Chapter III (9)

But the majority of the officials condemned to live in the dreary townships tried to alleviate their misery by drinking and gambling. The Police Magistrate, the Surveyor, the Solicitor, the Receiver of Revenue, the Police Inspector, and the Clerk of Courts, together with one or two settlers, formed a little society for the promotion of poker, euchre, and other little games, interspersed with whiskies. It is sad to recall to mind the untimely end at which most of them arrived. Mr. D. was found dead on the main road; Mr. E. shot himself through the head; Mr. F. fell asleep in the bush and never woke; and Mr. G. was drowned in a waterhole. One officer was not quite so unfortunate as some of his friends. His score at the Crook and Plaid became so long that he began to pass that hotel without calling. Polly, the venerable landlady, took offence at such conduct, and was daily on the watch for him. When she saw him passing, which he always did at a rapid pace, she hobbled to the door, and called after him, "Hey, hey!" Then the gentleman twirled his cane, whistled a lively tune, looked up, first to the sky, and then to the right and left, but never stopped, or looked back to Polly behind him. At last his creditors became so troublesome, and his accounts so inexplicable, that he deserted the public service, and took refuge across the Murray.

Mr. H. fell into the habit of borrowing his collections to pay his gambling debts. He was allowed a certain number of days at the beginning of each month to complete his returns, and send in his cash. So he made use of the money collected during the days of grace to repay any sums he had borrowed from the public cash during the preceding month. But the cards were against him. One morning an Inspector of Accounts from Melbourne appeared unexpectedly in his office.

In those days there were no railways and no telegraphs. Their introduction was an offensive nuisance to us. The good old times will never come again, when we could regulate our own hours of attendance, take unlimited leave of absence, and relieve distress by having recourse to the Government cash. When Grimes was Auditor-General every officer was a gentleman and a man of honour. In the bush no bank account was kept, as there was no bank within fifty or a hundred miles; and it was an implied insult to expect a gentleman to produce his cash balance out of his pocket. As a matter of courtesy he expected to be informed by letter two or three weeks beforehand when it was intended to make an official inspection of his books, in order that he might not be absent, nor taken unawares.

When the Inspector appeared, Mr. H. did not lose his presence of mind, or show any signs of embarrassment. He said he was glad to see him (which was a lie), hoped he had had a pleasant journey through the bush; asked how things were going on in Melbourne, and made enquiries about old friends there. But all the while he was calculating chances. He had acquired the valuable habit of the gambler and speculator, of talking about one thing while he was thinking about another. His thoughts ran on in this style: "This fellow (he could not think of him as a gentleman) wants to see my cash; haven't got any; must be near five hundred pounds short by this time; can't borrow it' no time to go round' couldn't get it if I did' deuced awkward; shall be given in charge; charged with larceny or embezzlement or something; can't help it' better quit till I think about it." So apologising for his absence for a few minutes on urgent business, he went out, mounted his horse, and rode away to the mountains.

The inspector waited five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. He made enquiries, and finding that Mr. H. had gone away, he examined the books and vouchers, and concluded that there should be a cash balance of more than four hundred pounds payable to revenue. He looked about the office for the cash, but did not find any. Then the police began to look for Mr. H., but week after week passed by, and Mr. H. was neither seen nor heard of.

There were only two ways of leaving South Gippsland that could be considered safe; one was by sea from Port Albert, the other by the road over the mountains. If anyone ventured to desert the beaten track, and tried to escape unseen through the forest, he was likely to be lost, and to be starved to death. The only man ever known to escape was an eccentric farmer, a "wandering outlaw of his own dark mind," as Byron so darkly expressed it. He deserted his wife one morning in a most systematic manner, taking with him his horse and cart, a supply of provisions, and all the money he was worth. A warrant for his arrest was issued, and the police were on the look-out for him at all the stations from Port Albert to Melbourne, but they never found him. Many weeks passed by without any tidings of the man or his team, when one day he drove up to his own gate, unhitched his horse, and went to work as usual. On enquiry it was found that he had gone all the way to Sydney overland, on a visit to an old friend living not far from that city. It was supposed that he had some reason for his visit when he started, but if so, he lost it by the way, for when he arrived he had nothing particular to say. After a few days' rest he commenced his return journey to South Gippsland, and travelled the whole distance without being observed by the watchful police. When asked about his travels, his only remark was, "Splendid horse; there he is between the shafts; walked twelve hundred miles; never turned a hair; splendid horse; there he is."

But Mr. H. lacked the intellect or the courage to perform a similar fool's errand successfully. He rode up to the police station at Alberton, and finding from the officer in charge that he was wanted on a warrant, he supplied that want. He stated that he had been on a visit, for the benefit of his health, to a friend in the mountains, a rail-splitter, who had given him accommodation in his hut on reasonable terms. He had lived in strict retirement. For a time he was in daily and nightly fear of the appearance of the police coming to arrest him; every sound disturbed him. In about ten days he began to feel lonely and disappointed because the police did not come; neither they or anybody else seemed to be looking for him, or to care anything about him. Heroic self-denial was not his virtue, and he felt no call to live the life of a hermit. He was treated with undeserved neglect, and at the end of four weeks he resolved that, as the police would not come to him, he would go to the police.

He unburdened his mind, and made a confession to the officer who had him in charge. He explained how he had taken the money, how he had lost it, and who had won it. It relieved his mind, and the policeman kept the secret of confession until after the trial. Then he broke the seal, and related to me confidentially the story of his penitent, showing that he was quite as unfit for the sacerdotal office as myself.

Mr. H. on his trial was found not guilty, but the department did not feel inclined to entrust him with the collection or custody of any more cash. In succeeding years he again served the Government as State school teacher, having received his appointment from a minister of merciful principles. A reclaimed poacher makes an excellent gamekeeper, and a repentant thief may be a better teacher of youth than a sanctimonious hypocrite.

SEAL ISLANDS AND SEALERS.

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

The islands in Bass' Straits, Hogan's Group, Kent's Group, the Answers, the Judgment Rocks, and others, are visited at certain seasons of the year by seals of three different kinds--viz., the hair seals, which are not of much value except for their oil; the grey seals, whose skins are valuable; and the black seals, whose furs always command the highest price. When these animals have not been disturbed in their resorts for some years they are comparatively tame, and it is not difficult to approach them. Great numbers of the young ones are sometimes found on the rocks, and if pushed into the water they will presently come out again, scramble back on to the rocks, and begin crying for their dams. But the old seals, when frequently disturbed, become shy, and, on the first alarm, take to the water. The flesh of the young seals is good to eat, and seamen who have been cast away on the islands have been sometimes saved from starvation by eating it.

I once made the acquaintance of an old sealer. He had formerly been very sensitive on the point of honour; would resent an insult as promptly as any knight-errant; but by making an idol of his honour his life had been a grievous burden to him. And he was not even a gentleman, and never had been one. He was known only as "Jack."

It was in the year 1854, when I had been cast ashore in Corio Bay by a gale of hostile fortune, and had taken refuge for a while at the Buck's Head Hotel, then kept by a man named McKenzie. One evening after tea I was talking to a carpenter at the back door, who was lamenting his want of timber. He had not brought a sufficient supply from Geelong to complete his contract, which was to construct some benches for a Presbyterian Church. Jack was standing near listening to the conversation.

"What kind of timber do you want?" he said. "There is a lot of planks down there in the yard, and if you'll be outside about eleven o'clock, I'll chuck over as many as you want."

The contractor hesitated. "Whose planks are they?" he asked.

"I don't know whose they are, and I don't care," replied Jack. "Say the word, and you can have them, if you like."

The contractor made no reply, at least in words, to this generous offer. It is not every man that has a friend like Jack; many men will steal from you, but very few will steal for you, and when such a one is found he deserves his reward.

We adjourned to the bar parlour, and Jack had a glass of brandy, for which he did not pay. There was among the company a man from Adelaide, a learned mineralogist, who commenced a dissertation on the origin of gold. He was most insufferable; would talk about nothing but science. Darwin wrote a book about "The Origin of Species," and it has been observed that the origin of species is precisely what is not in the book. So we argued about the origin of gold, but we could get nowhere near it.

When the rest of the company had retired, Jack observed to me: "You put down that Adelaide chap gradely; he had not a leg to stand on."

I was pleased to find that Jack knew a good argument when he heard it, so I rewarded his intelligence with another glass of brandy, and asked him if he had been long in the colonies. He said:

"My name's not Jack; that's what they call me, but it doesn't matter what my name is. I was brought up in Liverpool, but I wasn't born there; that doesn't matter either. I used to work at the docks, was living quite respectable, was married and had a little son about five years old. One night after I had had supper and washed myself, I said to th' missus, 'There's a peep-show i' Tithebarn Street, and if you'll wash Bobby's face I'll tek him there; its nobbut a penny.' You know it was one o' them shows where they hev pictures behind a piece o' calico, Paul Pry with his umbrella, Daniel i' th' lions' den, ducks swimming across a river, a giantess who was a man shaved and dressed in women's clothes, a dog wi' five legs, and a stuffed mermaid--just what little lads would like. There was a man, besides, who played on a flute, and another singing funny songs. When I went outside into the street there was little Billy Yates, as used to play with Bobby, so I says, 'Come along, Billy, and I'll tek thee to the show.' When we got there we set down on a bench, and, just as they began to show th' pictures, three black-fellows came in and set down on th' bench before us. They thowt they were big swells, and had on black coats, white shirts, stiff collars up to their ears, red and green neck-handkerchers, and bell-topper hats; so I just touched one of em on th' showder and said: 'Would you please tek your hats off to let th' lads see th' pictures?' Well, the nigger just turned his head half-round, and looked at me impudent like, but he kept his hat on. So I asked him again quite civil, and he called me a low fellow, towld me to mind my own business, and the other two niggers grinned. Well, you know, I could not stand that. I knew well enough what they were. They were stewards on the liners running between New York and Liverpool, and they were going round trying to pass for swells in a penny peep-show. I didn't want to make a row just then and spoil the show, so I said to th' lads, we mun go hooum, and I took 'em hooum, and then come back to th' show and waited at th' door. When the niggers come out I pitched into th' one as had given me cheek; but we couldn't have it out for th' crowd, and we were all shoved into th' street. I went away a bit, thinking no more about it, and met a man I knew and we went into a public house and had a quart o' fourpenny. We were in a room by ourselves, when the varra same three niggers come in and stood a bit inside the door. So I took my tumbler and threw it at th' head of th' man I wanted, and then went at him. But I couldn't lick him gradely because th' landlord come in and stopped us; so after a while I went hooum. Next morning I was going along Dale Street towards the docks to work, when who should I see but that varra same blackfellow: it looked as if th' devil was in it. He was by hisself this time, coming along at th' other side of th' street. So I crossed over and met him, and went close up to him and said, 'Well, what have you to say for yoursel' now?' and I gav him a lick under th' ear. He fell down on th' kerbstone and wouldn't get up-- turned sulky like. There was soon a crowd about, and they tried to wakken him up; but he wouldn't help hisself a bit--just sulked and wouldn't stir. I don't believe he'd ha' died but for that, because I nobbut give him but one hit. I thowt I'd better make mysel' scarce for a while, so I left Liverpool and went to Preston. Were you ever in Preston?" I said I was. "Well then, you'll remember Melling, the fish-monger, a varra big, fat man. I worked for him for about six months, and then come back to Liverpool, thinking there'd be no more bother about the blackfellow. But they took me up, and gev me fourteen year for it; and if it had been a white man I wouldn't ha' got more than twelve months, and I was sent out to Van Diemen's Land and ruined for ever, just for nowt else but giving a chance lick to a blackfellow. And now I hear they're going to war wi' Russia, and-- England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales--I hope they'll all get blooming well licked. It don't mend a man much to transport him, nor a woman either for that matter: they all grow worse than ever. When I got my ticket I sometimes went working in th' bush, sometimes whaling and sealing, and sometimes stripping bark at Western Port and Portland Bay, before there was such a place as Melbourne. I was in a whaler for two years about Wilson's Promontory, until the whales were all killed or driven away. I never saved any money until nine years back; we always went on th' spree and spent every penny directly we were paid off. At that time I went with a man from Port Albert to the Seal Islands in a boat. I knew of a place where there was a cave, a big hollow under the rocks, where th' seals used to go to sleep, and a blow hole coming out of it to th' top of the island. We hired a boat and went there, and made a kind of a door which we could drop down with a rope to shut up the mouth of th' cave and catch the seals inside. We killed so many that we couldn't take th' skins away all at once in the boat to Port Albert; we had to come back again. I thowt to myself I'd be richer than ever I was in my life; th' skins were worth hundreds of pounds. I had agreed to go halves with th' Port Albert man, but, you see, he'd ha' never gotten a penny but for me, because he knew nothing whatever about sealing. It didn't look quite fair to give him half; and then I thowt what a lucky thing it would be for me if he were drowned; and he was drowned, but mind you, I didn't do it. It was this way. When we got back to th' blow-hole th' weather was bad. One o' them sou'east gales set in, and th' big waves dashed agen the rocks, roaring and sending spray right across th' island. We had packed away all th' seal-skins snug in th' boat and pulled th' door up from th' bottom of th' chimney before th' gale started. When we were taking down the rope and tackle and th' shears, th' water began to come boiling up th' blow hole and sinking down again. There was a big rush of wind, first up and then down sucking you in like. It was a ticklish time, and just as we were going to lower th' shears, th' Port Albert man made a kind of slip, and was sucked in with the wind, and went head first into the boiling water and out of sight. I took hold of the slack of a rope, thinking I'd throw it to him; he might get hold of it, and then I could pull him out. In about half a minute he was thrown up again by th' next wave right to the top of th' chimney. I could see his face within four feet of me. He threw up his hands for something to catch at and looked at me, and then gave a fearful scream. I didn't throw him the rope; something stopped me. He might not have got hold of it, you know, anyhow. He went down again among th' white water, and I never saw him no more--only when I am dreaming. I always dream about him. I can see his face come up above the boiling water, and when he screams I wake up. I can never get clear of him out of my head; and yet, mind you, I didn't drown him; he fell in of his self, and I just missed throwing him th' rope, that's all; and I wasn't bound to do it, was I?

"As for the money I got for the seal skins, I could have lived comfortably on it all my life, but it never did me no good. I started drinking, trying to forget that Port Albert man, but it was no use. Every shilling was soon gone, and eversince I've been doing odd jobs and loafing about the publics. I've never done no good and never shall. Let's have just another nobbler afore we turn in."

A HAPPY CONVICT.

"Thrice did I receive forty stripes, save one."

It was court day at Palmerston, and there was an unusual amount of business that morning. A constable brought in a prisoner, and charged him with being a vagrant--having no lawful visible means of support. I entered the charge in the cause list, "Police v. John Smithers, vagrancy," and then looked at the vagrant. He was growing aged, was dressed in old clothes, faded, dirty, and ill-fitting; he had not been measured for them. His face was very dark, and his hair and beard were long and rough, showing that he had not been in gaol lately. His eyes wandered about the court in a helpless and vacant manner. Two boys about eight or nine years old entered the court, and, with colonial presumption, sat in the jury box. There were no other spectators, so I left them there to represent the public. They stared at the prisoner, whispered to each other, and smiled. The prisoner could not see anything to laugh at, and frowned at them. Then the magistrate came in, rubbing one of his hands over the other, glanced at the prisoner as he passed, and withered him with a look of virtuous severity. He was our Black Wednesday magistrate, and was death on criminals. When he had taken his seat on the bench, I opened the court, and called the first and only case. It was not often we had a man to sit on, and we sat heavily on this one. I put on my sternest look, and said "John Smithers"--here the prisoner instantly put one hand to his forehead and stood at "attention"-- "you are charged by the police with vagrancy, having no lawful visible means of support. What have you to say to that charge?"

"I am a blacksmith looking for work," said the prisoner; "I ain't done nothing, your worship, and I don't want nothing."

"But you should do something," replied the magistrate; "we don't want idle vagabonds like you wandering about the country. You will be sent to gaol for three months."

I stood up and reminded the justice respectfully that there was as yet no evidence against the prisoner, so, as a matter of form, he condescended to hear the constable, who went into the witness-box and proved his case to the hilt. He had found the man at nightfall sitting under the shelter of some tea-tree sticks before a fire; asked him what he was doing there; said he was camping out; had come from Melbourne looking for work; was a blacksmith; took him in charge as a vagrant, and locked him up; all his property was the clothes he wore, an old blanket, a tin billy, a clasp knife, a few crusts of bread, and old pipe, and half a fig of tobacco; could find no money about him.

That last fact settled the matter. A man travelling about the bush without money is a deep-dyed criminal. I had done it myself, and so was able to measure the extent of such wickedness. I never felt really virtuous unless I had some money in my pocket.

"You are sentenced to imprisonment for three months in Melbourne gaol," said the magistrate; "and mind you don't come here again."

"I ain't done nothing, your worship," replied the prisoner; "and I don't want nothing."

"Take him away, constable."

Seven years afterwards, as I was riding home about sundown through Tarraville, I observed a solitary swagman sitting before a fire, among the ruins of an old public house, like Marius meditating among the ruins of Carthage. There was a crumbling chimney built of bricks not worth carting away--the early bricks in South Gippsland were very bad, and the mortar had no visible lime in it--the ground was strewn with brick-bats, bottles, sardine tins, hoop iron, and other articles, the usual refuse of a bush shanty. It had been, in the early times, a place reeking with crime and debauchery. Men had gone out of it mad with drinking the poisonous liquor, had stumbled down the steep bank, and had ended their lives and crimes in the black Tarra river below. Here the rising generation had taken their first lessons in vice from the old hands who made the house their favourite resort. Here was planned the murder of Jimmy the Snob by Prettyboy and his mates, whose hut was near the end of the bridge across the river, and for which murder Prettyboy was hanged in Melbourne.

In the dusk I mistook the swagman for a stray aboriginal who had survived the destruction of his tribe, but on approaching nearer, I found that he was, or at least once had been, a white man. He had gathered a few sticks, which he was breaking and putting on the fire. I did not recognise him, did not think I had ever seen him before, and I rode away.

During the next twenty-four hours he had advanced about half-a-mile on his journey, and in the evening was making his fire in the Church paddock, near a small water-hole opposite my house. I could see him from the verandah, and I sent Jim to offer him shelter in an outbuilding. Jim was one of the two boys who had represented the public in the jury box at the Palmerston court seven years before. He came back, and said the man declined the offer of shelter; never slept under a roof winter or summer, if he could help it; had lived in the open air for twelve years, and never stayed a night in any building, except for three months, when he was in Melbourne gaol. He had been arrested by a constable near Palmerston seven years before, although he had done nothing, and a fool of a beak, with a long grey beard, had given him three months, while two puppies of boys were sitting in the jury box laughing at him.

He also gave some paternal advice to the youth, which, like a great deal of other paternal advice, was rejected as of no value.

"Never you go to Melbourne, young man," he said, "and if you do, never stop in any boarding-house, or public. They are full of vermin, brought in by bad characters, mostly Government officers and bank clerks, who have been in Pentridge. Don't you never go near 'em."

This advice did not sound very respectful; however, I overlooked it for the present, as it was not unlikely I might have the advantage of seeing him again in custody, and I sent to him across the road some hot tea, bread, butter, and beef. This softened the heart and loosed the tongue of the old swagman. It appeared from his account of himself that he was not much of a blacksmith. He was ostensibly going about the colony looking for work, but as long as he could get food for nothing he did not want any work, and he always avoided a blacksmith's shop; as soon as he found himself near one he ceased to be a blacksmith.

When asked about his former life, he said a gentleman had once advised him to write the particulars of it, and had promised him half-a-crown if he would do so. He had written some of them, but had never seen the gentleman again, so he did not get the half-crown; and now he would take sixpence for the copyright of his work. I gave him sixpence, and he drew out a manuscript from an inside pocket of his coat, and handed it to me. It was composed of small sheets of whitey-brown wrapping paper sewn together. He had ruled lines on it, and had written his biography with lead pencil. On looking over it I observed that, although he was deficient in some of the inferior qualifications of a great historian, such as spelling, grammar, and a command of words of seven syllables, yet he had the true instincts of a faithful chronicler. He had carefully recorded the names of all the eminent bad men he had met, of the constable who had first arrested him, of the magistrate who had committed him for trial, of the judge who had sentenced him, of the gaolers and warders who had kept him in prison, of the captain, doctor, and officers of the ship which conveyed him to Sydney, of the squatters who had forced him to work for them, and of the scourgers who had scourged him for not working enough. The names of all these celebrated men, together with the wicked deeds for which they were admired, were given in detail, after the true historic method. We all take a great interestin reading every particular relating to the lives of notorious tyrants and great sinners; we like to know what clothes they wore, and how they swore. But the lives of great and good men and women are very uninteresting; some young ladies even, when travelling by train, prefer, as I observe, French novels inspired by Cloacina to the "Lives of the Saints."

Some people in the colonies are said to have had no grandfathers; but John Smithers was even more deficient in pedigree, for he had neither father nor mother, as far as he could recollect. He commenced life as a stable boy and general drudge in England, at a village inn owned and conducted by a widow named Cobbledick. This widow had a daughter named Jemima. The mischief wrought in this world by women, from Eve to Jemima downwards, is incalculable, and Smithers averred that it was this female, Jemima, who brought on his sorrow, grief, and woe. She was very advanced in wordly science, as young ladies are apt to be when they are educated in the retail liquor trade. When Smithers had been several years at the inn, and Jemima was already in her teens, she thought the world went slowly; she had no lover, there was nobody coming to marry her, nobody coming to woo. But at length she was determined to find a remedy for this state of things. She had never read the history of the loves of the great Catherine of Russia, nor of those of our own virgin Queen Elizabeth, but by an inborn royal instinct she was impelled to follow their high example. If lovers did not offer their adoration to her charms spontaneously, there was at any rate one whose homage she could command. One Sunday afternoon, while her mother was absent, she went to the stable and ordered Smithers to come and take a walk with her, directing him first to polish his shoes and put on his best clothes. She brought out a bottle of scented oil to sweeten him, and told him to rub it well into his hair, and stroke his head with his hands until it was sleek and shiny. She had put on her Sunday dress and best bonnet; she had four ringlets at each side of her face; and to crown her charms, had ventured to borrow her mother's gold watch and chain. Being now a perfect princess in stateliness and beauty, she took Jack by the arm--she called him Jack--and made him march away with her. He was rather abashed at the new duty imposed upon him, but he had been so well kicked and cuffed all his life that he never thought of disobeying orders. Love fooled the gods, and it gave him little trouble to fool so sorry a pair as Jack and his Jemima. They walked along Perkins' Lane where many of the neighbours were likely to see them, for Jemima was anxious that all the other girls, her dearest friends, should be filled with spite and envy at her good fortune in having secured a lover.

When the happy youth and maid were returning with wandering steps and slow, Jemima saw her mother pass the end of the lane on her way homewards, much sooner than she had expected. The golden hours on angel wings had flown away too quickly for the lovers. Miss Cobbledick was filled with sudden alarm, and her brief day of glory was clouded. It was now impossible to reach home in time to avoid trouble. Her mother would be certain to miss the watch, and what was she to do with it? What with Jack, and what with herself? Self-preservation being the first law of nature, Jemima resolved to sacrifice Jack in order to shield herself from her mother's rage. He was not of much account in any respect; so she gave him the watch and chain, telling him to keep them safely till she asked for them, and to hurry round by the yard gate into the stable. This gave great relief to her conscience, and enabled her to meet her mother with a face of untroubled innocence.

Jack had not a lively imagination; but during the night he had a clear and blissful vision of his future destiny, the only dream of fortune his life was ever blessed with. He was to be the landlord of the hotel, when Mrs. Cobbledick had gone to bliss, and Jemima was to be his bride, and the landlady.

But early next morning there was trouble in the house. The watch was missing, and nobody knew anything about it. Jemima helped her mother to look for it, and could not find it. A constable was sent for, and he questioned everyone in and about the house, and searched everywhere without result. Last of all Jack was asked if he knew anything of the missing watch. He was faithful and true. How could he betray Jemima, his future partner in life? He said he "had never seen no watch, and didn't know nothing whatsomever about no watch," and the next instant the constable pulled the watch out of Jack's pocket.

At his trial he was asked what he had to say in his defence, and then he told the truth, and said Jemima gave him the watch to keep until she should ask for it. But there is a time for all things; and Jack could never learn the proper time for telling the truth, or for telling a lie; he was always in the wrong. The judge, in passing sentence, said he had aggravated his crime by endeavouring to implicate an innocent young lady in his villany, and gave him seven years.

He was taken on board a hulk, where he found two or three hundred other boys imprisoned. On the evening of his arrival a report was circulated among them that they were all to be sent to another ship, which was bound for Botany Bay, and that they would never see England again. They would have to work and sleep in chains; they would be yoked together, and whipped like bullocks; and if they escaped into the bush the blacks would kill and eat them. As this dismal tale went round, some of the boys, who were quite young and small, began to cry, and to call for their mothers to come and help them; and then the others began to scream and should and yell. The warders came below and tried to silence them, but the more they tried the louder grew the uproar, and it continued for many hours during the night.

"Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength to serve."

Discipline must be maintained; so next morning the poor little beggars were brought up on deck in batches, stripped, triced up, and severely flogged. Jack, and a number of other boys, said they had not cried at all, but the officer in charge thought it was better that a few of the innocent should suffer rather than that one of the guilty should escape, so they were all flogged alike, and soon after they were shipped for New South Wales.

On his arrival n Sydney, Jack was assigned as a servant to a squatter, and taken into the bush a long way to the west. The weather had been very hot for a long time, all the grass had withered to dust, and the cattle were starving. The first work which he was ordered to do was to climb trees and cut off the branches, in order that the cattle might keep themselves alive by eating the leaves and twigs. Jack had never been used to handle an axe or tomahawk, so he found the labour of chopping very hard. He did his best, but that was not good enough for the squatter, who took him to a magistrate, and had him flogged by the official scourger.

While serving his sentence of seven years he was flogged four times; three of the times he said he had "done nothing," and for the fourth flogging he confessed to me that he had "done something," but he did not say what the "something" was. In those days it seems that "doing nothing" and "doing something" were crimes equally meriting the lash.

And now after a long life of labour the old convict had achieved independence at last. I don't think I ever met a richer man; he was richer than the whole family of the Rothschilds; he wanted scarcely anything. Food and clothing he obtained for the asking for them, and he was not particular as to their quality of the quantity was sufficient. Property to him was something despicable; he did not want any, and would not live inside of a house if he had one; he preferred the outside. He was free from family cares--never had father or mother, sister or brother, wife or children. No poor relatives ever claimed his hospitality; no intimate friends wanted to borrow half-a-crown; no one ever asked him to buy suburban lots, or to take shares in a limited liability company. He was perfectly indifferent to all danger from bush-rangers, burglars, pickpockets, or cattle stealers; he did not even own a dog, so the dogman never asked him for the dog tax. He never enquired about the state of the money market, nor bothered himself about the prices of land or cattle, wood, wine, or wheat. Every bank, and brewery, and building society in the world might go into liquidation at once for aught he cared. He had retired from the Government service, had superannuated himself on a pension of nothing per annum, and to draw it he required no voucher.

And yet, notwithstanding all these advantages, I don't think there are many men who would voluntarily choose his lot. I watched him from the end of the verandah, and began speculating about him. What was he thinking about during his solitary watches in the night or while he tramped alone through the bush year after year in heat and cold, wind and rain? Did he ever think of anything--of his past life, or of his future lot? Did he believe in or hope for a heaven? or had he any fear of hell and eternal punishment? Surely he had been punished enough; in this life he had endured evil things in plenty, and might at least hope for eternal rest in the next.

He was sitting with his back against a gum tree, and his feet towards the fire. From time to time he threw a few more sticks on the embers, and a fitful blaze lit up his dark weatherbeaten face.

Then to my surprise he began to sing, and to sing well. His voice was strong, clear, and mellow, and its tones rose and fell in the silent night air with a pathetic and wonderful sweetness. The burden of his song was "We may be happy yet."

"Oh, smile as thou wert wont to smile, Before a weight of care Had crushed thine heart, and yet awhile Left only sorrow there; We may be happy yet."

He sang three stanzas, and was silent. Then someone said: "Poor old fellow; I hope he may be happy yet."

Next morning he was sitting with his back against the gum tree. His fire had gone out, and he seemed to be late in awaking, and in no hurry to resume his journey. But his travels were finished; he never awoke. His body was quite cold, and he must have died soon after he had sung the last note of his song. He had only sixpence in his pocket--the sixpence I had given him for his biography. The police took him in charge once more and put him in his last prison, where he will remain until we shall all be called together by the dread blast of the Archangel's trumpet on the Judgment Day.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Book of the Bush, by George Dunderdale