The Bushman - Life in a New Country Part 7

for men who are in "easy circ.u.mstances," and who therefore think no more of direct or indirect taxation, and of those mult.i.tudinous burthens which highly-civilized life imposes, than a besom-maker's a.s.s does of the load under which it daily journeys. But how many thousands are there (children of sad parents -- Toil and Sorrow) who find their utmost efforts scarcely sufficient to keep them out of the debtor's prison! Continual gloom fills the chambers of their hearts; the sun bestows its cheering rays in vain; and all the gay and beautiful influences of the bright world of Nature fail to inspirit him whose every energy is directed to the task of raising his family beyond the threatening grasp of Want. In his few moments of relaxation, when those whom he loves -- for whom he is toiling unto death -- hang around him with gentle fondness; in those sweet moments, when love unutterable beams through the glistening eye, and tender solicitude watches the care-worn face, seeking to win one happy smile -- even then, he dare not give himself up to joy. The thought is never absent from him that life perhaps is ebbing fast; the very labours to which his only hope of income is attached, are gradually wearing him down to the grave; and when he is no more, what shall be the lot of those whose beaming faces smile so sweetly? What struggles, what miseries are in store for the beloved wife, and those young and innocent daughters whose hearts are full of him! No! he dare not give himself up to joy; he smiles in answer to their endearments -- but it is rather a shadow than a sunbeam that pa.s.ses across his countenance.

How many thousands are there in England so circ.u.mstanced, who curse the artificial state of society in which they are compelled to live!

In their profession or trade they are bound to keep up a certain degree of appearance, or they are shunned by those whom it is their chief interest to conciliate. The great bug-bear ever present in the mind of an Englishman, is the dread of not being thought sufficiently "respectable." Professional men and tradesmen depend for their subsistence upon appearances. To be flashy is as bad as to be shabby; the great object is to appear substantial. If you are rich, you have less temptation to be dishonest, and may consequently be trusted. Every man, therefore, who depends upon the opinion of others, is compelled to a.s.sume the appearance of being comfortably circ.u.mstanced in order to inspire confidence. Character is the life-blood of Englishmen, but character alone will seldom extricate a man from the slough of Poverty. In our highly artificial state of society, something more powerful than character alone is required to place a man in the road to fortune -- call it as you please, tact or humbug.

This necessity for keeping up appearances in order to move in that rank of life which his business requires him to occupy, is the heaviest tax imposed upon the income of an Englishman. How often does it draw from him all his profits, leaving him to lament how little he is enabled to lay by annually for his children! Many times, without doubt, he wishes he durst retire to a cottage too small to admit the visits of the heartless acquaintance who form his "fas.h.i.+onable" world. Does their society afford him or his family any real happiness? Is it not rather the cause of many heart-burnings to him and to them? How much happier he feels he should be, had he never looked abroad for happiness, but sought it only around his own hearth! To see his daughters elegantly attired, would gratify him extremely, were it not for the unwelcome reminiscences of expense.

But would they look less lovely to his eyes, or be less dear to his heart, when moving about him in the useful performance of domestic duties, clad in homely garments, and thinking more of him and home than of visiting and display?

How economically, and how happily too, might he live, were his own house his world, and his wife and children the only beings for whose opinion he cared! But alas! these are the persons whose opinion is of least importance in his pursuit of fortune. He must do as the world does if he would secure its smiles, and is compelled to think less of happiness than of gain.

Is such a man happier, leading such a life, than he would be as a colonist? Here -- ever blessed be the recollection! -- there is no necessity for sacrificing peace of mind to appearance. The man whose conduct proves him to be of gentlemanly mould, is everywhere treated as an equal; and though his occupation and mode of living be ever so humble, he loses nothing in the consideration of his fellow-colonists. The half-pay officer, or gentleman farmer, who occasionally drives his own cart, or sows the seed which he has purchased in the market, is not thought less qualified to act as a magistrate, nor is less respected by the great and small in his neighbourhood. His cares are all directed towards obtaining substantial comforts for his family, and not towards making a display in the eyes of the little world around him.

Conscious that he is respected only for his character as an upright man, and that as every one knows he is not wealthy, it would be ridiculous to affect the appearance of wealth, he wears the coa.r.s.est garments with more pleasure than the finest coat, and draws all his happiness from domestic sources. His sons and daughters equally indifferent to show -- though the latter, at least, are always neatly dressed -- are busied with their different duties, all tending to promote the general comfort.

Happy family! -- how pleasantly the evenings pa.s.s in your society!

Gladly would I ride many miles to spend such pleasant hours, and witness happiness so unpretending and real. How cheerful looks that large room, with its glorious fire of Jarra-wood and black-boys, (for it is the winter season,) and how lightly those young girls move about, arranging the tea-table, and preparing for the evening meal!

The kind-hearted mother, relieved of all duties but that of superintendence, sits by the fire chatting cheerfully with the guest, whose eyes, nevertheless, wander round the room after a certain light and dancing shape; the host, a man of eld, but stalwart in appearance, full of hospitality and n.o.ble courtesy, appears in his easy slippers and an old and well-worn coat, which formerly had seen service in London ball-rooms. He discourses not only of the crops and colonial politics, but of literature, and the last news from England; for like many other colonists he receives the English papers, and patronizes the 'Quarterly Review'. On the sofa lie the latest numbers of 'Punch' and 'the Ill.u.s.trated London News' -- some four months old, of course -- for the ladies like fun and pictures, whilst their father laboriously wades through a three months'

acc.u.mulation of the 'Times'.

With what alacrity the old gentleman rises up and welcomes a traveller, who has unexpectedly arrived, and has just stabled his horse, and seen him fed before he made his appearance in the parlour!

There is no beating about the bush for a bed, or an invitation to supper. Of the latter he is certain, and indifferent about the former; for having slept the last night under a tree, he feels sure of making himself comfortable on the sofa, or on the hearth-rug before the fire. And then the girls, who have no affectation or nonsense about them, crowd round the new-arrived, and ply him with questions about their young friends in other parts of the colony, and whether he was at the last ball at Government House, and what was most worn on that occasion -- until the good man, laughing, breaks through the circle, declaring he will answer no more questions till he has had his supper, and, it may be, a gla.s.s of whisky-toddy screeching hot.

During the evening the girls sing, and happily they sing well; and they take most pleasure in those songs which papa likes best to hear.

And the poor bachelor-guest, who looks on, feels his heart melting within him, and reviles himself for the dest.i.tution in which he lives at home. Suddenly, perhaps, horses at a gallop are heard to enter the yard; and soon afterwards two young fellows, fresh from the capital, come das.h.i.+ng into the room, full of spirits, and vowing they have gallopped over on purpose to ascertain whether the ladies were still living. Here is authority of undoubted value for everything relating to the ball at Government House; and the merits and appearance of every person who attended it are soon brought under discussion. This naturally inspires the young people with a desire to dance; so the table is pushed aside, and papa being squeezed nearly into the fire, mamma takes her place at the piano, and bursts off with the Annen Polka.

It may seem strange to you, dear reader, who have an idea that colonists are merely wild beasts, that such things should be. But so it is; and though people may dance the Cellarius with more gravity in the saloons of St. James's, I question whether dancing be half the fun there that our light-hearted colonists seem to think it. There are no strangers in small colonies -- it is always a family party dancing together; and consequently, people are as merry as if it were Christmas-time all the year round.

Your fas.h.i.+onable people may pity them; but G.o.d help them, poor things! In their dark and degraded state they seem to enjoy themselves so much, that I should not like them to be put out of conceit with themselves, or made to repudiate whatever gives them innocent pleasure. Nor are they entirely insensible to the good opinion of great people; for when they learnt that the Polka was thought vulgar at Buckingham Palace, they had serious intentions of denying it admittance into the ball-rooms of Perth; and I sincerely believe it would speedily have pined away and died, like a maiden under the breath of slander, but for a confidently entertained hope that her Majesty would never hear of the offences of the people of Perth -- and people will do all kinds of things when they can do them secretly. So the Polka continues to be danced in Western Australia; and the courage of the dancers has been much revived of late by hearing that it is still greatly in vogue at home, notwithstanding the august censures said to have been pa.s.sed upon it.

A country life might always be a happy one, were people possessed of the smallest competence, and of properly regulated minds. There is as much unhappiness, or at least discontent, in colonies as elsewhere; but discontented colonists are the greatest fools in the world, because they have themselves created the evils, and the remedies are generally in their own power. The grand object of man's search is happiness, which he strives to obtain by a thousand various ways. Wealth he covets, because he fondly believes that it contains the prize he seeks; but if happiness may be found without wealth, of what value are riches? Money is not so indispensable a necessary in a colony. Very little indeed suffices to enable a proprietor on the banks of the Swan, the Avon, or the Brunswick, to bring up his family in comfort, and to perform all the rights of a generous hospitality. The discontent which is so often felt in colonies arises from two causes: first, it is the natural feeling of those who emigrate late in life; who, although unsuccessful at home, have ever been fondly attached to home a.s.sociations, to the friends and connexions with whom they have been bound up during many years, and to the national belief that a man can never be truly happy out of England. In addition to this, the emigrant of mature years has been so long accustomed to feel himself living in the very centre of intelligence, he has so long been accustomed to watch the progress of political action at home and on the continent, and to drink the fresh draughts of scientific discovery at the fountain-head, that now, when far removed from the busy and exciting scenes of the ever-moving panorama of European life, he feels lost in the wilderness -- a fragment of drift-wood washed ash.o.r.e and left far behind by the fast-progressing waves of Knowledge and Action.

The second cause of discontent is found in the non-acquisition of money.

Every one goes out to a colony with the full conviction that he shall make a fortune in a few years, and then return to England and become a man of landed interest.

A man has to conquer his first disappointments before he can become a happy settler; he has to form new and more just ideas of his actual position. Generally, it is necessary that he should return to England once more before he can entirely appreciate the advantages open to him in a colony. He then fully perceives how much more difficult it is to obtain a bare subsistence in the old country. He finds that with the utmost economy he cannot supply the numerous wants of his family, and he longs for his old Australian dwelling again, and the easy, independent life which he was accustomed to lead, when his children used to run about in brown holland, and his wife looked becoming in printed cotton, and thought no beverage so good as the wine which she had a.s.sisted to make.

CHAPTER 11.

PERSECUTIONS.

Scepticism is the offspring of ignorance. There are many people still living who doubt the existence of dragons; who go so far as to a.s.sert that such creatures never did exist upon the face of this earth, and never did torment and destroy the inhabitants thereof, and persecute forlorn maidens. They scoff at the records which have descended to our times, as fabulous legends, composed by idle monks; who were accustomed to write fict.i.tious histories during the dark ages. They deny to historical ballads that authority which Mr.

Macaulay attaches to them; and yet the princ.i.p.al fact in the biography of Andromeda (even before the times of the monks) may have been true; and the poor people of Wantley may really have been hara.s.sed by the celebrated dragon of that ilk. We speak seriously.

Geologists have ascertained beyond a doubt that winged monsters of the size described in ancient legends did really inhabit this earth at some period or other. Happily they no longer exist of the same dimensions as formerly; like the descendants of Anak, they have become 'fined down', as it were, in the course of ages, until their proportions no longer awaken personal fear, nor do their exploits engage the attention of historians. Sometimes, however, the ancient ferocity, the propensity for devastation, still breaks forth, even in the diminutive descendants of this formidable race, and persecuted Man feels himself driven to the brink of despair.

Soon after I had settled at Perth, in a small house, with three quarters of an acre of ground about it, I began to think of improving my little territory. I thought it was a duty I owed to society to set a good example, by bringing my property into a high state of cultivation.

I intended to "make the barren desert smile" -- to embower my dwelling in the midst of blossoming peas, and aspiring kidney beans, -- to draw around me, as it were, a little luxuriant Eden, which should be the admiration of a Sunday public, as they stood riveted at the palings, unable to pa.s.s by without a lengthened survey; whilst the envied possessor, stooping behind his magnificent cabbages, would listen to their unstudied bursts of rapture with justifiable pride.

Glowing with horticultural fervour, I rose early in the morning, and dug up the soil with stern resolution, toiling with a Patagonian pick-axe at the great roots which ran in every direction, until I thought myself a perfect pattern of a settler. My man also exerted himself with equal energy and more steady endurance; and in process of time a considerable portion of ground was got ready for seed. In order that nothing might be wanting to insure the most unlimited success, I purchased a quant.i.ty of manure, and had it drawn upon the ground. Then it was that the Evil Genius who (like the wicked Enchanter that always kept his eye upon Don Quixote,) hath ever dogged my steps, made his baleful presence manifest by the most rampant hostility. The day on which the manure arrived, I went out in my pleasure-boat upon Melville Water, accompanied by my man Hannibal, to manage the head-sheets. On our return, at dusk, we found the manure scattered all over the premises, as if it had been kicked about by a party of dancing demons.

The traces of talons were clearly discernible on the ground. I knew not what to make of it. I thought a dragon must have been rampaging about the premises. Well! the next day the man scratched the manure together again as well as he could, and we sowed a quant.i.ty of seed -- peas, beans, and divers succulent vegetables. The following morning Hannibal rose late, having overslept himself, as he alleged.

I was awakened by his sudden appearance at my bed-side, but no sooner sat up than I fell back again, appalled by the ghastliness of his visage.

"The d---ls," said he, "have been again, and have scrat up the earth far and wide; and (he added using a strong expression,) I'll be dashed if there's a seed left!"

Alas! "'twas but owre true." The ground so neatly raked the evening before, which I had returned again and again to look at with fond pride, until it was obscured by darkness, was now torn up and defaced throughout its length and breadth.

"Well!" I exclaimed, as soon as I could speak, "there are dragons in the world."

I could now enter into the feelings of the poor husbandman of the dark ages, when he got up in the morning, and found a dragon finis.h.i.+ng the last of his highly-prized dairy cows. If I could only catch him at it! I felt immediately a fit of blood-thirstiness creep over me. I could have destroyed a dozen dragons with pleasure, might I only come within reach of them. Calmly, however, I ordered Hannibal to sow the seeds again, and keep better watch and ward in future.

It now became a serious question how my property was to be protected.

Am I to be subject to these incursions without defence? Is there no safeguard in this country for a man's possessions?

I finished breakfast hastily, and went to consult the chief magistrate. To my question as to how I ought to guard my garden and vegetables from the attacks of the insidious enemy, he replied by referring me to the 2 Wm. IV. No. 2, a local act, by which people whose property is trespa.s.sed upon, are allowed the privilege of impounding the trespa.s.sers.

Impound a dragon! I thanked the worthy magistrate, "But," said I, "the creatures that destroy my substance have wings, and are not to be caught by men who have none."

"The law," replied his wors.h.i.+p, "is decisive on the subject; you must follow the law, whether you be able to follow the offender or not."

"But," said I again, "if the law gives me no protection -- and merely to authorize me to impound a creature with wings, is a mockery unworthy of the dignity of the law -- I may surely protect myself? I will have a file of men on guard, and fire on any creature that infringes upon the vested rights which I possess in my property. I will defend myself," said I, growing warm under the oppressive weight of the law, "and maintain my vested rights."

"No man," replied the wors.h.i.+pful justice, "as you know very well, has a right to defend himself, except with the weapons of the law. You will only get into sc.r.a.pes if you fight with any other weapons."

Finding that I was kicking against the p.r.i.c.ks, I made my bow, and went home again in a very ireful mood.

Hannibal had resown the beds, and was at work upon others. On seeing me, he stepped up to a fine Nuytsia floribunda, which ornaments my grounds, and taking up a double-barrelled gun that was leaning against it, gave a few significant slaps upon the breach, and smiling complacently, winked his eye. I turned away and entered the house, filled with a kind of grim satisfaction, as thoughts of vengeance flitted through my brain. Too much disturbed to sit still, I paced up and down the room, listening eagerly for sounds which should announce the hour of slaughter and revenge.

The milk of human kindness had curdled in my breast; I felt that I could sympathize with the restless anxiety of Charles IX on the memorable eve of St. Bartholomew. But the butchery of unarmed Huguenots was a different affair altogether from a war of extermination against invading dragons. I looked out of the windows every moment to see what Hannibal was about; but there he continued hoeing, and weeding, and raking, and looking as calm and amiable as the Duke when he awaited the proper moment to attack the French.

Suddenly he paused; I watched him quietly drop his rake, and retire backwards behind a bush, where he remained crouching down, with the double-barrelled gun in his hands.

Unable to remain quiet any longer, I opened the window, and cried in a fierce whisper, "Kill! kill!" With his hand he motioned me to be quiet, so I withdrew and paced about the room with feverish anxiety.

The discharge of both barrels made me drop into a chair. Murder had been committed! Vengeance was satisfied, and remorse arrived as usual. Remorse, the ill-favoured offspring of Fear!

"You will get yourself into sc.r.a.pes," said the chief magistrate, "if you use any other weapon than the law." I reasoned with Conscience; I repeated the argument that I had a right to defend my property when the law failed to afford me protection. Dragons, said I, are 'ferae naturae'; the people of Perth, it would seem, are in the habit of keeping them as pets, and thus they come to be considered private property. But then, let the people of Perth destroy their own substance, and not mine. If they do not choose to have gardens of their own, they have no right to prevent the growth of my radishes.

Because they do not like sack, shall we have no more cakes and ale?

Because they can exist without cauliflowers, must I renounce all hopes of having hyssop in my pottage?

What! am I to rise up early in the morning and sow the seeds of carefulness and labour, merely for the sustenance of other people's harpies?

To whom am I to look for redress, when I know not to whom the ruthless creatures belong? -- Creatures that wander far and wide in search of food; that gain their precarious subsistence by plunder and rapine; and are intensely hostile to the labours and improvements of civilization. No wonder the poet looked upon them as h.e.l.l-born, and called them a pest and a curse to society: --

"------nec saevior ulla Pestis et ira Deuim Stygiis sese extulit undis."

I had made these reflections, and received a good deal of comfort from them, when Hannibal appeared at the door with a pallid countenance.

"Two of them, Sir, are done for; one's a big un -- eight pounds, if he weighs an 'unce. He's a handsome feller, that un; black feathers, and spurs to his heels six inches long. They'll make a houtcry about him, I expect."