Chapter IX (6)

At the end of four years of unclouded happiness (as novelists write of wedded life), this state of literal conjugal bliss was doomed to end. An epidemic of lung disease, such as at intervals sweeps over the land, occurred in Victoria. Railway fell a victim, being found dead in his paddock. Up to this time he had never been 'sick or sorry,' lame, tired, or unfit to go. His iron legs, with feet to match, showed no sign of work. In single harness he was miraculous, going mile after mile with the regularity of a steam-engine, apparently incapable of fatigue. I was lucky enough to have a fast, clever grandson of Cornborough to put in his place. He lasted ten years. A half-brother three years more. The old horse was using up his _fourth_ running mate, and entering upon his twentieth year _in my service_, when King Death put on the brake.

Not the least noticeable among Steamer's many good qualities was his kindly, generous temper. His was the Arab's docile gentleness with children. The large mild eye, 'on which you could hang your hat,' as the stable idiom goes, was a true indication of character. I was a bachelor when I first became his master. As time passed on, Mrs. Boldrewood and the elder girls used to drive him to the country town in New South Wales, near which we afterwards dwelt. The boys rode him as soon as they could straddle a horse. They hung by his tail, walked between his legs, and did all kinds of confidential circus performances for the benefit of their young friends. He was never known to bite, kick, or in any way offer harm; and, speedy to the last, with age he never lost pace or courage. 'All spirit and no vice' was a compendium of his character. By flood and field, in summer's heat or winter's cold, he failed us never; was credited, besides, with having saved the lives of two of the children by his docility and intelligence. He was twice loose with the buggy at his heels at night—once without winkers, which he had rubbed off. On the last occasion, after walking down to the gate of the paddock, and finding it shut—nearly a mile—he turned round without locking the wheels, and came galloping up to the door of the house (it was a ball night, and he had got tired of waiting). When I ran out, pale with apprehension, I discovered the headstall hanging below his chest. His extreme docility with children I attribute to his being for many years strictly a family horse, exclusively fed, harnessed, and driven by ourselves. It is needless to say he was petted a good deal: indeed he thought nothing of walking through the kitchen, a brick-floored edifice, when he thought corn should be forthcoming. Horses are generally peaceable with children but not invariably, as I have known of limbs broken and more than one lamentable death occasioned by kicks, when the poor things went too near unwittingly. But the old horse _couldn't_ kick. 'I reckon he didn't know how.' And when he died, gloom and grief fell upon the whole family, who mourned as for the death of a dear friend.

HOW I BEGAN TO WRITE

For publication I mean. Having the pen of a ready writer by inheritance, I had dashed off occasional onslaughts in the journals of the day, chiefly in defence of the divine rights of kings (pastoral ones). I had assailed incoherent democrats, who perversely denied that Australia was created chiefly for the sustenance of sheep and cattle and the aggrandisement of those heroic individuals who first explored and then exploited the 'Waste Lands of the Crown.' The school of political belief to which I then belonged derided agriculture, and was subsequently committed to a scheme for the formation of the Riverina into a separate pastoral kingdom or colony. A petition embodying a statement to this effect, wholly unfitted as it was for the sustenance of a population dependent upon agriculture, was forwarded to the Secretary for the Colonies, who very properly disregarded it. The petitioners could not then foresee the stacking of 20,000 bags of wheat, holding four bushels each, awaiting railway transport at one of the farming centres of this barren region in the year 1897. Allied facts caused me to reconsider my very pronounced opinions, and, perhaps, led others to question the accuracy of theirs. My deliverances in the journals of the period occurred in the forties and fifties of the century, and gradually subsided.

I was battling with the season of 1865 on a station on the Murrumbidgee River, at no great distance from the flourishing town of Narandera, then consisting of two hotels, a small store, and a large graveyard, when an uncertain-tempered young horse kicked me just above the ankle with such force and accuracy that I thought the bone was broken. I was to have ridden at daylight to count a flock of sheep, and could scarcely crawl back to the huts from the stock-yard without assistance, so great was the agony. I sat down on the frosted ground and pulled off my boot, knowing that the leg would swell. Cold as it was, the thirst of the wounded soldier immediately attacked me. My room in the slab hut, preceding the brick cottage, then in course of erection, was, to use Mr. Swiveller's description, 'an airy and well-ventilated apartment.' It contained, in addition to joint stools, a solid table, upon which my simple meals of chops, damper, and tea were displayed three times a day by a shepherd's wife, an elderly personage of varied and sensational experiences.

I may mention that the great Riverina region was as yet in its unfenced, more or less Arcadian stage, the flocks being 'shepherded' (expressive Australian verb, since enlarged as to meaning) and duly folded or camped at night. Something of Mrs. Regan's advanced tone of thought may be gathered from the following dialogue, which I overheard:—

Shady township individual—'Your man shot my dorg t'other night. What d'yer do that fer?'

Mrs. Regan—''Cause we caught him among the sheep; and we'd 'a shot _you_, if you'd bin in the same place.'

Township individual—'You seem rather hot coffee, missus! I've 'arf a mind to pull your boss next Court day for the valley of the dorg.'

Mrs. Regan—'You'd better clear out and do it, then. The P.M.'s a-comin' from Wagga on Friday, and he'll give yer three months' "hard," like as not. Ask the pleece for yer character.'

Township individual—'D—n you and the pleece too! A pore man gets no show between the traps and squatters in this bloomin' country. Wish I'd never seen it!'

This was by the way of interlude, serving to relieve the monotony of the situation. I could eat, drink, smoke, and sleep, but the injured leg—worse than broken—I could not put to the ground. Nor had I company of any kind, save that of old Jack and Mrs. Regan, for a whole month. So, casting about for occupation, I bethought myself that I might write something for an English magazine. The subject pitched upon was a kangaroo drive or battue, then common in Western Victoria, which I had lately quitted. The kangaroo had become so numerous that they were eating the squatters out of house and home. Something had to be done; so they were driven into yards in great numbers and killed. This severe mode of dealing with the too prolific marsupial, in whole battalions, I judged correctly, would be among the 'things not generally known' to the British public.

I sat down and wrote a twelve-page article, describing a grand muster for the purpose at a station about twenty miles from Port Fairy, and seven miles from my own place, Squattlesea Mere.

The first time I went to Melbourne I posted it, with the aid of my good friend, the late Mr. Mullen, to the editor of the _Cornhill Magazine_, and thought no more about the matter. A few days after the adventure, my neighbour, Adam M'Neill, of North Yanko, hearing of my invalid state, rode over and carried me off to his hospitable home. I had to be lifted on my horse, but after a month's rest and recreation was well enough to return to pastoral duties. I was lame, however, for quite a year afterwards, and narrowly escaped injuring the other ankle, which began to show signs of over-work. About the time of my full recovery, I received a new _Cornhill Magazine_, and a note from Messrs. Smith and Elder, forwarding a draft, which, added to the honour and glory of seeing my article flourishing in a first-class London magazine, afforded me much joy and satisfaction. The English review notices were also cheering. I thereupon dashed off a second sketch, entitled 'Shearing in Riverina,' which I despatched to the same address. The striking presentment of seventy shearers, all going their hardest, was a novelty also to the British public.

The constant clash that the shear-blades make
When the fastest shearers are making play

(as Mr. 'Banjo' Paterson has it, in 'The Two Devines,' more than twenty years later), could not but challenge attention. This also was accepted. I received a cheque in due course, which came at a time when such remittances commenced to have more interest for me than had been the case for some years past.

The station was sold in the adverse pastoral period of '68-'69, through drought, debt, financial 'dismalness of sorts'; but 'that is another story.' Christmas time found me in Sydney, where it straightway began to rain with unreasonable persistency (as I thought), now it could do me no good; never left off (more or less) for five years. The which, in plenteousness of pasture and high prices for wool and stock, were the most fortunate seasons for squatters since the 'fifties,' with their accompanying goldfields prosperity.

The last station having been sold, there was no chance of repairing hard fortune by pastoral investment. 'Finis Poloniæ.' During my temporary sojourn in Sydney I fell across a friend to whom in other days I had rendered a service. He suggested that I might turn to profitable use a facile pen and some gift of observation. My friend, who had filled various parts in the drama of life, some of them not undistinguished, was now a professional journalist. He introduced me to his chief, the late Mr. Samuel Bennett, proprietor of the _Sydney Town and Country Journal_. That gentleman, whom I remember gratefully for his kind and sensible advice, gave me a commission for certain sketches of bush life—a series of which appeared from time to time. For him I wrote my first tale, _The Fencing of Wanderoona_, succeeding which, _The Squatter's Dream_, and others, since published in England, appeared in the weekly paper referred to.

Thus launched upon the 'wide, the fresh, the ever free' ocean of fiction, I continued to make voyages and excursions thereon—mostly profitable, as it turned out. A varied colonial experience, the area of which became enlarged when I was appointed a police magistrate and goldfields commissioner in 1871, supplied types and incidents. This position I held for nearly twenty-five years.

Although I had, particularly in the early days of my goldfields duties, a sufficiency of hard and anxious work, entailing serious responsibility, I never relinquished the habit of daily writing and story-weaving. That I did not on that account neglect my duties I can fearlessly aver. The constant official journeying, riding and driving, over a wide district, agreed with my open-air habitudes. The method of composition which I employed, though regular, was not fatiguing, and suited a somewhat desultory turn of mind. I arranged for a serial tale by sending the first two or three chapters to the editor, and mentioning that it would last a twelvemonth, more or less. If accepted, the matter was settled. I had but to post the weekly packet, and my mind was at ease. I was rarely more than one or two chapters ahead of the printer; yet in twenty years I was only once late with my instalment, which had to go by sea from another colony. Every author has his own way of writing; this was mine. I never but once completed a story before it was published; and on that occasion it was—sad to say—declined by the editor. Not in New South Wales, however; and as it has since appeared in England, it did not greatly signify.

In this fashion _Robbery Under Arms_ was written for the _Sydney Mail_ after having been refused by other editors. It has been successful beyond expectation; and, though I say it, there is no country where the English language is spoken in which it has not been read.

I was satisfied with the honorarium which my stories yielded. It made a distinct addition to my income, every shilling of which, as a paterfamilias, was needed. I looked forward, however, to making a hit some day, and with the publication of _Robbery Under Arms_, in England, that day arrived. Other books followed, which have had a gratifying measure of acceptance by the English-speaking public, at home and abroad.

As a prophet I have not been 'without honour in mine own country.' My Australian countrymen have supported me nobly, which I take as an especial compliment, and an expression of confidence, to the effect that, as to colonial matters, I knew what I was writing about.

In my relations with editors, I am free to confess that I have always been treated honourably. I have had few discouragements to complain of, or disappointments, though not without occasional rubs and remonstrances from reviewers for carelessness, to which, to a certain extent, I plead guilty. In extenuation, I may state that I have rarely had the opportunity of correcting proofs. As to the attainment of literary success, as to which I often receive inquiries, as also how to secure a publisher, I have always given one answer: Try the Australian weekly papers, if you have any gift of expression, till one of them takes you up. After that the path is more easy. Perseverance and practice will ordinarily discover the method which leads to success.

A natural turn for writing is necessary, perhaps indispensable. Practice does much, but the novelist, like the poet, is chiefly 'born, not made.' Even in the case of hunters and steeplechasers, the expression 'a natural jumper' is common among trainers. A habit of noting, almost unconsciously, manner, bearing, dialect, tricks of expression, among all sorts and conditions of men, provides 'situations.' Experience, too, of varied scenes and societies is a great aid. Imagination does much to enlarge and embellish the lay figure, to deepen the shades and heighten the colours of the picture; but it will not do everything. There should be some experience of that most ancient conflict between the powers of Good and Evil, before the battle of life can be pictorially described. I am proud to note among my Australian brothers and sisters, of a newer generation, many promising, even brilliant, performances in prose and verse. They have my sincerest sympathy, and I feel no doubt as to their gaining in the future a large measure of acknowledged success.

As to my time method, it was tolerably regular. As early as five or six o'clock in the morning in the summer, and as soon as I could see in winter, I was at my desk, proper or provisional, until the hour arrived for bath and breakfast. If at a friend's house, I wrote in my bedroom and corrected in the afternoon, when my official duties were over. At home or on the road, as I had much travelling to do, I wrote after dinner till bedtime, making up generally five or six hours a day. Many a good evening's work have I done in the clean, quiet, if unpretending roadside inns, common enough in New South Wales. In winter, with a log fire and the inn parlour all to myself, or with a sensible companion, I could write until bedtime with ease and comfort. My day's ride or drive might be long, cold enough in winter or hot in summer, but carrying paper, pens, and ink I rarely missed the night's work. I never felt too tired to set to after a wholesome if simple meal. Fatigue has rarely assailed me, I am thankful to say, and in my twenty-five years of official service I was never a day absent from duty on account of illness, with one notable exception, when I was knocked over by fever, which necessitated sick-leave. It has been my experience that in early morning the brain is clearer, the hand steadier, the general mental tone more satisfactory, than at any other time of day.

A MOUNTAIN FOREST

Excepting perhaps the ocean, nothing in Nature is more deceitful than a mountain forest. Last time we crossed through snow, enveloped in mist and drenched with pitiless rain. Now, no one could think evil hap could chance to the wayfarer here—so dry the forest paths, so blue the sky, so bright the scene, so soft the whispering breeze. The shadows of the great trees fall on the emerald sward, tempering the ardent sun-rays. Flickers of light dance in the thickets, and laugh at the stern solemnity of the endless groves. Bird-calls are frequent and joyous. We might be roaming in the Forest of Arden, and meet a 'stag of ten' in the glade, for any hint to the contrary. Forest memories come into our heads as we stride merrily along the winding track. Robin Hood and his merry men, Friar Tuck and Little John! Oh, fountain of chivalry! How indissolubly a forest life in the glad summer days seems bound up with deeds of high emprise; how linked with the season of love and joy, hope and pride, with a sparkle of the cup of that divinest life-essence, youthful pleasure.

'Here shall he fear no enemy,
But winter and rough weather.'

As we thus carol somewhat loudly, we are aware of a man standing motionless, regarding us, not far from a gate, humorously supposed to restrain the stock in these somewhat careless-ordered enclosures. Ha! what if he be a robber? We have been 'stuck up' ere now, and mislike the operation. He has something in his hand too. May it be a 'shooting-iron,' as the American idiom runs?

We continue to sing, however,

'Viator vacuus coram latronem.'

Our treasury consists of half-a-sovereign and an old watch, a new hat and a clean shirt—what matter if he levy on these? He has a dog, however,—that is a good sign. Bushrangers rarely travel with dogs. And the weapon is a stick. Ha! it is well. Only an official connected with the railway line, awaiting the mailman. We interchange courtesies, and are invited to the camp with proffer of hospitality. We feel compelled to decline. We may not halt by any wayside arbour.

We reach St. Bago Hospice at Laurel Hill before lunch time. Sixteen miles over a road not too smooth. Really, we have performed the stage with ridiculous ease. We are half tempted to go on to Tumut; but twenty-eight miles seems a longish step. Let us not be imprudently enthusiastic. We decide to remain. The hospice has put on a summer garb, and is wholly devoid of snowballs or other wintry emblems. The great laurel, the noble elm, the hawthorn, are in full leaf and flower. The orchard trees are greenly budding. At the spring well in the creek five crimson lories are drinking. They stand on a tray, so to speak, of softest emerald moss, walking delicately; all things tell of summer.

During the afternoon, so fresh did we feel that we took a stroll of five miles, and visited the nearest farmer. As we stepped along the red-soiled path, amid the immense timber, we realised the surroundings of the earlier American settlers. Hawk-eye might have issued from the ti-tree thicket by the creek and chuckled in his noiseless manner, while he rested _la longue carabine_ on a fallen log. Uncas and Chingachgook would, of course, have turned up shortly afterwards.

The tiny creek speeds swiftly onward over ancient gold-washings and abandoned sluice channels. Tracks of that queer animal the wombat (_Phascolomys_) near his burrows and galleries are frequent. His habitat is often near the sea, but here is proof that he can accommodate himself to circumstances. Easily-excavated soil like this red loam is necessary for his comfort apparently. Ferns are not objected to. Our host at Bago informed us that one dull winter's evening he observed two animals coming towards him through the bush. He took them to be pigs, until, shooting with both right and left barrels, they turned out to be wombats. He had happened to be near their burrow, to which they always make if disturbed. In confirmation of this statement he presented me with a skin—dark brown in colour—with long coarse hair, something between that of a dog and a kangaroo. The thick hide covers the body in loose folds. The dogs become aware by experience that, on account of its thickness and slippery looseness, it is vain to attempt capture of a wombat. Retreating to his burrow, he scratches earth briskly into his opponent's mouth and eyes until he desists. One peculiarity of this underground animal is, that the eyes are apparently protected by a movable eyebrow, which, in the form of a small flap of skin, shuts over the indispensable organ.

We are politely received at the selector's house. A few cattle are kept; pigs and poultry abound. The father and son 'work in the creek' for gold, when the water is low, and thus supplement the family earnings. Clearing is too expensive as yet to be entered into on a large scale. Want of roads must militate for a while against farming profits in rough and elevated country. A flower-garden and orchard bear testimony to the richness of the soil. But looking forward to the value of the timber, the certainty of annual crops, the gradual covering of the pasture with clover and exotic grasses, the day is not distant in our opinion when the agriculture of this region will stand upon a safe and solvent basis. It is hard to overestimate the value of a moist, temperate climate, and this the inhabitants of the vicinity possess beyond all dispute.

The sun is showing above the tall tree-tops as we sit at breakfast next morning. The air is keen. We need the fire which glows in the cavernous chimney. In ten minutes we are off—ready to do or die—to accomplish the voluntary march or perish by the wayside.

How pleasant is it as we swing along in the fresh morning air. If we had had a mate—one who read the same books, thought the same thoughts, had the same tastes, and in a general way was congenial and sympathetic—our happiness would be complete. But in this desperately busy, workaday land, properly-graduated companionship is difficult to procure.

Still, to those who do not let their minds remain entirely fallow, there is choice companionship in these wooded highlands—that of the nobles and monarchs of literature is always at hand; ceases not the murmuring talk of half-forgotten friends, acquaintances, lovers, what not, of the spirit-world of letters; 'songs without words,' wit and laughter, tears and sighs, pæans of praise, sadly humorous subtleties, recall and repeat themselves. So we are not entirely alone, even were there not the whispering leaves, the frowning tree-trunks, the tremulous ferns and delicate grasses, the smiling flowerets, each with its own legend to keep us company. The sun mounts higher in the heavens; still it is not too hot. The green gloom of the great woodland lies between us, a shade against the fiercest sun-rays. So we fare on joyously. Three hours' fair walking brings us to the end of the forest proper. We take one look, as we stand on a clear hill-top—while on either side great glens are hollowed out like demoniac punch-bowls (the Australian native idiom)—at the mountains, at the oceans of frondage.

We are on the 'down grade.' At our feet lies the Middle Adelong, with deserted gold-workings, sluices, and all the debris of water-mining; a roomy homestead, with orchard pertaining, once an inn doubtless; now no longer, as I can testify.

It is high noon and hot withal. The sun, no longer fended off by o'erarching boughs, becomes aggressive. We have gained the valley and lost the cooling breeze. We request a glass of water, which is handed to us by the good-wife. We drink, and, seating ourselves upon a log on the hillside, commence upon a crust of bread—unwonted foresight this—with considerable relish. As we happen to have Carl Vosmaer's _Amazon_ in our hand (every step of the way did we carry her), we tackle an æsthetic chapter with enthusiasm.

In twenty minutes we breast the hill, a trifle stiffer for the rest, and, it may be fancy, our left boot-sole has developed an inequality not previously sensitive. We swing along, however, in all the pride of 'second wind,' and fix our thoughts upon the next stage, eight miles farther on. We have come about sixteen.

We pass another hill, a plateau, and then a long declivitous grade. By and by we enter upon the fertile valley which leads to Tumut. The green valley of river-encircled sward on either side is one mat of clover and rye-grass. We display an increasing preference for the turf as distinguished from the roadway. The sun is becoming hotter. The clouds have retired. There is a hint of storm. The heavy air is charged with electricity. We put on the pace a little. One may as well have this sort of thing over in a condensed form.

Here we stop to look at a man ploughing for maize. Our brow is wet with 'honest——,' whatsy name? We must weigh pounds less than this morning. How far to the Gilmore Inn? 'Four miles!' Thermometer over a hundred in the shade. We set our teeth and march on. We are acquiring the regular slouching swing of the 'sundowner,' it appears to us. There is nothing like similar experience for producing sympathy. We can almost fancy ourselves accosting the overseer with the customary, 'Got any work, sir, for a man to do?' and subsiding to the traveller's hut, with the regulation junk of meat and pannikin of flour. Can partly gauge the feelings of the honest son of toil, weary, athirst, somewhat sore-footed (surely there must be a nail?), when said overseer, being in bad temper, tells him to go to the deuce, that he knows he won't take work if it's offered, and that he has no rations to spare for useless loafers.

It is more than an hour later—we think it more than an hour hotter—as we sight the Gilmore Inn, near rushing stream, hidden by enormous willows. We have abstained from drinking of the trickling rill, hot and dusty as we are. Thoughts of 'that poor creature, small beer,' obtrude, if the local optionists have not abolished him.

In the parlour of this snug roadside inn we put down our 'swag,' and order a large glass of home-brewed and a crust of bread. We certainly agree with Mr. Swiveller, 'Beer can't be tasted in a sip,' especially after a twenty-mile trudge. When we put down the 'long-sleever' there is but a modicum left.

We give ourselves about half an hour here, by which time we are cooled and refreshed, as is apparently the day. Sol is lower and more reasonable. We sling on, by no means done—rather improving pace than otherwise—till overtaken by a friend and his family in a buggy. He kindly proffers to drive us in; but we have made it a point of honour to walk every yard, so we decline. He will leave the valise at our hotel—which kindness we accept. The rest is easy going. We lounge into the 'Commercial' as if we had just dismounted, and order a warm bath and dinner, with the _mens conscia recti_ in a high state of preservation.

THE FREE SELECTOR
A COMEDIETTA