sense precaution of insuring 

against loss by fire. An industrious tradesman was suddenly reduced to 

poverty by the destruction of his dwelling house and shop. He was 

wholly uninsured, and had the misery of seeing the results of many years 

destroyed in a few hours. 

For a day or two after the event, and while the recollection of it was 

fresh in the minds of his friends and neighbours, the poor man received 

much sympathy in the form of soothing words and sombre looks. There 

was, too, a spasmodic attempt made by a few friends to afford him more 

substantial comfort, by means of a public subscription; but it was a 

failure — they could not gather twenty pounds after an active canvass 

throughout the district. 

“Poor fellow! I am very sorry for his loss; but I really cannot help him 

at present,” said one in reply to the pathetic appeals of the collectors. 

“He was a fool for not insuring his property,” said another, with more 

candour than politeness, significantly buttoning his pockets at the same 

time. 

“It serves him right,” exclaimed a third. “He might have insured his 

property for less than ten pounds a year; and if he was such a dolt as to 

risk beggary for the sake of a paltry sum like that, which he could well 

afford to pay, he has no right to call upon me, or the like of me, to make

good his loss. Pooh! what next?” 

* * * * * 

Life has been a severe struggle with the poor man ever since that 

disaster. He was unable to re-establish himself in business from want of 

capital, and he is now in very straitened circumstances. Through omitting 

to insure against a calamity (to which every person, however careful, is 

to some extent liable), he lost the fruits of past years' exertions, and a 

position of comparative affluence, which he has ever since been vainly 

striving to regain; and he has the additional discomfort of feeling that his 

present poverty is the result of his want of business-like forethought. 

These illustrations are, I think, sufficient to demonstrate the advantage 

of insuring against loss by fire, and the folly of neglecting to do so. I 

believe it is a positive duty, incumbent upon every person engaged in 

business, in common justice to his creditors; and it is equally incumbent 

upon every head of a household, whether in business or not, in justice to 

his family. I have frequently heard persons say, “They do not see the 

necessity of insuring, as they are very careful;” in proof of which they 

urge, that “they never had a mishap from fire.” Their carefulness is 

commendable certainly, and their freedom from accidents by fire is a 

matter for gratulation; still, it is unquestionable that fire has often 

destroyed the houses of very careful persons; and none can effectually 

guard against the carelessness of their neighbours. 

A fire is at all times a deplorable mishap, but, perhaps, never so serious 

as when it occurs amongst the dwellings of poor persons, for they are 

generally uninsured. At such occurrences there is invariably much 

excitement and confusion. A panic seizes the poor occupants of 

neighbouring tenements, and they often hurriedly remove their little 

household effects into the streets for security, and frequently, by so 

doing, suffer severe losses by breakages, but, worse still, from the 

peculations of dishonest persons, who at such times are specially busy, as 

they then have good chances of plying their nefarious calling undetected. 

A thief can rush into a house in the immediate vicinity of a fire, and his 

wicked designs may be mistaken for good-natured zeal for the safety of 

the goods which he is seeking to steal. In general, the person or family 

who are burnt out of house and home are not the only sufferers; and fire 

is not the only enemy to be dreaded at such times. 

Were persons belonging to the labouring class to insure their household 

effects, such losses would be avoided; for if their houses unfortunately 

took fire they would be reimbursed for the damage they sustained. If a 

fire occurred in the immediate vicinity of their dwelling, the knowledge 

that they were thus protected from loss would deter them from rashly 

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 

dwellings to be disturbed, unless ordered to do otherwise by some person 

in authority. Thus they would be spared a vast amount of worry — to say 

nothing of the comfort which they would at all times naturally feel in 

knowing that they were not exposed to the risk of being ruined in a few 

hours by the carelessness or wilfulness of neighbours, which it was 

impossible for them to guard against or control. 

All classes of the community can insure; and I should be glad if I could 

convince even a few poor persons that it is their duty, and their interest 

too, to avail themselves of the privilege. There are not many tenements, I 

imagine, in Sydney, on which the insurance offices would refuse to take 

a risk. The rates of premiums for risks in the city are very low too; for 

instance — a friend of mine, residing in one of the suburbs of Sydney, 

has his household furniture insured for £300, at an annual cost of ten 

shillings. The rate would be somewhat more for houses of a lower class 

than the one which the friend referred to occupies; still, I think, the 

average of mechanics, labourers, &c., could insure to the value of their 

household effects for ten shillings a year. What careful housewife could 

not manage to save twopence halfpenny per week (or rather less than 

that) for such a purpose? — perhaps to save herself and children from 

becoming homeless outcasts. 

Fires are less frequent in Sydney than might reasonably be expected, 

considering the crowded state of some parts of the city, the combustible 

nature of the materials with which many of the houses are built and 

roofed, and the heat of the climate; still such mishaps do occur, alas! too 

often, as many persons know to their sorrow. A catastrophe — entailing 

the ruin of a striving family — is sometimes recorded in a dozen lines, 

and attracts but little attention from the community on account of its 

apparent insignificance. The conflagration of a poor man's little cottage 

would not entice a large concourse of persons from their beds, though it 

will make the late unfortunate owner toss restlessly upon his bed for 

many nights; calling to mind that, in a fatal half-hour, all he possessed in 

the world was reduced to ashes. 

Such sad disasters are too frequent; and, as I read the sentence 

appended to the usual brief report of them in the newspapers — “the 

tenant was” uninsured — my sympathy with the poor houseless sufferers 

has to struggle against a feeling of vexation with them, for foolishly 

omitting a precaution which common-sense ought to have insisted upon, 

and which is within the reach of the humblest householder. 

Reader! I have not the slightest personal interest in any insurance 

society in the world, beyond being a policy holder for a small sum. The 

foregoing remarks are written in a disinterested spirit; and if you will 

take my deliberate advice, you will insure your property at once.

Little Strangers. 

LIVES there an honest old patriarch in Christendom, whose 

memory — though dead to ordinary bygone events — has not 

occasional, softening recollections of the joyful hour, when his tiny firstborn, 

the beloved child of his blossoming manhood, announced its entrée 

to his household by a lamb-like cry, which vibrated through his bounding 

heart, like strains of music from the better land? 

I would not venture — if I were not at leisure — to put that question to 

a young benedict, the owner of a tender heart as well as a tender infant, 

because he would almost certainly bother me with a minute description 

of the “precious poppet,” with eyes like jewels, and hair silk, together 

with all the funny ways of his precocious offspring, which, though not 

much bigger than a quart pot, he believes to be the finest child in the 

parish, because the experienced old nurse told him so. Not that I would 

condemn him for exhibiting feeling, which, as his heart is tender, he 

cannot avoid doing; quite the contrary. I am always prepared for the 

excited partiality which every honest young father feels for his offspring, 

because it is so natural; indeed, I would rather see it verge on the absurd 

than towards the stony stoicism which some affect, under the 

contemptible notion that it is unmanly to talk about little babies. I should 

not condemn him, even if he talked positive nonsense — I generally try 

to keep in mind my own bygone weaknesses — still I should not care to 

hear much of his extravagant dilation on his new-gotten treasure; because 

it soon becomes tiresome. 

But I dearly love to hear an old man talk about the days of yore, when 

his children were young, even though he should be over garrulous. I am 

fond of old boys and girls, especially when they can be merry and wise 

too. It titillates my fancy as much as the pages of Punch, to see a greyheaded 

old grandsire initiating his merry young sprouts in the art of 

“knuckling down” at “shoot in the ring,” or peg-top; or to see his 

venerable spouse playing a game of innocent romps with a lot of 

laughing little grand-daughters, while her time-wrinkled countenance 

glistens like a ginger-bread queen, showing that her heart is full of good 

humour and love. I would rather have a romp with them any day than go 

to a review. 

I have before my mind's eye at this moment a frosty-browed old boy, 

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 

the other evening, when I put the following question to him: — 

“May I ask you, Mr. Wobble, if you have a distinct recollection of your 

feelings when you heard the introductory little chirping cry of your firstborn 

child?” 

The old man's alley marble eyes blazed up like policemen's lanterns at 

the question, and he replied with a volubility almost startling. 

“Recollect it, sir? Pooh! Ask a boy if he recollects his first pair of 

knickerbockers. Ask a young parson if he recollects preaching his first 

sermon. Ask a young lady if — but never mind that. Recollect it, sir? 

Humph! pap pots and puff boxes! Do you really suppose I could forget 

such a thrilling event as that? 

“And what a mistake to call that a cry which was the softest, sweetest 

music I ever heard in my life; and I have heard a variety; more than was 

charming too. I have sat in wrapt enjoyment whilst listening to soprano 

voices, enchanting as the melody of a grove full of blackbirds. I have 

also heard deep, bass voices, full and grand as the chords of St. Paul's 

organ. 

“I have heard a disciple of the great Paganini fiddle a sonata on one 

little string. I have been astounded at hearing Herr von Joel (in a saloon 

near Covent Garden) draw syren-like strains from my blackthorn 

walking-stick, which was as mute as a pitchfork handle to all my after 

attempts to make it emit even a single note. Yes, sir, I have heard music 

of all sorts, natural and artificial, from the most pathetic strains, gentle 

enough to melt a miser's heart, to the horrifying opposite; as displayed in 

the surprisingly elongated howls of the well-known Sydney Tinker, and 

the dismal chanter of cows' heels. 

“But if it were possible to concentrate the sweetness of all the music I 

have ever heard — throwing away the tinwa-a-a-a-are, of course — into 

one grand symphony, it could not produce such an enrapturing tickle on 

my tympanum as did that first silvery treble which assured me that I was 

the fortunate father of a living child, and filled my heart with gratitude 

and pride. Aye, sir, that was music, indeed, which I can no more forget 

than adequately describe.” 

The old gentleman here paused to recover breath after his excited 

rhapsody, when seeing that I had broached a subject upon which he 

could be amusingly eloquent, I by degrees led him fairly on to it, and 

listened to his animated narration till he had run himself down. 

“You see, I am now like an old man kangaroo with his tail chopped off, 

not much spring in me,” said Mr. Wobble, “but I was an active young 

man at one time, Mr. Boomerang, many years ago though, as these grey 

hairs and wrinkles will signify. It was in those green, young days, when I 

first got a delicate hint that I might expect to see a “little stranger” in my 

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 

long and as strong as the down on a young duck; but they took a start 

from that very time. Months rolled on, apparently slower than usual, for 

like young men in general, I was impatient. At length my dear Ruth 

began to — — h'm — — yes, began to be very busy with her 

needlework. She kept a big basket under an out-of-the-way table, full of 

all sorts of mysterious small-wares, including garments scarcely short 

enough for a very thin body five feet high, and other garments, scarcely 

long enough for a comparatively thick body fifteen inches high, which I 

thought was rather a wide allowance for the uncertain measure of the 

expected wearer. But I didn't know anything about rigging out babies 

then. There was a variety of other things besides, which of course, you 

would not wish me to describe; so we will throw a veil over the basket. 

“Well, sir, there my Ruth would sit and stitch, stitch, stitch, till her 

fingers must have ached; and sometimes her poor heart ached too, I fear, 

for I recollect suddenly popping into her room very late one night, and 

found tears trembling in her weary eyes, and I could also see several little 

moist spots, where other tears had fallen upon a long white muslin robe, 

tucked up to the waist, which she had spent many hours over, and of 

which she seemed very proud. 

“ ‘My dear Ruth,’ said I, ‘you must come to bed. I am afraid you'll 

injure yourself by sitting up so late, night after night, working at those 

long robes, and short what-do-ye-call-'ems. Come, come, put your 

stitchery basket under the table till to-morrow; you'll hurt your bright 

eyes, and then the house will be as gloomy as a cellar. Why, I declare 

there is something the matter with them now,’ said I, kissing her, and 

gently drawing her glossy head on to my breast. ‘Yes, you are crying, 

that you are, you little gosling,’ said I, kissing her again. ‘What is the 

matter, wifie, dear? Tell me all your troubles, and let me share some of 

them; that's only fair you know, for you always insist upon sharing 

mine.’ Well, sir, after a good deal of coaxing, I found that she had been 

stitching, and thinking, and fretting at the same time, over that fine long 

robe, which her nimble fingers had worked so neatly, with so many 

pretty tucks in the skirt, and such lovely embroidery in the bosom and 

sleeves, until she got weary and sad. Then she began to fear lest her 

hands should never tie those tiny tape strings, and her eyes never see her 

darling infant in the robe which she had taken such pride and pains to 

work. And she wondered too, what would become of me if she should 

die; who would air my linen, and look to my buttons; or smooth my sad 

brow as I gazed on her vacant chair; and who would nurse her little one, 

if it should live; and whether they would be kind to it and love it. As she 

finished her sobbing disclosure, she burst into a real flood of tears, and 

nestled her pale face on my breast, like a poor little weary bird. 

“ ‘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 

those tears, Ruth dear, and don't cry any more.’ Then I would kiss her 

again, and try to soothe her. But she did cry more though; so I thought it 

best to leave her alone for a little, as she was not one for giving way to 

sentimental whims and fancies, and I knew she would soon brighten up 

again, like an April day between the showers. Depend upon it, sir, that is 

the best way to manage such cases. You can never stop such tears as 

those with dry reasoning, so you needn't try. Let the floods come if they 

will, for those ducts are nature's safety valves to the heart, when 

surcharged with tender emotions, and tears often give immediate ease, 

like taking off tight boots. 

“But I begin to feel as low-spirited as if I had just shot somebody,” said 

the old gentlemen, his face brightening up, while he applied a red hot 

cinder to his pipe. “I shall make you gloomy too, Mr. Boomerang, if I 

don't alter my strain, which is too dirge-like for such a lively subject as I 

am going to introduce you to. 

“Well, sir, time went on slowly, and the preparations went on nimbly. 

Mrs. Follidodd, the monthly nurse, came to lodge with us; and a fine, 

chatty old body she was, too. I felt my responsibilities very much 

decreased as soon as she took charge of her department in the household; 

and her ceaseless tongue was wonderfully stimulating to my flagging 

courage. My dear Ruth, too, kept up her spirits as long as she could keep 

herself up. I used to try to put on a merry face, when in her company, but 

I fancy it looked as forced as the polite Frenchman's smile of apology to 

the stout English lady who had run against him in turning a London 

corner, and knocked his front teeth out. 

“ ‘Mr. Wobble,’ said Mrs. Follidodd, as she entered my sanctum a few 

evenings afterwards, ‘I think I shall have to trouble you to go for Dr. 

Dollop, bye — ’ 

“ ‘Oh yes, certainly,’ I exclaimed, starting up as excitedly as if a black 

rat were running up my leg. ‘I'll fetch him in two minutes.’ 

“ ‘Stop, stop, sir, don't be so alarmed, there's no hurry. I don't want the 

doctor just yet; only I thought I'd better tell you not to be out of the way. 

Pray compose yourself, Mr. Wobble, everything is going on very nicely, 

and there's not the least cause for anxiety. You must not be so excited, 

sir.’ 

“ ‘No, I won't, Mrs. Follidodd,’ I replied, humbly, ‘only tell me what to 

do, there's a good creature. I'll do anything in the world you tell me; and 

every thing you want I'll get for you. Never mind the price.’ 

“ ‘Thank you, sir, I have all that I want at present. Now I advise you to 

lie down on the dining-room sofa, and take a nap; I'll call you when I 

want you. There now, be calm, sir; lie down and go to sleep, for you are 

looking quite fagged.’ 

“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 

stuffed with horse-nails instead of horse-hair; and I was as indisposed to 

nap as the anxious captain of a ship on a lee shore, or an invalid next 

door to a house on fire. There I lay, wondering whatever I should do if I 

lost my dear Ruth, and only getting more perplexed and distressed, the 

further I ventured on such gloomy calculations. 

“Soon after midnight, the nurse crept softly into the room in her 

nightcap, and said very composedly, ‘Now, Mr. Wobble, I'll trouble you 

to go for — ’ 

“ ‘Yes, Mrs. Follidodd,’ I exclaimed, jumping up, and without waiting 

for further instructions, I ran off for the doctor. In most towns there are, 

as you are aware, a multitude of dogs prowling the streets at night, and 

intolerable nuisances they are. It is the morbid nature of mongrels in 

general to run after everybody that will run away from them. So I had not 

run far before I had some of the yelping brutes at my heels; and the 

number increased as I went. Still I was unwilling to waste time by 

stopping to kick them. I knew from experience that curs are more noisy 

and troublesome if you take notice of them, and they seldom have 

courage to bite. So I kept running, and trying to comfort myself with the 

latter reflection, and they ran after me, of course, until, as I was turning 

an unlucky corner near a butcher's shop, a surly mastiff woke up, and 

like all bull-headed animals, he did not stop to consider why he should 

join in the melee, but rushed after me, seized a large mouthful from my 

apparel, and dispossessed me of kerseymere enough to make a pair of 

gaiters, in less time than the smartest tailor in Sydney could have cut 

them out. Of course I roared out, for I thought I had lost flesh as well as 

cloth, still I did not stop to argue with the brute. Onward I sped, till I 

arrived almost breathless at Dr. Dollop's door, and began to ring his 

night-bell a regular “bob major,” while the congregation of curs kept up 

an irregular bow-wow chorus. 

“ ‘Hilloa!’ cried the doctor, putting his head out of his top window, 

‘Hilloa! what the dickens are you making all this noise for? Is the town 

on fire?’ 

“ ‘Doct — or, doc — tor!’ I panted. 

“ ‘What's the matter with you?’ shouted the doctor, (confound those 

horrible dogs.) ‘What do you want with me?’ 

“ ‘Doc — tor, ma — make haste, co — come with me direct — ly,’ I 

gasped, as plainly as I could speak with my short supply of breath. 

“ ‘Be off you drunken sot. How dare you bring your filthy dogs before 

my house at this time of night?’ roared the doctor, in a very angry tone, 

being under the impression that I was some tipsy rat-catcher, and had 

mistaken his house for an inn. 

“ ‘They are not my dogs, Doctor Dollop,’ I replied, rather tartly, ‘my 

name is Wobble. I don't breed noisy curs to annoy my neighbours; nor do

I get drunk very often.’ 

“ ‘Oh dear me, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wobble. I had no idea it was 

you. Wait a minute, sir,’ said the doctor, who then hastily drew his head 

inside, and pulled down the window. 

“That seemed the longest minute I ever waited, for I was picturing the 

while some dreadful results of the delay. 

“Presently the door opened, and the doctor appeared, when I stopped 

him in his apologies, and hurriedly explained the nature of my errand. To 

my chagrin he did not evince extreme haste, nor even the least surprise, 

at my wife's sudden demand for his services, but politely asked me to 

take a chair for a few minutes, until he was ready to return with me. 

“In due course the doctor arrived with me at my house. My repeated 

hints on the way there upon the urgency of the case, did not incite him to 

run; consequently, the dogs had no more sport that night. After he had 

had a little quiet conversation with Mrs. Follidodd, they both disappeared 

from my view. 

“Scarcely knowing what to do for the best, after I had exchanged my 

damaged garments, I walked into the kitchen, and solemnly exhorted the 

servant maid to exert herself to the utmost, and promised I would 

remember her at Christmas. The girl said she would do ‘all that lay in her 

power,’ then put another shovel full of coal on the roaring fire, and 

quietly sat down before it, looking very sleepy. I next put the door 

knocker in an old stocking, and not being able to think of anything else 

to do that was useful or necessary, I lighted a cigar, and began to pace up 

and down the verandah in a marvellous state of mental and physical 

shiver. 

“I endured two hours — as long as two days — of that extraordinary 

admixture of tickle and torment, which must be felt to be comprehended. 

At length Dr. Dollop came out to me and smilingly said, ‘it's all right, 

Mr. Wobble. I congratulate you on the birth of a fine daughter.’ About 

the same time I heard that delicious music which I have so imperfectly 

described to you. After almost hugging the doctor, I sat down in my easy 

chair, and gushed over with fatherly feeling. 

“Those dulcet sounds continued, and I sat and listened in silent 

admiration and with thankfulness for the indications of strength in those 

infantile lungs. I can recollect the lively ba — a — a, as clearly as if it 

were only last night; and I can recall most of those nice soothing things 

kind old Mrs. Follidodd was saying to the little darling, in simple baby 

dialect, for which I there and then resolved to give her a new bonnet tomorrow. 

“By-and-bye the bed-room door suddenly opened, and, ah, thrilling 

recollection! dear Mrs. Folly, (as I used to call her,) held before my 

devouring eyes my precious little first-born child. Ah! Mr. Boomerang, 

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, 

sir, you would have beheld with your own eyes what no painter or poet 

in the world has ever yet succeeded in depicting, the fruition of a doating 

young father's hopes, and realization of his fondest dreams. 

“I held out my hands very nervously, and took the ‘little stranger.’ To 

describe my feelings as I did so, I must use extravagant figures, and you 

perhaps think I have been rather flighty already, so I will leave you to 

imagine them. I kissed it again and again, but very, very gently, lest I 

should kill it. Then I gazed on its calm slumbering face for some 

minutes — rapt in sublime cogitations, which soon voiced themselves in 

a spontaneous burst of original poetry, (you know I have a gift that way), 

while Mrs. Follidodd and Jemima stood by in solemn silence, with 

wonder and admiration visible in their open mouths. 

“ ‘Darling little daisy! it smiles,’ I gently ejaculated, as I gazed on its 

ruddy features with my heart and eyes overflowing with poetic fire and 

water. ‘Can't you see, nurse?’ 

“ ‘It's only just the wind in its little inside, that's all. Let me take it, sir.’ 

“I felt vexed with the stupid old woman, and as I handed the infant 

back to her I replied sharply, ‘It's no such thing as wind, Mrs. Follidodd.’ 

“The old lady did not reply to me, but sat down in a rocking chair and 

began patting the little dear on its back, and talking at me in a very 

provoking manner. ‘Did de nasty windy pindy dit on its 'ittle tummack, 

and pain my 'ittle wicksy picksy, an make its 'ittle lips curl up, did it den? 

Hoosh sh-sh! Hark! There, Jemima, did you hear that? Didn't I say so?’ 

“The old lady then rose from her seat, and trotted into the bedroom 

with her little charge, and evidently piqued at my rash dissent from her 

judgment, founded on long professional experience, the correctness of 

which had been so soundly demonstrated. 

“I felt as grieved as if I had wickedly mocked my mother; and was 

most anxious to express sorrow; but Mrs. Follidodd was then too busy to 

be approached on ordinary errands. I was terribly disappointed too, for I 

had scarcely seen my babe, much less had time for the observations 

which I was desirous to make on its phrenological development. Fulsome 

pride at my new dignity of father had blinded me to the respect which 

was due to one whom I had a few hours before felt under such weighty 

obligations for her unremitting care for my dear Ruth, and upon whose 

watchful skill my happiness so much depended. I felt humbled, even in 

that season of exultation; and as I resumed my promenade in the 

verandah, I was led to reflect on the power of truth, and how the simplest 

little thing will sometimes force conviction on the mind as sensibly as a 

broadside from a frigate. 

“The next morning Mrs. Follidodd looked rather cross, but my welltimed 

allusion to the new bonnet completely cured her, and removed a 

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 

pretty in their nice white caps, et cetera. How pleased and proud I felt to 

be sure, as I stood and gazed at them, and kissed them alternately, while I 

fancied that I never before felt my heart so brimfull of love. 

“In a fortnight my dear Ruth was able to get on to the parlour sofa; and 

you can fancy how delighted I was to see her there, dressed in a chaste 

print robe, with bows down the front; a white cashmere shawl over her 

shoulders, and her long dark hair falling in negligé bands over her 

delicate face. I often stood and gazed at her as she sat with her baby in 

arms, till I felt my breast swelling with fatherly pride and affection. 

“Soon afterwards, Mrs. Follidodd took her departure, with her bonnetbox 

and carpet-bag, and, to tell the truth, I did not grieve after her; 

although she was a nice old lady, and as merry as a magpie. I am fond of 

music, Mr. Boomerang, as I have before stated; still I got very weary of 

nurse's standard melodies before her month expired. Those ancient 

rhymes commencing with 

‘Hey diddle diddle, 

The cat and the fiddle,’ 

are not ‘lacking in startling incident, and in their moral aspect, are 

preferable to some of the popular songs of modern times; still, I doubt if 

any person would like to hear ‘a cat and a fiddle' all day long, unless he 

were music-mad. That was a favourite song with Mrs. Follidodd, and she 

believed it had a soothing influence on my infant, though I think she 

must have observed that it had a contrary effect on me. 

“My darling's vocal performances, too, began to be less interesting to 

me than they were when I first heard them; not that they were diminished 

in power — quite the contrary — but they were rather too frequent, and 

they occasionally interfered with my nocturnal repose. 

“ ‘Do pat that dear child's back, my love,’ I said to Ruth one night, as I 

sat up in bed and rubbed my sleepy eyes with my nightcap. ‘I cannot 

think whatever ails it. Are you quite sure there are no pins irritating its 

little person, my dear?’ 

“Ruth answered me in a quicker tone than usual, that ‘it had neither 

pins nor needles to worry it.’ 

“ ‘Well, then it must be ill,’ I replied, ‘and I will consult Doctor Dollop 

about it to-morrow.’ 

“Accordingly, the next morning, I called at his surgery, and explained 

to him very carefully all the distressing symptoms I had observed in my 

infant, especially dwelling on its frequent fits of grief. 

“The doctor smiled blandly, as if I were joking with him, which rather 

vexed me, for I thought it no joke to lose two hours' sleep on the previous 

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, 

Doctor Dollop.’ 

“ ‘That is quite a mistake, my dear Mr. Wobble,’ replied the doctor 

with another bland smile. ‘I assure you I want patients much more 

frequently than patients really want me. But pray sit down, sir, and let us 

have a little quiet chat. Your infant is in no immediate want of my 

services, so make you mind easy about that; and if you can spare half-anhour 

I will give you a few hints which may be useful to you as a father, 

and perhaps spare you and your good wife much unnecessary anxiety in 

future, and your infant much discomfort too. Will you take the arm-chair, 

sir?’ 

“So I sat down, and the doctor gave me some advice, which certainly 

saved me a vast deal of worry afterwards, and perhaps saved my infant 

from having unlimited doses of physic poured down its little throat, to 

half poison it, and make it grow up as sour as native currants. Some of 

his hints may be useful to you, Mr. Boomerang, if you should ever have 

any ‘little strangers’ in your establishment. 

“After advising me to accustom my child to a cold bath morning and 

evening; to abstain from administering narcotics, or medicines of any 

kind except under professional advice; to avoid coddling in its 

multitudinous forms; and to allow it plenty of pure fresh air, Doctor 

Dollop further remarked — 

“ ‘With regard to the frequent cries of your child, Mr. Wobble, it is not 

right for you to draw an unfavourable inference from them; for in most 

instances their cries imply the effort which children make to exercise the 

organs of respiration. Nature has wisely ordained that by these very 

efforts the power and utility of functions so essential to life should be 

developed. Hence it follows, that those over-anxious parents who always 

endeavour to prevent infants from crying, do them a material injury; for 

by such imprudent management their children seldom acquire a perfect 

form of the breast, while the foundation is laid in the pectoral vessels for 

obstructions and other diseases. In the first period of life such exertions 

are almost the only exercise of the infant; hence it is improper to 

consider every noise that it makes as a claim upon our assistance, and to 

intrude either food or drink with a view to satisfy its supposed wants. 

There are instances, however, in which the loud complaints of infants 

deserve our attention. Thus, if their cries be unusually violent and long 

continued, we may conclude that they are troubled with colic pains. If on 

such occasions they move their arms and hands repeatedly towards the 

face, painful teething may account for the cause. In such, and in many 

other symptoms, remedial measures may be called for. But, depend upon 

it, Mr. Wobble, that in general, the less you try to assist nature the better; 

for we learn from daily experience that children who have been the least 

indulged thrive much better, unfold all their faculties quicker, and

acquire more muscular strength and vigour of mind, than those who have 

been constantly favoured, and treated by their parents with the most 

scrupulous attention; or in other words who have been coddled and 

spoiled.’ 

“I thanked Dr. Dollop for his kind and candid advice, which had 

sensibly shaken my confidence in flannel bedgowns and nightcaps, as 

well as in soothing syrups and other compounds, which I had had a sort 

of traditionary belief were as indispensable to the nursery as life-buoys 

were to a fleet. I went home with my mind much relieved, and at once 

began to enlighten my dear Ruth, and to confer with her upon the most 

judicious course to mark out for the future physical and moral training of 

our darling, having in mind what somebody has sagely remarked, ‘That 

children are like jellies, as they are moulded so they turn out.’ 

“Our numerous friends now began to make their formal calls, to see 

Ruth and the baby. I cannot tell you all the extravagant eulogiums they 

bestowed upon the latter; but I may say, that the generally expressed 

opinion was that it was a perfect beauty, the very image of its mamma, 

with a remarkable resemblance to its papa. 

“Time rolled on, and of course, trouble rolled on with it. Measles and 

mumps, and other incidental ailments, came to prove to us that our little 

treasure was not exempt from the common inheritance of mankind. Still 

it suffered far less than some poor infants do, who are half suffocated 

with physic and flannel by over-anxious nurses. Like a tight little bark, it 

weathered all those waves of trouble; though the squalls were sometimes 

very long and strong, and our hearts were often anxious. There were 

many seasons of joy for us too, when the sunshine of hope chased away 

the mists of gloomy fears. There was the joy of welcoming our darling's 

first ‘ 'ittle toosy,’ as it cut through its soft rubicund bed; and of 

beholding the first capering signs of recognition of its doting parents; of 

its first attempts to creep, and of its precocious efforts to talk. I shall 

never forget the bright evening when my delighted wife assured me 

immediately on my return home, that she had distinctly heard our poppet 

call, ‘dad, dad, dad!’ How eagerly I listened and longed to hear it repeat 

that infantile abbreviation of its father's name. Nor shall I forget my joy 

when the next week I heard it say, ‘mam, mam, mam!’ Those early 

efforts to talk were considered remarkable by all our friends, some of 

whom appeared to take a peculiar interest in the budding wisdom which 

we from day to day observed in our offspring, and coincided in our 

opinion that it was not a common child. 

“It had a hard fight with its eye teeth, and symptoms of convulsions 

more than once appeared; but a tepid bath wrought wonders in relieving 

them, and a sixpenny rattle was a hundred fold more efficacious in 

restoring quiescence than a gallon of soothing syrup would have been. 

“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 

squatted in opposite corners of the room, and with outstretched arms, we 

alternately stimulated our wee tiny legs to ‘tum to its mammy,’ or ‘dow 

to its daddy;’ while the fun of seeing it tumble down two or three times 

on each short journey, was richer than ‘blind man's buff.’ 

“But I must get on a little faster with my story,” said Mr. Wobble, “for 

I'm afraid you'll get sleepy, Mr. Boomerang. Years rolled on, and my 

happy home resounded with juvenile fun and frolic, for I have been 

blessed with more little strangers in the meantime, all of whom sprung 

up healthy and strong except one, who was nipped down like a young 

rose-bud. But I will not tell you about that darling one just now, sir,” said 

the old man, as he dashed a tear from his eye-lid. “She is not lost; and 

anon I shall see her again; not as a child, perhaps, but as a lovely maiden, 

fairer than the flowers of paradise, arrayed in dazzling immortal robes, 

‘brighter than brightness.’ ” 

Old Mr. Wobble was here seized with a troublesome spasm in his 

windpipe, but he soon recovered, and thus began again — 

“Habit in a child is at first like a spider's web, neglected it becomes like 

a thread or twine, next a cord or rope, finally a cable; then who can break 

it? Those thoughts are not my own, Mr. Boomerang, but I can attest their 

truth; and I ever tried to keep them in mind in the early training of my 

young ones. Without curtailing their childish amusements, I have been 

careful in seeing that they were of an innocent character, and have 

frequently joined in their romping games, in order to observe if there 

were anything objectionable in them or in their playmates, and though I 

was sometimes as merry and frolicsome as a schoolboy in their midst, I 

was guarding them against vulgar or pernicious actions, or slangy 

expressions, with the vigilance of a schoolmaster. 

“ ‘I'll slap your head,’ said Ruth, one day to little Joe, who had 

accidentally thrown his boot into a saucepan full of beef-tea. Ruth would 

get rather excited sometimes, poor thing, about trifles; but her anger 

usually subsided quicker than the effervescence on a bottle of ginger pop. 

She was as good a mother as ever rocked a cradle, only she now and then 

got impatient, and would say cross things which she didn't really mean, 

and which she would cry over afterwards, and then be foolishly indulgent 

to the little object of her wrath. ‘Drat that boy,’ said Ruth, ‘he's spoiled 

every drop of that nice beef broth with his dirty boot, I'll slap your head 

for you, I will, you young rattletrap.’ 

“ ‘Slap it gently then, my dear,’ I whispered, ‘as you have promised to 

do it, but don't promise to slap it again; for the head, though it looks 

pretty hard externally, contains some exquisitely delicate material, as 

physiologists explain to us; and they in general agree, too, that the brain 

is the seat of the reasoning faculties. Now, my dear, suppose you were to 

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 

combativeness, or destructiveness, that would be a very serious matter, 

no doubt; but what would be your feelings as long as you lived, if your 

hasty slap on the head were to disorganise those wonderful faculties of 

the brain altogether, and cause poor Joe to drivel out his days a moping 

idiot, or a raving maniac?’ 

“Ruth looked horrified at my question, as well she might. ‘Oh! Peter,’ 

she said, with tears in her eyes, ‘I have never thought of that dreadful 

risk. I will promise never to slap a child on its head again — never.’ 

“ ‘That's right, my dear,’ said I, ‘for it's a dangerous mode of inflicting 

punishment, although a very common one. ‘I'll box your ears!’ is the last 

expression which many a poor child's reason has comprehended; and I 

dare say there are wretched beings this day in our lunatic asylums, whose 

incurable maladies are really chargeable to unlucky slaps on the head in 

childhood; and many other poor creatures are wriggling through life with 

crooked spines, or otherwise distorted limbs, caused by hasty blows of 

heavy-handed parents. Whenever I hear folks pettishly talk of giving 

their children a good thumping, I shudder worse than if I were in danger 

of being kicked by an elephant.’ 

“I disapprove of corporal punishment as a rule, Mr. Boomerang, still I 

do not dispute the correctness of the proverb about sparing the rod and 

spoiling the child, by no means. A rod in a household of young children 

is perhaps as essential for the preservation of peace and decorum as 

policemen are in a city; but if proper judgment be used, the rod need only 

be kept to look at. That is my opinion, founded upon experience. I used 

to keep a short switch, a little thicker than a lark's leg, hanging over the 

clock; and on rare occasions I have taken it down and administered two 

or three smart strokes to a refractory youngster, on a part where there 

was no risk of bruising bones. It tingled unpleasantly, no doubt, but it did 

no physical injury; and it is surprising how durable its moral effects 

were. I had only to look up at the clock if Master Joe were uproarious, 

and perhaps, quietly remark that a small piece of stick liquorice might do 

him good, when he would be as quiet as a dead mouse in a minute. Joe 

knew what was the time of day when I looked at the clock, if he were 

naughty; and he knew too, that if he did not immediately mend his 

manners if would soon strike one. But the rod over the clock was 

something like my grandmother's warming-pan, which hangs up in my 

kitchen, more for show than for use; and I don't think I have used it four 

times in forty years. 

“I have heard it remarked, ‘that the most uncomfortable house to live 

in, is a house full of pets; such as pet dogs, pet canaries, pet parrots, cats, 

and cockatoos, but worse than all pet children.’ I subscribe to that 

opinion, though not so much from personal experience, as from casual 

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 

do anything they like, to keep them from fretting. Such pet children are 

not much less than little nuisances; and I feel almost malicious enough to 

make faces at them, and frighten them away, whenever they come near 

me. If such spoiled ones do not grow up mischievous, and immensely 

troublesome to their parents, and to society at large, it will only be 

through the merciful interposition of Divine grace. 

“I could give you a score of illustrations on the subject, but you are 

nodding, Mr. Boomerang, which shews that you have had enough of it, 

and I must beg pardon for keeping you so late. I declare it is past 

midnight.” 

“You have not far to walk home, however,” continued Mr. Wobble, as 

I buttoned on my overcoat, and walked to the door. “But stay, sir, take 

my knobby stick, to keep the street dogs from picking your bones on the 

way. By the by, I wish you could add to the present Dog Act a little 

clause, making it compulsory on owners of curs to chain them up, or 

hang them. Then equestrians would run less risk of having their necks 

broken, and pedestrians of having their legs bitten, and everybody's ears 

would be relieved of an intolerable nocturnal discord, equalled only by 

the screams of the prowling cats that infest this locality, and so 

frequently spoil my repose. 

“I have often thought of extemporising a cataract of scalding hot water 

from my bedroom window on to the screeching toms and tabbies 

beneath; but it would probably damage the fur of the animals, and if they 

happened to be pets their owners might be pettish, and sue me for 

damages.” 

“Good night, Mr. Wobble,” said I as I shook my old friend's hand. 

“Don't stand any longer in the open doorway talking about cats, or you'll 

catch catarrh.”

The Wag, and the Wager. 

THERE once lived a tippler, I need not tell where, 

The genus is lucklessly not very rare. 

If you doubt it, just walk through our streets for an hour, 

And doubts will flee, faster than pigs in a shower. 

The veteran toper of whom I now write 

Would tipple strong liquor from morning till night; 

His nose was as red as an over-ripe plum, 

Surcharged with the essence of brandy and rum. 

He one day agreed a large bet to decide, 

And prove his good taste, all his glory and pride: 

With eyes closely bandaged, by taste or by smell, 

The names of all liquids he'd instantly tell. 

The stakes were paid down, and the bandage was tied, 

Then Nosey with spirits and wine was supplied. 

Each sample presented, he named with a grin, 

Which shook his fat sides, for he thought he would win. 

And said, as he chuckled, “why who would suppose 

I'd not know the stuff that has painted my nose? 

My every day diet for forty-five years! 

Pooh! none but sheer ninnies could have such ideas.” 

“Come take off the bandage — the wager is won.” 

“Hold! hold!” cried a wag, “wait a bit, I've not done.” 

He then of pure water, poured out a full glass, 

And grinned like a blackfellow riding an ass. 

Old Tom took the glass, and sipped and then smelt it, 

Then close to his car he attentively held it. 

Quoth he, “it's not grog; to that fact I would swear; 

But what stuff it is, I don't know, I declare.” 

“It ain't got no flavor; it won't hiss nor fizz — ” 

“Time's up,” cried the wag, “Can you tell what it is?” 

“I can't,” said old Tom, (with a grunt like a boar), 

“For I never have tasted such liquor before.”

Jack Tars, Ahoy! 

HEAVE to, my hearties! while I spin you a yarn, which may serve you 

for a life-line, if you will coil it away in your memory's locker. But hold 

on a bit, let me hoist my number, lest you mistake me for some hungry 

cruiser, wanting to board you for your dunnage. I am as true a Briton as 

ever loved roast beef, or sung “God save the Queen;” and the Union Jack 

is flying at my mizen peak, which is a sign that I am not a pirate, or a 

privateer. I claim to be a friend of seamen, and though I am not a 

professional sailor (as the cockney said, when he voyaged round the 

London Tower ditch in a baker's trough), I know all the ropes on board a 

ship, from the spanker sheet to the flying-jib downhaul. I can hand, reef, 

and steer — or I could when I was young and able — I could also splice 

a rope, strop a block, or do an odd job with a palm and needle; though 

only in amateur's style. I have been shaved by Neptune's barber, with a 

razor like a saw, and shaving paste à la tur tub; and have been bled and 

blistered by the same amphibious functionary, though I cannot 

recommend him either as an easy shaver or a satisfactory surgeon. I have 

doubled Cape Horn in winter, and was nearly doubled up myself with 

cold, I have scudded round Cape of Good Hope under bare poles, but 

have not the slightest wish to scud round it again in similar weather, I 

have made several long voyages, and scores of short voyages to sea, and 

have had many sailors in my service, at sea and on shore too; so I may 

without presumption say I know something about sea life, and seamen. I 

have always felt a strong interest in their welfare; and it is that friendly 

feeling which prompts me now to take up my pen. 

Yes, I recollect, feeling a strong affection for seamen, long before I 

ever stepped on a deck, or knew the flavour of salt junk, or the colour of 

sea water. Many a time have I sat, when a boy, under a tree in Greenwich 

Park, and listened to a tough yarn from some old weather beaten tar, in a 

quaintly cut blue coat and cocked hat, a timber leg, and his face the 

colour of a cedar chest; and as he has stumped to and fro, with his 

telescope under his arm, as if he were pacing the deck of the forecastle; 

narrating in his sea lingo, the exciting particulars of the action, in which 

he received that slash on the cheek, or that smash on the nose; where his 

starboard arm was disabled by a splinter, and his larboard leg carried 

away by a chain shot; I have felt, as he touchingly described his 

sufferings, my soft young heart move, and almost melt, like a lump of

pitch in a hot ladle. 

I can call to mind too, my tender emotion, when for the first time, I 

visited Greenwich College, and the Dreadnought Hospital-ship, and saw 

many poor old veterans on their “beam-ends,” total wrecks; and others 

“hove down in their bunks for repairs.” I ever afterwards felt a virtuous 

disposition to thrash the vulgar street boys, who cruelly delighted to tease 

some of those poor old pensioners, as they hobbled through the streets, 

by shouting “timber toes, or goose.” 

I recollect too, when I was a schoolboy, how I used to admire, and 

envy, the natty little midshipmen, whom I occasionally saw on shore, 

dressed in their gold-laced caps, blue jackets with gold buttons, and 

“white ducks.” I used to think they were all embryo heroes, and that no 

profession was so full of adventure, and éclat as theirs. I longed to be a 

middy, for I fancied they always wore “white ducks” and faces as bright 

as their buttons; and I knew that they rejoiced in the favour of the pretty 

girls and fond old matrons all the world over. Of course, I had then never 

seen middies as I have since seen them in a gale of wind, huddled under 

the lee of the long-boat, like half-drowned chickens, or dancing beneath 

the break of the poop, on a cold stormy night, to keep their toes from 

freezing, dressed in rough monkey-jackets, sou'wester hats, and tarpaulin 

trousers. There was very little romance about them or their rig, at such 

time: and no more shine in their buttons then than in rusty rivets; while 

“white ducks” were as scarce on deck as white swans. 

Poor Jack tars! I have often lain in my cot on a dark stormy night, and 

listened to your shouts and songs, sounding in dismal concert with the 

howling of the wind through the ratlines. I have often, too, had 

troublesome fears, while you were aloft on the top-sail yards, lest the 

rigging should be chafed or rotten in any part, and, during a heavy lurch, 

the masts should carry away, and I should see you no more. Aye, and I 

have frequently gone on deck to lend you a hand when the sails were wet 

and heavy, and the ropes ran stiffly through the blocks; and you were 

glad of my little voluntary help. The officer of the middle watch, too, 

was often glad of my company when on his dreary duty. 

I can call to mind many dismal nights, far in the icy south; when 

running under small sail, and the sea like a cliff high above the taff-rail, 

threatening every minute to overwhelm us. And one night especially, 

when the decks were white with snow, and the wind roared through the 

shrouds like thunder: scarcely a stitch of canvas could be spread on the 

groaning ship, which was rushing through the foaming waters like some 

mad monster of the deep, and the officer of the watch stood by the 

steersmen, anxiously engaged in conning the course. Two men, as white 

as millers, were lashed to the helm, and skilfully they performed their 

arduous duty. “Steer steadily, my brave men,” I shiveringly ejaculated as 

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 

stately ship and her gallant crew, with her tons of gold, and her forty 

sleeping passengers, to the rocky caves below;” and as I turned into my 

warm cot, how much I sympathized with those poor fellows on deck! 

— how much I felt indebted to sailors! Doubtless many of my readers 

have felt in a similar way. 

I have also seen a ship trembling like a terrified steed, as she rushed 

before the fury of a tornado, and while some of the sails, which had been 

blown from the gaskets, were flying in ribbons, and making a noise like a 

hundred stockwhips; and while the strong masts bent before the blast, 

like bulrushes; I have seen a sailor, with an axe in his hand, lay out on 

the main yardarm, and cut away the chain topsailsheet, which had got 

foul, while other equally brave men, at the imminent risk of their lives 

and limbs, cut the flapping sails from the yards. Such feats of daring 

deserved something more than coarse fare and four pounds a month. 

And I have been on board a steamer, off the Australian coast, when I 

would have gladly given a year's income to have been safe on shore. 

When the green seas were tumbling over the vessel, and carrying away 

chain boxes, and everything moveable, from the decks — when blue 

lightning played dangerously about the masts and funnel, and the pealing 

thunder was heard above the roaring of the wind and waves — when the 

captain and his officers were eagerly looking for Sydney lighthouse 

through the thick rain and darkness — and when many of the sea-sick 

passengers below were fearing they would never see that welcome light 

again. How much I felt indebted to sailors then! 

By the way, I remember on one occasion, while lying wind-bound in a 

northern port, hearing several wealthy colonists — at a dinner table 

— describe a fearful night they had passed in a favourite coasting 

steamer, during an easterly gale. They stated that the captain kept on the 

bridge during the whole of that protracted passage, exposed to the full 

force of the storm; and on their arrival at Sydney the next day, he had to 

be carried below, and put to bed, being completely exhausted. I heard 

those gentlemen confess that they owed their lives, on that awful night, 

to the watchfulness and skilful seamanship of the captain, aided, of 

course, by his officers and crew. But whether those wealthy colonists 

ever acknowledged their obligations in any more tangible shape, I am not 

aware. 

As I write, I have harrowing reminiscences of my visit to the ill-fated 

Orpheus, at the invitation of a beloved friend, a promising young officer 

(and a true Christian), who perished at his post, in the sad wreck on 

Manakau Bar, on the 7th February, 1863. 

I inspected nearly every part of that noble steamship, which then lay at 

anchor in Farm Cove — and as I walked round her decks, I could not but 

he struck with the healthy and cheerful appearance of her crew. A finer

lot of young seaman I never beheld. 

Poor fellows! it is sad, indeed! to reflect upon their untimely fate, so 

soon afterwards. That melancholy wreck engaged my thoughts by day, 

and my dreams by night, for weeks after its occurrence. Often I have 

imagined the heart-piercing cries of those one hundred and ninety noble 

fellows, as my fancy has pictured the terrible scene, at the moment when 

the masts fell crashing over the side, and hurled them through the boiling 

surf, into the jaws of death. 

Yes, I sympathise with sailors most cordially. I love them as a class, 

and feel glad to observe any movement for their benefit. 

Of course I do not mean to say that they are all honest hearted, though 

rough and rollicksome. I have occasionally sailed with intolerable 

nuisances, yclept “sea lawyers,” with tongues as lively as seals' flippers, 

though not so harmless; I have also met with lazy, drunken, and 

dangerous fellows, who would do anything Old Mischief prompted to 

annoy their captain or officers; and I have also seen captains and officers 

who would do anything to annoy their crew. Still, such characters, 

though by no means rare, are not plentiful; and I have met with honest 

and true men in an overwhelming majority, and I believe that most 

unprejudiced travellers could make a similar report. 

But I fancy I hear some impatient son of Neptune exclaim, as he 

hitches up his nether garments, “Odds! blow me through a bunghole, 

shipmate. This yarn of yours arn't no use to us for a ‘stand-by!’ Belay 

that lady's bobbin, and pay out something handy for us, as you promised 

to do, when you first hailed us to heave-to. We don't want any more 

wordy sympathy, and that sort of music, because, though it sounds as 

sweetly as a jew's-harp, it isn't very satisfying — as the hungry sailor 

said when he swallowed a snowball. We are nice, handy men in a squall, 

as everybody knows who has been to sea; and most people believe that 

they would be very short of sugar and tea, and one or two other things, if 

it were not for sailors. Oh, yes, sir; all the world knows our wonderful 

virtues, and sometimes we are appreciated too — by timid passengers, in 

very bad weather especially. 

“Please to bear a hand, Mr. Boomerang, and spin something worth our 

while to coil away in our sea chests.” 

“Ay, ay, my hearties!” I reply. “Stand by for it now. You know that old 

age overtakes seamen as well as landsmen, and the former are peculiarly 

liable to infirmities, besides those which are usually incidental to old age. 

You active young A.B.'s (able seamen) can now shin up to the 

maintruck, and slide down again by the backstay, or lay out on the yardarm 

in a gale, as nimbly as squirrels, and you can do a hard day's work 

and laugh all the while, for your supple limbs are as strong as capstan 

bars. The winter winds may howl along our iron coast and lash the sea 

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 

gales than an albatross. But hold on a small bit, mates! I am sorry to 

prognosticate bad cheer, but I must be faithful, or I should not be your 

true friend. By-and-by old Time will make most of you shiver in the 

wind. Old age comes prematurely to the sailor, and is frequently attended 

with an unwelcome train of disorders, especially induced by hardship 

and exposure, and sometimes by culpable neglect, and excesses of 

various kinds. Rheumatism, and other painful affections of that class, 

will probably coil round you, and disqualify you for able seamen's duty. 

At the call of the boatswain — ‘all hands reef topsails’ you could no 

more take your old place at the weather earing, than you could dance a 

hornpipe on your head. Perhaps all your bones will ache as if you had 

been under a coal shoot for twenty minutes, or been caught in a hurricane 

in a cocoa-nut plantation. As a sailor, you will not be worth your beef 

and biscuit; and if you are not fortunate enough to get a berth in the 

galley as cook or cook's mate, you will be roused ashore like an old rusteaten 

cable, or a sprung spar that can't be fished. Then if you have not 

friends, who are able and willing to give you daily rations, and a place to 

sling your hammock for the rest of your life, you must steer for the 

Benevolent Asylum; or else wander about the streets, without home or 

habitation, picking up a precarious meal where you can; sleeping under 

gateways, or doorways, or under the trees in the Domain, with the dark 

clouds for your blanket; varied only by a night's lodging, now and then, 

in the watchhouse, by way of a luxury. 

Shipmates! this is no overdrawn picture from imagination; and if you 

doubt it, just pay a visit to the Benevolent Asylum any day in the week, 

or get up early on any Sunday morning in the year, and go to the 

Temperance Hall, to the breakfast for destitute outcasts. You would see 

many poor old sailors, jury-rigged, stagger into those places, the latter 

place in particular, deplorable looking objects, without a shot in the 

locker, without a cover from the storm by night or by day; ill-clad, 

hungry, diseased, and friendless. Poor old tars, whose best years have 

been spent in hard service; but now, disabled and unfit for sea, they are 

cast ashore like drift wood, or sea-weed, to be tossed about on the rocky 

strand of poverty, by the surges of misfortune, till death terminates their 

earthly sufferings, and they are rattled away to a pauper's grave. 

I repeat it; this is no flight of fancy, but a sadly accurate, every-day 

picture from real life, of which any of my readers, be they seamen or 

landsmen, may satisfy themselves, without much trouble. 

Messmates, help a brother sailor! All you able seamen can lend a hand 

to some of these poor old disabled brother tars, if you have the will, and 

many of them would be very grateful if you would throw them a tow-line 

or a cork fender. But my present object is not so much to appeal to you 

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 

going to tell you of a good plan for doing so. Now carefully log down 

what follows. 

I will assume that I am addressing an active young man of twenty-one 

years of age. Well, brother, you may make a comfortable provision for 

your wants in old age by means of a deferred annuity. I will simply 

explain to you what that means. By paying yearly, the sum of seven 

pounds two shillings and sixpence, which is about two shillings and 

ninepence a week, or about fourpence-halfpenny a day, you may insure 

fifty pounds a year (with bonus additions), to be paid to you as long as 

you live, after you have arrived at fifty-five years of age; at which age, I 

dare say you will begin to feel you have had enough of sea service. You 

can insure for a larger or smaller amount, than fifty pounds, at the same 

rate; and a man of any age may make a similar provision; only, of course, 

the older he is, the higher rate of premium he will have to pay. 

You would have no difficulty in making the above provision, if you 

were so disposed, either in Sydney or elsewhere, for you will find 

assurance offices in almost every sea port. There are many other 

advantages offered to the careful man, besides a deferred annuity, by 

those excellent institutions, of which you could acquaint yourselves, by 

getting printed rules, or by applying for information to any of the Life 

Assurance agents. 

The expense cannot be a real obstacle to you, for even at the present 

rather low rate of wages, I believe it would be possible for any steady 

seaman to save enough to pay an annuity premium, and put something in 

the Savings' Bank too. I would strenuously urge seamen in particular, but 

landsmen also, to lose no time in making that easy provision for their 

life's winter. 

Shipmates! my yarn is nearly spun out; but before I whip the end of it, 

I want to ask you to read the story — in another part of this volume 

— about my poor friend Louis, the sailor, who was washed overboard on 

his voyage to New Zealand, and let me urge you to do as I trust poor 

Louis did, viz., live in preparation for the awful call, which death will 

make upon you, at some time, and you know not the day nor the hour. 

You are peculiarly exposed to danger, and like Louis, you may be 

washed overboard without warning. 

And now, my hearties, fill your sails and go on your voyage; I hope 

you may have fair winds and fine weather. But hold — luff up a bit; 

listen attentively to these few words before we part company; get such a 

chart as I gave to poor Louis (if you have not one) a Holy Bible — study 

it carefully, and frequently; steer by its directions; and if you do so, when 

the stormy seas of life are passed, you shall enter with flowing sheets the 

placid haven of Rest above, and there let go your anchors for ever.

A Crippled Ship with a Wrangling Crew. 

MANY years ago, when our fleet of coasting steamers was far less 

extensive than it is at the present time, and when perhaps the discipline 

on ship board was less perfect, I left Sydney one night for a northern port 

not far away. I was accompanied by a young gentleman (now occupying 

an influential position in the colony), who was about to pay a visit to my 

house, for a little relaxation from hard college studies. Strange to say, 

although a native of the colony, my friend had never before been on the 

sea, and when the steamer first felt the ocean roll as she passed the light 

ship, he began to anticipate that awful sensation, of which he had heard 

and read such moving descriptions, i. e., sea sickness; and the bare idea 

of it turned his complexion a blighted lemon colour. To counteract his 

squeamishness if possible, I led him under the bridge between the 

paddle-boxes, where the motion of the ship was less perceptible; and 

there he stood trying to analyze his peculiar feelings, and philosophising 

thereupon, much to my edification and amusement, for I had never 

experienced sea sickness, and had never before seen a sea-sick man 

merry, or heard one make a joke that was not of a dismal cast. 

There were many passengers on board, but they were all below, for 

there was a strong head wind and a drizzling rain, though the sea was not 

so heavy as I had often seen it at the same spot. Soon after the steamer 

had shaved round North Head, she began to pitch and toss and to duck 

her head under water, after the playful style of fast steamers in general, 

which astonished my inexperienced friend, who, by-the-bye, asked me in 

rather a quavering voice, “If there was any danger of our going to the 

bottom?” 

“Oh, dear, no!” I replied, “we are safe enough. This is the best sea-boat 

in the colony, and the captain knows the coast as well as you know 

Church Hill. I then explained that the vessel was in troubled waters, 

caused by the rebound of the waves after striking the base of the cliffs, 

but that she would be steadier when we got further to sea. As I was 

ending my comforting explanation, I saw an immense breaking wave rise 

on our starboard bow, and I had just time to direct my half paralyzed 

friend to hold fast to the handle of a pump, affixed to the paddle-box, 

when a green sea broke over the bows and filled the decks with water, 

knocking a number of barrels of beer down to leeward, turning a carriage 

on deck upside down, and nearly throwing the vessel on her beam ends.

Simultaneously I heard the well-known voice of the captain, shouting 

loudly for help; so I ran aft, and found him at the helm, and the late 

steersman (who was thrown over the wheel and had his jaw broken), 

lying in the lee scuppers groaning with pain. I was about to lift the poor 

fellow, when the captain called to me “to let him lie, and to run forward 

and rouse the hands out.” My allusion to the improved discipline in 

coasting steamers in the present day, will be appreciated when I state that 

the captain, the second mate, and the steersman, were the only persons 

belonging to the ship on deck at the time of the mishap. I ran forward, 

but found that the crew were “rousing out” without being called, for the 

forecastle was nearly half filled with water, and the sailors were hurrying 

up like drowning rats, and grumbling after their usual custom under such 

circumstances, while the second mate was violently kicking at the chief 

mate's cabin door, accompanying each kick with a curse, or something 

equivalent to it. Presently the door was opened, and the chief in a furious 

tone demanded what the other meant by knocking at his door in that 

sledge-hammer style. 

“Can't you see the ship is on her beam ends? Heave out and rouse some 

of this deck load up to windward, if you are not too drunk to stand. Bear 

a hand, or the ship will go down under us!” roared the second mate. 

“Bless the ship!” vociferated the savage chief. “How dare you talk to 

me in that manner? Bless your impudence! what do you mean by it? I'll 

punch your head in a minute,” he added, as he hastily drew on a 

necessary garment. 

“Will you?” exclaimed the second mate, squaring up like a professional 

boxer; “come on, I'm your man. I'll knock marlinspikes out of you!” 

While that angry dialogue was going on, the captain was shouting 

loudly from his post at the wheel, but no one heard what he said, or 

heeded his orders in the excitement of the affray, for the crew seemed all 

more interested in the sea fight than for the safety of the ship, which was 

plunging about in the trough of the sea, with one paddle-wheel 

submerged, and the other one high out of the water; while scarcely more 

than a quarter of a mile to leeward were the dark cliffs, looming upon us 

like the jaws of death. In the meantime my terrified friend was clinging 

to the pumphandle, in awful dread of tumbling into the engine-room, or 

being washed overboard, if he relaxed his hold for an instant, and 

wondering at the same time if that were an extraordinary occurrence in 

sea-life, or a mere nothing if he were used to it. 

I rushed in between the sparring mates, and in a tone of authority, 

which the emergency of the case warranted, I asked, “If they were mad, 

to waste time in quarrelling and fighting, when the lives of all on board 

were in peril?” adding, “get the ship upright, gentlemen, for mercy's 

sake! and fight afterwards if you choose. Be reasonable, gentlemen, I 

pray: leave off wrangling, and get the ship in trim, or we shall soon be

knocked to pieces on the rocks.” 

My appeal was effectual, for after promising to pay each other by-andbye, 

they set to work in earnest, and aided by the crew, soon got the 

drifted cargo up to windward, and afterwards shifted some of it aft, for it 

had been ascertained that the ship was seriously out of trim; being 

fourteen inches by the head, which accounted for her shipping seas over 

the bows in such an unusual manner. After the vessel was properly 

trimmed, and a skilful man sent to the helm, she went along comfortably, 

and without further mishap, for she was a fine lively sea boat, and 

sufficiently powerful to make headway against a hard gale, if properly 

managed. But she had a narrow escape from total wreck that night, 

through clumsy stowage in the first place, and afterwards through the 

insane disposition of her officers, to wrangle and fight, when they should 

have been using their utmost efforts to remedy their previous blunders, 

and to rescue the ship from the critical position in which their 

mismanagement had involved her. 

After the sailors had fairly got to work, and I saw that my aid was not 

further required, I assisted my friend down to the cabin; and as I changed 

my wet clothing, I quietly chuckled at the various remarks of the scared 

passengers around me, few of whom really understood the nature of the 

disaster. While some blamed the captain, the ship, or the steersman, 

others included everybody and everything on board in a general grumble; 

but I remarked that only two or three of the more sensible sort went on 

deck to see what was the actual state of affairs, or to offer a helping hand. 

* * * * * 

As I before remarked, many years have passed since that occurrence, 

but analogous circumstances have often recalled it to my mind. In trying 

to draw a parallel between that crippled steamer and the political 

condition of the colony, I do not indulge a cynical spirit. I would rather 

burn my pen than merely use it for the purpose of exposing the faults and 

follies around me, with no better motive than to provoke a sneer at them. 

Though I seldom trouble any one with my political opinions, I am far 

from indifferent to subjects which it is the imperative duty of every man 

to gain an intelligent insight into; and saying that, is virtually admitting 

that I have been often pained at the waste of time and talent in our 

Legislative Assembly, which I could not fail to observe. 

Often as I have glanced over reports of stormy debates in the House, 

have I thought of the two belligerent mates, with the careless crew 

watching them sparring, while the poor captain was at the helm shouting 

himself hoarse, to no purpose, and have wished that I could step on to the 

floor of the House, between the contending parties, and say earnestly, but 

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 

of your ability! Why waste time in needless debates and factious 

opposition, when the interests of your constituents are in peril. Would 

you not censure the directors of a joint-stock company, if, when they met 

to discuss important measures for the benefit of their association, they 

showed the spirit of antagonism which I observe in this Assembly? And 

would you not expect to see their business soon go to wreck, and the 

poor ruined shareholders looking woe-begone at their unsaleable scrip? 

Pray don't let personal feelings or petty interests mar the general good of 

this great land; but be reasonable gentlemen, ‘leave off wrangling, and 

put the ship in trim.’ ” 

I would scarcely have hoped to arouse every one to a sense of the value 

of my semi-nautical suggestions, for some of the honourable members 

might have been obtuse, and others sleepy; but it a majority had seen the 

common sense application of my remarks, my object would perhaps have 

been gained. What a few irascible members would have said to such an 

uncommon message is, of course, uncertain, but the reasonable deduction 

is not flattering to myself, so I had better not speculate farther. 

But I wish to deal seriously with this subject — to say my little say, 

and thus ease my conscience, and to some extent fulfil my duty as a 

colonist, deeply interested in the moral and social welfare of this land 

and its people, and I would express myself with all due respect to our 

rulers, and without the slightest intention either to offend or to flatter one 

of them, on either side of the House. It is useless to lament over 

irretrievable errors, either public or private; but past experience should 

help us to regulate our future course. Happy for the colony if all our 

legislators have profited by the lessons which a careful review of past 

misapplied time is calculated to teach them. 

As I pen this rustic expression of my sentiments, “the House” is reopening 

for business, under — to some extent — a new Ministry; and 

from a careful survey of the list of honourable members, and a personal 

acquaintance with some of them, I cannot but believe that there are the 

essential elements for a good and wise government in the Assembly. If 

they would but waive all minor differences of opinion — which, after all, 

are not very distinguishable — and bring their collective wisdom to bear 

upon the various matters which imperatively call for prompt legislation, 

the effect of the past unskilful seamanship, and bad stowage (to continue 

my nautical figures), may be soon remedied, and the crippled ship put in 

good sailing trim. And notwithstanding the shaking she has had, with the 

heavy seas which have broken on board, she is still staunch and strong, 

and will soon begin to gather headway again; confidence in her officers 

and crew will be restored, and the passengers will all be happy and 

hopeful: while friends afar off will shake off their distrust, and heartily 

join in the glad shout, “Advance Australia.”

That is a pleasing picture; but as I look complacently at it, grave doubts 

arise in my mind if it will meet the eyes of our rulers, so I cannot hope it 

will effect all the reform I desire; and I fancy I hear some of my kind 

country friends say, “Ah! Old Boomerang is off his beaten track, and will 

soon be lost in the bush if he does not look out. Political economy is 

evidently not his favourite theme, for he handles it as nervously as a 

black fellow would a lighted sky-rocket. He had better stick to his storytelling, 

and leave politics for bolder pens.” I reply, “I don't often touch 

upon politics, for I have many other matters in hand; and as Hudibras 

says, ‘A man can do no more than he can do.’ But I ask you — my 

friends — to kindly bear with me while I offer you a word or two of 

counsel on this subject; and please to excuse me for comparing you to 

the passengers in the crippled steamer's cabin. Some of you, I am sure, 

are ready and willing to spring up on the deck of our colonial vessel, and 

lend a hand to trim it upright; but there are too many who choose to stay 

below and grumble, and frequently those persons talk loudest who 

cannot consistently say a word; I mean, those who were too apathetic to 

record their votes at the last general election, and those who voted 

without due discrimination. 

Many of you old men are fond of talking of politics by your evening 

firesides, which is very right and proper, and I should like to have a chat 

with you, now and then; and perhaps some of you have occasionally lost 

patience (at which I do not wonder), and have freely expressed 

disapprobation of doings or misdoings, while your young sons or 

grandsons have sat by with open ears. It is no marvel, then, if they, when 

out of your sight, should talk politics too; and in order to show that they 

are as witty as their sires, they ridicule certain members whom, perhaps, 

you have nicknamed, which is certainly not polite, to say the least of it, 

nor is it at all encouraging to a legislator to know that it is the popular 

sport to roast him behind his back, and joke about all that he says and 

does. In the name of fair play, I say, friends, remedy that as far as you 

can, and be as ready to award a meed of praise where it is due, as you are 

to censure; for after all, you know, legislators are only men. And depend 

upon it, if the ship is to be put in good trim, you must help to do it, either 

positively or negatively, according to your ability and influence; so 

calmly consider how you can best lend your aid, and then do it heartily. 

If these remarks, written with an honest motive, on the first day of a 

new session, should in any way help to right our lop-sided ship, I shall be 

much more pleased than I should be if I were triumphantly elected to the 

vacant seat for West Sydney, and further honoured with the Speaker's 

chair.

“Driving a Hard Bargain.” 

WHEN on a visit to England, I went one day to the farfamed gardens at 

Kew, where I saw, amongst many other things worthy of admiration, a 

variety of Australian shrubs, &c., which carried my gratified feelings 

away for a time to my loved adopted land far over the sea. 

Returning to London by railway, the train stopped for a few minutes at 

the Vauxhall station, when my attention was attracted to a placard, 

announcing that a “monster balloon” would ascend from some celebrated 

gardens in that vicinity, at seven o'clock, and would have 

accommodation for four passengers. 

Having travelled by almost every other mode of conveyance, I was 

seized with a strong desire to try a sail in a balloon, and get a bird's-eye 

view of London at the same time. So I alighted from the train, and 

walked straightway to the gardens before mentioned, whither crowds of 

people were wending their way. On paying the fee for admission, I was 

presented with a ticket, which entitled me to an equal chance with the 

other visitors, to a seat in the balloon car. 

The process of filling the balloon with gas now commenced; and for a 

small additional fee I was permitted to go within an enclosure and 

witness the manipulations. In a comparatively short time the enormous 

sphere of silk and network was sufficiently inflated, when that veteran 

aëronaut, Mr. Green, got into the car, and another man — his chief mate, 

I supposed — seated himself upon a sort of hoop above the car, and 

began to overhaul the valve lines; while Mr. Green arranged the ballast 

bags, coiled away sundry ropes, and secured his grapnels, with the 

carefulness and coolness of an expert yachtsman, when seeing his tacks 

and sheets all clear. In the meantime, a large black board was elevated in 

a conspicuous part of the garden, with four numbers chalked upon it; and 

the fortunate holders of tickets corresponding to those numbers were 

invited to show themselves. I was not one of the fortunate ones, so I saw 

that my chance of a ride in the air was gone, unless I could purchase a 

seat, as other persons, ambitious of lofty position, have done. 

In a short time four men hurried into the enclosure to claim their 

privileges as holders of the lucky numbers; so selecting the most 

nervous-looking man, I asked him if he would sell his ticket. 

“Yes, sir,” said the man, while his face underwent a rapid change for 

the better, “you shall have it for a pound.”

I drew out my purse, but found that it contained only fifteen shillings, 

which I offered to the man, who shook his head, and scornfully declared 

“he wouldn't take nineteen and sixpence — that it was dirt cheap at a 

pound.” 

“Jump in, gentlemen,” cried the captain of the balloon; “look sharp! 

look sharp! take your seats.” 

“Are you going to give me the pound, mister?” asked the nervous little 

man, as he scrambled into the wicker car. 

“I tell you again, I have but fifteen shillings with me,” I replied, “so I 

cannot give you more; and you had better take my offer. I don't believe 

the change of air will do you any good.” 

“Now I tell you what I'll do with you,” said the man, “I will take fifteen 

shillings and your umbrella — what do you say?” 

At that moment, the men who were holding the ropes, which secured 

the balloon to the earth, slackened them, when the machine ascended a 

few yards, and swayed to and fro, as if impatient to be off among the 

clouds. 

The little man began to look sea-sick as he shouted out with a 

considerable display of trepidation, “Well, here you are, sir; hand me the 

fifteen shillings and take my place, we won't fall out about an old 

umbrella.” 

But it was not an easy matter to hand him anything, considering that he 

was eight or ten yards above my head: so I replied, as I held up my purse, 

“Here is the money; come down one of the ropes, and I'll climb up by the 

same means.” 

“Oh, I'm afraid to go down the rope — pull the concern down, can't 

you,” shrieked the little man. And then, turning to the captain of the 

balloon, he said, “Hoy, master, tell those fellows to pull the thing down 

again; I want to get out — I'm not well, and I've sold my ticket.” 

The captain made some testy reply, and called to the men below to get 

ready to let go at the word of command. 

“I want to get out, I tell you,” roared the little man, who was now as 

pale as a white cat. “Hoy, you sirs; pull the concern down, and I'll give 

you sixpence. 

“Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!” laughed the unsympathising crowd, as the 

poor excited fellow stood up in the car, and was rather roughly pushed 

into his seat again by the irate aëronaut. 

“Yah! You'll never come down again on this side of the world, unless 

the balloon blows up,” roared one of the mob. “This is a fair wind for the 

East Indies; you'll land in a jungle, and be bolted by a boa constrictor.” 

“I wouldn't care if my wife knew where I am,” groaned the little man, 

scarcely knowing what he said. “I say, you sir; just go and tell her, will 

you? There she is yonder; that young woman in a red bonnet, with a baby 

in her arms.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the mob again, in a tumultuous chorus louder 

than before. 

“You'll never see that red bonnet, nor that baby any more,” shouted 

another of the comforters in the crowd. “Your wife is as good as a widow 

now; but don't cry, Joby; I'll take care of her — I'm a single man.” 

“Hoy! hoy, mister! You shall have my ticket for nothing!” shrieked the 

little man in the car. “Pull this confounded thing down, and let me get 

out. I don't want to go in your balloon at all, governor; I want to go 

home; I'm very ill, I tell you,” he continued, frantically addressing the 

obdurate old captain, who gruffly promised to throw him out “if he didn't 

sit down and make less noise.” 

“Good-bye, Joby,” cried a previous speaker. “I'll look after your missis; 

tat-ta — give my love to the Great Bear.” 

“I'd smash you, if I could get out of this basket,” roared the little man, 

in a great passion, shaking his fist at his tormentor. 

“Let go!” shouted the captain to the men below. The men let go, when, 

amidst the shouting, the loud laughter, and varied compliments of the 

assembled multitude, the balloon rose above the trees in the gardens, and 

was soon high in the air, looking not much bigger than a water-butt. I 

have no doubt that my haggling friend's enjoyment of the panorama 

beneath him was sadly marred by his extreme terror, and his selfreproach 

for refusing my reasonable offer for his ticket, combined with 

his anxiety for his wife and baby. 

Although I felt vexed at missing so favourable an opportunity for a ride 

above the world, I enjoyed a hearty laugh at the farcical discomfiture of 

the miserable little mortal, who had been so promptly punished for his 

cupidity in trying to extort from me more for his ticket than I was able to 

give him, and certainly more than he really thought it was worth. 

The foregoing little incident — although it taught me nothing new in 

principle — has often recurred to my memory, when I have seen the 

same covetous spirit exhibited in various ways, in my everyday 

intercourse with the world; and I have on other occasions seen speedy 

retribution follow similar acts of greediness, or attempts at driving hard 

bargains. 

I have repeatedly seen servants lose good situations, through 

obstinately demanding higher wages than they are worth, or than their 

employers were able to give them; and afterwards I have seen those same 

servants soliciting employment, of less desirable kind, and at much lower 

wages, when compelled by their exhausted finances to obtain work at 

any price. I have seen combinations of men striving to exact a little more 

pay for their labour than their employers could reasonably give; and 

invariably such attempts have been disastrous to the men and their 

families. 

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 

possibly make off the farms; and the same farms have remained 

unoccupied for years afterwards. I have also seen the shelves of a trader's 

warehouse filled with old-fashioned, or shop-worn goods, which he 

might have sold long before, at a moderate profit, but he chose to hold 

out for higher prices until his goods were almost unsaleable. Stores filled 

with grain and breadstuffs have often been over-run by devouring rats 

and weevils, while the owners have been waiting for famine prices, 

though they ultimately had to sell out at a ruinous loss. 

Covetousness, and the passion for driving hard bargains, or, in other 

words, extortion, is sadly prevalent the wide world over; and it would 

perhaps be unfair to particularise itinerant fishmongers, cabmen, or any 

other special class in the community, as the most incorrigible. I am 

prepared to demonstrate that such policy is a most unwise one; but I 

think I need not trouble myself to do so, as most persons who have tried 

it, have proved it so by their own experience; and some even more 

disagreeably than did the nervous little man who coveted my umbrella; 

besides, I have no faith in the power of mere human efforts, or dictums, 

to effectually cure that or any other extensive evil. I will, however, 

venture to offer a few words of advice, to newly-arrived immigrants 

especially; many of whom I have seen in our city of late, and to whom I 

tender my congratulations and hearty welcome. Doubtless some of them 

have brought their strength and skill to labour, as their only capital, to 

this new land; and they will generally find that they have not brought it 

to a bad market. You have an undoubted right, friends, to make the most 

you can of your capital, in common with every one else in the 

community; but I would kindly caution you not to be too extravagant in 

your expectations of immediate returns. At the present time there is a 

depression in the labour market, which perhaps most of you have 

discovered. That can be but temporary, still it is the case, and not many 

employers of labour are in a position to pay extreme wages just now. 

Beware, then, how you refuse steady employment, from good masters, at 

fair remuneration; and if you should be tempted to do so, think for a 

moment of my poor scared friend in the balloon. The same reflection I 

would recommend to any other person who is prone to driving hard 

bargains. I may just add my opinion, that employers will not act wisely if 

they take advantage of the present temporary depression, to drive too 

hard bargains with their employés; for by doing so they may drive away 

useful servants, and perhaps create a prejudice against themselves, 

which, to say the least, must be undesirable. 

If some folks do not really think the “Proverbs of Solomon” are 

obsolete, they sometimes act as if they thought so; or, indeed, as if they 

never thought of them at all. There are many men in this land — and 

elsewhere too — who have cause to regret that they did not allow those

inestimable precepts to regulate their daily transaction in the busy world 

of bargain - making, and thereby save themselves many sorrows.

Micky Mahony's Mishaps. 

Chapter I. 

“JOE, my jewel! whisht a minit, while I spake a little bit iv common 

sinse; an that's a sort of music you don't hear every day uv yer life, so it 

will be a trate to yez. There's no mishtake but it's mighty aisy worrk, 

squatting under a tea-tree all day long smoking me dudheen or darning 

me duds, and singing ‘Molly Bawn;’ while the sheep are nibbling away 

at the green grass, or capering about like young haythins, and my ould 

dog Nip is kitchin the flies on his stumpy tail, or scratching them other 

teazing things out uv he's curly coat. It's a rale jintleman's life, to be 

shure, and not bad pay for it naythir; still an all, I'm gittin as rusty as an 

ould pickaxe, for want of a little dacint society — that's a fact; an I'm 

afeard I'll forgit all me manners if I don't go into the worrld and exercise 

'em a bit. I've bin thinkin' that as my agreement wid the masther is up tomorrow, 

an I'll thin be free to go anywhere my two legs 'ill carry me, I'll 

be off to the diggins, at daylight; and if I can pick up a few nuggets, only 

as big as a lamb's tail, me fortune is made intirely; an I'll have nothing to 

do the rest uv me life, but smoke me pipe an ate me rations, which 

delicate imployment, 'ill shute my wake constitution illegantly. Yes, Joe, 

me bhoy! I'll be off to-morrow morning, and your new chum, Sawney 

M'Grim, can take out my flock; an good luck to him. I'll have him my 

poor dog Nip, for I dare say rations are dear on the diggins, an Nip wull 

be no sarvice to me in my new perfession. Maybe, too, some of them 

yellow Johnnies wud ate him, poor cratur, and that wud grieve me 

mortally, for poor Nip is the only relation I've got in the colony.” 

These remarks were addressed to Joe Griddle, the hut-keeper on a 

sheep-station — in the interior of New South Wales — by Micky 

Mahony, the shepherd, as they sat down to a hot dish of “bubble and 

squeak,” one evening, after Micky's flock had been counted in and 

hurdled. 

“To the diggings, eh?” quoth Joe, with a sombre grin. “You'll soon be 

glad to come back again, Micky, I'll bet you tuppence. Hard work in a 

deep claim won't suit your rusty joints, I'm thinkin'; and you'll miss old 

Joe Griddle to prepare your supper, after you've bin working all day long, 

up to your middle in mud. You'll get no nice hot dishes of Irish stew on 

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 

with the rheumatiz, like an old bull stuck in a bog; and have no friend 

near to rub you as I do sometimes. You couldn't rough it in a tent, Micky, 

like a born digger, not a bit of it, so don't try it, mate. Stay where you are 

getting good wages and good rations, under a good master; with easy 

work that you have been used to the best part of your life, or you'll very 

likely live to be sorry you didn't take my advice. The diggins arn't fit for 

the like of you or me, Micky, for we are both as stiff as old stock horses. 

One might just as well set a couple of blackfellows to split slabs or build 

a woolshed, as expect worn out old tools such as you or I to dig gold 

enough even to find us a ration of rice and treacle, let alone anything else 

to make our miserable lives happy. — You dig! pooh, nonsense!” 

“Be the piper,” cried Mick, “an haven't I dug acres of praties in owld 

Ireland, an oceans of turf in the bargain? Whew! not know how to dig, 

eh! What next will yez be after telling me? Why, I'd bate any 

perfessional digger in the colony, wid the long shovel or pratie fork; aye, 

or the pick either, though I niver tried that tool. An maybe I'll pick up 

goold enough widout any tools at all but my fingers; faix, I'll be a match 

for anybody on airth at that game. Then agin, I've got purty nigh twinty 

pounds saved up, an what wull I do wid it here, I'd like to know? I might 

dale a little bit at the diggins wid my capital, for I'm thinkin I've got as 

much sinse in my head as many swells who have made their fortins at 

daling. Shure an didn't we hear Denis Whackduffy the daler say tother 

night that a wide-awake fellow can allers make more wid his head than 

his hands? Besides, I'm dying for a little gintale company. I haven't had a 

fight for four years, an I haven't seen a reglar shindy since I've bin on the 

station. I'm getting as mouldy as an old boot for want of a shine now and 

agin, that's a fact. Bedad, I'll be off to-morrow, Joe me bhoy! I'll try my 

luck at some more lively money-making game nor shepparding, so don't 

try to coax me to stay; for you may jist as well try if your argiments will 

stop that tom cat from licking out the camp oven in the chimney yonder. 

Maybe you'll see me come back agin a gintleman one of these days, Joe, 

an thin you shall be my chief cook, so you shall, for you're a broth of a 

bhoy to make doughboys, an a reglar tigar at rubbin away the 

rheumaticks.” 

The next morning Micky was up before the “laughing jackasses,” and 

was busily engaged packing up all his personal effects into a compact 

bundle, while his friend Joe prepared breakfast. 

“Suppose you should meet any of those bushranging cossacks that are 

prowling about everywhere now-a-days, Micky? What will you do if 

they take away your swag, and murder you, or else leave you as naked as 

a pickaninny?” asked Joe, with a very sober face. “An honest man's life 

and property are hardly worth owning these times.” 

“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 

warrant, unless they murther me firsht; an thin I'll have the playsure of 

knowing they'll be hanged, the vagabins.” 

“Have yez got sich a thing as an owld pill box to give me, to put me 

money intil? You may kape the pills yerself; the box will do me more 

good.” 

“Put your money into your boot, Micky;” urged Joe. “Don't trust it in 

pill boxes, nor pockets neither. Your boot is the safest place — take my 

word, — inside the lining. Howsomever, if you want a pill box, here is 

one which I got from Doctor Dux tother day! a timber-box half as big as 

a pannikin.” 

“Hand it here, Joe, my jewel, you're the bist frind I've got. That's jist 

the identical thing; it wud hold pills enough to comfort a hape of poor 

miserable mortals or scare starvation out of a little village, so it wud. Ho, 

ho, ho! them's univarsal pills,” chuckled Mick as he counted nineteen 

new sovereigns into the pill box, which he then put into the centre of his 

bundle, rolled all up tightly in a blue blanket and affixed straps thereto 

for the convenience of carrying it on his back. 

“Now I call that a jintale little swag,” said Mick, tossing it on a rough 

bedstead in the corner of the hut, and then sitting down to his breakfast. 

“A rig out that Prince Alfred would be glad to own if he hadn't got a 

betther one. It's all my own, every bit of it, an it's all I've got in the wide 

worrld to bother me, barrin the clothes I stand up in, an the old boots 

under the bed, which I will lave to you, Joe, as a kapesake. And now my 

darlin't, I'll wager me fortin there to your long-handled frying-pan that no 

bushrangers will rob me, unless they knock me spacheless firsht and 

foremost; and I won't fight wid em naythir. Bedad, what ud be the good 

of my shallaley aginst the involving pistols of thim savages? — not a bit 

in the worrld, I might as well try to bate em wid a German sassage. No, 

no, I won't fight wid em anyhow, nor I won't rin away naythir, and yet I 

tell you agin Joe, there isn't a bushranger in the bush as 'll rob me of a 

haporth; that is if I can ony make him jist understand plain English, 

mixed wid a trifling taste of ginuine Irish brogue.” 

Soon afterwards Micky arose from his meal, took an affectionate leave 

of his friend Joe, and his dog Nip, then shouldered his bundle, and went 

on his way laughing as if somebody were tickling him. 

Onward he trudged, whistling “The Wanderer from Clare,” and other 

fancy tunes; stopping now and then to wet his whistle at a waterhole, and 

to have a few whiffs from his little black pipe, which he carried in his 

hat-band; and then onward he would trudge again, twirling his shillelah 

over his head, and making the bush musical with his joyful exclamation, 

and merry Irish airs. 

About two hours before sunset, as Micky was calculating whether he 

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 

on looking round, to his surprise and terror, he beheld a great rough 

looking fellow, well mounted, and armed, who, in a gruff voice called 

upon him to “bail up,” at the same time presenting a revolver. “Bail up 

there, paddy from Cork; or you'll be as dead as dog's meat in another 

minute.” 

“I'll bail up fast enough,” cried Micky; “so don't be after shooting me, 

if you plaze, sir.” 

“Hand up your swag, and turn out your pockets,” said the bushranger; 

“and don't stand there staring at me and taking my measure.” 

“Och hone!” whined poor Micky, “an is it me swag you mane? Shure, 

thin, ye'll not be afther stripping a poor mortial intirely! Don't do that 

same, good luck to yez! This bundle is all I've got belonging to me, an 

that's not much to the likes uv you. An me pockets — be the same 

token — are as impty as a pair of ould left-off stockings — there isn't the 

price of a ha'penny pipe — — ” 

“Stop that beggar's yarn, and roll up your swag inside mine,” said the 

thief, at the same time he unbuckled a large bundle from his saddle 

before him and threw it on the ground. “Look sharp now, do you hear? or 

I'll give you a dose that will send you hopping like a French fiddler all 

the days of your life.” 

“Och, musha, musha!” cried Micky, writhing and twisting like a 

scalded eel. “Don't, there's a good sowl; I don't want a dose of that sort of 

physic. I'll give you me swag, ivery bit uv it, an' I wish yez luck wid it; 

but don't murther me, whatever you do.” He then began to unroll the 

bushranger's bundle, while his eyes glistened at its valuable contents. 

“Troth, an' you've got a mighty fine swag uv yer own, so you have. 

Two pairs of blankets, half-a-dozen bran new shirts, wid a rale 

gintleman's turn out of broadcloth, an' a hape of other things besides. 

Now, what for do yez want to take away my poor little swag from me, 

when you've got goods enough here to start a store wid? Arrah! lave me 

my swag, there's a good thief; don't rob a poor ould beggar like me. 

Good luck to yez, lave me me swag.” 

“Roll it up inside mine, I tell you,” roared the ruffian, “and don't give 

me any more of your brogue.” 

“O, crikey! what 'll I do at all, whin I'm ruined intirely?” cried poor 

Mick, as he began very carefully to make up the bundle again, after he 

had placed his own swag inside it. “Ye'll be laving me as miserable as a 

blackfellow's dingo, so you will; and be dash'd if I know what I'll do 

afther that, at all at all. I'm fear'd I'll lose all me frinds, whin I've lost me 

swag.” 

“Roll it up tight, and put those straps round it,” shouted the thief; “and 

look sharp about it, I say, or I'll shoot you as dead as a mutton chop.” 

“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 

murphy, so I am. But maybe ye'll be so ginerous as to give me a 

fig of tobaky, ye'rve got plenty inside yer swag. Do if you plaze honey! 

jist one fig, to keep me from starving intirely.” 

“Not enough to choke a cockatoo,” roared the thief. “Be smart, I tell 

you again: the troopers are on my track.” 

“Are they? Shure then I'll make haste, for fear they'd catch you,” said 

Mick, apparently working hard to make the straps meet round the bulky 

bundle, which having done, he handed it up to the horseman, with 

difficulty, remarking, as he did so, that “he feared it was too big for him 

to carry convaniently.” 

“Never you mind that,” said the bushranger, surlily, as he began to 

strap the bundle before him, while Micky walked up to a stringy bark 

sapling, and rubbed his back against it, like a scabby sheep. 

“Misther What's-yer-name,” whined Mick. “Aisy a bit afore you fasten 

the saddle straps. For pity's sake be afther giving me the box o' pills out 

of me swag, and I'll be iverlastingly obliged to yez; bekase don't you see 

I'm dying wid the itch; and nothing but mint pills will aise me.” 

“The what?” roared the ruffian, at the same time throwing the bundle 

off his saddle, as if it were scalding hot. “What; you've got that horrible 

nuisance, have you? Confound you! what did you put your mangy swag 

inside mine for? Do you want to infect me and all my mates too, and ruin 

my horse into the bargain, eh? Bad manners to you!” 

“Sorra a bit iv it sir,” cried Mick. “I wouldn't give such an ugly plague 

to ‘ould scratch’ himself, not if I could help it; that would be a rale 

unjentlemanly trick, soh. You towld me to give ye me swag, sir, and I've 

give it yez, every bit.” 

“Hur you dirty ragamuffin; I've a great mind to blow your brains out, if 

you've got any, for spoiling all my traps, with your confounded bundle of 

filth. I'll shoot you as dead as — — ” 

“Och musha! Good gentleman don't do that,” roared Micky. “Take me 

swag althgether, but spare me brains.” 

“Take your swag, eh!” sneered the thief. “I wouldn't touch it with a 

shovel, if it were full of bank notes, nor my own traps neither, now they 

have been bundled up with your leprous kit. They'll want fumigating 

with a barrowful of brimstone before any body could touch them, but a 

dirty scavenger like yourself. Why didn't you tell me you'd got the 

plague? Confound you!” 

“Shure an didn't I tell you so plain enough, sir, when I axed yez to give 

me the box iv pills out ov me swag?” 

“Bah! For threepence I'd give you a barrel of pills,” growled the 

ruffian, as he gathered up his reins, and held a revolver to Micky's head. 

“Don't let me catch you again, mind that.” 

“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 

me, or you'll wish yourself scratched to death wid a bush-full of native 

cats, I'm thinking.” 

“Hold your blatherin' tongue,” vociferated the bushranger, as he fired 

two shots over Micky's head, and then rode off at full gallop, leaving his 

bundle lying on the road. 

Chapter II. 

MICKY fell flat on his back with affright, and there he lay for some 

time, wondering whether he was dead, and hoping if he were so, that the 

troopers would soon be up to bury him dacintly, and to catch the 

murtherin thief who had shot him. Bye and bye he began to feel his head 

for bullet-holes, then his body and legs; but finding no wounds or 

fractures, he by degrees felt assured that he was not kilt at all; but that he 

was Micky Mahoney still, with his skin as sound as a pair of new saddlebags, 

and his swag twice as heavy, and thrice as valuable as it was when 

he left the station in the morning. 

“Och philleloo!” shouted Micky, jumping up and dancing a little 

corroborree round the bushranger's bundle. “This is a whacking day's 

work to begin wid and no mishtake. There's the work of twelve month's 

wages in that fellow's swag, anyhow, an it's all mine, as honest as if I'd 

bought it an paid ready money for it, every bit, for shure I arnt it wid me 

brains. Denis Whacduffy, its thrue for ye, that a man can make more by 

his wits thin by his work, for haven't I proved it this lucky day? Sorra a 

bit av the diggins 'll I dig; I'll set up shop and make a fortin; thin I'll go 

back to owld Ireland and buy a whisky-still, a hogshead av tobaky, and a 

cart-load av pipes, and I'll spind the rist av me days in pace and 

quietness. Yes, that's jist what I'll do, an may be I'll git a wife too. Ha! 

ha! ha! he! he! he! whack row de dow!” roared Mick, while he capered 

about as nimbly as if a fiddler were sitting on the stump beside him, 

playing “Donnybrook Fair,” or “St. Patrick's Day in the Morning.” “Och, 

I'm delighted, so I am! Long life to yez, Doctor Dux! yer pill-box has 

done me more good nor all the physic I've swallowed iver since I was a 

bald-headed babby. An this swag's mortal heavy too,” continued Mick, 

lifting it on his back, then throwing it off again, and dancing round it 

until he was almost out of breath. “Ho! ho! ho! what a lark! I wish Joe 

Griddle could see me jist now; he'd grin like an owld monkey cracking a 

hot nut. Ha! ha! ha! he! he! he! Be dash'd if I ain't a lucky dog to-day.” 

“Bail up there!” roared a terrible voice just then, close behind him, 

which stopped Micky's merriment in a moment; and on turning round, 

with his face as pale as a white bullock's, he beheld the bushranger again, 

with a revolver in his hand. 

“Hilloa, old scurvy bones! I've been watching your heathenish

fandangoes from the tea-tree scrub just behind you,” said the thief, “and 

now I mean to make you cut capers to quite another tune. You first spoil 

all my traps with your filthy kit, and then you have the impudence to 

laugh at me, till you frighten my horse. Now I'll see how you laugh under 

my particular tickle.” 

“Arrah! laugh did ye mane? shure thin isn't it crying I've bin, honey, till 

I'm nigh broken hearted?” 

“Give me no more of your blarney,” roared the bushranger. “Didn't I 

see you hopping about my swag, like a cannibal round his cookery?” 

“Troth thin, you'd hop too, I'm thinking, sir,” said Micky, “if ye'd git 

Saint Vitus's dance as bad as I have.” 

“Oh, you've got that lively disorder too, have you? You must be 

shocking bad; but I'll see if I can cure you.” 

“Thankee, sir,” said Mick, trembling. “I shall always owe you 

somethin. You're a good gintleman, an I shall niver forget yez.” 

“Shoulder the bundle,” shouted the bushranger. 

“That's jist what I was goin to do sir, whin ye come back agin,” said 

Micky, hoisting the bundle on his back. “Troth it's mighty heavy, so it is. 

I'm afeard your horse wouldn't ha run away from the troopers wid this 

load on his back, sir.” 

“Now march along before me — double quick time,” said the thief; 

“and if you speak another word I'll blow your head off, so take warning.” 

“Sorra anither worrd will I spake, sir, good or bad,” whined Micky. 

“But pray don't hurt me head; it aches awful jist now. Mine's a very bad 

head, so it is.” 

After a short march through the bush they came to a creek, the waters 

of which were running bank high, and foaming and bubbling as if they 

were boiling hot. 

“Now,” said the ruffian, “pitch those mangy swags into the creek; they 

want washing.” 

“I'd rayther carry em home an wash em wid soft soap if you plaze, sir,” 

said poor Mick, trembling with terror. 

“Would you though?” sneered the thief. “I'll save your soft soap. In 

with them. I can't bear the smell of them any longer.” 

“Och hone! pity a poor old cripple, and jist let me take out me pills. I'm 

gettin very bad agin, sir. Wud ye be ginerous enough to let me save me 

pills, yer honour.” 

“No, not if they'd save you from scratching your hide off; pitch them 

in, pills and all, or in you go yourself.” As the ruffian thundered out this 

alternative he fired off another shot, which blew the top of Micky's hat to 

tatters. 

“Ow, ow, ow! murther!” groaned Micky. “There they go, sir, there they 

go;” and away went the swags, rolling over and over in the turbid waters 

of the creek.

“Now, off with your coat, waistcoat, and boots,” shouted the 

bushranger, cocking his pistol again. 

“I will, I will, sir! Och, mercy, don't slaughter me outright, as well as 

frighten me to death! Pray don't, sir,” shrieked Micky, hurriedly 

disrobing himself as directed. 

“Pitch your dirty duds into the creek,” roared the bushranger. “They 

want washing too.” 

With a yell of anguish Micky obeyed; and away floated his garments, 

while his boots sank at once, like water-logged colliers. 

“Now you can dance as long as you like, Mr. Paddywhack, and the 

more you caper the less likely you are to catch cold. Think yourself lucky 

you've got a whole skin to dance in. You are the most troublesome 

customer I ever traded with; and mark me, if I meet with you again, I'll 

bore a hole through you, as shure as my name isn't Dick Turpin;” saying 

which, the ruffian rode away through the bush, and left Micky to his 

solitary meditations. 

“Well, well! this is a suparior situation for a poor crater bothered wid 

rheumatiz, and no mishtake,” muttered Micky, after he had somewhat 

recovered from the effects of the terror which the foregoing incidents had 

naturally caused him. “Here I am — bedash'd if I know where — but I'm 

here shure enough, half-naked, half-murdered, and frightened to death, in 

the bargain. Dear knows what I'll do at all at all, for I'm afeard me sinces 

are clane gone, as well as me swag. Well, well! I've heered tell of 

revarses av fortin, but I never seed any afore, cos I never had any fortin 

till to-day, an shure it's turned out misfortin afther all. Ugh! what for did 

I lave the station, where I could get all I wanted to make meself 

comfortable, and put by a dacint little bit av money every year for a rainy 

day — as the saying is — if I had a mind? What a donkey I was to think 

of going to the diggings. My own gumption might ha told me, that an 

owld crawler like me ud do no good there; and mayhap, have me toes 

trodden off by gettin in the way av the hapes av great busy fellows who 

are diggin and delving and staring their eyes out in search for big 

nuggets, and some av them as savage as sharks bekase they can't find 

any. Joe Griddle, you were right me bhoy! an I wish I'd a tuk yer advice. 

Denis Whackduffy, you're a blatherin guffy, and maybe, ye're a rogue to 

boot. Ye may say what you like about working wid yer wits, but it's my 

exparienced opinion that a man can make more by the honest work of his 

hands than by schaming, anyhow, he'll get more pace an comfort through 

his life. But it's no good me stoppin here, howlin over me troubles; I'll 

get no pity out av these iron-bark trees. I'd betther find me way back agin 

to me owld berth as fast as I can crawl widout boots; an then if any of 

these bush tigers catch me on another such a cruise as this, I'll give em 

lave to skin me out an out.” 

Micky then began to retrace his way towards the high road, stepping

very carefully, for he was not accustomed to walking in the bush 

barefooted; and many were the wishes — not very cordial ones — which 

he sent after the unmerciful thief, who had compelled him to “drown his 

brogues, like a pair of blind puppies.” He had not travelled far when he 

saw an old rusty, single-barrelled pistol lying on the ground, and close 

beside it a long grey cloak which the bushranger had either dropped from 

his saddle-bags or thrown away as useless to him. 

“Hilloa, what's this thing?” quoth Micky, as he picked up the cloak and 

examined it with as much joy and amazement as a wild Figian, who had 

just found a barber's poll in a bamboo brake. “It's big enough to kiver me 

an Joe Griddle together; how-an-iver, I'll make it fit me soh! an it'll be 

handy to hide me nakedness, though there ain't much heat in it.” He then 

put it on, and gathered its folds closely about him, with a strip of stringy 

bark by way of a girdle. “An this concarn may be handy too, in case I 

shall mate any more bushrangers,” continued Mick, picking up the pistol, 

and peeping down the barrel with one eye to see if it were loaded. “Shure 

it wud be a convanient way of settlin all me sorrows if I was to put this 

pisthle into me mouth, and fire aisily down me throat. But it is not 

loaded, so I suppose it won't go off.” 

The shades of evening were fast closing around when Mick regained 

the road; but a full moon was rising, and the sky was clear and bright; so 

onward he trudged in the direction of Joe Griddle's hut; very often his 

clamorous appetite helped him to picture his old friend Joe, with his new 

friend Sandy McGrim and his dog, Nip, sitting down to their substantial 

suppers, and much he longed to be sitting with them. 

Micky had not travelled far, when on turning an abrupt angle of the 

road, he met a colporteur, carrying a valise in one hand and a bushman's 

outfit in the other. In a moment Micky conceived the idea of stealing the 

latter, and before his better judgment could influence him he had called 

upon the stranger to stand and deliver up his swag, under divers horrible 

pains and penalties. “Bail up, honey?” shouted Micky in as gruff a voice 

as he could assume, at the same time flourishing his pistol about his head 

as if it were a shillelah. “Bail up I say, and hand up yer swag, or you'll 

catch it, an no mishtake.” 

“You surely don't intend to rob me, friend?” said the gentleman, in a 

tolerably composed tone of voice. “I fear you will not value the contents 

of my valise very much if I give it to you; if you did you would not make 

this wicked demand.” 

“Troth thin I've been robbed meself to-day of eviry haporth I have in 

the worrld,” cried Mick; “an shure you can't grumble if I just take a little 

trifle from yerself. I don't care what you've got in yer leather box, ye can 

kape that; but I want yor blankets an quart pot and yer vittles, for I'm 

gettin cowld and hungry, and savage to boot; so hand up yer swag, 

misther, or by the piper I'll shoot off this pisthle, and blow ye into the

middle av next Friday.” 

“Well, you shall have my bundle,” said the traveller, quietly. “Here it 

is; but don't commit murder, there's a good fellow. You had better be 

careful too, with that pistol, or you may shoot yourself. I think it would 

be safer in my hands than in yours; and you can have no farther use for it 

at present. Will you sell it?” 

“Yes, honey; I'll sell it chape as dirt, for I don't want it; give me the 

price of a new pair of boots and the pishtle's yours so long as you live. 

It's a raal good un, I think, ony it's a little bit rusty.” 

The gentleman handed over some silver, and took the weapon; then 

suddenly turning upon Micky, he said, in a firm tone, “Now, Mr. 

Bushranger, you bail up, and hand me back my blankets, and my money, 

or I'll fire at you.” 

“Ho! ho! ho! blaze away, me bhoy!” said Mick, laughing heartily; 

“there isn't a tint av powther or shot in it, ho! ho! ho! It's as innocent as 

the marrow-bone of a little sucking-pig, so it is.” 

“That's it, is it?” said the gentleman, smiling good-naturedly; “well, I 

thought at first sight of you that you were not a practised footpad, and 

that you didn't intend to shoot me, although you flourished your pistol so 

formidably. Now suppose we come to terms. You say you are hungry 

and tired; so am I; and I was just thinking of camping for the night when 

I met you; shall we camp together, and share our provisions and 

bedding? What do you say to that?” 

“Wid all me heart,” said Micky. “Give us yer hand, jewel; long life to 

yez! Here, take back yer money; sorra a sixpence will I kape; and ye may 

kape the pishtle too if you like, for I don't know how to use such tools as 

that, nor don't want to know nayther.” 

They turned off into the bush for a short distance; and very soon a 

cheerful fire was blazing, and the quart pot was simmering over the 

embers. The gentleman then opened his bundle, and produced some tea 

and sugar, cold meat and damper, and helped his thankful guest to a 

plentiful share, also to a share of the boiling tea when it was prepared. 

“I always ask God's blessing on my meals before I begin to eat,” said 

the traveller, lifting his hat reverently. Micky sighed, and lifted his hat 

too, while his neighbour uttered a few devotional sentences. 

“I allers used to say grace meself whin I was a bhoy,” said Micky with 

another long sigh, and then he fell to work upon the viands before him, 

and was apparently absorbed in his reflection until the repast was over. 

“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed Micky, after he had been fumbling in his pocket 

for a minute or two. “That murtherin thief has jist lift me a pipe or two av 

tobaky afther all. If he'd only a known I'd got that morsel av comfort in 

me fob, he'd a made me pull off me breeches and pitch em into the creek, 

wid me other clothes, that he wud, the spalpeen, for he's got no more 

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 

me old hat all to smithereens. Och, I thought I was sittled jist thin; I'd 

have sowld my head for a peck av green peaches, so I wud.” Micky then 

filled his pipe, and as he sat puffing away by the blazing fireside, he gave 

a detail of his day's adventures with an occasional allusion to parts of his 

previous history, while his companion sat and listened with deep interest. 

Chapter III. 

“WHAT thumpin whacks an cracks a poor mortial catches during a 

day's tramp sometimes,” said Micky, as he laid aside his pipe after he 

had finished his smoke, and the narration of his day's mishaps at the 

same time. “This is a terrible worrld av thrubble, Misther Mefriend,” he 

added, after a short pause, and with a very grave air, which contrasted 

strangely with the grotesque appearance of his tattered and long cloak, 

with its stringy-bark girdle, “a worrld of botheration an bad luck, sure 

enough; an I've had my allowance av it if I niver git any more after this 

blessid night. Jist fancy, Misther Thingummeebob — — ” 

“My name is Hopewell,” interrupted the traveller, mildly. “Will you 

tell me your name, if you please?” 

“I ax yer pardin forty times, Mr. Hopewell; my name's Micky Mahony, 

at yer sarvice. But I was going to say, I lift my home this lovely 

summer's mornin wid a swag fit for a mimber of parlimint, an nineteen 

bran new suvverins in me midcine chest, for-bye a rispectable suit on me 

back, and a lovely pair av kangaroo cossacks on me feet, an here I sit tonight 

— savin yer presence — as poor as a blind beggar, wid nothin to 

cover me nakidness but this long, comical cloak, an me owld hat, which 

looks as if it had bin in a sassage machine. Blow'd if I iver heerd tell av 

the like run av bad luck, niver since I've bin on the frosty side av the 

Blue Mountains. It bates all my bush exparience out an out, so it does.” 

“Yes; you have certainly met with some strange disasters to-day, Mr. 

Mahony, but I must tell you, I think some of them were the results of 

your own improper conduct. You coveted that thief's plunder, and to 

obtain it, you were untruthful in many particulars. Although punishment 

does not always follow similar acts so soon as it has done in your case 

to-day, it is certain that, sooner or later, all acts of deceit, and falsehood 

receive their due; and you may depend upon it, my friend, that 

truthfulness at all times, and under all circumstances, is the only safe 

course you can adopt; and whether you work with your hands or your 

head, honest work is the only work you can expect to prosper. I am, 

however, far from thinking that this is the worst day in your history, after 

all, for I have hope concerning you, which I cannot explain just now. 

You are here, alive and well, and you have been mercifully preserved 

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 

troubles: be thankful for that also. This day's trials are past, and you will 

not see them again; so as you cannot remedy them by fretting over them, 

your wisest plan is to look hopefully to the future, while you strive to 

profit by your past mishaps.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Micky; “that's thrue for yez — what's done's done, 

and it's not a bit av good grumblin. If I was to howl for a fortnight it 

wouldn't rise my brogans from the bottom of the creek, nor sthop me 

swag from swimming out to sea; so the best plan I can think av is not to 

think av them at all, but to hurry back to my owld berth as fast as I can, 

an earn money to buy another rig out, and thin afther I've got it, thry to 

take betther care av it. This day's disasters will help to make me more 

continted in time to come, an make me thry to kape a good berth when 

I've got one, an not be thryin me hand at things I don't know nothin 

about.” 

“I see, you are a philosopher,” said Mr. Hopewell, smiling. 

“Police officer! not a bit av it, sir, nor niver was in my life; I niver had 

the good luck to dhrop into sich an aisy billet. I've bin a shepherd more 

nor twenty years; an afore that I tried me hand at almost ivery sort av 

bush work, barrin bushrangin, an I niver thried that game afore today; 

nor I'll niver thry it agin naythir, for it's a villainous trade, that's purty 

shure to lead to Jack Ketch's castle at last. I should jist like to tell all the 

bhoys in the bush my honest opinion av that cowardly way of getting a 

livin.” 

“How many years have you been in this colony, Mr. Mahony?” asked 

Mr. Hopewell. 

“Will ye be afther callin me Micky, sir, if ye plaze? I'm downright 

scared when ye call me Misther Mahony, bekase it makes me think av 

me poor owld dad, who's dead an gone. Folks used to call him Misther 

Mahony on Sundays; and well he desarved it too, poor sowl, for he was 

as honest a man as iver peeled a pratee, so he was. Well, sir, I've bin in 

this counthry two and thirty year come next March. Ye naydn't axe me 

who paid me passage out here; it wasn't me poor owld dad though. I'd a 

free passage give me, by order of a larned owld frind av mine at home, 

and Governor Darling was recommended to take great care av me, an 

mind I didn't catch cowld by being out at night. Whin I got to Sydney, I 

was pressed to stay and help to build a large house of accommodation for 

other visitors like meself; an there was a good lot in thim days — more's 

the pity. Afther a time a frind av the Governor's invited me to go into the 

bush wid him; an I was glad enough to go, bekase the cats in Sydney 

used to throuble me a good deal. Faith an I soon found there were cats 

(wid nine tails) in the bush too; but they didn't bother me quite so often 

as they did in Sydney. Well, sir, I've bin in the bush pritty nigh iver 

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 

shepherdin to shingle-splittin, an from plaitin cabbage-tree sinnet to 

makin whishky on the sly.” 

“You must have been a very young man when you first came here, 

Micky,” remarked Mr. Hopewell. 

“I was, sir; an able young fella too; as sthrong as a cart-horse. Troth I'm 

not very wake now for an old man, though I didn't allers take the best 

care av meself. Still an all, I've seen many fellers put under ground who 

were as able an as hearty as meself: be the same token, some av thim 

didn't come to their end through fair play, worse luck. I've had no end 

av'scapes from death afore to-day; but I'm as hard to kill as a native-dog. 

Twice I was speared by the blacks; onst I was nigh drownded in a flood, 

an another time close up roasted in a bush-fire; onst I was tossed by a 

wild bullock; onst I was bitten by a shnake; an onst I tried to hang meself 

wid me belt; but the sthrap broke just as I wor giving my last kick.” 

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Hopewell, with a shudder; “and had you 

died then where would you be now?” 

“Dear knows,” said Micky; “I niver thought much about it, sir. It would 

a bin a settler wid me, that's all I know. I shouldn't ha drawn any more 

rations, nor slops nayther, that's sartain. But bless yer heart, sir, I've 

know'd lots av poor craters who have killed themselves to get out av their 

misery; an ye wouldn't wonder at it nayther, if ye know'd all the misery 

they'd got to bear, in one shape or another, that you wouldn't. Troth, I 

could tell you yarns as wud make all yer hair stand up as stiff as spike 

nails.” 

“To get out of their misery, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Hopewell, 

solemnly. “Micky, hear me, my friend, and pray remember what I say, 

for you told me just now, that you thought of shooting yourself to-day 

when you picked up that pistol. I fear that fatal sin is sadly frequent in 

the bush as well as in our cities. By such a frightful act a man certainly 

plunges into the gulf of eternal misery. Of all sins self-murder is the most 

horrible. It is utterly hopeless, for repentance is impossible. By such an 

act man rushes unbidden into the awful presence of his offended Maker. 

Oh, Micky! be thankful that you were spared from such a terrible crime, 

and pray that you may be kept from another such attempt. But will you 

tell me why you were led to such a sad act?” 

“I will, sir,” said Micky; “though when I think av it it makes me shiver 

an shake like a black-fellow on a frosty morning. Well, sir, it's many 

years agone: I'd had a long job splittin posts an rails, an puttin up 

stockyards, an other rough work, on a new station, far away backwards. 

My mate, Jem Wedges, an I, had a pritty good sum av money comin to 

us, an we wanted a bit av a spree, jist to knock some av it down; so we 

goes to the Super one day, an axes him for an order for forty pounds, and 

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 

our order to Misther Tapps, the landlord, and thin began knockin it 

down, like jolly bushmen allers does. We know'd old Tapp wud pritty 

soon tell us whin the order had all run out, so we didn't bother ourselves 

about nothin but dhrinkin an playin ‘all fours,’ and singin a bit now an 

thin, av course. Our order lasted eight days, for there were not many 

fellers about the place at that time to help us knock it down quicker; an it 

was rayther a dull time altogether, for we only had three little bits av 

fights — but niver a reglar shindy at all. On the ninth mornin Mr. Tapps 

sings out, — ‘Hilloa me hearties, yer order's all knocked into nothin, 

ivery hapeny, and thirty shillings to the new.’ My mate was knocked 

down too; he was very bad in his head; I don't know whether it was from 

the bad rum, or from a crack he got wid the leg av a stool the night afore. 

Well, I kno'd it wor no good stoppin there any longer after old Tapps had 

tipped us the wink to be off, so I coaxed a quart av rum out av him on the 

new score, an away I goes towards the station agin, all alone; for my 

mate couldn't walk at all, an I hadn't got sinse enough in me to sthop and 

look after him, so I lift him at the shanty, fast asleep and spacheless. 

Well, I reeled along about seven miles suckin out av the bottle ivery now 

and agin, till at last I tumbled down head over heels, and wint to sleep. 

When I awoke agin it was dark night, so I finished the rum in the bottle, 

an soon wint to sleep agin. The next mornin whin I roused up I was as 

stiff as a skeleton, an awfully miserable soh; I wud almost hav given me 

sowl for a gill av rum; but there wasn't a tasthe in the bottle; so I got up 

and hobbled along a little further towards home. Och! what I suffered 

thin ye couldn't picture if ye tried for a month; nor I couldn't tell ye if I'd 

got twenty tongues. It frightens me to think av it. 

“By an bye I heerd a horrible noise behind me, an whin I looked round 

I seed the divil on a black horse ridin afther me as hard as he could 

gallop, an roaring like a tiger. Off I scampered through the bush, straight 

towards a runnin creek. Whin I got to it I dashed down the steep bank 

and jumped into the wather; but it wasn't deep enough to smother me, so 

I groped through it to the other side. The divil followed me to the top of 

the creek, thin got off his horse, tied him to a saplin, and looked at me 

wid his great big red-hot eyes, like doctor's door lamps; an he roared out, 

‘Micky Mahony, I've got ye now, anyhow; you can't git away from me, 

so ye naydn't thry.’ He thin began to wade through the creek to git at me; 

wid that I pulls off me belt and made one end fast round the limb av a 

tree, and put the other end round me neck; but jist as I was turnin meself 

off I seed me poor owld mother right afore me, which scared me worse 

still, for I know'd she wor dead long agone. I don't recollect anythin 

more, till I awoke lyin under the tree, wid the broken strap round my 

neck. How long I'd laid there, whether a day or a week, I never could tell; 

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 

buried, poor fellow! I niver tried to hang meself agin, nor I niver will if I 

kape me sinses. I allers think my poor owld mother hud somethin to do 

wid the breakin ov that strap; an nobody'ill make me think she hadn't. I 

was mighty sober for a long time after that sheavo; still I wasn't meself at 

all, for a very little noise at night used to set me tremblin like an owld 

lady in a cellar full of rats.” 

“O Micky, that is indeed a dreadful tale,” said Mr. Hopewell. “You 

were providentially saved from an awful doom, for which you should 

thank God with all your heart. Was your mother a good woman?” 

“Indeed she was, sir,” replied Micky, while the tears coursed down his 

rugged face. “She was a dear lovin owld sowl; and shure enough she's 

gone to heaven. I can call to mind, as plain as if it were but a week 

agone, how plazed she wor whin she could coax me to go to church wid 

her, which wasn't very often, more shame for me. An how she wad pray 

be me bed after she thought I was fast asleep. Ah, many times I've heard 

her sighin' and sobbin, an prayin God to bless me, wicked haythin as I 

wor. I can remember, too, the prayer she tached me to say whin I wor a 

gossoon, not taller nor my shtick, an the hymns she used to sing — for 

she could sing like a bird, ay, sweeter nor all the birds in the bush. Ah, 

poor sowl! I'll never hear her darlin voice agin.” 

“Can you repeat one of the prayers your good old mother taught you, 

Micky?” asked Mr. Hopewell kindly. 

“I don't think I can, sir; for somethin sticks in me throat, an nearly 

chokes me, wheniver I think ov anythin me mother tached me; but I'll 

thry to say one, or a bit ov one, if it will plaze yez, sir.” Poor Micky thus 

began to repeat a simple little form of prayer; but before he had uttered 

three sentences, he burst into an immoderate fit of weeping, and sobbed 

as if his heart would burst. “Och, mercy, mercy! I can't spake it if I was 

to be killed outright. I havn't said that prayer for nigh forty years. Och me 

darlint owld mother! it smashes me intirely to think on yez, so it does; an 

I'm feard I broke your tinder lovin heart too, wid my wickedness. Och 

hone! och hone! The darlint owld cratur; I shall niver see her agin, niver, 

niver, niver!” Poor Micky then put his head on his knees, and cried 

aloud; while his prudent companion sat quietly by, until his paroxysm of 

grief was over. 

“I am pleased to see these signs of affectionate remembrance of your 

dear mother, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell, at length breaking a long 

silence. “But you need not sorrow without hope, friend; you may meet 

her again in Heaven, and share with her the joys of that happy home of 

rest and peace for ever.” 

“Och, sir! Ye don't know what a wicked wretch I've bin, or yez 

wouldn't be after saying that, I'm sartin. Whisht, sir, an I'll tell yez 

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 

to Heaven afther that, I'm thinkin.” 

“Well, Micky, that is a very grievous sin; but had you killed all the 

congregation belonging to the church, too — nay, had you committed ten 

thousand other crimes equally bad, if you truly repented of your sins, 

resolved to forsake them entirely, and humbly asked God for the sake of 

His Son Jesus Christ, to pardon you, God would surely forgive you 

freely, restore you to his favour, and receive your soul to Heaven at last. 

Here is God's own word pledged to do it.” 

Mr. Hopewell then opened his pocket Bible, and read a few 

encouraging passages therefrom, and afterwards briefly explained the 

simple plan of salvation through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ while 

Micky sat by and listened, with overflowing eyes and a throbbing heart. 

Chapter IV. 

“YER'LL be afther thinkin I'm as soft as a great big batter puddin, I'm 

afear'd, sir,” said Micky, when he had succeeded in restraining his sobs 

and tears. “I haven't had such a bout ov cryin for many long years before; 

though, dear knows, I've had throble enough to break me heart if it wasn't 

too hard to break. I've bin close up cut to pieces on the triangles; but 

sorra a tear did I drop at all. I howled an roared purty swately, to be 

shure, but that's nothin; a man can't help doin that, when his flesh is 

minced in that cannibal style, but they might hav cut me heart out ov me, 

before I would uv cried a single squeak, or shed a tear as big as a 

mosketer's eye; that's a fact, sir. An yit, whin yez begin to talk to me, as 

gently as a woman, it makes me cry like a babby in long clothes. It's 

mighty queer, so it is, but be dash'd if I could help it — if ye clipped me 

ears off for it. I axe yer pardon, sir, for — — ” 

“Don't mention it, my good friend,” said Mr. Hopewell smiling. “I am 

delighted to see it; and there are other eyes too, that we cannot see, which 

are rejoicing over your tears. Look up Micky, and ask God to give you 

pardon, and peace, and He will surely answer you; for He has said in this 

Holy Book — which I have just read to you, ‘Ask and ye shall receive.’ 

Ask then, just as you used to ask your kind old mother to give you bread, 

when you were a hungry boy. You always believed that she would give it 

to you, did you not?” 

“Troth I did, sir,” said Micky, with earnestness. “She niver said nay to 

anythin I axed her for, poor soul; barrin it wor something that she know'd 

wouldn't do me no good.” 

“Just so,” said Mr. Hopewell, “and your Father who is in Heaven will 

not refuse you anything that you ask Him for, if He sees that it is needful, 

or that it will not be hurtful to you; for He has promised to ‘withhold no 

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 

you to love Him, and to strive to serve Him. Jesus Christ died to atone 

for your sins and mine, and for the sins of the whole world. ‘Believe on 

the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ These words are written 

in this Book. Kneel down, Micky, and I'll pray for you, and you pray too. 

Pray with all your heart.” 

They knelt, and Mr. Hopewell offered up a short, appropriate prayer to 

God, and at its conclusion Micky said Amen, in a tone which plainly 

evidenced that it was sincere. 

For some time after they arose from their knees they sat without 

speaking, each one being absorbed in his own reflections. At length the 

silence was broken by Micky, who had resumed his roofless hat, and was 

preparing to relight his pipe. 

“I've bin thinkin, sir, while I was fillin me pipe, that if I could be 

sartain I'd go to heaven and see me dear owld mother, when I die, I'd be 

happier than if I'd got the whole world full of tobaky.” 

“Well, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell, with a smile, “and what prevents 

your being certain of going to heaven? Search the Scriptures, and you 

will there find your title, as clear as the light of heaven itself. You say 

you believe that the Bible is the word of God.” 

“I do that, sir, most cartinly, for me darlint mother teached me to 

believe that as soon as I could spake; an she, poor dear ould sowl, 

believed every word of it, and so did me fayther too. They used to say it 

wor the greatest help they'd got in life. Whatever mishaps befel them, 

they'd go to that book, an they allers said they found comfit and direction 

there.” 

“So have millions of poor heart-weary persons beside them, and so 

may you, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell. “If you take God's word and read 

it carefully, you will find plain direction in every difficulty, and comfort 

under every trial of life. You may learn the way to live happily, to die 

peacefully, and after death to share everlasting happiness in heaven. 

There is not a poor shepherd in the bush, who is able to read, but may 

find his title to those blessings, by ‘searching the Scriptures.’ What 

books have you got at home?” 

“Sorra a book have I got at home at all, sir,” said Micky; “an barrin a 

pair ov ould boots, an me poor dog Nip, I haven't a haporth in me hut 

belongin to me name. Joe Griddle has got the ‘Newgate Calender,’ an the 

‘Mysteries of London,’ the ‘Bottle Imp,’ the ‘Black Dwarf,’ an a few 

other story books ov that sort; forbye a ‘Joe Miller,’ an a fortune tellin 

book; that's all Joe's libery.” 

“Have you not a Bible in your hut, Micky?” 

“No, sir, nor niver have had, iver since I've been in the bush; but it will 

not be long afore I git one afther this, if I have to travel a hundred miles 

to buy it; I'll get one pretty quick whatever I pay for it.”

“Dear, dear me!” apostrophised Mr. Hopewell. “There is certainly great 

need for the ‘Bush Mission,’ and I trust it will be supported. Have you 

not divine service, of some kind, on your station on Sundays, Micky?” 

“Sometimes we have, sir, at the head station,” replied Micky, “a 

minister calls there now an agin; an then all the men as likes to go are 

axed into the house; or if its shearin time, they muster in the wool shed. 

But at most of the out-stations there is no Sunday to be seen, — Sunday 

and Saturday are all alike there; an we don't know no difference, bekase 

some of us have lost count of the days intirely. I've often thought the 

masthers an supers might take jist a trifle ov care about their men's 

manners, an it wud be all the better for iverybody. Most ov em take a 

mortial sight ov pains about the breed ov their sheep; in trainin their 

kangaroo dogs, or breakin in their saddle horses; but sorra a bit do they 

care for the sowls of their servants, and not much for their bodies ayther, 

forbye kapin them in workin trim.” 

“Stay, my friend,” said Mr. Hopewell, gently. “It would be unfair to 

say that such selfishness is general; for I have met with several squatters, 

and superintendents, who have a kind regard for the welfare of their 

servants; for their bodies and souls too.” 

“Have you so, sir?” replied Micky. “Troth then I'm glad enough to hear 

that same; still-an-all, I haven't had the good luck to fall in wid the like, 

all the time I've bin in the bush. I will spake me own experience, an its 

ivery worrd thrue. Nayther masther nor mishtress, nor super, nor any 

body else belongin to em, iver said a single worrd to me about me sowl, 

if they thought I'd got one at all. I've niver heerd so much of the Scripture 

(so that I could understand it, I mane), as yez have tould me this blessed 

night, niver since I wer born into the worrld; an that's a fact, sir. I niver 

knowed that I could git forgiveness from God for robbin that church, and 

for doing no end ov wicked things beside. I'd have bin afraid to ax for it. 

If I'd a know'd as much as that I should huv jumped for joy hundreds ov 

times, when I've been wretched enough to hang meself, wid the 

remembrance ov me blagger'd tricks, soh. I allers thought I was damn'd, 

for sartain; an that it wor no good frettin about what couldn't be cured at 

all. ‘Och! happy go lucky: I'll live till I die!’ I used to shout, when I was 

half drunk, an then I used to say the divil was me best friend, bekase I'd 

heerd tell that he firsht invinted rum. But, forbye all me blather an 

bounce, and me haythenish schaymes for drivin away ugly thoughts ov 

me past wicked life, I used to feel as miserable as a murtherer 

sometimes; an many's the time I've wished meself a bullock, or a 

bandicoot, or anythin else that I know'd had nothin at all to do wid any 

other worrld, but this one. Och musha musha! many's the melancholy 

day I've spent in the bush, sittin under a gum tree, thinkin upon nothin 

but me own miseries; while me sheep have been bitin away at their green 

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 

brightened up like the moon, which was just emerging from a dark cloud, 

“I feel forty times better already. I'm downright glad I've seen yez tonight, 

sir, so I am; an I mane to turn over a new leaf intirely, with the 

help ov God. I know lots ov poor fellows in the bush who are terribly 

unaisy in their minds whinever they think about death; they wud be 

plazed enough to know what ye've bin telling me to-night, sir; that they 

had a chance of being forgiven for all their thievish tricks, an in sich a 

beautiful, aisy way too. Gorra! I wish I could rin an tell em all, just now, 

so I do.” 

“That is a very proper spirit, Micky, and I trust you'll encourage it all 

you can,” said Mr. Hopewell; “I also strongly feel for those poor men in 

the bush who are far away from any religious and social means of 

instruction; and I heartily wish I could see more done to improve their 

condition. I should like to see more efforts used by influential residents 

and employers in the bush. It is sad indeed to be obliged to believe that 

some settlers care more for the improvement of their cattle, or the 

condition of their crops, than they do for the moral culture of their 

servants or their tenantry. I think, however, that few would be so careless 

of their duties, if they but reflected on their positive moral 

responsibilities with regard to those who are dependent upon them; and 

also upon the easy way in which they might add to the comfort and 

happiness of those who serve them, by furnishing every station, outstation, 

or hamlet, with a small collection of books; and by occasionally 

speaking to such of their servants, or others, who are, perhaps, as 

ignorant of the Gospel plan of salvation, as you were, Micky, a few hours 

ago. I think, also, that it could be easily shown that the social comfort 

and security of our rural communities (apart from higher considerations), 

would be increased, if all those persons who have the time to spare, and 

the talent requisite for the work, were to assist in establishing Sunday 

schools (where there are none) for the religious instruction of the many 

poor children who, alas! I fear, are now growing up in ignorance of their 

important duties to their Maker and to their fellow-creatures. The 

grounds of economy might also be urged in favour of religious teaching, 

for it is terribly probable that some of those spirited boys, who are now 

allowed to run as wild and untaught as the aborigines, will, by and by, 

follow the sad example of those misguided youths who, some little time 

since, filled certain parts of the bush with excitement and alarm, causing 

much pecuniary loss, and in some instances loss of life, to unfortunate 

individuals, and an enormous drain upon the public funds. 

“But it's getting late, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell, looking at his watch, 

and rising from his lowly seat. “I think we had better prepare for rest. 

You take one blanket, and I'll take the other.” 

“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 

injoy meself; for I've got plinty ov plisant thoughts to think about jist 

now, so I have. I'm as happy as a bhoy that's jist found a honey pot.” 

With much difficulty Mr. Hopewell at length prevailed upon Micky to 

take one of the blankets; and, after replenishing the fire, they prepared 

for their repose. 

“Can you sing, Micky?” asked Mr. Hopewell, as he rolled his blanket 

around him. 

“Yes, sir, a little bit,” said Micky. “I can sing ‘Rory O'More,’ an 

‘Groves ov Blarney,’ an — ” 

“No, no, I don't mean that sort of music,” interrupted Mr. Hopewell, 

with a smile, “though I don't object to harmless songs occasionally. Can 

you sing hymns, or psalms?” 

“Not a bit, sir,” said Mick, with a sigh. “I don't know half a one. I've 

clane forgot all I know'd years agone.” 

“I am sorry for that,” said Mr. Hopewell. “You must try and learn 

some. Singing praises to God often helps to cheer me on my weary way 

through the bush, and makes the time fly lightly and pleasantly.” He then 

sang, “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow” in a clear, ringing 

voice, which seemed to awaken a hundred echoes among the giant foresttrees 

around; then, wishing Micky “Good night,” he lay down before the 

fire and was soon fast asleep. 

Just as the sun was rising in the morning, they were awakened by the 

loud cachinations of those well-known punctual bush birds commonly 

called “the settlers' clocks;” and after a short devotional exercise, a bath 

in a neighbouring lagoon, and a hearty breakfast, they prepared to go on 

their separate journeys. 

“Now Micky, my friend,” said Mr. Hopewell, opening his valise, and 

producing two books (a pocket Bible, and a small illustrated edition of 

Bunyan's “Pilgrim's Progress,”) “I trust you will not forget my advice to 

you last night. Take these books as keepsakes, to remind you of our 

meeting in the bush. Study that Bible, and pray to God to help you to 

understand it. Keep your eye of faith steadily fixed on Christ, who is ‘the 

way, the truth, and the life;’ and by-and-bye, when we have done with 

this world, and all its anxieties, we shall surely meet again in that eternal 

home of rest, joy, and peace, where pains and sorrow are unknown, and 

where thieves cannot molest us. Give me your hand, Micky; farewell! 

may God bless you! farewell!” 

Poor Micky was completely overwhelmed. He could not speak a word, 

but after wringing his kind friend's hand affectionately, he sat down, 

placed his head on his knees, and sobbed like a child. 

Chapter V.

“THAT'S a raal jintleman, God bless him!” exclaimed Micky, after he 

had in some degree recovered from the emotion which had overcome 

him on the departure of his kind friend Mr. Hopewell. “A raal, out-andout 

jintleman, every bit ov him; an I'll niver forgit him, so long as I've 

got sinse enough in me to think of anythin at all. An sure I'll take his 

advice, an maybe this 'll turn out the luckiest cruize I iver took in me life. 

I feel a mortial sight aisier in me mind than I iver felt since I crossed over 

the sea from owld Ireland. Troth, an I don't think I iver felt so plazed, 

like, even in that same darlint little green isle, which bates the other 

green isles in the world, all to pebbles an brick-dust. Me heart feels rale 

glad, so it does; an I could hop about wid delight — if I'd got me boots 

on — an if it wasn't for the sorrow I feel at partin wid me bist frind: I'm 

afear'd I shall niver see the dear cratur any more. Oh, yis, I shall, though; 

I'm forgettin what he tould me already. Yes, I shall see him agin in 

heaven, so I shall; an wid the help ov God I mane to get there, soh. I 

know the way there now, an that's worth more nor all the other 

knowledge I iver had in me head, iver since I owned a head at all; be the 

same token — I believe a head isn't worth ownin, if it hasn't got that 

same knowledge in it.” 

Micky then arose from his seat on the ground, picked up the old pistol 

which was lying near, and put it into the pocket of his cloak, remarking, 

as he did so, that he might swop it for a pair of new boots, or a new hat. 

He then tied his books carefully up in his neckerchief, and with his 

precious little bundle in one hand, and his shillelah in the other, he 

resumed his journey homewards. 

He trudged along for several hours, pleasingly engaged with his 

reflections on the last night's conversation with his kind instructor, and 

occasionally expressing his grateful feelings in loud exclamations, and 

pithy encomiums, on the “Good frind who had helped to make him feel 

as happy as a parson.” As the sun rose higher in the cloudless sky, its 

fierce beams began to attack poor Micky's head through its dilapidated 

covering; and, withal, being rather footsore and weary, he seated himself, 

about noon, at the foot of a large tree to rest, and at the same time opened 

his little bundle to gaze again at the treasures therein, which he was so 

proud of possessing. He had sat for some time pondering over the 

passages in his Bible, which Mr. Hopewell had specially directed him to 

study, and was unconscious of the proximity of any human being, until 

he heard a shuffling noise close to him, and on looking round, saw a 

stout old man, genteelly dressed, lying in the road, and his horse 

galloping away through the bush. Micky immediately arose and ran to 

the assistance of the fallen man, when his ears were assailed with a 

volley of oaths and curses. 

“What do you mean by squatting your ugly carcase right in the road, to 

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 

rising, and rubbing his left hip and elbow. 

“I'm mortially sorry,” said Micky, in a commiserating tone; “very sorry 

indeed, but I hope ye haven't hurt yourself.” 

“Hold your tongue, you thief, or I'll kick your ribs into bone dust,” 

howled the old man, foaming with rage. 

“It's well for yer own ribs, and yer cobbera too, that I've larned better 

manners since yesterday mornin,” said Micky, firmly, “or I should be 

afther giving ye a tashte ov me sthick, for callin me them ugly names: I 

should so. I was just sittin down under that tree, wishin no harm to 

nobody, an not thinkin a bit about your comin up — harf drunk — on a 

shyin horse. Sorry enugh I am that ye got upset; how an ever, if ye'll just 

sit down for a bit, like a raysonable man, I'll go an thry to track yer horse, 

an bring him back to yez. Yez can take care ov me books while I'm gone, 

and if ye'll study that beautiful sarmont which I was a reading when you 

came up, it 'll do yer good, I'm thinkin. It wull tache yez to ‘swear not 

all,’ an a hape ov other things that you ought to larn, unless yer want to 

be miserable all yer life, and afther yer dead too.” Micky then handed his 

books to the old man, and started after the runaway horse as fast as he 

could limp. It proved a much more difficult and tedious job, however, 

than he had calculated upon. He was two hours on the tracks before he 

could sight the horse, and two hours more elapsed before he could catch 

the timid brute. (He had picked up the saddle-bags lying in the bush, but 

did not examine their contents). Weary work it was, too, and the blood 

was trickling from Micky's naked feet when he mounted into the saddle, 

and made the best of his way back to the spot where he had left the 

infuriate swearer; but when he got there, to his great dismay, the old man 

was gone and the books too. 

Poor Micky was well nigh distracted at this fresh mishap. To lose his 

books so soon after receiving them “as keepsakes,” was more than he 

could calmly think of. In utter uncertainty of the direction the old man 

had taken, he continued to ride up and down the immediate spot, 

cooeying and shouting at the top of his voice, while his long grey cloak 

was fluttering in the breeze. Presently he observed, on a rocky ridge a 

short distance from him, two gentlemen on horseback, apparently 

watching his proceedings. In a moment his horse's head was turned, and 

he was galloping in the direction of the strangers. 

“Ye haven't seen anything ov an ould gintleman, have ye?” asked 

Micky, in an excited, hurried manner. 

“What old gentleman?” asked the strangers, eyeing Micky very closely, 

and with evident symptoms of distrust and trepidation. 

“A fat ould gintleman, shure, all over dust, wid a red face, an a bald 

head, sitting under a turpentine-tree, reading a Bible.” 

The strangers smiled, and whispered together for a minute, then one of

them asked Micky what he wanted with the old gentleman. 

“Why, I want to give him his horse, and git back me Bible and 

Pilgrim's Progress; that's what I want wid him. I don't know where he's 

gone, an I don't know what I'll do at all, no more nor a fellar wid a 

wooden head. I want me property; I don't want his horse, no more nor I 

want an ould catsmeat cart. Och, bother! where's he got to, I wonder? I 

want me property, so I do.” 

“What property do you want?” asked one of the strangers. 

“Why, I tould you what property jist a minute agone, didn't I?” replied 

Micky, hastily. “An shure it's property worth all the sheep an cattle in the 

colony, soh, — aye, an all the goold nuggets intil the bargain.” 

“Come along with us, and we will take you to the old man's house,” 

said one of the strangers, after a little more private conference with his 

companion. “You must ride fast, my man; but keep a few rods away 

from us, do you hear?” 

“I hear, yer honours,” said Micky; “I'll follow yer like a red-hot 

cannon-ball. Hurry now, jintlemen, if yer plaze; ride as if yez was huntin 

kangaroos, an good luck to yez.” 

Away they rode at a hand-gallop, up hill and down hill, through the 

bush, and across the plains, for many miles. At length, just as it was 

getting dark; they arrived at a sheep station. The strangers cooeyed, when 

a hairy-faced man made his appearance, and on receiving some hurried 

instructions from one of the gentlemen, he ran off towards some huts a 

short distance away. In about five minutes he returned, in company of 

five or six other men, who surrounded Micky, and before he had time to 

surmise what they were going to do, they seized and pulled him from his 

horse, pinioned his arms behind him, tied his legs, and carried him into a 

large wool-shed, where they threw him upon a heap of sheepskins. 

“Murther! murther! robbery!” shouted Micky, with all his might. “Bad 

cess to yez! what on airth are ye afther traitin a poor crater in this 

cannibal style for? What harrm have I done to any ov yez, that you want 

to kill me in this cowardly way? Och! rob me if ye like — ov course 

you'll do that pretty quick, an faix ye won't have much to share betwixt 

yez, when ye've done it; strip me stark naked if yer a mind to, but spare 

me life, good luck to ye — me owld carcase isn't worth a dead parrot to 

any of yez.” 

“Where's Hopping Sam?” asked one of the gentlemen. “Oh, here he is. 

Sam, mount the bay mare, and gallop to Gallipot Station; ask Dr. 

Strapping if he can ride over the first thing in the morning to see this 

poor fellow. If the doctor can't come, ask him what we shall do with the 

patient.” 

“Is he clean cranky, do you think, sir?” asked Sam as he prepared to 

mount the mare's back. 

“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 

man reading his Bible.” 

“It's clear case, sir, I'm afraid,” said Sam, with a shrug, and a shake of 

his head; then, putting spurs to the mare, he galloped out of sight in a few 

minutes. 

In the meantime, the entire population of the station, young and old, 

had assembled in the wool-shed, to gaze at Micky, who was lying on the 

sheep-skins, sometimes whining about the loss of his Bible and Pilgrim's 

Progress, — sometimes demanding what for they sarved him in that cruel 

cowardly way. Why they tied his legs and arms like a fat pig going to 

market; and now and then entering into detached portions of his recent 

adventures; commenting upon the same, in his characteristic style. To the 

whole of his remarks, inquiries, arguments, or entreaties, his adult 

audience merely laughed; while the swarm of juveniles positively 

howled with delight, at the comical sayings of the “cranky man.” 

“Troth an is it cranky ye think I am?” asked Micky, as the true cause of 

his incarceration suddenly dawned upon his mind. “Och blathereens! 

What nixt? ho, ho, ho! Be dash'd if I could help larfin at that notion, if a 

dray wheel was on my toes. Cranky, eh! — ho, ho, ho! Hear me spake 

raysonable, friends. It's a mistake altogether, as thrue as me name's 

Micky Mahony. I'm no more cranky nor the masther there, and maybe 

not nigh so much. It's this ould coat as spoils the look uv me, and me 

ragged hat beside. But me brogans are drownded, and me swag's gone to 

sea, an I shall niver see them no more; so I can't wear me best clothes. 

Arrah, niver mind, I'm as rich as a king's son, after all, so I am. Jest let 

me loose, honies! if yez plaze, an I'll show yez I am as sane as the 

'torney-jineral. I'll forgive yez all, for all ye've done to me, if ye'll only let 

me loose, an let me go and look afther me property.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the obdurate assembly, which so aroused poor 

Micky's outraged feelings that he poured out a cataract of threats, of legal 

penalties, which he would visit upon the heads of them all, when he 

regained his liberty, and finally he began to make strenuous efforts to 

disengage himself from the fastenings on his hands and legs; but to no 

purpose, for the green hide with which he was bound was too strong to 

be broken by him. 

About midnight Hopping Sam returned on the bay mare, with a 

message from Dr. Strapping that he would be over early the next 

morning, and in the interim, if the patient got worse, they were to shave 

his head, and keep wet cloths upon it, and give him a little sedative 

medicine. 

Micky was in the midst of a vehement declamation against cowardice 

and cold-blooded murther, when Sam returned; so, after a short 

consultation, it was agreed to shave his head at once, as he was decidedly 

worse. Micky's emphatic. protestations against their proceedings were

utterly disregarded, while his resistance was overruled by the main 

strength of numbers, and in about half-an-hour his long grizzly beard, his 

shaggy locks, and his bushy whiskers, were lying on the dungheap, and 

his face and head were as bald as a bladder of putty. A wet cloth was 

then wrapped about his head, and a couple of shepherds, armed with 

pokers, were left to keep watch over him till morning. 

Soon after daylight the doctor arrived at the station. I need not enter 

into particulars of what took place then; but merely state that Micky was 

speedily released from durance, and was overloaded with apologies from 

the gentlemen who had, unwittingly, been the cause of his new mishaps. 

Micky listened gravely to all they had to say, but declined their invitation 

to stay at the station until his hair grew to a becoming length; and also 

declined every other offer they made to him, but the offer of a breakfast; 

and not feeling very comfortable in a place where he was conscious that 

he was a laughing-stock for the whole community, he as soon as possible 

mounted his horse, taking with him the saddle-bags, and then took the 

shortest course across the bush to his old station. 

The sun was just setting when he came up to Joe Griddle's hut; and, in 

order to give his friend a sudden surprise, Micky fastened his horse to a 

tree some distance off, then crept stealthily up to the hut and peeped 

through a crack in the slabs. There was Joe, presiding over the longhandled 

fryingpan, which was full of beefsteaks and onions, the steaming 

savour of which was most stimulating to Micky's hungry senses. 

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Micky. “How plazed the jolly ould sowl 'll be to 

see me, to be shure! An there's poor Nip, too, sittin beside the kettle; may 

be he's thinkin about me this very minute. Ha, ha, ha! he'll be fit to 

devour me wid delight, so he will. I'll jist creep in an astonish 'em both.” 

Micky then stole into the hut, unseen by either Joe or the dog, and seated 

himself on his old bedstead in the corner. There he sat for a few minutes, 

delightfully anticipating Joe's surprise, and his friendly greeting. 

Presently Joe lifted the fryingpan off the fire, and was about to turn its 

contents into a tin dish on the table, when he caught sight of Micky 

sitting in the corner, with his bald face and head, and his long wizardlooking 

grey cloak. 

“Hoo! hoo! hoo! Goblins!” roared Joe Griddle, dropping the fryingpan, 

and rushing out of the hut in terror, which was increased tenfold by 

Micky's rising and holding out his arms in the futile attempt to stop him, 

while Nip tucked in his tail and ran away, howling as if he had all the hot 

onions on his back. 

Micky ran out of the hut, and called as loudly as he could, Joe, Joe 

Griddle, me jewel! and Nip, Nip, Nip! but neither of them regarded his 

call, nor stopped to look behind them, away they ran into the bush, as 

fast as their legs could carry them; Joe Griddle shouting for Sandy 

M'Grim, and Nip howling a dismal accompaniment, until the sound of

their voices died away in the distant bush. 

Micky slowly returned to the hut, then gathered up a part of the late 

contents of the fryingpan, off the earthen floor, and sat down to his 

solitary supper. 

Chapter VI. 

“WELL, well! dear knows I've had cracks enuf, the last two days, to 

kill a crocodile,” muttered Micky, as he sat down on a log stool inside 

the chimney, after he had finished his supper; “and it isn't the smallest bit 

ov me thruble naythir, to see me owld frinds runnin away from me, as if I 

was a churchyard ghost. If iver any innocint crater was sarved worse nor 

me, in two days, I should jist like to see him, that's all. I've bin robbed an 

murthered, an shaved, an straight-jacketed, till I'm got so ugly that all me 

frinds are scared outright; an here I am, forsaken by all me kin, like a 

buck rat that's tumbled into a tar-but. Och, blarney! what'll come nixt, I 

wonder? I naydn't frit much about what's coming, anyhow — nor yit 

about what's gone naythir; I shall have strength given till me to bear the 

next thruble, whatever it may be. I feel that, shure enuf, an that's a blissed 

comfort, that I niver felt in this hut afore. I've had pirplexity in galores, 

since I left this tother morning, still an all, the pace I feel in me heart 

now, would help to make me smile if I met wid forty times as much. I'm 

not afeard of thruble, not a bit. But, ah, Musha! I wisht I'd got me books, 

so I do; I could read sich a lot ov thim, now I'm all alone an quiet. I 

wonder where that owld bloke has gone to wid em? but I hope he'll be 

readin em till I git em agin, an they'll do him good, soh; for he was a 

terrible owld Turk to swear. Well, plase God, I'll git up in the mornin an 

ride his horse till I find him, if he's in this part ov the worrld at all. Be the 

same token, I must go an look afther the poor baste; for he'll not like to 

be standin gnawin a gum saplin all night. I'm forgettin him clane, for I'm 

not used to the convanience of a horse to ride; I think I'm the firsht ov me 

family that iver sat in a raal pigskin saddle.” 

Accordingly, Micky went out, took off the saddle and saddle-bags, and 

after rubbing down his horse, led him away to a waterhole to drink; then 

tethered him on a nice fresh piece of feed, and slowly returned towards 

the hut. As he approached it, he heard voices inside, and, to his great joy, 

beheld through the open window Joe Griddle and Sawney M'Grim, 

apparently holding a consultation. Fearful of again frightening Joe, 

Micky paused awhile, and as he did so he overheard part of the 

conversation. 

“I dinna believe a word aboot ghaists,” said Sawney M'Grim, in a 

positive tone. “There are bogles and kelpies in Scotland as plenty as 

thistles; but I never heerd tell o' ony o' them crossing the ocean to this 

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 

knocket him doon with your frying-pan. Hoot mon; ye've nae mair pluck 

than an auld wife, not you. If ye saw a wallaby or a white coo in the bush 

on a dark night, ye'd rin daft wi' frigcht, and ca' it a ghaist or a bogle. It 

wasna Micky Mahony's ghaist ye seed at all, I tell yer, ye great gowk, so 

dinna fash me wi' yer hobgoblin stories; an if it was, it wadna harm ye, 

nae mair thon a moonbeem, or a whiff o' smoke fra a cutty pipe.” 

“Be Jabers, ye're right, Sawney!” shouted Micky, springing forward 

into the hut, with his right hand extended to greet him; “an suppose I was 

a ghost wid iron claws, I wouldn't scratch a — — ” 

But neither Sawney nor Joe stopped to hear the conclusion of Micky's 

animated address. Away they both scampered out by the back door, 

faster than if the hut were on fire, closely followed by Nip, and despite 

Micky's loud shouts and cries, in his earnest endeavours to recal them, 

they bolted through the bush like wild cattle, and Micky saw them no 

more. After enjoying a smoke by the fireside, and an hour's quiet 

meditation, he turned into Joe Griddle's bed. 

In the morning, before sunrise, Micky got up, and after praying a few 

words on his knees, he put the kettle over the fire, then went out and 

watered his horse, and returned to the hut to breakfast. When he had 

finished his meal, he saddled his horse and rode away, with the intention 

of finding the owner of the beast, and the possessor of his much prized 

books. He had provided himself with a little tea and sugar, some tobacco, 

and part of a damper, from Joe Griddle's stock; also with a blanket and a 

quart pot; for he was of course uncertain how far he would have to travel. 

Away rode Micky at a jog-trot, for he knew that that was the best pace 

for a long journey; and as he jogged along he tried to refresh his mind 

with the recollection of some of the important truths he had recently 

learnt. About the middle of the day he stopped, and tethered his horse, 

then made a fire, and put on his quart pot with a handful of tea in it. He 

was quietly enjoying his reflections and his pipe, while the tea was 

brewing, when he was suddenly startled by the well-remembered cry, 

“Bail up there!” and on looking round he beheld two horsemen, well 

armed, within shotrange of him. Instantly Micky's hand was in his side 

pocket, and pulling out his pistol he flourished it in a most threatening 

manner, at the same time hopping and dancing about to strike terror into 

his assailants with a display of his ferocity, as well as to baulk their aim 

if they attempted to shoot him. 

“Ye'd better take care how you come a-nigh this pishtle. Be the hoky, 

it's a rum un whin it goes off, so I jist caution you, me bhoys. Mind what 

yer afther, I tell you, for I won't be robbed agin, so long as I've got a gun 

to shoot wid. Be off wid yez, yer murtherin thieves! go and arn yer livin 

honestly, an not be afther stalein from the likes ov me. Be the livin jingo, 

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.” 

“I call upon you in the Queen's name to surrender,” said one of the 

horsemen. “I arrest you for horse-stealing; and if you don't drop your 

arms this instant I'll shoot you dead.” 

“Wheugh!” whistled Micky, dropping his pistol, “that's it, is it, me 

jewell? Ho, ho, ho! I beg yer pardons, soh. I thought ye were thieves, ye 

look just like em. It's all right frinds; I'll pritty soon explain iverythin to 

yez. It's a mishtake altogether, an if ye'll jist git off an take a pot of tay 

wid me, I'll tell yez all about it; then you can trot home agin, an save 

yourselves a hape of thruble and botheration.” 

The troopers dismounted, but instead of accepting Micky's kind 

invitation to tea, they seized and handcuffed him, then commanded him 

to sit down while they caught his horse. 

“Och murther!” groaned Micky, “what for do yez put these bracelets 

on to me? I won't rin away, nivir fear. I didn't stale the horse at all, not I 

faith; an if ye'll jist sit down, as I axed ye before, I'll tell ye all about it, 

an ye'll see in a jiffy that I'm as innicent as the horse himself, every bit.” 

“It's my duty to caution you, that anything you say will be produced in 

evidence against you,” said the trooper, kindly. 

“To be shure, honey! that's jist what I want, produce every haporth ov 

it, that's a good sowl.” He then began a rambling version of the way he 

got the horse, and expressed his anxiety to see the owner of it, to confirm 

his story, and return him his books, which were worth a stud of horses. 

“You'll see him to-morrow safe enough,” said the trooper. “Now then, 

here's your horse, mount and come with us.” 

Micky mounted, and away they rode at a moderate pace, and a long 

weary ride it was. For some time Mick employed all his eloquence in 

defence of his honesty, but finding that it was entirely wasted upon the 

troopers, that they were as stolid as dead stumps to all his appeals to their 

“common sinse,” he concluded that they had got no sinse at all; so he 

rode the rest of the journey in silence. Some hours after dark they entered 

a small straggling township, and stopped at the door of the lock-up; 

therein they incarcerated poor Micky, and fastened him to a chain. After 

one or two attempts to enlist the sympathies of the lock-up keeper, but 

finding him as iron-hearted as the troopers, Micky ate his allowance of 

victuals, then lay down upon some straw, and thought of his kind friend 

Mr. Hopewell, and upon all the good words he had spoken to him, until 

his heart grew as cheerful as if he had all he wanted in the world at his 

command. 

The next day, about noon, he was unchained and escorted to the Courthouse, 

followed by a concourse of idlers and newsmongers. The Court 

waited some time in vain for the arrival of a second J.P., when the 

magistrate present, after a consultation with the prosecutor (who had 

been accommodated with a seat on the bench), decided to hear the case

prior to remanding it to a future day. 

The prosecutor was then sworn in the usual form, and gave his 

evidence substantially correct. He described his disastrous meeting with 

Micky, and the latter volunteering to catch the runaway horse. He further 

stated that he had sat for three hours under a tree, reading the two 

books — produced — which prisoner had recommended him to read, till 

he returned with the horse. That a traveller had passed who informed him 

that he had met a man riding a horse, which, from the description, he 

concluded was his own beast; and also concluded, that he had been 

duped out of his horse and saddle-bags. He then started on foot towards 

the nearest station, but was benighted in the bush: finally he reached that 

township, and a warrant for the apprehension of the prisoner was 

immediately issued on his application. 

“You swear positively to the identity of the prisoner, do you?” asked 

the magistrate. 

“I do, your worship,” said the prosecutor, “though he has attempted to 

disguise himself by shaving all his hair from his head and face, since I 

last saw him. Still, I clearly identify him by his peculiar idiom, his long 

cloak, and his ragged hat.” 

“I don't deny anythin in the worrld, yer honor,” interrupted Micky; 

“leastways, I do deny — ” 

“Silence, sir,” said the magistrate, with a severe frown: “you don't 

deny, and you do deny; what do you mean by such impudence?” 

At that moment the unpunctual J.P. walked into Court and took his seat 

on the bench. 

“Arrah, be jingo! that's the jintleman what shaved me, as clane as little 

Judy Fagan,” shouted Micky, while he danced with delight and pointed 

to the bench. 

The barefaced assertion that a magistrate had acted barber to a 

bushranger was a severe shock to the sensitive feelings of the two 

constables in court, and far more than their patience could quietly put up 

with. They both shouted silence, and at the same time shook poor Micky, 

till all his joints cracked like dry sticks. 

“Leave the man alone, constables,” said the gentleman just alluded to, 

sternly. “How dare you illuse a prisoner in that way?” 

“He's an incorrigible miscreant,” said the other J.P., with a defiant look 

at his colleague, and an approving glance at the constables, who 

straightened their shirt collars, and coughed. 

“What is the charge against the prisoner?” asked the rational J.P. 

With some sotte voce insinuations, that if the inquirer had not been 

absent from his duties, as usual, he would have heard the charge, — the 

testy J.P. ordered the evidence to be read over by the clerk of the court. 

“It is clear to me that I shall be a material witness in this case,” said the 

gentleman, rising, after the evidence had been read. “I have seen that

poor man before.” 

“Hurrah!” roared Micky, “didn't I tell ye so? I'm as innicint as a little 

duck inside a hen's egg, so I am.” 

“Silence!” shouted the senior J.P., and his posse comitatus echoed the 

order, making ten times more noise than Micky. 

The gentleman then briefly but lucidly, explained his meeting with 

Micky, and the subsequent events; especially commenting upon his 

extreme anxiety to find the old gentleman, with whom he had left two 

valuable books. The deponent also expressed his regret that he had, 

through the novelty of the prisoner's anxiety, mistaken him for, and 

treated him as, a dangerous lunatic; and finally stated his belief that he 

was an honest man, whom he would be very glad to have in his employ. 

A wonderful reaction in Micky's favour commenced from that moment. 

The frowns of the prosecutor's face relaxed into bland smiles. The testy 

J.P. began to look good-tempered, and the constables seemed sorry for 

having rattled Micky's bones so roughly. The saddle-bags were next 

examined, and proved that Micky had not extracted an article from them. 

The saddle was examined too, and its evidence was also favourable; the 

examination of the horse was dispensed with. After a few minutes' 

conference between the magistrates, Micky received an honourable 

acquittal; and what pleased him still more, he received back his precious 

books from the hands of the prosecutor, who remarked, “that he had read 

them with pleasure and profit; and intended to buy copies of them as 

soon as he could.” 

As Micky took the books into his hands, his honest face glowed with 

happiness which seemed to illumine the gloomy court-house, and make 

everbody smile. Making a feint to touch his forelock to the bench and the 

prosecutor, Micky exclaimed in a hearty tone, “Long life to yer honors! 

May God bless every sowl of yez — constables an all,” and then he 

hurried out of the building. 

He was quickly followed out by a dilapidated looking personage, with 

a purple nose, who tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Mr. Mahony,” said the phenomenon, “allow me to offer you a little 

advice, for I see you are an ill-used man. You have grounds for two good 

actions for damages; and your fortune is as good as made, if you go the 

sharp way to work. You have a first-rate action against old Nobbles, for 

false imprisonment. He is as rich as a copper mine, and you may knock a 

handsome sum out of him. Mr. Phinewoll, the J.P., is rich too, you have a 

stunning action for assault and battery there, and are sure to get heavy 

damages. Will you step with me to my office?” 

“Not a bit of it, Mr. What's-yer-name. I've got no grudge aginst ayther 

of them gintlemen. They shaved me head an face as bald as a hatter's 

block; but that's all the damage they've done me. I don't want to go to law 

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 

ye was to study them laws abit, every day ov your life, yez would learn 

better manners than to be setting yer neighbours a squabblin an fightin; 

an ye'd larn to make pace, instead of kickin up rows.” He then turned on 

his heel and walked away. 

He had not gone far, before he heard some person calling him, and on 

looking round he saw Mr. Nobbles hobbling after him as fast as his short 

legs could carry his fat body. “Hoy, Mr. Mahony,” said Mr. Nobbles, 

“don't be in such a hurry, I want to speak with you. Give me your hand,” 

he added, as he came up to Micky, “You are one of the right sort, I can 

see, and I respect an honest man, whether he be rich or poor. I am very 

sorry, indeed, that I caused you so much trouble, and I hope you'll try to 

forget it. I've been under the impression that you were one of those 

mischievous hypocrites, who make a trade of their piety; I suspected you 

were one of that dangerous fry; and that you had recommended me to sit 

and study your Bible, while you stole my horse and saddle-bags. I have 

heard of similar tricks before to-day. I see, however, that I have made a 

mistake in your character, Mr. Mahony. I think you really believe in that 

good book which you have under your arm, and which I am very glad I 

have seen, for I intend to turn over a new leaf from to-day. Now, I'm a 

man of few words, and I'll make a bargain with you on the spot if you 

like. I want an overseer for my head-station, and you are just the man for 

me. What do you say — will you engage with me at once?” 

“Wid all me heart,” said Micky, “for I'm out of a berth, unless I unship 

Sawny M'Grim agin, and I won't do that anyhow, bekase it wouldn't be 

fair play.” 

“That's settled then,” said Mr. Nobbles, “and now I'll treat you to a new 

outfit, for the annoyance I have caused you; come along with me to the 

store.” 

So Micky went with his good friend to a store near at hand, and 

although he modestly demurred at taking so many articles as the 

storekeeper forced upon him — his new employer, who stood by, 

insisted upon his having a thorough rig out; and when Micky left the 

store, he had a larger stock of necessaries than he had ever before 

possessed in his life-time; and was, as he himself humorously expressed 

it, “dressed better nor his masther.” 

“Don't say a word,” said Mr. Nobbles, interrupting Micky's torrent of 

thanks. “Let's get home as fast as we can. Go and mount the old horse 

again; there, there, no more thanks; go and mount Ginger, and follow 

me.” Micky obeyed, and soon afterwards he and his new master were 

trotting along the road towards Dingobones Station. 

* * * * *

I should have much pleasure in continuing Micky's history at length, 

but could scarcely do so under the title of our present chapters; for 

“Micky's mishaps” were over. He had begun an entirely new era in his 

life, and in a short time he was, to use his own words, “a new man 

altogether.” He daily rose in the estimation of his kind master, and also 

in the good graces of all the employés on the establishment. Micky was a 

true believer in God's word, and strove to walk humbly and truly by its 

Divine precepts, which were his daily study, and he earnestly strove to 

give evidence of his firm faith in it, by his upright walk and 

conversation; and never did he omit a seasonable opportunity of directing 

a poor uninstructed neighbour to the plain simple way in which he found 

peace with God, and the hope of Heaven. He was untiring in his 

unobtrusive, though cheerful efforts to do good, in his homely way, and 

his influence was felt, not only in his master's household, but on that and 

the neighbouring stations. 

Joe Griddle was in course of time installed as Mr. Mahony's houseservant; 

and the Bible, the “Sunday at Home,” the “Leisure Hour,” and 

other good books replaced the trashy pernicious volumes in Joe's library. 

Very soon he, too, could feel that his old tormenting fears of death had 

been driven away by the light of Divine truth, and that he had a 

comforting hope of “life beyond life.” 

* * * * * 

Reader! whether you live in the bush, or in the city, whether you be 

rich or poor, old or young, gentle or simple, if you want to be happy and 

useful through life, peaceful in the hour of death, and glorified 

throughout eternity, the simple plan to obtain those blessings, is to do as 

poor Micky Mahony did, viz., — “Repent, and believe the Gospel.”

“Light Weights” and “Short Lengths.” 

I REMEMBER my scepticism, on being told (when I was a little boy) 

that a “pound of feathers was equal to a pound of lead,” and when good 

old dame Birch, who taught me the rudiments of my “mother tongue,” 

reiterated that fact, and, with a grave look declared that “a pound was a 

pound all the world over,” my childish mind still doubted. Poor honest 

old soul! she has gone out of the world long ago; and here am I, her dull 

pupil, still acquiring rudimental knowledge, but no longer doubting about 

her last-named theory; for my experience in travelling the world over has 

fully convinced me that a pound is not always a pound, of which fact I 

have had many expensive reminders. I will give one example of recent 

occurrence, which, though insignificant compared with other parts of my 

experience, will help to illustrate certain very common tricks of trade that 

unconscionable persons have invented, and on which I purpose making a 

few comments. 

The other evening, my servant brought two miserably thin composite 

candles into my study; and being too small to fit the sockets of the 

candlesticks, they were leaning over, like the wonderful tower of Pisa; 

while the grease dropped on to my table cover, and soiled some of my 

manuscripts. On questioning the girl, I learned that she had bought the 

candles at a shop in the city; and on examining a pound packet, I judged 

it weighed not more than thirteen ounces, possibly not so much. “Ghost 

of old dame Birch,” I exclaimed, holding the packet up at arm's length. 

“Look at this for a pound! and if you still love fair play, go and pinch 

that swindling candlemaker's nose. You will probably find him in Russia; 

unless — and you must be very careful to ascertain that fact — some 

rogue elsewhere, has borrowed the candlemaker's brand. Pinch the real 

culprit till he roars, for greasing my papers — stay, I forgive him for that; 

but please to punish him for cheating thousands of poor people who must 

work for their bread by candle light, out of three ounces of matter in 

every packet of his skeleton composites that they buy. Pinch him for 

dimming the prospects of a host of honest diggers, who are hard at work 

in the bowels of the earth, far below the reach of a ray of sunlight. And 

pinch him very hard for tempting many an honest trader to sell short 

weight wares, in the erroneous belief that it is necessary for him to do so, 

to save his trade from suffering from the competition of unscrupulous 

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 

under any circumstances.” 

The servant looked startled at my ghostly invocation, and explained, 

“that the candles had not been sold to her as full weights, but were 

merely recommended as ‘very cheap.’ She was certain sure the 

shopkeeper was a fair dealing man, and would not tell a lie for a cargo of 

candles.” But when I asked her how I could possibly believe that, with 

the palpable fact before my eyes, that he had given her but “thirteen 

ounces for a pound;” she fumbled at her apron strings, and said “she 

didn't know she was sure; but she fancied it was only for want of 

thought; and nobody would believe it was anything more than an error of 

the head, who knew Mr. Brown.” After cautioning the girl not to buy any 

more cheap candles, or short weight articles of any sort, I sat down in the 

dim glimmer of the thin tapers and began to ruminate on the light weight, 

and short length system, which is at the present day so glaringly tolerated 

in these colonies, and which sometimes bears the sanction of trade 

marks, either genuine or forgeries. 

But first of all, I tried to unravel the mystical legal distinction between 

the open sin of Mr. Brown, in selling pounds of candles weighing only 

thirteen ounces, and that of his neighbour, Mr. Doughnut, in owning 

sundry two pound loaves, each being about an ounce short of the 

standard weight; and I called to mind a case which was investigated at 

the Police Office the other day. I mention it for the sake of the analogy, 

rather than to enlist sympathy for the mulcted tradesmen. A baker 

pleaded guilty of having thirteen loaves in his cart, which in the 

aggregate, were fourteen ounces less than their proper weight; but his 

feasible explanation of the accidental cause of the short-comings of his 

bread, was not received in extenuation of his crime, and he was mulcted 

in the full penalty by law made and provided. Why Mr. Brown should not 

be fined for his short-weighted candles, or anything else short weight in 

his shop, I failed to find a satisfactory reason, after half an hour's study, 

so I gave it up; but would beg respectfully to commend the puzzling 

subject to some of our active legislators, in order to get the consideration 

of “the House” upon it, and if possible to remove the seeming 

antagonism between justice and common sense. 

But composite candles are not the only articles deficient in weight and 

measure, and of inferior quality, which find their way to our colonial 

markets, to prey upon the health and pockets of the humble classes 

especially. It is not easy for me to enumerate the deceptive goods, nor is 

it necessary to do so. I can adduce facts enough to draw attention to the 

evil, and I wish I could hope to cure it. 

There are many articles of daily demand in which the judgment of the 

purchaser is less likely to detect fraud than in the consumptive-looking 

candles just alluded to. For instance, in haberdashery wares, where short

lengths, and forged marks, are as common as the goods they represent. 

Take “short lengths” reel cotton for example, with the borrowed name of 

some well known maker, “warranted 200 yards.” The retail buyer has no 

guarantee of the quantity specified, save the honour of the shopkeeper; 

for the most careful old lady in the land would hardly stay to check the 

measure before paying for her reel of cotton; and it would be only when 

too late for a remedy that she would discover she had been cheated, and 

that she had far more wood than cotton for her money. Some good folks 

may, perhaps, exclaim impatiently, “Pooh! that is a mere trifle to write 

about.” But I would earnestly remind them that it is only a solitary 

example of a system of fraud which is too palpable to be mistaken; and I 

am sure they will not call that a trifle, especially if they bear in mind that 

it generally affects a class of persons who are least able to bear such a 

raid upon their pockets, and to whom these multiplied peculations swell 

to a serious aggregate in the course of the year. 

I know a respectable old widow who is too proud to beg or to run in 

debt, but not too proud to earn her livelihood by plain needlework; and 

since sewing machines have become as fashionable as pianos in 

gentlefolk's houses, this honest old lady finds it a difficult matter to earn 

full diet by finger stitching, for the price of her work is reduced far below 

a remunerative standard. Of course, she has to find her own cotton; and if 

her “200 yard reels” only turn out 100 or 120 yards each, is it not a 

severe inroad upon her hardly earned income? Is not 80 or 100 per cent a 

serious sum for her poor pocket to be plundered of? 

Some persons may reply to that question, “Let the old lady buy her 

cotton from respectable tradesmen, then she is not likely to be cheated.” 

That is certainly the best remedy within her reach, but I wish that her 

humble protest could reach the ears of manufacturers far away. There is 

the source of the wrong; for it is clear that if they honestly refused to 

“make up” short length, or short weight wares, there would be no 

wholesale or retail vendors of them, nor duped purchasers either. 

I don't wish to make a long chapter on this unpleasant subject, lest I 

should not be able to restrain my pen from expressing strong feeling; but 

I would like to gently remind those factors and dealers in deceptive 

goods, that though — humanly speaking they may carry on their 

nefarious traffic with impunity, and perhaps grow rich upon their spoils; 

yet they will not escape the penalty, which sooner or later is visited upon 

bad actions, as certainly as effects follow causes in material affairs; and a 

careful consideration of passing events from day to day, even within this 

city, might instil that belief into the most sceptical mind. Who of my 

readers has not seen ill-gotten wealth melt from the grasp of its 

possessors, and “leave not a wrack behind?” I have seen it, and expect 

again to see it; and I emphatically declare that I would rather be a 

corporation stone cracker, than I would luxuriate in the profits which

those factors and vendors make by false weights and measures, by selling 

timber instead of cotton to poor old widows, for my conscience would 

not fail to warn me in the night watches that the God of the widow would 

assuredly visit my unjust dealing with His awful judgment.

“Don't Mention It.” 

“I WOULD not tell another being in the world beside yourself, for I 

don't want it to be said that I tried to ruin the poor wretches. You won't 

mention it, will you?” 

“Not I, indeed, if I were chained to a hot griddle; you may safely trust 

me with anything. But it is very disgraceful. When did you hear of it?” 

“On Tuesday evening, and I have been dying to see you ever since. 

Bear in mind, dear, I don't vouch for the correctness of the report, but I 

give it you just as I got it from Sukey Sleigh, who overheard the servants 

next door whispering it over the back fence. It is likely enough to be true, 

though, and I am not surprised at it, for these shabby-genteel folks are 

often great schemers. I have always said those Campbells were haughty, 

stuck-up people, and I shall be pleased to see them pulled down from 

their stilts and rolled in the dirt.” 

“So shall I, for I hate them. They are proud as peacocks, and as poor as 

caged owls, too. Mrs. Campbell has worn that everlasting blue silk dress 

three summers, and her grey horse-hair bonnet has been cleaned twice, to 

my certain knowledge. The old man, too, looks as dismally seedy as an 

undertaker's coachman; and as for the girls — ugh! I've no patience with 

them. The butcher's boy told our servant, Mag, the other day, that they 

never order anything but shins of beef and sheeps' heads, or now and 

then a neck of mutton for Sunday. Pooh! I should like to know what they 

have to be proud of, the nasty, disagreeable, unsociable creatures. I 

should like to see them obliged to leave the neighbourhood altogether.” 

* * * * * 

Thus, Mrs. Gabb, and her spinster cousin Miss Pryer (a precious pair, 

of the backbiting genus), scandalized a respectable family over the way, 

who have unconsciously incurred the envy and hatred of their detractors 

for no other cause than their having prudently kept aloof from the society 

of such ill-bred, dangerous characters. Miss Pryer tells Mrs. Gabb, as a 

profound secret, that Mr. Campbell is meditating a moonlight flitting 

from his house, to defraud his landlord, which report is without the 

slightest foundation. Mrs. Gabb of course tells Mr. Gabb while she is 

preparing for bed that night, and at the same time adds a little to the 

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 

Head, and with a roguish wink declares his belief that the Campbells are 

going to bolt to New Caledonia. The scandal flies, of course (“for lies 

have wings and can fly, though they cannot stand for want of legs,”) and 

a few hours afterwards, to the consternation of the maligned family, their 

landlord distrains for a quarter's rent only due last week, and which they 

were anxiously struggling to raise, in total ignorance of the plots of their 

neighbours, or the legal process of their too credulous landlord. Their 

troubles do not end with the sacrifice of their household goods, for the 

rumours have affected Mr. Campbell's business in the City. Excited 

creditors rush into his office, and demand payment of their claims, or 

satisfactory security. Vainly does the astounded man try to explain his 

solvent position, and plead for a little time, and he will pay them all; the 

majority of them will not wait — “they are not going to be duped while 

they are wide awake.” To meet their claims immediately would be 

impossible — (almost everybody knows the difficulty of realising 

suddenly upon assets, however safe they may be) — so, to protect his 

few reasonable creditors, and in justice to all, Mr. Campbell sequestrates 

his estate, which is his only alternative. Very soon his name appears in 

the insolvent list, and he may be seen any day walking about the city 

with his head bowed down. Thus, a striving, inoffensive family are 

suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow and inextricable pecuniary 

difficulties through the idle whisperings of a couple of scandal-mongers. 

* * * * * 

I will give another instance of the disastrous effects of gossiping, and it 

is as substantially true as the preceding one. 

“Have you heard the rumour which is afloat about Emily Green?” 

asked Widow Wen of her bosom friend Mrs. Cackle, as they sat at a little 

tea-table, munching hot muffins, and scrutinizing the failings of their 

friends and neighbours. “Have you heard about the impudent hussey?” 

“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Cackle, with eagerness; “what is it? Tell 

me all about it.” 

“I'll take a little more sugar,” said Mrs. Wen, handing her cup. “You 

shall hear the story word for word, as I heard it from — — , but I mustn't 

tell you who told me. You won't mention it again?” 

“Oh, dear, no; you ought to know me better than to ask it: mum is my 

motto.” 

“Well, then, you must know that my informant has been watching Miss 

Green's movements for some time past, never feeling satisfied that she 

was getting her living honestly; indeed, it has puzzled many persons how 

that girl managed to hold up her head so loftily, for she has only her 

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 

is too lazy to earn a penny a month, so it is plain they must have some 

way of getting money that all the world does not know of. Well, the 

secret is out at last, as you shall hear. For five consecutive evenings last 

week, my friend, who was on the look out, saw a dashing looking 

gentleman get out of a hooded buggy at Miss Green's door just after dark. 

She saw Emily open the door for him each time, and invite him in, 

and — — ” 

“Oho! that's it, is it?” croaked Mrs. Cackle, with her mouth full of 

muffin, and her heart full of envy. “I see, I see, the brazen-faced minx. 

That's the way she gets her finery, is it? That's why she tosses her 

handsome head about like a soldier's horse! I understand it now; and, to 

tell you the truth, I suspected as much. Well! well! well!” 

“Now, pray don't mention it,” reiterated Mrs. Wen, “because I might 

get into trouble. We had need be careful what we say about that sort of 

people, for I dare say they have friends.” 

“I tell you again I'll keep it quiet, though she deserves to be exposed, 

the good for nothing slut,” said Mrs. Cackle, looking as fierce as a hawk 

tearing a young pigeon to pieces. 

Somebody did mention it, however, for it soon reached Mrs. Blank's 

ears. She did not trouble herself to investigate the truth of the rumour, 

but summarily dismissed poor Emily without a word of explanation. The 

scandal rapidly spread, and her drawing pupils one by one left her, when 

she was obliged to sell, from time to time, first all her little trinkets and 

articles of luxury, and afterwards her household furniture, for the support 

of herself and invalid mother. 

It was some time before Emily learned the cause of her sudden 

dismissal from Mrs. Blank's, and the removal of her drawing pupils, but 

when the cruel reality burst upon her, it proved too much for her 

weakened body and mind to bear. Her attempts at explanation were 

coolly repulsed by Mrs. Blank and others, and on every hand she met 

with insults and scorn, which crushed her sensitive spirit, and 

overwhelmed her with sorrow. Anxiety brought on sickness and rapid 

decline, which was accelerated by her constant attention to her bedridden 

mother, and want of necessary comforts. The melancholy sequel is soon 

told: her sufferings, though severe, were mercifully shortened by that 

kind Providence which specially watches over the helpless. She was not 

left long in lonely indigence to mourn the loss of her mother. Death soon 

came to Emily, with the welcome passport to a better world, and her 

weary soul soared away to its rest, “where the wicked cease from 

troubling.” 

Under the sandhills yonder, lie the remains of mother and daughter, in 

one grave, hapless victims to the tongues of their maligners, which 

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 

cruelly assailed was as chaste as an infant, and that their wicked 

insinuations were utterly groundless. Emily Green was a noble-spirited 

girl, well educated, and piously trained. Her disposition was too refined 

for Mrs. Wen and Mrs. Cackle, and their gossiping connections. She 

treated them with neighbourly courtesy, but avoided a closer intimacy. 

Hence their dislike to her, and their plots against her reputation. The 

gentleman whose visits to her house had given rise to the innuendoes 

which had so fatally injured her, was an eminent physician, who had 

kindly called to see her sick mother, at the recommendation of a friend of 

the afflicted. Poor Emily! slanderers will by-and-bye see her 

“righteousness as clear as the light,” but in the meantime they had better 

“take heed to their ways,” or a totally opposite judgment will at that day 

be passed upon their lives. 

* * * * * 

Open rebuke is sometimes seasonable, and friendly warning or reproof 

— judiciously given — is often useful; but nothing can be said in favour 

of covert fault-finding and backbiting. It is cowardly, mischievous, and 

sinful. “He that winketh with the eye causeth sorrow.” Sorrowfully true 

has that been proved by a host of unfortunate victims of malice and 

uncharitableness. Many a worthy man and woman's good reputation has 

been ruined by a wink, or a significant shrug; perhaps accompanied with 

a hypocritical expression of pity. Many noble actions, offsprings of true 

philanthropy, have been condemned by a sinister look, or belied by a 

mysterious elevation of the eyebrows, or some other facial contortion, 

slyly meant to impute selfish and other unworthy motives too base to be 

expressed in words. Many pure-minded young girls have had their fair 

fame blasted by the breath of envious prudes, who, at the same time, 

have appeared to commiserate the failings of their victims, well knowing, 

too, that the charges against their virtue were malicious falsehoods. 

“I am very sorry for the poor thing,” whispers Mrs. Gabb, across her 

counter, to a twopenny customer. “She has had heavy trials certainly, but 

that's not an excuse for acting as she does. She will never be able to pay 

her way, I'm sure. It is a thousand pities to see a widow, with three young 

children, setting them such a sad example. Drink is a great evil, and, of 

course, leads to everything else that is bad. Those friends who subscribed 

money to start her, don't know of her doings, that's plain; and I shouldn't 

like to tell them. Don't mention it again, will you? At any rate, don't say 

that I told you.” 

Ugh! you old sinner! I should like to make you eat a bottle of mustard! 

Are you not ashamed of launching such gross fabrications, to ruin that 

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 

fiendish of you to try and crush her, and starve her little ones, simply 

because she has opened a lollipop-shop in the same street in which you 

trade? 

Cheer up, poor widow! Be not afraid: you have an Almighty Friend 

above, whose unchangeable word is pledged to protect and provide for 

you and your fatherless children. “Commit your way unto Him; trust also 

in Him;” and the malignant whisperings of your foes shall be as 

powerless to injure you as the hissings of a toothless viper. 

That burly trader, too, whose purse is heavier than a sack of potatoes, 

might well afford to spare his abuse of the striving young man, who has 

opened a shop next door but one to him; in the hope of earning an honest 

living, with “Live and let live” for his motto. Be assured, Mr. Bigbody, 

that your grudgery will recoil upon yourself. Your policy will be 

unprofitable, in a pecuniary sense, to say nothing of a far higher sense in 

which you will be a sad loser, if you encourage such evil passions in 

your heart. You know it is unjust to injure your neighbour in the opinion 

of his creditors and his customers; and if your bulky purse tempts you to 

laugh at the law of libel, let me remind you that there are infinitely 

higher laws, which you cannot break with impunity. I have seen the 

boasted hoards of purse-proud men leak away like wild honey from a 

cracked calabash, and leave them more miserable than a starving 

blackfellow. But whether your money is taken from you, or you keep it 

until you are taken from it, is a matter of small moment, compared with 

the judgment which awaits you, where ready cash cannot bribe. You 

need not be offended with me, Mr. Bigbody, for my straight-forward 

comments. I do not dislike you, but I cannot like your unprincipled 

doings. Take my advice, like a sensible man, mind your own business in 

future, and let your struggling neighbour earn an honest loaf if he can: 

there is room enough in the city for you both. 

* * * * * 

A wise man has remarked, that “envy is the most inexorable of all 

passions. Other sins have some pleasure attached to them, or seemingly 

admit of an excuse: envy wants both. Other sins last but for a while: the 

appetite may be satisfied; anger remits, hatred has an end — but envy 

never ceases.” A far wiser man has declared that “wrath is cruel, and 

anger is outrageous;” and he adds the enquiry, “but who is able to stand 

against envy?” The same high authority says that “a sound heart is the 

life of the flesh, but envy the rottenness of the bones.” Verily there are 

thousands of tons of such rotten bones in the world (carrying living 

souls, too), which taint the moral atmosphere, and breed “plague, 

pestilence, and famine; battle and murder, and sudden death,” from

which we pray to be delivered.

Down in the Pit. 

“I FEAR that the hearts of those dusky-looking hills yonder, will soon 

be torn out of them; and then what will become of this rising city? and 

what will its busy population do when they have no coal to sell?” 

Thus I soliloquised, whilst seated in a friend's house, which overlooks a 

considerable portion of the harbour and city of Newcastle. I had just 

before counted nearly forty square-rigged vessels, besides smaller ones, 

in the port, all loading or preparing to load coal; while long coal trains 

whirled past me at brief intervals, shaking the roof over my head, and 

suggesting unpleasant ideas of a sudden downfall, if the props in the old 

coal workings beneath the city should give way. 

“In former years,” I continued, “when they used to load vessels with a 

wheelbarrow, or cane baskets, there was but little cause to fear that the 

coal supply would run short; but now they ship it by steam; and more 

than a thousand miners are at work supplying those ponderous trains, 

which seem to be always screaming for more. I was told, that 1048 tons 

of coal were shipped yesterday, from the A. A. Company's shoots alone. 

What a gap they must have left somewhere! At that rate the very hills 

themselves would soon be cleared away, if they were all saleable matter. 

I feel uneasy upon the subject, for it is of vital importance to our national 

advancement. But yonder comes a gentleman who can see further into a 

coal seam than most men; I will ask his opinion. He certainly has not a 

desponding mien. Perhaps he will enlighten me a little, and allay my 

apprehensions of a famine in fuel.” 

In a few minutes I was accosted by the manager of the principal mines, 

of whose courtesy I cannot speak too highly. When I mentioned my 

foreboding, his eyes twinkled like “Davy lamps,” and he remarked, that 

my grandchildren might depend upon an abundant supply of firstclass 

coal, from the mine which he had the honour of superintending; and 

which I was told he had incurred the hazard of opening. Perhaps 

observing that I was still dubious, he kindly invited me to view the mine, 

and judge for myself as to the probability of its being soon exhausted, 

even by an increased demand upon it. 

A short time afterwards I was on a locomotive engine, driven by a 

shrewd-looking little man, who I was informed, had driven the celebrated 

George Stephenson's first “puffing Billy.” With one hand on the steam 

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 

loaded coal waggons about, at will, as though they were mere bonnet 

boxes. In company with the manager and another friend, I in a few 

minutes arrived at the mine, which is rather more than a mile from 

Newcastle. 

I cannot minutely describe the gigantic works either above or below 

ground, which are triumphs of perseverance and engineering skill, 

perhaps unparalleled in this part of the world. 

I gazed with wondering admiration at the machinery about the pit's 

mouth, and marked the order and system that prevailed, in the midst of 

noise and activity, which made my brain simmer like a stewed cabbage. I 

noted the waggish looks of some of the smutty - faced boys, (who were 

wheeling little coal skips about,) at my nervous care to keep my toes 

clear of their iron wheels, and to keep a look-out for my head and my 

other important members at the same time; while I mentally admitted 

that the smallest boy there was wiser than myself, or at any rate 

possessed more useful knowledge, adapted to that particular locality. The 

various modes of raising, weighing, inspecting, and screening the coal, 

were briefly explained to me in terms comprehensible to my uninitiated 

mind, which was dark as coal itself on such subjects. I was shown a huge 

box-full of “nuts,” without longing to crack one; and another box full of 

“duff,” which even a starving sailor would despise as a ration, though the 

engine furnaces daily devoured a large quantity, with greedy gusto. 

I next arrayed myself in a borrowed coat and cap — neither of which 

fitted me nicely — and with a little tallow lamp in my hand, took my 

stand in an iron cage between my two guides, and down, down, down, I 

went two hundred feet into the bowels of the earth. On stepping out of 

the cage, at the bottom of the shaft, I found myself surrounded by coalbegrimed 

men and boys, with little lamps stuck in their caps; whilst the 

clanking of chains, the rumble of coal skips on the rails in long dark 

lanes, the shouts of the horse drivers, and other sights and sounds 

altogether strange to me, helped my imagination to conceive many 

startling things. 

The overman of the mine lighted his lamp, and formed a rear guard; so 

away I went, with difficulty keeping up with my active friends in front, 

and sadly knocking my toes now and then against obstructions in my 

pathway, which my lamp but dimly revealed, but which my practised 

companions stepped over, as briskly as rabbits in a warren. Away we 

went, up a long black passage, which I called Ebony Highway — I forgot 

to enquire its proper name. On either side of us was a wall of solid coal, 

which sparkled in the glare of our lamps, like patent leather. The roof 

varied from ten to twelve feet in height; but occasionally it was much 

lower, as I discovered by my bump of firmness coming in contact with 

some stimulating substance, but whether it was rock or coal, I did not

stay to examine. 

Turning round a rugged corner into Nobbley Nook, my nose suggested 

that horses had recently slept in that neighbourhood; and presently my 

eyes assured me that my nose was quite right, for I beheld stabling for 

fourteen beasts, with the name of each written in chalk, on his appointed 

stall. Many ill-kept horses above ground, might envy Tommy and Jerry, 

and the rest of the sleek coated stud, their snug lodgings below. Onward 

we went again, and by and by the manager turned up Smut Court, to 

examine a newly discovered dip in the seam: meanwhile I sat on a lump 

of coal and chatted with some men, who were eating their dinner with an 

enviable zest, which even “Lea and Perrin” could not create. A little 

farther on, I saw a man on a very moist seat, and in Adamic simplicity of 

attire, picking with all his might beneath a block of coal, which I thought 

was dangerously liable to fall on his head. As I noticed the rapid 

movements of his powerful muscles, I reflected how hard some men 

work for their bread, compared with others, and how richly they deserve 

the compensating advantages of real enjoyment of their humble diet and 

sound sleep. I further speculated, on the probable social influence on 

some of those creatures of the “Dundreary” class (who would almost 

shudder to touch a knob of coal with a pair of tongs) if they could be 

persuaded to spend half a day, now and then, in a coal mine. If the bare 

idea of such a task did not shock them to death, I am sure the reality 

would in some degree help to make men of them. 

On we went again, in another direction, up a grimy alley, half a mile in 

length, which I was informed was an old worked out passage, leading to 

the ventilating shaft; and I began to fear that I should be worked out too 

before I got to the end of it. Masses of rock had, in several places, fallen 

from the roof, and as I hastened past those suspicious parts, I sincerely 

hoped that no more rock would fall for the present. The sides of the 

passage and the rotting props were thickly covered with a strange variety 

of fungi, while long filmy festoons of the same hung waving from the 

roof, as though a thousand fairies had been having a grand washing day, 

in the gaseous pool which I had just passed, and had hung up their “cutty 

sarks” to dry in that draughty alley. In vain did I hint to my foremost 

guide that I had seen enough; that my scepticism on the subject of the 

coal supply was perfectly cured, and that I wanted my dinner. He 

evidently had but little consideration for diners at that hour of the day, 

and was desirous of showing me the admirable arrangements for 

ventilating the pit. I was obliged to submit, for to be left in that mouldy 

locality would have been, to say the least, very unsatisfactory, especially 

if my lamp had gone out; and it is extremely doubtful if I could have 

groped my way back to the shaft, in thorough darkness. 

Presently I fancied I smelt day-light dashed with soot; and on looking 

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 

allowed to look at it very long. Following my leaders round a mass of hot 

brickwork, I beheld an enormous fiery furnace, many times larger than 

the stoke hole under Messrs. Tooth's big brewery copper, and the air 

rushed towards it with the force of a brisk gale. While I stood silently 

sympathising with the half-roasted man, who was stirring the fire with a 

long poker, I decided, that if I were forced to select one of two trying 

services, I should prefer his red hot post, to that of the lookout man, of 

the middle watch, rounding Cape Horn, with a double reef breeze 

blowing icicles from the South Pole. 

I rested but a short time in the melting vicinity of the furnace, for my 

friend the manager is perpetual motion personified. Off he started again 

through Fungus Alley, and anon, after a ramble of several miles in sum 

total, we returned to the foot of the main shaft; a sort of “Charing Cross,” 

or grand junction, for all the tramways which branch off in every 

direction. Here my friends paused to draw breath, which they had 

scarcely given me time to draw before; and as I fancied they were 

beginning to consider which way they should go next, I plaintively 

assured them, “that I was more than satisfied with what I had already 

experienced, and would willingly take their joint testimony for all the 

rest. I had seen sufficient coal for the present generation, gluttons though 

they be, and my mind was at rest on the subject. At any rate, I positively 

could not walk any further, if it were to save the next generation from 

being driven to charcoal, or faggots. Finally I remarked, “that if my 

friends were fully bent upon showing me through any more long 

passages, they must carry me a pig-a-back.” 

The latter proposition seemed to have more weight than all the others; 

and being evidently indisposed to take such a troublesome burden on 

their shoulders, they smilingly accompanied me to the cage. The 

telegraphic hammer then struck two, and in another minute I was hoisted 

up into the sunshine, very weary, but somewhat wiser than I was when I 

descended the shaft, four hours before.

Boys and Girls! Beware of Snakes! 

“SEE, papa,” cried Minnie Maybud, one doubtful looking afternoon. 

“See, papa, the smiling sun is peeping out at last, from behind those cross 

looking clouds; there is a bit of blue sky too, as big as my parasol, and 

it's getting bigger every minute. Yes, the rain is all over, I do believe; so 

we can have our drive to Coogee beach after all. I'm so glad,” said little 

Minnie, clapping her hands with joy, as she bounded inside from the 

balcony, bringing sunshine with her. 

“I have been quite vexed with the weather all the morning,” continued 

little Minnie, “though I know it was silly of me, and perhaps sinful too; 

for as you have explained to me, papa, all the clever men in the colony 

could not have saved the thirsty vegetation, if the rain had kept away 

much longer. I am sure the poor cows and horses, and sheep, will be 

glad. I will be more patient in future, during wet weather; yes, that I will. 

Now, papa dear, please tell Simon to get the carriage ready, and come 

along, Anna,” she added, as she caught her sister round the waist, “come 

away, dear; let us get on our hats and mantles; and find our shell baskets. 

We will have a merry afternoon on the nice white sandy beach, and play 

at catch-me-if-you-can, with the big waves which come toppling over 

and over each other, with their white curly heads looking like cart loads 

of cauliflowers.” Away skipped the happy girls to their room; humming 

“shells of ocean.” 

Half an hour afterwards, the carriage containing Minnie and her sister 

with their mamma and their governess, was rolling briskly along the road 

towards Coogee. The morning showers had imparted new life and 

loveliness to the vegetable world, and everything looked refreshed. The 

pretty bush flowers, which bloomed in profuse variety on either side of 

the road, seemed to vie with the smiling faces of the blooming maidens 

in the carriage. The sun shone out bright and warm; making the drops of 

moisture on the bushes sparkle like diamonds, and the mimic rain pools 

in the road to look as if they were full of new sovereigns; while the air 

was far more fragrant than the shops of Rowland, Rimmell, or any other 

great perfumer. 

“Stop, if you please, Simon,” said Mrs. Maybud to the coachman, 

when he had driven to the end of the smooth road. The road was not then 

made quite down to the beach, as it is at the present time. “Stop, Simon, I 

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 

rest. We will walk down to the beach.” 

“Come, sister dear,” said lively little Minnie, after they had alighted. 

“Let us have a run to yonder rock that looks so like a nice couch, with a 

green velvet cover to it. We can leave our mantles with mamma and Miss 

Prosody while we gather sea-weed, and shells, to make a wreath for dear 

grandmamma in England.” 

Away ran the light-hearted girls, and soon they were skipping about the 

beach, while the sea breeze blew their clustering curls about their rosy 

faces, and their bright eyes beamed with enjoyment. 

It cannot, with strict correctness, be said that there is not a variety of 

conchological specimens on Coogee beach. Indeed, that can scarcely be 

said of any sea beach; still the sea shores of Australia — the eastern 

coasts at least — are not so remarkable for rare or beautiful specimens of 

shells as other parts of this hemisphere; and especially some of the coral 

islands of Western Polynesia, which I have visited. 

The girls amused themselves for more than an hour, and gathered what 

appeared to them a choice assortment of univalves, and bivalves, 

together with seaweed, pebbles and sea-eggs. At length, feeling rather 

tired, they proceeded to where mamma and governess were seated, on the 

green rock before alluded to, there they spread out their little baskets of 

treasures, and amused themselves in sorting and arranging them, for 

another hour or more. 

“Now, my dears,” said Mrs. Maybud, rising from her seat, “I think it is 

time to return home. The sun is beginning to make long shadows, and the 

air from the sea is getting rather chilly, so put on your mantles, and we 

will walk to the carriage.” 

“Oh mamma, mamma,” shrieked one of the girls, at that instant in an 

agony of terror, “a snake, a snake, close to your feet.” 

Mrs. Maybud cast her eyes downwards, and, with indescribable 

loathing, beheld a brown snake within a few inches of her feet; with its 

fearfully fascinating eyes gleaming upon her. With more haste than 

elegance, the whole party sprang from the rock; fortunately without the 

least injury; but as may be imagined, with feelings of intense alarm. 

During the whole of the time they had sat on the rock, there is no doubt 

that the deadly reptile had lain coiled up in a crevice, at their feet, and 

had probably been asleep until awakened by the slight noise they made in 

rising; or possibly by some part of their dress touching it. They hurried to 

the carriage with hearts full of gratitude to God, for their providential 

escape. 

About a fortnight afterwards, Mr. Maybud, with Anna, and Minnie, 

drove to Coogee beach, during a south east gale, when a scene of awful 

grandeur was before them, worth going thrice the distance to behold. 

While the gigantic waves were breaking in rapid succession upon the

long shelly beach like avalanches, far away seaward, confused tumbling 

masses of foaming waters were warring with the howling winds, and 

black, angry looking clouds above, seemed to frown on the strife of the 

turbulent elements. 

After enjoying the sublime spectacle for some time, Mr. Maybud 

allowed his daughters to lead him to the rock, where they received the 

terrible fright above described. 

“That's the spot, papa,” said Minnie, pulling Mr. Maybud towards it. I 

know it by its nice, soft green surface; and that's the crevice where the 

snake was. Mamma's and Miss Prosody's feet were right over the spot for 

more than two hours. How very providential that the dreadful thing was 

asleep all the time. There, that's the hole, papa,” said Minnie, pointing to 

it with her parasol. 

“Hush, my dear,” said Mr. Maybud, excitedly, “there is the snake now; 

I saw it move. Stand back, stand back!” As he spoke, he thrust his 

walking-stick into the crevice, and by a dexterous movement forced the 

reptile from its hiding place. In another minute it was writhing on the 

sand with its back broken. It was a brown snake, about three feet in 

length, and of a very deadly species. 

* * * * * 

Coogee is now much less infested by snakes than it was at the time the 

above incidents occurred. Much of the land has been cleared and 

cultivated, or built upon; and a great many snakes have shuffled away to 

more secluded haunts, for they generally prefer the solitude of the thick 

bush, or reedy swamp. They do not, however, always object to the 

society of mankind, or to share his domestic conveniencies; as some of 

the following examples will attest. 

A married pair — intimate friends of mine — were sitting on a sofa in 

their little bush cottage, one Sunday afternoon, when to their dismay, 

they beheld a black snake, about five feet in length, leisurely wriggle 

from beneath the sofa, into an adjoining bedroom. My male friend 

immediately ran out of the room for some weapon, to despatch the 

unwelcome intruder: leaving his wife to watch its movements; but before 

he returned, the snake had disappeared. It was, however, killed that same 

evening, by a neighbour; who kept watch outside, the cottage, until he 

saw the snake emerge from beneath it, when he chopped its head off with 

a spade. My friend after that occurrence lost no time in plastering his 

cottage, and in carefully stopping every hole in the flooring, or fireplace, 

large enough to afford ingress to such loathsome visitors. Persons living 

in bush houses, will do well to follow my friend's example and stop 

every hole in their walls, or floors; which can easily be done with a little 

management even in the most rudely constructed habitations.

* * * * * 

A young gentleman, (with whom I was well acquainted), one morning, 

took up his cap, from the place where he had left it the previous night, 

when to his surprise, he found a small snake coiled up inside it. I am not 

quite sure whether he had put the cap on his head before he saw the 

snake inside it; but I do feel sure, that he did not put it on his head, after 

he saw its ugly tenant, until he had given it summary notice to quit; and 

had assured himself, more certainly than by bonds and covenants, that it 

would never get into his cap again. 

* * * * * 

I was travelling on horseback, one sultry day, through a part of the 

bush to the north, that I had never travelled before, when I overtook a 

man on foot, who offered to put me upon what he called “a short cut” to 

the place to which I was going. As the man walked beside me, he treated 

me to the horrifying details of a murder which had been committed 

sometime before, in a deep creek, into which we had just began to 

descend. “Here you are, sir, this is the very spot where the murdered man 

was found,” continued my garrulous informant, as I reined up my horse 

and got off his back, to allow him to drink from the pure cool stream. 

The banks of the creeks were precipitous; and the dense umbrageous 

foliage above and around totally excluded the sunshine. Not a solitary 

stray beam could pierce through the tangled masses of vines and 

creepers; and even dull daylight itself could scarcely find its way to the 

bottom. “Well,” I remarked, “this is the sort of place I should expect a 

murderer to select for his dreadful work; where he would not be very 

liable to be intruded upon.” 

“It has been called ‘Dead-man's Creek’ ever since that murder;” said 

my informant, as a wind-up to the sanguinary tale, which he had told 

with such scrupulous regard to minute particulars, that I almost feared he 

would want to give me a practical illustration of the exact way in which 

the poor victim's head was cut off. 

I was very glad when he had finished his story, for I never was fond of 

tales of murder; and that awful recital by a strange man, in such a 

gloomy spot, was particularly uninteresting. 

My horse had finished drinking, and I was about to sit down on the 

gnarled roots of a tree, which was close beside me; when to my horror I 

saw, what appeared to me to be a cluster of snakes coiled up, on the very 

spot where I had intended to seat myself. I hastened up the opposite bank 

of the creek, tied my horse to a tree, and aided by the man, broke a small 

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 

it slowly uncoiled itself, and dropped into the pool of water beneath, 

from which, after some difficulty, I dragged it ashore, and killed it. It 

was a diamond snake, rather more than twelve feet in length, and was in 

a state of repletion; having but a short time before, swallowed a kangaroo 

rat. The details of that cruel murder, and my escape from sitting on that 

formidable reptile, have impressed “Dead-man's creek” vividly on my 

memory. 

I could write a long chapter, horrible enough to scare a soldier, about 

wonderful escapes from “tremendous snakes” of which I have been told. 

By-the-bye, most of the snakes that escape and that, of course, are never 

measured are of enormous dimensions; and the same remark applies to 

sharks, and many other terrible things, that travellers frequently talk 

about. I have heard too, some hair-raising stories of snakes being found 

in beds, and under beds; in bonnet boxes, in flour bags, in chests with 

Sunday clothes, or coiled up in a stockman's empty boots, or in the 

pocket of a farmer's great coat, which hung against the wall of his slab 

hut. Although many of those stories are quite authentic, I shall not relate 

them in detail; for I do not wish to intimidate my young readers. It is 

very far from my desire to create bugbears, or to encourage pusillanimity 

in any form. I only wish in giving a few examples, to induce ordinary 

prudence in guarding against accidents from those deadly reptiles. 

I once met with a gentleman in the interior, (a new arrival,) who had 

such a horror of snakes, that he would scarcely stir out of his house, on 

foot, after dark; and even in daylight he walked through the bush in 

nervous trepidation. He had heard “travellers tell strange tales,” of the 

dangers of the bush from the prevalence of deadly reptiles, until he had 

got a settled dread on his mind, which was excessively painful to him, 

but which he could not reason away. He seemed surprised and somewhat 

relieved, when I told him, that although I had been more than twenty 

years in the colony, and had lived much of that time in the interior, that I 

had not seen a hundred snakes. I owned that I probably might have seen 

many more if I had specially searched for them, for on one occasion, I 

went out with my gun and my pointer dogs, on a sultry afternoon, to the 

margin of a small lagoon, not more than a mile from a country town, and 

there shot seven or eight black snakes, in about two hours. But that 

locality was notoriously infested with those reptiles. 

Pedestrians should look carefully to their feet, when travelling on a hot 

day in the vicinity of swamps, lagoons, or drains, as snakes particularly 

inhabit such localities, and they often come out of their hiding places, 

and lie in the foot-paths, for like cats they are fond of basking in the 

sunshine. They will, however, generally wriggle away as fast as they can, 

on the approach of a human being, although on several occasions, a 

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 

instant I have turned for the purpose of picking up a stick, it has 

attempted to escape at its utmost speed. 

I have seen a bold bushman go close up to a snake, and strike its head 

with the hammer head of his riding whip, but that was certainly running 

an unnecessary risk, and I have always preferred a tolerably long stick as 

my weapon in such encounters. Snakes are easily disabled, one or two 

smart blows are sufficient, but they are as tenacious of life as silver eels, 

and bushmen have a tradition, that “snakes never die till sundown.” 

It is best to approach them in front, as they are apt to spring backwards 

upon an assailant, though they cannot spring forward, and in general they 

cannot creep so fast but even a lazy man might easily get out of their 

way. I have heard of snakes attacking persons, but I never saw one do so, 

and those that I have seen, have seemed glad to get away from me. 

Vicious animals in general have a fear of man which deters them from 

assailing him, unless they are incited to it by provocation or in selfdefence, 

and the most noxious species of reptiles have generally some 

distinguishing characteristics by which their hurtful properties may be 

known, and counteracted. In that we see a mark of God's providential 

care for us. 

I repeat my declaration. I have not seen one hundred live snakes during 

over a quarter of a century; and I have not known of one fatal case of 

snake poisoning, within my own circle of friends and acquaintances. 

That may be rather surprising to those persons who fancy our fine 

continent is dangerously overrun with those loathsome reptiles. 

But there is, alas! a black snake, terribly prevalent, which is caressed 

by thousands of persons in this land; though many of them know from 

personal or family experience that it is far more dangerous than the deaf 

adder. I mean the “dram bottle.” That is the snake which has desolated 

hundreds of homes, and sent thousands of poor souls to ruin; that has 

done infinitely more mischief in this fine country than all the snakes in 

the bush. 

I have seen the serpent — intemperance — writhe its treacherous way 

into many happy households, and first fascinate, then crush within its 

powerful folds the most promising members of the family. I have seen 

the hope of a respectable house — a fine, broad browed youth — his 

father's pride, and his mother's idol; upon whose education the fond old 

pair had lavished their hardly earned little hoard; I have seen that beloved 

boy's fine intellect vitiated, his once athletic frame palsied and wasted, 

and with sorrow I add, that I have stood upon the graves of the suicide 

son and his broken-hearted parents. 

I have seen a sunny-hearted little child grow up to girl-hood, and fall a 

victim to the fascinating influence of intemperance. With aching heart I 

have marked her rapid decline from the paths of innocence and virtue, to

vice, poverty, disease, and an agonising death; long before she had 

reached life's meridian. 

I have seen a decrepit, grey-headed widow groping her way through 

life in penury and grief. I knew her in former days, when she was rich in 

this world's goods, and blessed with an industrious husband, who walked 

with her to the house of God. But, alas! in an evil hour he fell a victim to 

the world's great curse; and now he fills a drunkard's grave, while his 

poor old helpless widow is left to mourn in hopeless sorrow. 

I have seen — — But ah! I dare not write more on this harrowing 

subject; for well-remembered faces rise up from the dead before my 

mental gaze; and my heart sickens at the dreadful contemplation. 

Boys and girls! beware of snakes! beware of snakes! But especially 

beware of the last one I have alluded to, of which I lack words 

sufficiently strong to express my horror.

Australian Tales - Setis

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