Chapter XXV: Act V (5)

When the sons of Woden are admitted into Valhalla, it will be an incomplete Elysium for some of us, maugre the perennial flow of ale and the æsthetic fancy of the goblets, unless the good steed Hengst, whom we have so loved on earth, be permitted resurrection. Alick and Jimmy Hunter would miss Romeo. Could Cornborough be excluded from any realm of bliss which contained 'Dolly' Goldsmith? How superior were those grand horses, not to mention The Premier and Rory O'More, in all their attributes to the average human individual, about whose title to such noble immortality there is no question. I cannot believe that they are doomed to extinction, to eternal oblivion. They are dead and gone, doubtless. But lest any reader of these memories should lack future opportunity of feasting his eyes upon those wondrous equine shapes, I essay faintly to recall their leading characteristics.

Romeo, son of Sir Hercules and Pasta, was a golden chestnut, with a narrow blaze and white hind legs. Originally imported to Tasmania from England, he was in 1842 located at Miamamaluke Station on the 'Devil's River' in Victoria, then the property of the Messrs. Hunter. He died in my possession some years later, and, as I used to look at him for at least half an hour every day for the first few months of ownership, I may, without presumption, attempt a pen-and-ink portrait.

Not a large horse—he might almost be classified as small, indeed, compared with modern fashionable families, but of superb symmetry and superfine quality. 'A head light and lean,' though scarcely equal to The Premier's, his neck was of moderate length, with a delicately-marked crest. But his shoulder! Never have I seen mortal horse with such another. It was a study. So oblique was it; so graceful and elastic was the fore-action in consequence, that you wondered how horses of less perfect mechanism got on at all. His back was short, his croup high. The finely formed, silken-haired tail, which after his death hung in my room, was set on like that of an Arab. He might easily have been ridden without a girth to the saddle. Though his back appeared to be hardly the length of one, he stood over more ground than horses that looked bigger in every way. His barrel was rounded and well ribbed up. Below the knee and hock the legs were admirably clean and flat-boned, with pasterns just long enough to give the elastic motion which so peculiarly distinguishes the thoroughbred.

In those days (I was young, to be sure) I occasionally relieved my pent-up feelings by the perpetration of verse. In an old scrap-book are traced certain 'Lines to a Thoroughbred' which must have been inspired by Romeo. They commence—

Is he not glorious, in the high beauty proud,
Which from his desert-spurning Arab sires
To him was given? Mark the frontlet broad!
The delicate, pointed ear, and silken mane,
Scarce coarser than the locks which Delia boasts,
Attest his stainless race, etc.

Allusion was also made, if I mistake not, to a problematic ancestor, the well-ridden steed of the poets, who after

Children's voices greet the rescued sire,

became 'a cherished playmate, loving and beloved.' Though high-tempered enough, Romeo was a good-humoured horse in the main, but the companionship of grooms and stable-boys had partly rubbed off the inherited _gentillesse_ of the desert. Notably in one particular.

Whether he had been in some way teased or troubled, or that some mischievous groom had been at the pains to teach him the specific trick, I cannot say; but the fact was notorious that if any one—in or near the stable—made a noise with the mouth, like the drawing of a cork, the old horse fell into a paroxysm of rage and went open-mouthed at all and sundry being within reach at the time.

The knowledge of this peculiarity was turned to account more than once as a practical joke, sometimes with results more or less unpleasant to the unsuspecting bystander. But the joke occasionally recoiled. I happen to know of one instance. A well-known veterinary surgeon of those days, one Mr. Robertson—afterwards drowned in the Goulburn, poor fellow!—happened to be paying a visit of inspection, when a thoughtless friend made the cork-drawing signal. It was Romeo _versus_ Robertson, with a vengeance. Like a wild horse of the prairies, he charged the astonished vet, a resolute active man, who had all he could do to protect himself with a heavy, cutting whip which he fortunately carried at the time. He got out of the box unharmed, but seriously ruffled and demoralised.

The first thing which occurred to him, however, on banging the door of the loose-box behind him, was to lay his whip with hearty goodwill and emphasis across the shoulders of the humourist. Robertson was a burly Scot of more than average physique. His blood was up, and I do not recall the fact of the author of this unusually keen jest making effective resistance. He probably was cured of that particular form of joking, and learned practically that horseplay is one of the games in which two can engage. I never knew the old horse to commit unprovoked assaults, and think that some unusual experience must have led to the tendency described.

Though ordinarily well-behaved, it will be noted that there was a savour of dangerous dealing when aroused, and, as might be expected, a few of his progeny were not famous for the mildness of their tempers. They were, however, handsome and distinguished-looking, good in every relation of equine life. They supplied for many years a regular contingent to all the races in Victoria, and, indeed, within a widely extended radius round Kalangadoo and beyond the South Australian border. Few indeed were the meets, metropolitan or provincial, in which a Romeo colt or filly did not figure in the first flight. Latterly he became the property of Mr. Hector Norman Simson, from whose stud the celebrated Flying Doe and other cracks were evolved.

Young Romeo, Baroness, Countess, and Clinker had all won reputations on the Flemington race-course—which then presented a somewhat different appearance—before 1842. Young Romeo, a handsome, upstanding, dark chestnut horse, then the property of Captain Brunswick Smyth of the 50th Regiment, was raffled, in 1843, I think for a hundred and fifty guineas. We took a five-guinea ticket, but my drawing, innocently young as I then was, did not carry the proverbial gambler's luck. Oberon, a sweet little white-faced chestnut that Dr. David Thomas used to drive somewhat unprofessionally as tandem leader about Melbourne in 1851, was one of the later offspring. The worthy doctor, ever ready for a lark, delighted in getting Oberon's head over the shoulders of stout old gentlemen in the street before they were aware of him or his chariot.

It was somewhere near the end of the 'forties,' those pioneering years paving the way to the golden era which set in for Australia shortly after their decease. I happened to be in Melbourne upon a cattle speculation. At Kirk's Bazaar after breakfast I saw my ideal steed in a loose-box, apparently for sale. After feasting my eyes upon him for a reasonable period, I interviewed Mr. Dalmahoy Campbell, and sought particulars.

The old horse by this time had grown hollow-backed, and was evidently on his last legs. Still at a moderate price he would not be unprofitable, and the value of his blood distributed amid my stud could hardly, I thought, be over-estimated. The main thing to be considered by a prudent young pastoralist (I really was one in those days) was the price. This turned out to be under £50. Money was not abundant in that particular year. Stock were ludicrously cheap. For some reason his owners had decided to sell the dear old horse. His age and growing infirmities were against him. Still here was a chance I might never get again. I had just made a largish offer for the store cattle referred to. There was no use talking, however. I felt like a man who had been offered the Godolphin Arabian by a sheik hard-pushed for a ransom. I _must_ have the horse; that was all about it.

There was another slight difficulty. I had not ten £5 notes in my pocket. Far otherwise. I stated facts in the office. I can see old 'Dal's' kind face as he said, 'We'll take your bill at three months, my boy; that will give you time to turn round.' I gratefully assented, and Romeo—intoxicating thought—was mine. That was my first bill. Never before did I write 'Rolf Boldrewood' across the face or back or below any of those insidious substitutes for ready money. Would that the negotiable instrument had been my last. Well impressed on my mind was the look of the worthy gentleman who managed the financial department of the firm which had the privilege of 'keeping my account' when I exultingly informed him of my transaction. He had grown grey in commerce, not altogether successfully. Doubtless memory carried him back for a moment over years of high hope, guarded enterprise, succeeded by wearing anxiety and dull despair. Looking into my youthful, sanguine countenance, he said, 'Take my advice, and never sign another. I wish _I_ had never seen one.'

I did _not_ take his advice, it is hardly necessary to say. It was many a year before the application came in. Such is the general course of events. But if every future acceptance had been as anxiously considered, as punctually paid, and as profitably contracted as Number One aforesaid, no great harm would have been done.

I rode proudly out of Melbourne next day, leading my valued purchase, duly muzzled and sheeted, along the western road. Travelling by easy stages, only varied by a swim across the Leigh River, 'where ford there was none,' I got on well. It was an anxious moment for me, though, when the strong current swept my precious steed round in midstream; but he fought gallantly for a landing, which we finally gained. A slip, a stagger, and we were safely over. At Dunmore he received the admiration which was his due, while I was congratulated on my enterprise and good fortune.

When I reached home the illustrious stranger was treated with deserved attention. A roomy loose-box was specially dedicated to his use. Boiled food, ground corn, every delicacy of the season was lavished upon him. A revival of constitution apparently took place. But he only lived a year, leaving behind him, however, at Dunmore the beautiful, graceful Pasta, half-sister to St. George, and also to The Margravine and Track-Deer; and at Squattlesea Mere, Bonnie Dundee, Ben Bolt, Fairy, and a few other notable nags. 'He owed me nothing,' as his groom said when I sorrowfully attended his burial in the capacity of chief mourner. He lies under a blackwood tree on an 'island' in the mere, where the close-spreading clover blossoms climb and struggle amid the tussock grass of the marshes. He was accorded respectful interment, and my grief was more sincere than that which accompanies more ostentatious funerals. He had not perhaps the opportunity which another year would have furnished of leaving an illustrious progeny in the Port Fairy district, but some of his offspring made their mark.

Dundee, being my principal hackney and stock horse, was a wonderful performer. An admixture of Clifton blood gave him height and 'scope.' He had the sloped Romeo shoulder, with propelling machinery of unusual power. He was fortunately just short of racing speed. But he was a grand 'camp horse'; could be ridden without flinching right into the shoulder of the worst outlaw of the herd, carrying a fourteen-stone weight over any three-railed fence, and stay for a week. He lived to make a trans-Murray reputation, and still the wild riders of the mallee remember the powerful chestnut that was so well to the front with Sylvester Browne and the brothers Beveridge in more than one 'moonlighting' foray.

Ben Bolt, his half-brother, was a bright chestnut, with four white legs, a broad blaze, and a considerable quantity of white in the corners of his eyes, with which he had an uncanny way of regarding his rider. He was truly illustrious in more ways than one. There is no record of any white man (or black one either) having seen him tired. At the end of the longest day, or the most terrific 'cutting-out' work, Ben's head was up, his clear eyes watchful, his uneasy tail, switching slowly from side to side, like a leopard not fully agitated. He had been known to leave Melbourne after a trip with fat cattle (his rider had a young wife on the station certainly), and late on the second day the marshes of the Eumeralla were in sight. A hundred and eighty miles—winter weather too! I can state from personal experience that as a hackney he was deliciously easy, fast, and free. But the luxurious sensation of being so charmingly carried was modified by the ever-present thought that he could 'buck you into a tree-top' whenever it so pleased him; and at what minute the fit might take him no one had ever been able to foretell.

Sprung from a daughter of the Traveller line, Ben inherited the dire resolution of that potent blood, with a fervent intensity peculiar to the descendants of Romeo. The 'nick' was therefore only a partial success. If one had required, as do certain Indian rajahs, a horse warranted to distinguish himself in combat with a tiger, Ben Bolt was the very animal. Once let him get his heels into position and no living tiger would have had a show. He might as well spring at a mitrailleuse. But under saddle he was distinctly unreliable.

I used to break my own colts in those days, and in the course of events Ben was duly haltered and enticed into the stable. Though sensitive certainly, he was not overtly rebellious until the third day, when he kicked at me in what I held to be an unfair and treacherous manner. I gave him a tap in requital with the butt-end of a hay-fork, upon which he deliberately kicked down the partition between his and the next loose-box. He hardly left a slab standing, and generally conducted himself as if he was not sure whether he would not smash the whole building while he was about it.

I avoided contention after this, and in every way applied myself to calm his fears and inspire confidence. It was all in vain. When approached he would contract every muscle till his flesh felt like a board, glaring the while at you with his strangely bright, white-rimmed eyes, in a blood-curdling homicidal way. However, at the end of a week I backed him, looking to every strap and girth, and picking a good soft spot to fall on. He was led, as was the fashion then, along by the side of another horse, and, to every one's surprise, walked away like an old stager. No irregularity took place the next day or the one following. His mouth was good; he held his head up. I was charmed, and rode him proudly about by myself. Next morning he was queer and sullen, and in the middle of the day, for no earthly reason apparently, reared, plunged, bolted, and commenced to buck like a demon. I 'stuck to him' until he gradually got way on, and being apparently temporarily insane, ran into a paling fence, against which he fell down. I came off, of course, but remounted, when he did nothing further.

I rode him daily afterwards, until he passed into the second stage of breaking, being comparatively handy and pleasanter than many older horses, but we never seemed to get nearer to confidential relations. He took me unawares again ('underhand,' as Mr. Paterson's native young man hath it) while out on the run, and kicked savagely at me while falling. I began to think—having certain responsibilities—that it was hardly worth while to run such risk of life and limb only for the sake, too, of twenty or thirty pounds, and the strictly local reputation of 'being able to ride anything.'

So I relinquished the task of Ben's education to Frank Lawrence, my stud groom, than whom no better rough-rider ever sat in saddle. Plucky, patient, and a fine horseman generally, he gradually brought the rebel round. The reformation was apparently complete. Kept in regular work, he ceased to be fractious, and acquired a decent character in the neighbourhood. He even carried the black boy without protest.

Months passed. The stock-riders were mustering up for the morning's work—neighbours and station hands. Frank was sitting carelessly on Ben Bolt, now regularly 'made' and recognised as a stock-horse. Suddenly, without a moment's warning he 'exploded'—there is no other word for it. Before any one could offer a remark, Frank was catapulted on to the crown of his head, and Ben was tearing down the paddock, kicking at his bridle-reins and trying to send the saddle after the man. Frank arose slowly, and after a careful examination of his neck had convinced him that it was not really broken, as might have been surmised, said, 'I believe Ben means to finish me yet.'

'I would shoot him now if I thought that, Frank,' I answered; 'the treacherous brute. Better take another horse to-day.'

Frank, of course, would not hear of this, and remounted the ungrateful one, led up as he was in a few minutes, with eyes like burning coals and nostrils quivering in anything but a reassuring manner. He made no sign, however, and came in, after about fourteen hours' galloping and camp work, as fresh as a daisy.

When the station changed hands I passed our mutual friend over to Frank, who sold him at a profit. Our paths lay thenceforward apart. Years afterwards, my brother and I walked into the stables of Cobb and Co. at Hamilton, by candlelight, while awaiting a start in the mail. The team which interested us stood harnessed and ready.

'Did you ever see that chestnut leader before?' I queried.

'Great Jove! there he stands—white legs and all—the dear old tiger. To think that we should ever come _to sit behind Ben Bolt!_'

'Looks like it.'

'Nice horse that chestnut with the white hind legs, ostler.'

'Pretty fair, sir. Depends on 'ow 'e's 'andled, in a manner of speakin'.'

'So I should think. How did you get him?'

'Well, he chucked Mr. Jones sky-high; broke his back-ribs, like; so he took and swapped him to the Company.'

'How does he go?'

'Well, he _goes_ right enough when you get him in, but we drives him a double stage every day, just to stiddy him. He's been a year on this piece, and we don't care how soon we get shut on 'im.'

As the day broke, the cry of 'all aboard' was sounded; the passengers took their seats in the coach as the horses were led out. The leaders were not 'hitched' till the last moment; Ben Bolt having a second helper told off to him as he came out with head up and waving tail, the old fashion. _Very_ quickly and noiselessly was he attached, and as the driver drew his reins tight the coach moved on, without a word or whip-touch, Ben demonstrating by the way in which he went into his collar that he was ready and willing to undertake the whole contract. At the end of our stage of twenty-two miles, done in quick time, three horses only were taken out. Ben Bolt, after having run true and level for every yard of the distance, and never once having slackened his pace, was treated to another twenty miles in the company of the fresh team.

'Good horse, that near-side leader,' I remarked to the driver tentatively.

'He's the devil on four legs, if you want to know,' gruffly answered that official; 'takes me all my time to watch him. He'll smash some of us yet, if he don't kill himself first.'

I returned a year after to find the prediction verified. Ben Bolt was no more. True to his name and reputation, he had broken away from the helper while being put to, and after a headlong gallop was discovered to have injured himself beyond hope of recovery. He died a soldier's death. But for the 'accidents and offences' resulting from his demoniac temper, I shall always hold his maternal ancestor, Traveller, mainly responsible.

THE FIRST PORT FAIRY HUNT

The cattle were pretty well broken to their new run at Squattlesea Mere. Little more was necessary than to go round them daily and discourage explorers. The heathen were temporarily at rest, brooding (like the Boers) over fresh ambuscades. A suspicion of monotone pervaded the 'eucalyptine cloisterdom,' when, neither by telegram nor newspaper—our Arcadia knew neither brain-disturber in 1844—word came orally, personally transmitted, that the Mount Rouse Hounds were to throw off at Port Fairy, with races to follow, the whole to wind up with a ball.

These astonishing tidings so affected me that I became unable to settle down to daily details. A meet with _real_ fox-hounds, races, and—temptation overwhelming—a ball! I have resisted things in my day, have exhibited Spartan virtue in sorrowful altruism, economies, mortifications of the flesh, what not. But this special attraction was complicated, ingenious, subtly alluring 'in the brave days when we were twenty-one.' I lacked a year or so of that romantic period, and consequently was more prudent, more intolerant, and more abstemious than in the aftertime. People may talk as they like, but youth is the time for wisdom. That riper years bring prudence, steadfastness, circumspection, indeed any improvement of mind or body, is a widespread error. It is a fable of the wary ancient. The real sage, the true philosopher, the consistent disciple, is the ingenuous youth. The Greeks knew this. Contrast Telemachus with that old humbug Ulysses, far-travelled, much experienced in war; council, battle, and peace alike familiar to him. How reprehensible was his conduct, flirting with Calypso and other beguilers, poor lonely 'Griselda Penelope' doing her worsted work and tatting from year to year, the excellent Telemachus meanwhile looking after the 'selection' at Ithaca. However, this is miles away from the scent. 'Get in there, Fancy.'

In the solitude of my slab-hut this announcement stirred my blood. I considered the pecuniary aspect of the question, and was nearly not going at all. Coin was scarce in the forties, credit shy and difficult. More prudent by far it seemed to remain quietly at home. And yet it _was_ hard. A glimpse of Paradise to be had scarce thirty miles away. A brilliant idea flashed, meteor-like, through my brain. The expense would not amount to more than a bullock. One bullock! The herd was increasing. And I could work so much harder afterwards. My conscience was salved. I made the modest preparations befitting that pioneer period. The valise was packed, the black mare was run in, and proudly mounting that fast, clever hackney, I took the track to the crossing-place of the Shaw River, singing aloud for pure joyousness of heart, like a mavis in springtime.

When I arrived in Port Fairy, and took up my quarters at the Merrijig Hotel (the southern aboriginal predicate signifying 'good,' and thus equivalent to the 'Budgeree' of the Kamilaroi), what news and marvels were afloat! The town was full. Everybody was there or coming; also everybody's favourite horse. All the world and his wife were 'on the march for Rome.' Mr. James Lord had arrived from Tasmania with a draft of hounds for John Cox of Werongurt; had also brought with him The Caliph as a present to the same gentleman from his old friend Sir Richard Dry. The Caliph was a hunting celebrity; I was naturally anxious to see him. The Dunmore people were not down, but were coming of course, with Neil Kennedy and Bob Craufurd, Fred Burchett, the Aplins, Captain and Mrs. Baxter, the Hunters (Alick and Jimmy), George Youl, and the Kemps, Claud Farie, and his partner Rodger—in fact, everybody, as I said before. Old Tom, the stock-rider, had managed to trap a fine dingo. To-morrow the hounds would throw off near Archie M'Neill's farm, across the Moyne. There were to be races the day after, including a steeplechase, for which Richard Rutledge was going to ride Freedom, a well-known blood hackney. Mr. Rodger had bought the grey racing pony Skipjack, a winner on the Melbourne turf. The ball was to be in the big room of the Merrijig Hotel. Could imagination have devised anything more ecstatically delightful?

The _table d'hôte_ dinner that night was a thing to remember—a score or two of men, none of whom had passed 'the golden prime,' while the greater proportion had but lately entered manhood. One or two might have been described by a cynic as beardless boys. I was the youngest squatter in the district. I then exhibited more discretion than has always characterised the mature individual. However, _nemo omnibus_. We had few misgivings about the future in those days. We said to the present 'Stay, for thou art fair,' disturbing not ourselves about autumnal tints.

Such laughter, such jests—keen and incisive enough in all conscience! Such horse-talk—when every man was an owner, a breeder, a connoisseur more or less, of the noble animal; moreover, always possessed a favourite hackney, which he held to be a combination of all the equine virtues. The flowing bowl of the period was not disregarded—claret and champagne were the weaknesses of the day; Dalwood and Cawarra, Yering and Tahbilk, were all to come; even whisky had not made good its footing in society. But for the preponderance of the 'kindly Scot' in Victoria, the 'real Donald' would have been traditionary. However, then as now, the clans mustered strong in the rich pastures west of Geelong. Our host, Archie M'Neill, a stalwart, sinewy Highlander, was a horse-breeder too, Archie's colt being a promising sapling Traveller. The old hereditary feelings had by no means died out. A neighbour of his was wont, when 'the maut gat abune the meal,' to formulate thus his tribal antipathies: 'I'm Macdonald frae Glencoe! D—n the bloody Campbells of Glenlyon!'

Although there were necessarily differences of opinion—as will arise even among friends on such topics at such times—we enjoyed ourselves in all proper moderation. There was far more talking, laughing, and indeed singing, than steady drinking. In those days it was wonderful how musically inclined were all honest revellers. Just before the finale a messenger came to say that 'Old Tom' had made the usual miscalculation, and was then lodged in the Port Fairy lock-up. It was not to be endured that the purveyor of the quarry which was to furnish our entertainment for the morrow, should languish in a dungeon. We arose and in a body marched to the watch-house, where any amount of bail was proffered to the astonished constable. The cell-door being opened, the veteran came forth, bent and humbled, looking not unlike an old dog-fox himself, as he sought his couch unobtrusively, vowing supernatural sobriety for the morrow.

The morning broke—a lovely sight;
The sun flashed down on armour bright,

wrote Hugh Ranclaud in his Marmion period. Slightly altered, this description might have suited our array, which, owing to circumstances, exhibited more variety and good intention than uniformity. A pink or two, a good many black cut-aways, with a green riding-coat worn by John Cox, the uniform of a Tasmanian hunt club. His tall figure as he reined The Caliph, a grand half-Arab grey sixteen-hander, up to any weight over any country, looked workman-like. Cords and tops were tolerably plentiful, though 'butcher boots,' such as most of us affected for ordinary stock-riding, were in the ascendant.

One frolicsome youngster, indeed, in default of a pink, resolved to conform as nearly as possible to the fashion of his forefathers. To this end he possessed himself of a bright red serge shirt, such as was occasionally donned by all sorts and conditions of men in those days of sincere effort. This he persuaded the village tailor to fashion into the form of a coatee, and thus arrayed, he rode proudly amid the front-rankers, congratulating himself, with perfect correctness, upon having added a fresh sensation to the entertainment. Fred Burchett had two chestnut hackneys, one a neat cob named Friendship. This day he rode the other, which he had christened Love, being, as he explained, 'very like friendship, only nicer.' Bob Cox (Robert Clerk's brother-in-law—not related to the Clarendon family) might have been there on Bessborough. I am not certain whether he did not join our band of heroes later on. But, if so, the hunt missed that day a joyous comrade, a handsome face with bright dark eyes, never unwelcome in hall or bower; one of the boldest yet most artistic horsemen that ever sat in saddle. Poor old Bob! I used often to think how I should have enjoyed mounting him 'regardless,' and pitting him against the best men with the Quorn, the Pytchley, or wherever the unrivalled English sport in the ancestral isle still holds sway. What nice things a Monte Cristo might do—in that and a few other ways!

The hounds were to throw off on the Warrnambool side of the Moyne, where a broad flat was bounded by farms and the line of sand-dunes, which ran parallel to the sea. A variety of jumping was ensured by this choice of country, the farm fences being of every shade of height, breadth, and solidity. Sound and springy was the turf. If the dingo, when turned down, took the cross country line towards Tower Hill, he was likely to lead us a dance, unless he found refuge in one of the wombat holes with which the ferny slopes, breast high in bracken, abounded.

It must have been ten o'clock or thereabouts when Mr. Lord, arrayed in the well-worn pink, cords, tops, and hunting-cap complete, conducted the spotted beauties across the ford of the Moyne. Within an hour all the Port Fairy world—among which half-a-dozen riding-habits showed that the ladies were not willing to be left out of the excitement—was gathered around. The Australian Reynard, all-ignorant that his imported compeer was, in after-years, to be a prize for scalp-hunters, had been liberated previously, with a due allowance of law, and on a line which involved a reasonable share of fencing. After a preliminary cast or two, the leading hounds hit off the scent, and with a burst of melody which caused more than one of us to anticipate the sensations of Mr. Jorrocks, away went the flower of the horsemen of the western district, riding rather jealous, it must be admitted, but not to be stopped by anything under a six-foot stock-yard fence.

It was a scene to be remembered. The blue sky, the green sward, sound and springy as a cricket-ground, the limitless ocean plain, the long resounding surge, the eager hounds, the medley of horsemen now slightly tailing off, as the pack raced with a breast-high scent towards the volcanic crest of Tower Hill.

Many were the falls, various the fortunes, of those who followed hounds that day. Every man rode as if the honour, firstly, of his station, of the district afterwards, were centred in him personally. It was before the Traveller days, so that the Dunmore triumvirate were mounted on steeds that, though good of their kind and well-bred (for they always went in for blood), were not quite up to the form of St. George and Trackdeer, Triton or Jupiter. William Campbell rode a roan, Houndsfoot, five years old; and Macknight, I believe, his grand old mare Die Vernon—one of those brilliant all-round goers that you couldn't put wrong.

I rode my favourite black mare Tanny, the dam of Hope, Clifton, Red Deer, and Comanchee—the first three winners in the aftertime either on the flat or 'over the sticks.' She could both jump and gallop, as I must show when I have time.

I regret that I cannot supply details anent this almost prehistoric run. I recall The Caliph sailing over everything and taking all manner of fences, from 'chock and log' to stiff three-railers, in his stride. Freedom would probably be running away as usual, being a horse that no mortal man could hold for the first mile. Alick Hunter and his brother, doubtless, were there or thereabouts; and Robert Clerk of Mummumberrich (the M.F.H. in time to come) was forward enough with Rocket in spite of weight over the average. It was pretty straight going. We were used to risks by flood and field. Ordinary stock-riding was hardly safer than this or any other run with hounds. Matters were prosperous, and everybody was looking forward to a first-class run, when 'the devil or some untoward saint' put it into our quarry's head to double back as nearly as possible along the line upon which he had come.

We had the satisfaction of taking nearly the same jumps over again, when, lo and behold! dingo, apparently bent on self-destruction, made across the hummocks, and charging the Pacific Ocean as if he meant to cross over to Tasmania, swam gaily out to sea. As he reached the surf the desperate pack raced down to the beach, where they sniffed and circled in unwonted doubt and desperation. Eventually Reynard found the enterprise disproportionate to his powers, and, swimming back, reached the beach in a state of exhaustion. The hounds were whipped off, however, and Old Tom and his bag being again called into requisition, the sheep-killer was reserved for another and perhaps a straighter run.

The day but half done. We had therefore leisure as we rode homeward for a considerable amount of general chaff and criticism, which resulted, as usual, in wagers and a match or two.

Now my friend James Irvine of Dunmore had been riding the racing pony Skipjack, a very perfectly-shaped grey with a square tail, such being the mistaken fashion of that day and, I grieve to say, of the later one. He was an acknowledged flier, and having won races at Flemington (or the Melbourne Course as it was then called) was thought too good for anything in the provinces. I had always considered my black mare to be fast, but as she was wholly untried it might have been only the fond fancy which a man has for his favourite. Still I believed in her. It ended in my challenging the redoubtable Skipjack for a mile spin on the following day, present riders up.

The odds were against me, inasmuch as the mare was off grass and, excepting on this occasion, had not seen oats for months. She was not even shod, whereas her antagonist was, if not in training, in hard stable condition. Like many of the best hacks of those days he had been bred in Tasmania. He showed Arab blood, and probably owed his speed and strength to that ancient race. Tanny, on the other hand, was a Sydney-sider by extraction, her dam being brought over in 'Howie's mob,' one of the earliest lots of horses driven overland. I saw them sold in a cattle-yard, then standing at the corner of Bourke and Swanston Streets. Mr. Purves senior afterwards occupied the cottage built there, for I remember him showing me Banker in the stable. Dr. Campbell lived there afterwards. A similar sale in the same spot would excite astonishment now in any given forenoon.

So it was an intercolonial contest. More than this, it was all Eumeralla against the Hopkins, inasmuch as Mr. Rodger abode at Merang, while the Dunmores and I rode home towards the setting sun from Port Fairy. Old Tom, a veteran in the pig-skin and a judge of pace, told his friends that 'Tanny was the divil's own mare to pull, but if the masther could hould her the first half mile, she'd give Skipjack his work to do at the finish.' A trifle of speculation resulted, the odds being tempting. James Irvine was a well-known workman on the flat and a light weight. Bets were taken accordingly, and a book or two made in a small way. When on the morrow the entire population of the district turned out to see the races, and when, ours being the first, we did the customary pipe-opener, the leading artists at Goodwood or Ascot felt less pride, possibly less desperate determination.

Down went the flag and off went we. With much ado mastering the mare's wild impulse to bolt, as she had done many a time before in company, I lay well up to my friend, but allowed him to make the pace. He made it a cracker accordingly, hoping to run me out—his obvious line with a slower or untrained horse. But I bided my time. The mare knew me well and gradually steadied down to the work, and when a safe distance from home I made my effort and landed the good, game animal a winner by a neck, I felt, amid cheers, congratulations, and smiles, as if earth had no higher glories to offer, life no brighter joys. 'Bedad, she's a great mare intirely,' said Old Tom as he led her away. 'I wouldn't say but she'd win the Maiden Plate if we thrained her. There's an iligant course at the Native Dog-Hole.' This suggestion was not followed up. Though passionately fond of horses, I was a practical person in those days, eschewing all connection with public racing on principle.

There were other races, a Hack Scurry among them, then a highly-enjoyable picnic lunch, after which the principal event of the day, the steeplechase, was to come off. A fair hunting line had been marked, including among others a solid 'dead-wood' fence. For this race there were a dozen starters more or less, and great was the excitement. The black mare and I were among them, I know—the morning's exercise not being considered of sufficient importance to keep us out of it.

The Caliph was thought too good for the company, and was therefore not entered by his owner. Macknight and Bob Craufurd, Fred Burchett and I, Neil Kennedy and Dick Rutledge, with some others of the old set, were duly marshalled in line and started. It was on that occasion, during some preparatory schooling, that Neil made his famous reply to Norman M'Leod, who, himself a fine horseman and steeplechase jock, scandalised at Neil's loose riding, thus expostulated—

'Look here, Kennedy, why don't you lift your horse at his fence?'

'Lift be d—d,' returned Neil in desperation; 'I've quite enough to do _to hold on_.'

Neil was utterly fearless, a sort of Berserker horseman, ready to ride any sort of horse at any manner of leap, of any height, breadth, or stiffness; but he was not famous for adherence to the pig-skin. Falls, many or few, made no difference in his willingness to try his luck again. If he did not break his neck, practice would make him perfect in time. So, accordingly, Neil faced the starter on a hard puller, full of faith in his star, and confident in future triumphs.

The first fence was wide and high, composed of brush-timber and more or less negotiable, so we sailed over in line in a gallant and satisfactory way. The next was reasonable. Then came our rasper, the dead-wood fence, a kind of wooden wall, raised to nearly five feet, and composed of logs, stumps, and roots of trees, piled horizontally after a compact and unyielding fashion.

Freedom, with Dick Rutledge up, leading by a dozen lengths, flew it without altering stride. Bob Craufurd was over next. Neil Kennedy and I racing for a place charged it, when his horse, hitting it hard, performed a complete somersault, balancing himself for a moment on the broad of his back, and sending Neil flying so far ahead that there was as little danger of his being crushed as likelihood of his being in the race afterwards.

The majority were fairly up at the finish: three made a creditable struggle for second place; but Freedom, a fast two-miler, won the race from end to end, and taking all his leaps without baulk or mistake was never challenged.

So ended the second day's sport. Sport indeed, was it not? How little the faint copies of recreation, misnamed pleasure, resemble it nowadays! As we went home the tide was in, the ford deep, with a fair swim in the midstream, which was the reason I chose to take the short cut I suppose, thus letting off the exuberance of youthful spirits as well as directing certain bright eyes towards myself and the mare as we breasted the broad water.

The remainder of the day but sufficed to see all the horses properly looked to, after their exciting day, in the loose-boxes or improvised stabling which 'The Merrijig,' when put on its metal, was enabled to supply; afterwards a dinner, which, if the cooking was not quite equal to that of the 'Trois Frères Provencaux' or the Café Riche, was more thoroughly enjoyed. Lastly came the needful preparation for the ball. The ladies who had come into town specially for the affair were accommodated at Mr. Rutledge's hospitable mansion or other private houses. This was just as well, as the modified communism which extended to shirt collars, ties, boots and shoes, indeed to all wearing apparel whatever, involved so much rushing in and out of rooms that awkward _contretemps_ must inevitably have occurred.

The music was that of a piano—a really good one—lent for the occasion, and the new dining-hall of the hotel, then constructed by way of addition, properly draped and lighted, made a commodious and effective ballroom.

Would that I could have photographed the costumes displayed that evening—among us men of course. Ladies always manage to be becomingly arrayed under whatever contradictory circumstances. It was not so easy in our stage of civilisation—recently emerged from the pioneer epoch—to provide irreproachable raiment. Few possessed the accredited articles; fewer still bore them about when travelling.

I can hear the waltz now, and see the lady who played, as with one rapt glance I took in the situation on entering the room, for I had my toilette troubles to overcome, and was a trifle late. What did we dance in those days, more than fifty years agone? The _trois temps_ and hop waltzes, the galop, quadrilles, lancers; I think there must have been reels, Scots being in the majority. But no polka, no _deux temps_ or 'military' waltz, no Highland or other schottische, certainly no Washington Post. That sounds a tame programme, doesn't it? Still we danced and talked, nay, even flirted, very much as people do nowadays, and enjoyed ourselves generally, more, far more, than the comparatively languid moderns. It must have looked something like a hunt ball, though a slightly unconventional one, inasmuch as those who were conscious of correct riding toggery elected to sport it. Every variety of rig, in coats, shirts, collars and ties, boots and shoes, from tops to feminine stuff-boots (and not bad things on a pinch), adorned the main body. The supper was welcomed as the crowning glory of the evening. Healths were proposed, speeches were made, dancing was resumed with additional spirit, and daylight found us still unsated—ready, indeed, to begin the programme _da capo_. Prudence and the counsels of the aged, as represented by the infrequent paterfamilias, however prevailed, and the patriotic melody having sounded, there was an end to joy unconfined for the present. Everything had been a triumphant success. No awkwardness of any sort had occurred, if we may except an impromptu _tableau vivant_—a pretty housemaid fleeing Ariadne-like into the ladies' dressing-room, closely pursued by an enterprising youngster, who did not discover, until too late, the awful presence which he had invaded. A wrathful senior declined to see the classic appositeness of the incident, and muttered threats of vengeance dire; but upon Bacchus being adroitly suggested to be in fault, as of old, he was gradually appeased. And so with laugh and jest, and many a pleasant memory to cherish, we fared homewards next day from the First Port Fairy Hunt.

BENDEMEER

That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think—Is the nightingale singing there yet?
Do the roses still bloom by the calm Bendemeer?

The æsthetic pioneer who bestowed this romantic name upon the New England village between Tamworth and Uralla probably realised a hazy similarity. Yet roses must have been few and far between, eminently suitable as are soil and climate; and the nightingale awaits the millennium of acclimatisers. The sparrow—wastrel of Europe that he is—doth first appear. The clear stream of the Macdonald, winding through the green hill-encircled valley, renders the comparison faintly apposite. On the whole, the name of Bendemeer will sound as well to our federal successors as Curra-wohbo-lah or Murra-munga-myne; and if it sets young Australia to reading _Lalla Rookh_, it may act as a counterpoise to overmuch devotion to wool and horse-racing—may even tend to the cult which _emollit mores_.

These slight incongruities notwithstanding, I would counsel any Australian Beckford, in want of a site for the antipodean Fonthill, to realise the poet's dream in the vale of Bendemeer (Great Northern Railway line, New South Wales), and so immortalise himself in the minds of generations of grateful compatriots.

As I stand in front of the little hostelry in the sweet moonrise of this summer night and gaze around, my heart sympathises with the unknown sentimental sponsor. I feel constrained to admit that he had the true poetic insight, piercing the measureless spaces of the future—

Far as human eye can see.

It is the last month of the year, in the hour for a 'midsummer night's dream' (antipodean); the fervent noonday glare has given place to the fresh, delicious temperature which in this elevated region succeeds sunset; the heavens are cloudless. As the moon's orb is slowly lifted, the grand mountain-chain which lies beyond the head waters of the river shows clearly defined in majestic gloom and ebon shades.

On the hills which enclose this fair green valley, each tree-stem, bough, and frond is traced with pre-Raphaelite distinctness. Fronting the inn, on the river-terrace, hang the pendent branches of an aged willow-tree, the umbrageous spread of which has caused its utilisation as a shade for the horses of customers and wayfarers. A round dozen of these have just been released from durance, as their owners, warned of the closing hour, ride off into the night. The equestrian habit principally differentiates the tavern of the new country from that of the old. Otherwise, in the matter of civility, cleanliness, and quietude, this particular inn and some others I affect in my rambles closely resemble the snug roadside retreats of Old England.

As I pace slowly over the thick green sward which carpets the river-meadow, the thought pursues me of what changes the future Lord of Bendemeer would find requisite. Aided by the Genius of Capital, they could not be wholly impracticable. And what a delicious Palace of Summer Delights, a charmed refuge from the world's woe and the clamorous chatter of society, might he rear amidst these cloistered shades! Important alterations, not in accordance with latter-day legislation, would be first effected. The acquisition of the freehold for leagues around, the disestablishment of stores, telegraph-and post-offices—pernicious contrivances these last for bringing unrest into remotest solitudes; the closing of schools and churches; the abrogation of the utilities; the suppression of trade; the exile of industry; I include with regret the old-fashioned, reposeful hostelry. Happy thought! It would probably be spared until the army of workmen required for the erection of the palace had been disbanded; as also, for similar reasons, the police-barrack which dominates the district, whence issues the man-at-arms of the period, 'native and to the manner born,' but soldierly and erect of bearing—a sleuth-hound in pursuit of horse-thieves and highwaymen, mounted and accoutred proper upon the good steed which he alone can rein.

The railway-line has been averted by good genii or through the _laissez aller_ tone of thought which characterises the inhabitants of the vale. It clangs and thunders through a gorge on the head waters of the river, thus avoiding desecration by scrambling tourists and irreverent sons of commerce; but a huge, white, staring wooden bridge, the financial goal and triumph of the local tradesfolk, disfigures the rippling moonlit water. At a wave of the magic wand it disappears. A fairy-like structure arises in its place, delicate with marble tracery of pillars and arches, where the elves may flit love-whispering through the long sweet nights, may beckon to the Lorelei as she combs her tresses and warbles the fateful song on the rock which guards the midstream above the shimmering whirlpool.

The passes are guarded; the river-course on either side securely barricaded against the conditional purchaser and the drover—sole survivors they of the raider and moss-trooper, which a too considerate civilisation permits. Deer alone are permitted to crop the herbage of the park-like slopes; under the heavy shadows of the mountain, the leaping trout and lordly salmon, the ancient carp with silver-gleaming sides, would flash through stream and pool (this last no visionary image) as the shadows lengthened and the twilight stole tremulously forward. When the day was done, on such a full-orbed night as this, 'the harp, the lute, the viol's cry' should awaken the echoes as a most fair company (for would not all gallant knights and _gracieuses_, dames and damsels—whether summoned from afar or dwelling near at hand—with attendant poets and troubadours, be free of right to the enchanted vale?) flee the hours with song and dance till bright Cynthia paled at the approaching dawn, or, wandering through cedarn alleys and rose-thickets, listen to the nightingale's song as it blended with the murmur of silver-plashing fountains. The gnomes that dwell in the mountain passes, where they pile undreamed-of heaps of ore, steal forth to watch the enchanted revels. The river elves and fays float through mazy measures in fairy rings, or recline, 'neath starry fragrant blossoms, on rose-leaf couches. Even the unseen genius of the Austral wild—no malign, amorphous terror, but a benignant sylvan deity—might peer through the forest leaves and smile wonderingly at the fantasies of the 'coming race.'

Hark! Is that the grey owl? With strange, unmelodious cry he stirs the stillness. I turn to watch him, as he swims the night air with moveless wing—dropping, like the emissary of an evil witch, on the willow branch between me and the moon. Bird of ill omen, thou hast shattered my dream! The Palace has disappeared, the lutes are silent, the fair company dispersed; the nightingale, that sang of 'love, and love's sharp woe,' is mute for another century. Only the faint plash of the river, rippling over its sand-bars; only the mountain shadows beneath the waning, gibbous moon; only the unbroken silence of the Austral woodland, brooding, majestic, as of one watching through the eternities for the birth of a nation. 'The light that never was on sea or land' fades rapidly, and with the sigh that greets the evanishing of the undersoul's fair fantasies I seek my couch.

* * * * *

An early _réveillé_ comes Duty, with reason-compelling Circumstance; a deputation demanding answers to questions, of which due notice has been given. 'Enterprises of great pith and moment are imminent.' We must to horse and away, not betaking ourselves to pilgrim's staff, as is customary with us; time permits not. What bard—was it the sweet singer of a Brisbane Reverie, 'The Complaint of the Doves,' the laureate of Royalty (black), the minstrel of the desert steed, that in a lighter hour proclaimed—

For I am bound to Stanthorpe town,
And time with me is tin?

We are not journeying quite so far as the stanniferous stronghold; yet is our errand not unconnected with the metal that the Silures and Phœnicians delved for in Cornwall long before Julius Cæsar, without reference to the susceptibilities of king, kaiser, or chancellor, established his protectorate of Britain.

The stern Roman, the world's master, has vanished from among the tribes of men. His descendant, an ignoble _fainéant_, a stolid peasant, or a hired model, sells the right to mould the heroic form which has survived the heroic soul. The wide-ranging, sea-roving Anglo-Saxon, descendant of the fiercer races, has succeeded to his heritage of universal empire.

But can it be that the mother of nations is sinking into senile decrepitude, with selfish querulousness evading responsibility, only to lapse into deserved decay of power, and well-merited insignificance in the council halls of the world?

Oh for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled Bruce to rule the fight!

sang Scotland's bard, in the lament for the fortunes of the field which sealed his country's fate. May not the modern Briton make the application, and in mingled wrath and despair regret the lost leader, who trod firmly, if warily, who drifted not, irresolutely weak, from peril to disasters, and delayed not the call to arms until the foe was at the gate of the citadel?[2]

Footnote 2:

Written in 1884.