Chapter II: Part 2

But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange joy and shame, and gushing love for the little child had overpowered her; it was some time before Susan could bring her round. There she was all trembling, sick impatience to look at the little frocks. Among them was a slip of paper which Susan had forgotten to name, that had been pinned to the bundle. On it was scrawled in a round stiff hand,

‘Call her Anne. She does not cry much, and takes a deal of notice. God bless you and forgive me.’

The writing was no clue at all; the name ‘Anne,’ common though it was, seemed something to build upon. But Mrs. Leigh recognised one of the frocks instantly, as being made out of part of a gown that she and her daughter had bought together in Rochdale.

She stood up, and stretched out her hands in the attitude of blessing over Susan’s bent head.

‘God bless you, and show you His mercy in your need, as you have shown it to this little child.’

She took the little creature in her arms, and smoothed away her sad looks to a smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and over again, ‘Nanny, Nanny, my little Nanny.’ At last the child was soothed, and looked in her face and smiled back again.

‘It has her eyes,’ said she to Susan.

‘I never saw her to the best of my knowledge. I think it must be her’s by the frock. But where can she be?’

‘God knows,’ said Mrs. Leigh; ‘I dare not think she’s dead. I’m sure she isn’t.’

‘No! she’s not dead. Every now and then a little packet is thrust in under our door, with may be two half-crowns in it; once it was half-a-sovereign. Altogether I’ve got seven-and-thirty shillings wrapped up for Nanny. I never touch it, but I’ve often thought the poor mother feels near to God when she brings this money. Father wanted to set the policeman to watch, but I said No, for I was afraid if she was watched she might not come, and it seemed such a holy thing to be checking her in, I could not find in my heart to do it.’

‘Oh, if we could but find her! I’d take her in my arms, and we’d just lie down and die together.’

‘Nay, don’t speak so!’ said Susan gently, ‘for all that’s come and gone, she may turn right at last. Mary Magdalen did, you know.’

‘Eh! but I were nearer right about thee than Will. He thought you would never look on him again if you knew about Lizzie. But thou’rt not a Pharisee.’

‘I’m sorry he thought I could be so hard,’ said Susan in a low voice, and colouring up. Then Mrs. Leigh was alarmed, and in her motherly anxiety, she began to fear lest she had injured Will in Susan’s estimation.

‘You see Will thinks so much of you—gold would not be good enough for you to walk on, in his eye. He said you’d never look at him as he was, let alone his being brother to my poor wench. He loves you so, it makes him think meanly on everything belonging to himself, as not fit to come near ye,—but he’s a good lad, and a good son—thou’lt be a happy woman if thou’lt have him,—so don’t let my words go against him; don’t!’

But Susan hung her head and made no answer. She had not known until now, that Will thought so earnestly and seriously about her; and even now she felt afraid that Mrs. Leigh’s words promised her too much happiness, and that they could not be true. At any rate the instinct of modesty made her shrink from saying anything which might seem like a confession of her own feelings to a third person. Accordingly she turned the conversation on the child.

‘I’m sure he could not help loving Nanny,’ said she. ‘There never was such a good little darling; don’t you think she’d win his heart if he knew she was his niece, and perhaps bring him to think kindly on his sister?’

‘I dunnot know,’ said Mrs. Leigh, shaking her head. ‘He has a turn in his eye like his father, that makes me——. He’s right down good though. But you see I’ve never been a good one at managing folk; one severe look turns me sick, and then I say just the wrong thing, I’m so fluttered. Now I should like nothing better than to take Nancy home with me, but Tom knows nothing but that his sister is dead, and I’ve not the knack of speaking rightly to Will. I dare not do it, and that’s the truth. But you mun not think badly of Will. He’s so good hissel, that he can’t understand how any one can do wrong; and, above all, I’m sure he loves you dearly.’

‘I don’t think I could part with Nancy,’ said Susan, anxious to stop this revelation of Will’s attachment to herself. ‘He’ll come round to her soon; he can’t fail; and I’ll keep a sharp look-out after the poor mother, and try and catch her the next time she comes with her little parcels of money.’

‘Aye, lass! we mun get hold of her; my Lizzie. I love thee dearly for thy kindness to her child; but, if thou can’st catch her for me, I’ll pray for thee when I’m too near my death to speak words; and while I live, I’ll serve thee next to her,—she mun come first, thou know’st. God bless thee, lass. My heart is lighter by a deal than it was when I comed in. Them lads will be looking for me home, and I mun go, and leave this little sweet one,’ kissing it. ‘If I can take courage, I’ll tell Will all that has come and gone between us two. He may come and see thee, mayn’t he?’

‘Father will be very glad to see him, I’m sure,’ replied Susan. The way in which this was spoken satisfied Mrs. Leigh’s anxious heart that she had done Will no harm by what she had said; and with many a kiss to the little one, and one more fervent tearful blessing on Susan, she went homewards.

WORK! +An Anecdote.+

A Cavalry Officer of large fortune, who had distinguished himself in several actions, having been quartered for a long time in a foreign city, gradually fell into a life of extreme and incessant dissipation. He soon found himself so indisposed to any active military service, that even the ordinary routine became irksome and unbearable. He accordingly solicited and obtained leave of absence from his regiment for six months. But, instead of immediately engaging in some occupation of mind and body, as a curative process for his morbid condition, he hastened to London, and gave himself up entirely to greater luxuries than ever, and plunged into every kind of sensuality. The consequence was a disgust of life and all its healthy offices. He became unable to read half a page of a book, or to write the shortest note; mounting his horse was too much trouble; to lounge down the street was a hateful effort. His appetite failed, or everything disagreed with him; and he could seldom sleep. Existence became an intolerable burthen; he therefore determined on suicide.

With this intention he loaded his pistols, and, influenced by early associations, dressed himself in his regimental frock-coat and crimson sash, and entered St. James’s Park a little before sunrise. He felt as if he was mounting guard for the last time; listened to each sound, and looked with miserable affection across the misty green towards the Horse Guards, faintly seen in the distance.

A few minutes after the officer had entered the park, there passed through the same gate a poor mechanic, who leisurely followed in the same direction. He was a gaunt, half-famished looking man, and walked with a sad air, his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground, and his large bony hands dangling at his sides.

The officer, absorbed in the act he meditated, walked on without being aware of the presence of another person. Arriving about the middle of a wide open space, he suddenly stopped, and drawing forth both pistols, exclaimed: ‘Oh, most unfortunate and most wretched man that I am! Wealth, station, honour, prospects, are of no avail! Existence has become a heavy torment to me! I have not strength—I have not courage to endure or face it a moment longer!’

With these words he cocked the pistols, and was raising both of them to his head, when his arms were seized from behind, and the pistols twisted out of his fingers. He reeled round, and beheld the gaunt scarecrow of a man who had followed him.

‘What are you?’ stammered the officer, with a painful air; ‘How dare you to step between me and death?’

‘I am a poor hungry mechanic;’ answered the man, ‘one who works from fourteen to sixteen hours a day, and yet finds it hard to earn a living. My wife is dead—my daughter was tempted away from me—and I am a lone man. As I have nobody to live for, and have become quite tired of my life, I came out this morning, intending to drown myself. But as the fresh air of the park came over my face, the sickness of life gave way to shame at my own want of strength and courage, and I determined to walk onwards and live my allotted time. But what are _you_? Have you encountered cannon-balls and death in all shapes, and now want the strength and courage to meet the curse of idleness?’

The officer was moving off with some confused words, but the mechanic took him by the arm, and threatening to hand him over to the police if he resisted, led him droopingly away.

This mechanic’s work was that of a turner, and he lived in a dark cellar, where he toiled at his lathe from morning to night. Hearing that the officer had amused himself with a little turnery in his youth, the poor artisan proposed to take him down into his workshop. The officer offered him money, and was anxious to escape; but the mechanic refused it, and persisted.

He accordingly took the morbid gentleman down into his dark cellar, and set him to work at his lathe. The officer began very languidly, and soon rose to depart. Whereupon, the mechanic forced him down again on the hard bench, and swore that if he did not do an hour’s work for him, in return for saving his life, he would instantly consign him to a policeman, and denounce him for attempting to commit suicide. At this threat the officer was so confounded, that he at once consented to do the work.

When the hour was over, the mechanic insisted on a second hour, in consequence of the slowness of the work—it had not been a fair hour’s labour. In vain the officer protested, was angry, and exhausted—had the heartburn—pains in his back and limbs—and declared it would kill him. The mechanic was inexorable. ‘If it _does_ kill you,’ said he, ‘then you will only be where you would have been if I had not stopped you.’ So the officer was compelled to continue his work with an inflamed face, and the perspiration pouring down over his cheeks and chin.

At last he could proceed no longer, come what would of it, and sank back in the arms of his persecuting preserver. The mechanic now placed before him his own breakfast, composed of a twopenny loaf of brown bread, and a pint of small beer; the whole of which the officer disposed of in no time, and then sent out for more.

Before the boy who was despatched on this errand returned, a little conversation had ensued; and as the officer rose to go, he smilingly placed his purse, with his card, in the hands of the mechanic. The poor ragged man received them with all the composure of a physician, and with a sort of dry, grim humour which appeared peculiar to him, and the only relief of his otherwise rough and rigid character, made sombre by the constant shadows and troubles of life.

But the moment he read the name on the card, all the hard lines in his deeply-marked face underwent a sudden contortion. Thrusting back the purse and card into the officer’s hand, he seized him with a fierce grip by one arm—hurried him, wondering, up the dark broken stairs, along the narrow passage—then pushed him out at the door!

‘You are the fine gentleman who tempted my daughter away!’ said he.

‘I—_your_ daughter!’ exclaimed the officer.

‘Yes, my daughter; Ellen Brentwood!’ said the mechanic. ‘Are there so many men’s daughters in the list, that you forget her name?’

‘I implore you,’ said the officer, ‘to take this purse. _Pray_ take this purse! If you will not accept it for yourself, I entreat you to send it to her!’

‘Go and buy a lathe with it,’ said the mechanic. ‘Work, man! and repent of your past life!’

So saying, he closed the door in the officer’s face, and descended the stairs to his daily labour.

GOOD VERSES OF A BAD POET.

Few things in Dryden or Pope are finer than these lines by a man whom
they both continually laughed at;—Sir Richard Blackmore.

Exhausted travellers, that have undergone The scorching heats of Life’s intemperate zone, Haste for refreshment to their beds beneath, And stretch themselves in the cool shades of Death.

PERFECT FELICITY.

IN A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW.

I am the Raven in the Happy Family—and nobody knows what a life of misery I lead!

The dog informs me (he was a puppy about town before he joined us; which was lately) that there is more than one Happy Family on view in London. Mine, I beg to say, may be known by being the Family which contains a splendid Raven.

I want to know why I am to be called upon to accommodate myself to a cat, a mouse, a pigeon, a ringdove, an owl (who is the greatest ass I have ever known), a guinea-pig, a sparrow, and a variety of other creatures with whom I have no opinion in common. Is this national education? Because, if it is, I object to it. Is our cage what they call neutral ground, on which all parties may agree? If so, war to the beak I consider preferable.

What right has any man to require me to look complacently at a cat on a shelf all day? It may be all very well for the owl. My opinion of _him_ is that he blinks and stares himself into a state of such dense stupidity that he has no idea what company he is in. I have seen him, with my own eyes, blink himself, for hours, into the conviction that he was alone in a belfry. But _I_ am not the owl. It would have been better for me, if I had been born in that station of life.

I am a Raven. I am, by nature, a sort of collector, or antiquarian. If I contributed, in my natural state, to any Periodical, it would be The Gentleman’s Magazine. I have a passion for amassing things that are of no use to me, and burying them. Supposing such a thing—I don’t wish it to be known to our proprietor that I put this case, but I say, supposing such a thing—as that I took out one of the Guinea-Pig’s eyes; how could I bury it here? The floor of the cage is not an inch thick. To be sure, I could dig through it with my bill (if I dared), but what would be the comfort of dropping a Guinea-Pig’s eye into Regent Street?

What _I_ want, is privacy. I want to make a collection. I desire to get a little property together. How can I do it here? Mr. Hudson couldn’t have done it, under corresponding circumstances.

I want to live by my own abilities, instead of being provided for in this way. I am stuck in a cage with these incongruous companions, and called a member of the Happy Family; but suppose you took a Queen’s Counsel out of Westminster Hall, and settled him board and lodging free, in Utopia, where there would be no excuse for ‘his quiddits, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks,’ how do you think _he_’d like it? Not at all. Then why do you expect _me_ to like it, and add insult to injury by calling me a ‘Happy’ Raven!

This is what _I_ say: I want to see men do it. I should like to get up a Happy Family of men, and show ’em. I should like to put the Rajah Brooke, the Peace Society, Captain Aaron Smith, several Malay Pirates, Doctor Wiseman, the Reverend Hugh Stowell, Mr. Fox of Oldham, the Board of Health, all the London undertakers, some of the Common (very common _I_ think) Council, and all the vested interests in the filth and misery of the poor, into a good-sized cage, and see how _they_’d get on. I should like to look in at ’em through the bars, after they had undergone the training I have undergone. You wouldn’t find Sir Peter Laurie ‘putting down’ Sanitary Reform then, or getting up in _that_ vestry, and pledging his word and honour to the non-existence of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, I expect! And very happy _he_’d be, wouldn’t he, when he couldn’t do that sort of thing?

I have no idea of you lords of the creation coming staring at me in this false position. Why don’t you look at home? If you think I’m fond of the dove, you’re very much mistaken. If you imagine there is the least good will between me and the pigeon, you never were more deceived in your lives. If you suppose I wouldn’t demolish the whole Family (myself excepted), and the cage too, if I had my own way, you don’t know what a real Raven is. But if you _do_ know this, why am _I_ to be picked out as a curiosity? Why don’t you go and stare at the Bishop of Exeter? ’Ecod, he’s one of our breed, if any body is!

Do you make me lead this public life because I seem to be what I ain’t? Why, I don’t make half the pretences that are common among you men! You never heard _me_ call the sparrow my noble friend. When did _I_ ever tell the Guinea-Pig that he was my Christian brother? Name the occasion of my making myself a party to the ‘sham’ (my friend Mr. Carlyle will lend me his favourite word for the occasion) that the cat hadn’t really her eye upon the mouse! Can _you_ say as much? What about the last Court Ball, the next Debate in the Lords, the last great Ecclesiastical Suit, the next long assembly in the Court Circular? I wonder you are not ashamed to look me in the eye! I am an independent Member—of the Happy Family; and I ought to be let out.

I have only one consolation in my inability to damage anything, and that is that I hope I am instrumental in propagating a delusion as to the character of Ravens. I have a strong impression that the sparrows on our beat are beginning to think they may trust a Raven. Let ’em try! There’s an uncle of mine, in a stable-yard down in Yorkshire, who will very soon undeceive any small bird that may favour him with a call.

The dogs too. Ha ha! As they go by, they look at me and this dog, in quite a friendly way. They never suspect how I should hold on to the tip of his tail, if I consulted my own feelings instead of our proprietor’s. It’s almost worth being here, to think of some confiding dog who has seen me, going too near a friend of mine who lives at a hackney-coach stand in Oxford Street. You wouldn’t stop _his_ squeaking in a hurry, if my friend got a chance at him.

It’s the same with the children. There’s a young gentleman with a hat and feathers, resident in Portland Place, who brings a penny to our proprietor, twice a week. He wears very short white drawers, and has mottled legs above his socks. He hasn’t the least idea what I should do to his legs, if I consulted my own inclinations. He never imagines what I am thinking of, when we look at one another. May he only take those legs, in their present juicy state, close to the cage of my brother-in-law of the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park!

Call yourselves rational beings, and talk about our being reclaimed? Why, there isn’t one of us who wouldn’t astonish you, if we could only get out! Let _me_ out, and see whether _I_ should be meek or not. But this is the way you always go on in—you know you do. Up at Pentonville, the sparrow says—and he ought to know, for he was born in a stack of chimneys in that prison—you are spending I am afraid to say how much every year out of the rates, to keep men in solitude, where they +CAN’T+ do any harm (that you know of), and then you sing all sorts of choruses about their being good. So am I what you call good—here. Why? Because I can’t help it. Try me outside!

You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the Magpie says; and I agree with him. If you are determined to pet only those who take things and hide them, why don’t you pet the Magpie and me? We are interesting enough for you, ain’t we? The Mouse says you are not half so particular about the honest people. He is not a bad authority. He was almost starved when he lived in a workhouse, wasn’t he? He didn’t get much fatter, I suppose, when he moved to a labourer’s cottage? He was thin enough when he came from that place, here—I know that. And what does the Mouse (whose word is his bond) declare? He declares that you don’t take half the care you ought; of your own young, and don’t teach ’em half enough. Why don’t you then? You might give our proprietor something to do, I should think, in twisting miserable boys and girls _into_ their proper nature, instead of twisting us out of ours. You are a nice set of fellows, certainly, to come and look at Happy Families, as if you had nothing else to look after!

I take the opportunity of our proprietor’s pen and ink in the evening, to write this. I shall put it away in a corner—quite sure, as it’s intended for the Post Office, of Mr. Rowland Hill’s getting hold of it somehow, and sending it to somebody. I understand he can do anything with a letter. Though the Owl says (but I don’t believe him), that the present prevalence of measles and chicken-pox among infants in all parts of this country, has been caused by Mr. Rowland Hill. I hope I needn’t add that we Ravens are all good scholars, but that we keep our secret (as the Indians believe the Monkeys do, according to a Parrot of my acquaintance) lest our abilities should be imposed upon. As nothing worse than my present degradation as a member of the Happy Family can happen to me, however, I desert the General Freemasons’ Lodge of Ravens, and express my disgust in writing.

A DIALOGUE OF SHADOWS.

[_Scene, Purgatory_ (1778). The Shades of an Englishman and a
Frenchman are pacing by the side of a gloomy river.]

_Englishman._ What bustle is here? Can we not groan in peace?

_Frenchman._ There are some new arrivals. One, who comes Straight from the finest kingdom of the earth, Has caused a vast sensation. Here he is!

[_The Shade of Voltaire enters._

_Engl._ I never saw a ghost so thin as this.

_Volt._ Good day, Messieurs,—if we may call this day! Faith, there’s a pleasant warmth about the place. After our rapid journey thro’ the dark, With cold winds driving us, and jarring atoms Whistling about our ears, ’tis not so bad To reach this hot and twilight land at last. Sir, if’t be not a liberty, may I ask For a pinch of charcoal.

_French._ With much pleasure, sir, [_Presents his box._ Any news from France?

_Volt._ France, sir, is growing young; Thro’ me, and d’Alembert, and Diderot, And that mad envious watchmaker, who did Good in his own despite. Before the earth Shall have swung a dozen times about the sun, Our dragon’s seed will rise and show some fruit.

_French._ We are glad to see you here, sir.

_Volt._ Without doubt, sir. A strange place this. Our French geographers Had doubts if such a region were. Nay, some Proved to the satisfaction of their friends, That ’twas impossible.

_Eng._ So most things seem, Until they are discovered.

_Volt._ That’s well said; Sir, I salute you.

_French._ You’ll find some excellent company, Monsieur.

_Volt._ You have some famous men here,—doubtless, sir. A priest or two?

_French._ A few.

_Volt._ I thought so, sir. A king perhaps?

_French._ Oh, plenty. Let me see— One, two, three.

_Volt._ Sir, spare your arithmetic. I am not curious. Yet, among these last, There’s surely one who dwelt in Prussia once? He made bad verses, which I mended. Eh? One Frederick?

_French._ Called the Great—

_Volt._ By little men. The same: Is he always in the saddle now?

_French._ We have no horses here.

_Volt._ Is ’t so? _N’importe_. A sedan will do for me. Now that I think of it, Where are your ladies? Any of them from France?

_Eng._ Shoals, shoals, sir. We’ve larger, lighter batches from that land, Than all the rest o’ the globe.

_Volt._ I shall be glad To renew friendship with some few of them. Madame du Châtelet—

_French._ She was a friend of yours?

_Volt._ I had some strong delusion of that sort. ’Twas when she flattered me. But, tell me, sir, What time do you dine in this agreeable land? I feel no appetite.

_Eng._ We do not dine.

_Volt._ Not dine! when do you eat?

_Eng._ We do not eat.

_Volt._ Umph! that is odd. When do you sleep then?

_Eng._ Sir, We do not sleep.

_Volt._ I’ faith, this jest begins To grow a little serious. I thought I knew Somewhat of most things; but this puzzles me. Lest I should err again, pray what _do_ you here, In this most quiet kingdom—all day long? Nay, day and night? What pastime?—

_Eng._ We repose! Sometimes we dream; of times and people gone,— Sometimes of our own country; we retrace Our course in earthly life; our deeds—

_Volt._ I have done Some deeds myself. Perhaps, Monsieur, you have seen A dictionary of mine, which made some noise? A fable or two, which told some bitter truths? A famous poem?—mark me.—

_Eng._ Your great work, I have read, and much admired.

_Volt._ The _Henriade?_ Sir, you have taste.

_Eng._ Not so:—a work less large In bulk; yet greater. ’Twas indeed no more Than a small memorial; touch’d wi’ the light of Truth, The strength of Right. Fine Sense and Pity joined, Begat it. It came forth, midst tears, and scorn, And burning anger. These inspired your pen To the argument, when murdered Calas died.

_Volt._ You bring me light, sir,—comfort,—almost faith. The dark thoughts that at times have haunted me,— The small ambition to be thought a wit,— The wish to sting my many enemies,— Seem disappearing. Sir, my thanks! I feel A warmth about my bosom, and begin To think that joys dwell not alone on earth, But some survive even in Purgatory.

AN AUSTRALIAN PLOUGHMAN’S STORY.

In red hot haste to get out of a Colonial town—where the life was too much like what I had sailed eighteen thousand miles to avoid,—I agreed to my Mr. Gumscrew’s terms without debate. Board and lodging for self and horse, undertaking to do the light work of the farm for twelve months without wages. On these conditions I took up my abode in a wooden hut thatched with bark, on which any well-bred short-horn would have looked with contempt. The sun and moon shone clearly through the chinks between the weather boards; my bedstead was a bullock’s hide stretched over four posts driven into the ground, a slip of green hide hanging from wall to wall, formed at once my clothes-horse and chest of drawers.

To the great contempt of my companion and fellow lodger, the overseer, I did put up a shelf for a few of my books, and drive in a nail for a small shaving glass, although not then able to boast a beard. The floor was of clay, variegated with large holes where the morning broom had swept too hard. The fire-place, built of unhewn stone, formed a recess half the size of our apartment. The kitchen was detached, and although small, rather better constructed than our chief hut, for the cook built it himself, and being an ‘old hand’ took pains with his special domain.

If I had been ordered into such a dog-kennel in England how I should have grumbled, and devoured my heart, in vain complainings; but now—it was my own choice, I had _hope before me_,—the glorious climate, the elastic atmosphere made chinks and cracks in walls of no consequence; and when inclined to grumble, I thought of the dark den-like lawyer’s office in which I had wearied away the last six months of my European life.

After a few days spent in cantering round the neighbourhood, I was ready to commence my light ‘duties.’

Returning home one evening I stopped my horse to look at our ploughman breaking up a fine piece of alluvial flat, which had recently been cleared and fenced in. He had ten pair of oxen and a heavy swing plough at work. There was a man to help him to drive, but his voice was as good as his hands, and it was a pleasure to see him, as he turned up a broad furrow of virgin soil, and halted his team, and lifted the big plough over the roots of the stumps that dotted the paddock, as if it had been a feather weight. Our ploughman, Jem Carden—Big Jem he was commonly called—was a specimen of English peasantry such as we don’t often see in Australia, tall, though a round shouldered stoop took off something from his height, large limbed but active, with a curly fair-haired bullet head, light-blue good-natured eyes, and hooked nose, large mouth full of good teeth, a solid chin, a colour which hard work and Australian sun could not extract, and an expression of respectful melancholy good nature that at once prepossessed me in his favour. He was then in the prime of life, a perfect master of every kind of rural work, ploughing, sowing, reaping, mowing, thatching, breaking-in, and driving bullocks and horses, and not less an adept in all Colonial pursuits, for he could do as much with a saw, an auger, an axe, and an adze as a European workman with a complete chest of tools. He was a very good fellow, too, always ready to help any one at a pinch; when the stockman broke his leg he walked twenty miles through the rain, a tropical rain in bucketfuls, although they had fought the day before about a dog of Jem’s, the stockman had been ill using; and yet Big Jem was a convict, or speaking colonially, ‘a prisoner.’

About a year after my arrival at the Station, Mr. Gumscrew having purchased a large herd of cattle a bargain from a person living some 200 miles from us, in the Mochi district, where all the grass was burned up, determined on sending me for them, as there was little doing at Springhill, and left me to choose any one I pleased to accompany me. I chose Carden.

We got our horses into the paddock close to the hut overnight; the next morning, at sunrise, buckled a blanket, a couple of shirts, a bag of tea and sugar, a quart pot, and a pair of hobbles to my saddle, and started in high spirits.

Now, living in the Bush, and especially while travelling, there is not the same distance between a master and well-behaved man, although a prisoner, as in towns. From the first I was interested in the ploughman, so I took the opportunity of this expedition to learn more about him.

We travelled all day from sunrise to sundown, seldom going off a walk, at which our horses could do nearly five miles an hour: toward evening we tried to strike some station or shepherd’s hut, the whereabouts of which Jem generally knew by the mixture of experience and instinct that constitute a perfect Bushman; if we could not light upon a hut we camped down near a waterhole, lighted a fire on some hollow fallen gum-tree, hobbled out our horses on the pasture near, put the quart pots to boil, the damper (flour cake) in the ashes to bake, and smoked our pipes until all was ready; then rolling up each in his blanket, slept soundly on the bare ground.

I think it was on the third day that we came upon a long stretch of open undulating country, where the grass scarcely gave back a sound to our horses’ feet. I dropped the reins on my little mare’s neck, and began to fill my pipe; but seeing Carden’s pipe still stuck in his straw hat, I knew he must be bankrupt in a Bushman’s greatest luxury, so handed him my pouch, and said, ‘Come, ride along side me, and tell me how you came here; for I cannot imagine how so honest a fellow ever got into trouble.’

‘Master,’ he answered, ‘I’ll tell you all the truth; but give me a little time, for my heart’s full, and it will take us a good three hours to get across these plains.’ So we paced on in silence for the space of one pipe, when he spoke again, and said, ‘Master, excuse me, but I’m not much of a scholar, and if you would read me a chapter from this book, it would do me a power o’ good. I try sometimes myself to spell it out, but somehow I can’t see the letters “plain.”’ His eyes were full of tears as he timidly handed a black clasped copy of the Bible.

There was something painful in the emotion and humbleness of a strong man before me a stripling alone with him in a desert.

I took the book from him; on the flyleaf was written, ‘Lucy Carden on her Marriage from her friend and pastor the Rev. Charles Calton,’ and turning it over it opened at the 51st Psalm: instinctively, I began to read aloud, until I came to the 17th verse, ‘The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.’ At these words my companion wept aloud, and murmured, ‘Oh, my poor wife’—and I, too, I knew not why, also wept.

Then we rode on in silence for some time; from a confused reverie I was awakened by my companion saying in a hoarse voice, ‘Master, I am ready—I can tell you my story now.

‘I was born in a village in Hampshire, the youngest of a large family—the son of labouring people. As soon as I had strength and voice enough, I was sent into the fields to scare the birds from the corn, and at eight years old, I began to drive plough for my father, so I got very little schooling but what I picked up in the winter evenings at a school kept by an old pensioned soldier. To tell the truth, I never liked my books when I was young, for which now I have often need to be sorry. But I was a strong hearty lad, and no out-door work came amiss to me. As soon as I could stand to them, I took hold of the stilts of the plough, and by the time I was sixteen, I could do a man’s day’s work.

‘When I was seventeen I won a great ploughing-match. Among the young gentlemen that came to see it was our young ’Squire, that owned nearly all the parish. He had just left College, and come into his fortune, for his father had been dead a many years. He was so much pleased with what he saw at the ploughing-match, that he determined to take the Home Farm into his own hands, and nothing would serve him but that I must be his head ploughman; indeed, I believe if I had understood writing and cyphering, he would have made me his bailiff,—for he was a young gentleman that nothing could stop when he took a fancy into his head. I mind well when he sent me off at twelve o’clock at night to London in his own carriage to buy a team of Suffolk Punches, he had heard of from a gentleman that was dining with him. Well, this made a man of me at once. I was as tall as I am now, and I’m afraid I grew spoiled with so much good. I was courting my Lucy at the time. She was the only daughter of the blacksmith in the next village, and if ever there was an angel she was one. The parson and his daughters noticed her a good deal, because she was clever at her book and sang so sweetly at church. Her father was a drunken old chap; her mother had been dead many years. I used to look out for him when he came down to our village, as he often did to drink and play at bowls, and see him safe over the stiles when he was ill able to walk straight. Many and many a day, after ploughing all day, and supping up my horses, have I walked five miles, half leading, half carrying, old Johnny Dunn, for the sake of five minutes’ talk to dear Lucy. Well, one night, in a wet autumn, I was up at the Hall to take the ’Squire’s instructions; for he loved, when he had strangers from London, to have me in after dinner, to give me a glass o’ wine and make believe of talking farming; old Dunn tried to get home after an evening’s bouse by a short cut over a ford I had often led him, missed his footing, and was found by some lads that went next morning to take up their night lines, stone dead—drowned.

‘There was poor Lucy left all alone in the world, for her father, who had been a dragoon farrier, and married one of Parson Calton’s maid-servants, had no relations in that part of the country.

‘I was getting good wages: there was a cottage and garden, belonging to the ploughman of the Home Farm, that I had never taken up, because I had lived with my father. The ’Squire made me many presents, and I had saved a little money, made by working at different things in winter evenings, being always handy with tools. Well, to make a long story short, Lucy found her father had left nothing behind him but a quarter’s pension he had not had time to drink, a few pounds due for work, and the furniture of his cottage. She had nobody to take care of her, so we moved the furniture to my cottage, and were married before I was nineteen, and on the day Parson Calton gave her that Bible, that never has left me since I left her. Many people blamed us, and wanted us to wait. I don’t think good Mr. Calton quite liked it, but his daughters were well pleased, and gave Lucy her wedding dress. Oh, God, sir, when I think upon those days, on two years that followed, and think of what I am, I wonder how I live and keep my senses. There was not a happier couple or prettier cottage in the county. My working days were not hard, for I had Lucy to welcome me home; and then on Sundays, to see her dressed in her best and walk across the fields to church, and hear her sing! Why, there was not a lady in the county could compare with her, and I have heard many great gentlemen say so.

‘I had a child, too, a darling little Lucy. * * * But this was too much happiness to last; we had been married just two years. The ’Squire stopped at our cottage, as he was riding by on his way to London, to settle about a ploughing-match that he had determined to make up for the next week, and talked over a plan for breaking up a lot of old pasture. A fortnight afterwards the bailiff came down with a letter in his hand, and said with a grave face, “Carden, I have some bad news for you; the ’Squire has determined to give up farming, and is going to foreign parts. I am to discharge all the hinds as soon as I can get a tenant for the farm. You are to be paid up to Christmas, and you may keep the cottage until the farm’s let, but I rather think Farmer Bullivant will take it.”

‘Here was a blow; we had thought ourselves provided for for life, and now we had a home and a living to seek. Farmer Bullivant would not keep me on, I knew well; he had his own ploughman, a relation. Well, we were put to sore straits; but at last I got another place, although at lower wages, some distance from my native village. Hard times came on; wages were lowered again and again; and at the same time a cry rose up round the country against the threshing-machines that were being very much used, and were throwing a good many poor people out of work. The people in England, sir, are not as we are here, sir, a very few words, and one or two desperate fellows can always lead them; they are so ignorant, they are ready for anything when they are badly off.

‘I went up one night to get my wages, and behold, when I got me to the farmer’s house, the bailiffs were in, and he going to be sold up, and the winter coming on. I walked toward home half mad; passing by a public-house, who should be at the door but the ’Squire’s gamekeeper—he kept him on—and he being sorry to see me so downcast, for he was a good kind fellow, though a gamekeeper, would make me take a glass with him; I think I had not been in a public-house since I had been married. The drink and the grief flew up into my head; before I got home, I fell in with a crowd of friends and fellow-labourers holloing and shouting. They had been breaking Farmer Bullivant’s threshing-machine, and swore they would not leave one in the county. I began to try to persuade them to go away quietly, but they ended by persuading me; we met a machine, as ill-luck would have it, on the road just turning into Farmer Grinder’s stack-yard. We smashed it to pieces; in the middle of the row the soldiers came up. I was taken in the act, with about twenty others; they lodged us in Winchester gaol the same night. The assizes were sitting; they tried us in batches, and found us guilty almost as soon as we came into court. I never saw my poor wife until the moment when the judge sentenced me to transportation for life. I hear her scream often now; I wake with it in the middle of the night. We had no time to get any one to speak to character for us; we had no lawyer or counsellor. Such poor people as we were had no friends of any use. The farmers who knew us were too angry and too frightened—although some of them were the first to speak against the threshing-machines. Good Parson Calton had been away, ill and dying, or I do not think it would have happened. For where are we poor countrymen to look for a friend wiser than ourselves if the Parson or the ’Squire does not stand by us?

‘My wife came to see me in prison, and wept so we could not talk much; for it was so quick, so sudden—it seemed like a horrid dream; for me to be a felon—for me, that could not strike a blow against any man, except in fair fight—that never wronged a living soul out of a farthing—to be the same as robbers and murderers! Well, I advised her to get quit of all bits of furniture, and try to get to service, through the Miss Caltons. I knew they were not rich, and could not help except by giving her a good name—by giving a character to the convict’s wife! We were to have met again the next day; the poor soul had walked twenty miles to Winchester, and a fruit-woman that was in court took pity on her when she fainted, and gave her half her bed. But the same night I was waked up from the first sound sleep I had had since I was taken, and put into a coach with a lot of others, with a guard of soldiers, and sent off to the hulks; and in three days we sailed for Botany Bay, as they called it in England. Oh, sir, that time was terrible. There were many on board that thought the punishment a pleasure voyage. They had no wives, no children to love. They had no good name to lose; they had not lived in one parish to know and love every stick and stone in it. They boasted of their villany, and joked at the disgraceful dress; they only found fault with the food, and the labour of helping to stow the ship; I did not care for the food or the work. They made me a constable on the voyage, and I landed with a good character from the surgeon in charge. I was assigned straight away to Major Z——. You must have heard, sir, what a terrible man he was. A rich man that had forgotten he had once been poor. He had more cattle and stock of all kinds than he could count; he starved us, he cursed us, and very few Mondays passed that he didn’t take up five or six for a flogging. But he was very glad to get me and three or four of the same lot, for it was not often such regular first-rate husbandmen came into the colony, so we were better treated than many. For in those times, if masters could be hard where they took a spite, still prisoners had a good chance of getting on. Well, my spirits rose and I began to have some hope when I found that, with good luck, I might have my “ticket,” that would give liberty in the colony, in seven years, and when I saw so many who had been prisoners riding about in their carriages, or driving teams of their own, as good as the ’Squire’s. Indeed, those that had good masters got on very well, but it was commonly thought that Major Z—— never parted with a good man if he could help it. He was sure to make up some charge and get him flogged, so as to put off the time for his getting a _ticket of leave_.

‘I had driven oxen at home and soon got into the ways of the colony, when, one day, the master came down to see a new piece of land I had been breaking up near a house he was building, and was so pleased that he began to talk quite kindly, although every second word was an oath, and asked me all about myself. Well, I told him, and made bold to say that, as he was going to build a large dairy, if he would send for my wife and child we would serve him for any wages he choose, all the days of our lives. He turned on me like a tiger, he cursed me, he told me he wanted no women or brats on his estate, no canting saints, no parsons, all he wanted was men that could work, and work they should. “If, you fool,” he said, “you had asked for a gallon of rum among the gang you might have had it, and drowned all your troubles, but I’ll have no women here, wives or no wives.”

‘I think at that moment Satan took possession of me. I was ready to do anything for my liberty, or to be free from my tyrant, and there were tempters enough all round me. A few days afterwards one of my fellow servants, an old hand, who had heard the last part of my master’s speech, came to me in the evening, and, after telling me that he supposed I had found out that nothing was to be got by fair means, that my master was a rogue, in fact that every one was a rogue who was not a fool, he began to hint that he could tell me a way to get my wife out and my liberty too. I swallowed the bait, I listened; then he went on to show how with money anything could be done in the colony, told me instances of tickets and conditional pardons, besides escapes managed by bribing, and then, when I was thoroughly poisoned, he swore me to secrecy and explained how, out of a thousand bullocks, a few pair would never be missed; so that all I had to do when I took a bullock team to Sydney was to yoke an extra pair of young bullocks, making ten or twelve pair, instead of eight or ten—a butcher, near where the drays generally stood, was all ready prepared to take and pay for, as many pair of bullocks as I chose to drive in. They were worth from 10_l._ to 12_l._ each, and I was to have 6_l._ for every pair.

‘I refused point blank. “Well,” he said, “I rely on your honour not to peach.” He knew he had caught me. My master took an early opportunity of having me flogged on a charge of insolence; the magistrates were two friends who had been dining with him. My tempter came to me again, and, on the next opportunity, I drove in the bullocks and became a _thief_. Having begun I could not stop; my tempter became my tyrant; to drown care I began to drink and to associate with the old hands, and then the money, for which I had resigned body and soul, melted away. What I saved up I knew not what to do with, and so I went on getting worse and worse, until one day, just as I was driving a pair of young heifers into the butcher’s yard, I was arrested, tried, and convicted on the evidence of my fellow-servant, who, having been found out in another robbery, saved himself by turning on me. I was sentenced to three years hard labour in an iron gang on the Blue mountains. What I suffered in those three years no tongue can tell. I was coupled with a wretch who had been a thief from his childhood, a burglar, and a murderer, but there was one man, a political prisoner sentenced to the iron gang for striking his overseer, who saved me, and spoke words of comfort to me; my term was shortened a year for rescuing a gentleman from a bush ranger, and Major Z—— having left the colony, I was assigned to my present master. In another year I shall have my ticket, but what I shall do heaven only knows. I have had one letter from my wife; she was living as dairy-maid with one of the Miss Caltons, who had married a country gentleman; they were very good to her, and I think her letter, full of good words, helped to save me from total ruin. But you, sir, are almost the only gentleman that has spoken a kind word to me in the Colony. We live like beasts of the field, working and well-fed, but nothing more. On many stations the prisoners don’t even know when Sunday comes round, and we die like dogs.’

Here he paused: and I felt so much affected by his melancholy story, that I could not at the time answer him, or offer any words of comfort.

* * * * *