The stage-scene has dropped. Settle yourselves, my good audience; chat
each with his neighbor. Dear madam in the boxes, take up your opera-
glass and look about you. Treat Tom and pretty Sal to some of those
fine oranges, O thou happy-looking mother in the two-shilling gallery!
Yes, brave 'prentice-boys in the tier above, the cat-call by all means!
And you, "most potent, grave, and reverend signiors" in the front row of
the pit, practised critics and steady old playgoers, who shake your
heads at new actors and playwrights, and, true to the creed of your
youth (for the which all honor to you!), firmly believe that we are
shorter by the head than those giants our grandfathers,--laugh or scold
as you will, while the drop-scene still shuts out the stage. It is just
that you should all amuse yourselves in your own way, O spectators! for
the interval is long. All the actors have to change their dresses; all
the scene-shifters are at work sliding the "sides" of a new world into
their grooves; and in high disdain of all unity of time, as of place,
you will see in the play-bills that there is a great demand on your
belief. You are called upon to suppose that we are older by five years
than when you last saw us "fret our hour upon the stage." Five years!
the author tells us especially to humor the belief by letting the drop-
scene linger longer than usual between the lamps and the stage.
Play up, O ye fiddles and kettle-drums! the time is elapsed. Stop that
cat-call, young gentleman; heads down in the pit there! Now the
flourish is over, the scene draws up: look before.
A bright, clear, transparent atmosphere,--bright as that of the East,
but vigorous and bracing as the air of the North; a broad and fair
river, rolling through wide grassy plains; yonder, far in the distance,
stretch away vast forests of evergreen, and gentle slopes break the line
of the cloudless horizon. See the pastures, Arcadian with sheep in
hundreds and thousands,--Thyrsis and Menalcas would have had hard labor
to count them, and small time, I fear, for singing songs about Daphne.
But, alas! Daphnes are rare; no nymphs with garlands and crooks trip
over those pastures.
Turn your eyes to the right, nearer the river; just parted by a low
fence from the thirty acres or so that are farmed for amusement or
convenience, not for profit,--that comes from the sheep,--you catch a
glimpse of a garden. Look not so scornfully at the primitive
horticulture: such gardens are rare in the Bush. I doubt if the stately
King of the Peak ever more rejoiced in the famous conservatory, through
which you may drive in your carriage, than do the sons of the Bush in
the herbs and blossoms which taste and breathe of the old fatherland.
Go on, and behold the palace of the patriarchs,--it is of wood, I grant
you; but the house we build with our own hands is always a palace. Did
you ever build one when you were a boy? And the lords of that palace
are lords of the land almost as far as you can see, and of those
numberless flocks; and, better still, of a health which an antediluvian
might have envied, and of nerves so seasoned with horse-breaking,
cattle-driving, fighting with wild blacks,--chases from them and after
them, for life and for death,--that if any passion vex the breast of
those kings of the Bushland, fear at least is erased from the list.
See here and there through the landscape rude huts like the masters':
wild spirits and fierce dwell within. But they are tamed into order by
plenty and hope; by the hand open but firm, by the eye keen but just.
Now out from those woods, over those green rolling plains, harum-scarum,
helter-skelter, long hair flying wild, and all bearded as a Turk or a
pard, comes a rider you recognize. The rider dismounts, and another old
acquaintance turns from a shepherd, with whom he has been conversing on
matters that never plagued Thyrsis and Menalcas,--whose sheep seem to
have been innocent of foot-rot and scab,--and accosts the horseman.
Pisistratus.--"My dear Guy, where on earth have you been?"
Guy (producing a book from his pocket, with great triumph).--"There!
Dr. Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets.' I could not get the squatter to let
me have 'Kenilworth,' though I offered him three sheep for it. Dull old
fellow, that Dr. Johnson, I suspect,--so much the better, the book will
last all the longer. And here's a Sydney paper, too, only two months
old!" (Guy takes a short pipe, or dudeen, from his hat, in the band of
which it had been stuck, fills and lights it.)
Pisistratus.--"You must have ridden thirty miles at the least. To think
of your turning book-hunter, Guy!"
Guy Bolding (philosophically).--"Ay, one don't know the worth of a thing
till one has lost it. No sneers at me, old fellow; you, too, declared
that you were bothered out of your life by those books till you found
how long the evenings were without them. Then, the first new book we
got--an old volume of the 'Spectator!'--such fun!"
Pisistratus.--"Very true. The brown cow has calved in your absence. Do
you know, Guy, I think we shall have no scab in the fold this year. If
so, there will be a rare sum to lay by! Things look up with us now,
Guy."
Guy Bolding.--"Yes. Very different from the first two years. You drew
a long face then. How wise you were, to insist on our learning
experience at another man's station before we hazarded our own capital!
But, by Jove! those sheep at first were enough to plague a man out his
wits. What with the wild dogs, just as the sheep had been washed and
ready to shear; then that cursed scabby sheep of Joe Timmes's, that we
caught rubbing his sides so complacently against our unsuspecting poor
ewes. I wonder we did not run away. But Patientia fit,--what is that
line in Horace? Never mind now. 'It is a long lane that has no
turning' does just as well as anything in Horace, and Virgil to boot. I
say, has not Vivian been here?"
Pisistratus.--"No; but he will be sure to come to-day."
Guy Bolding.--"He has much the best berth of it. Horse-breeding and
cattle-feeding: galloping after those wild devils; lost in a forest of
horns; beasts lowing, scampering, goring, tearing off like mad
buffaloes; horses galloping up hill, down hill, over rocks, stones, and
timber; whips cracking, men shouting, your neck all but broken; a great
bull making at you full rush. Such fun! Sheep are dull things to look
at after a bull-hunt and a cattle-feast."
Pisistratus.--"Every man to his taste in the Bush. One may make one's
money more easily and safely, with more adventure and sport, in the
bucolic department; but one makes larger profit and quicker fortune,
with good luck and good care, in the pastoral,--and our object, I take
it, is to get back to England as soon as we can."
Guy Bolding.--"Humph! I should be content to live and die in the Bush,--
nothing like it, if women were not so scarce. To think of the redundant
spinster population at home, and not a spinster here to be seen within
thirty miles,--save Bet Goggins, indeed, and she has only one eye! But
to return to Vivian: why should it be our object, more than his, to get
back to England as soon as we can?"
Pisistratus.--"Not more, certainly. But you saw that an excitement more
stirring than that we find in the sheep had become necessary to him.
You know he was growing dull and dejected; the cattle station was to be
sold a bargain. And then the Durham bulls and the Yorkshire horses
which Mr. Trevanion sent you and me out as presents, were so tempting, I
thought we might fairly add one speculation to another; and since one of
us must superintend the bucolics, and two of us were required for the
pastorals, I think Vivian was the best of us three to entrust with the
first,--and certainly it has succeeded as yet."
Guy.--"Why, yes, Vivian is quite in his element,--always in action, and
always in command. Let him be first in everything, and there is not a
finer fellow, nor a better tempered,--present company excepted. Hark!
the dogs, the crack of the whip; there he is. And now, I suppose, we
may go to dinner."
(Enter Vivian.) His frame has grown more athletic; his eye, more
steadfast and less restless, looks you full in the face. His smile is
more open, but there is a melancholy in his expression almost
approaching to gloom. His dress is the same as that of Pisistratus and
Guy,--white vest and trousers; loose neckcloth, rather gay in color;
broad cabbage-leaf hat; his mustache and beard are trimmed with more
care than ours. He has a large whip in his hand, and a gun slung across
his shoulders. Greetings are exchanged; mutual inquiries as to cattle
and sheep, and the last horses despatched to the Indian market. Guy
shows the "Lives of the Poets," Vivian asks if it is possible to get the
Life of Clive, or Napoleon, or a copy of Plutarch. Guy shakes his head;
says if a Robinson Crusoe will do as well, he has seen one in a very
tattered state, but in too great request to be had a bargain.
The party turn into the hut. Miserable animals are bachelors in all
countries, but most miserable in Bushland. A man does not know what a
helpmate of the soft sex is in the Old World, where women seem a matter
of course. But in the Bush a wife is literally bone of your bone, flesh
of your flesh,--your better half, your ministering angel, your Eve of
the Eden; in short, all that poets have sung, or young orators say at
public dinners when called upon to give the toast of "The Ladies."
Alas! we are three bachelors, but we are better off than bachelors often
are in the Bush; for the wife of the shepherd I took from Cumberland
does me and Bolding the honor to live in our but and make things tidy
and comfortable. She has had a couple of children since we have been in
the Bush; a wing has been added to the but for that increase of family.
The children, I dare say, one might have thought a sad nuisance in
England; but I declare that, surrounded as one is by great bearded men
from sunrise to sunset, there is something humanizing, musical, and
Christian-like in the very squall of the baby. There it goes, bless it!
As for my other companions from Cumberland, Miles Square, the most
aspiring of all, has long left me, and is superintendent to a great
sheep-owner some two hundred miles off. The Will-o'-the-Wisp is
consigned to the cattle station, where he is Vivian's head man, finding
time now and then to indulge his old poaching propensities at the
expense of parrots, black cockatoos, pigeons, and kangaroos. The
shepherd remains with us, and does not seem, honest fellow, to care to
better himself; he has a feeling of clanship which keeps down the
ambition common in Australia. And his wife--such a treasure! I assure
you, the sight of her smooth, smiling woman's face when we return home
at nightfall, and the very flow of her gown as she turns the "dampers"
(1) in the ashes and fills the teapot, have in them something holy and
angelical. How lucky our Cumberland swain is not jealous! Not that
there is any cause, enviable dog though he be; but where Desdemonas are
so scarce, if you could but guess how green-eyed their Othellos
generally are! Excellent husbands, it is true,--none better; but you
had better think twice before you attempt to play the Cassio in
Bushland! There, however, she is, dear creature!--rattling among knives
and forks, smoothing the table-cloth, setting on the salt beef, and that
rare luxury of pickles (the last pot in our store), and the produce of
our garden and poultry-yard, which few Bushmen can boast of, and the
dampers, and a pot of tea to each banqueter,--no wine, beer, nor
spirits; those are only for shearing-time. We have just said grace (a
fashion retained from the holy mother-country), when, bless my soul!
what a clatter without, what a tramping of feet, what a barking of dogs!
Some guests have arrived. They are always welcome in Bushland! Perhaps
a cattle-buyer in search of Vivian; perhaps that cursed squatter whose
sheep are always migrating to ours. Never mind,--a hearty welcome to
all, friend or foe. The door opens; one, two, three strangers. More
plates and knives; draw your stools: just in time. First eat, then--
what news?
Just as the strangers sit down a voice is heard at the door,--
"You will take particular care of this horse, young man walk him about a
little; wash his back with salt and water. Just unbuckle the saddle-
bags; give them to me. Oh! safe enough, I dare say, but papers of
consequence. The prosperity of the colony depends on these papers.
What would become of you all if any accident happened to them, I shudder
to think."
And here, attired in a twill shooting-jacket budding with gilt buttons
impressed with a well-remembered device; a cabbage-leaf hat shading a
face rarely seen in the Bush; a face smooth as razor could make it;
neat, trim, respectable-looking as ever; his arm full of saddle-bags,
and his nostrils gently distended, inhaling the steam of the banquet,--
walks in--Uncle Jack.
Pisistratus (leaping up).--"Is it possible? You in Australia!--you in
the Bush!"
Uncle Jack, not recognizing Pisistratus in the tall bearded man who is
making a plunge at him, recedes in alarm, exclaiming: "Who are you?
Never saw you before, sir! I suppose you'll say next that I owe you
something!"
Pisistratus.--"Uncle Jack!"
Uncle Jack. (dropping his saddle-bags).--"Nephew! Heaven be praised!
Come to my arms!"
They embrace; mutual introductions to the company,--Mr. Vivian, Mr.
Bolding, on the one side; Major MacBlarney, Mr. Bullion, Mr. Emanuel
Speck, on the other. Major MacBlarney is a fine, portly man, with a
slight Dublin brogue, who squeezes your hand as he would a sponge. Mr.
Bullion, reserved and haughty, wears green spectacles, and gives you a
forefinger. Mr. Emanuel Speck--unusually smart for the Bush, with a
blue-satin stock and one of those blouses common in Germany, with
elaborate hems and pockets enough for Briareus to have put all hands
into at once; is, thin, civil, and stoops--bows, smiles, and sits down
to dinner again, with the air of a man accustomed to attend to the main
chance.
Uncle Jack (his mouth full of beef).--"Famous beef!--breed it yourself,
eh? Slow work that cattle-feeding! [Empties the rest of the pickle-jar
into his plate.] Must learn to go ahead in the New World,--railway
times these! We can put him up to a thing or to, eh, Bullion?
[Whispering me] Great capitalist that Bullion! Look At Him!"
Mr. Bullion (gravely).--"A thing or two! If he has capital,--you have
said it, Mr. Tibbets." (Looks round for the pickles; the green
spectacles remain fixed upon Uncle Jack's plate.)
Uncle Jack.--"All that this colony wants is a few men like us, with
capital and spirit. Instead of paying paupers to emigrate, they should
pay rich men to come, eh, Speck?"
While Uncle Jack turns to Mr. Speck, Mr. Bullion fixes his fork in a
pickled onion in Jack's plate and transfers it to his own, observing,
not as incidentally to the onion, but to truth in general: "A man,
gentlemen, in this country, has only to keep his eyes on the look-out
and seize on the first advantage! Resources are incalculable!"
Uncle Jack, returning to the plate, and missing the onion, forestalls
Mr. Speck in seizing the last potato; observing also, and in the same
philosophical and generalizing spirit as Mr. Bullion: "The great thing
in this country is to be always beforehand. Discovery and invention,
promptitude and decision,--that's your go! 'Pon my life, one picks up
sad vulgar sayings among the natives here! 'That's your go!'--shocking!
What would your poor father say? How is he,--good Austin? Well?
That's right; and my dear sister? Ah, that damnable Peck! Still
harping on the 'Anti-Capitalist,' eh? But I'll make it up to you all
now. Gentlemen, charge your glasses,--a bumper-toast."
Mr. Speck (in an affected tone).--"I respond to the sentiment in a
flowing cup. Glasses are not forthcoming."
Uncle Jack.--"A bumper-toast to the health of the future millionnaire
whom I present to you in my nephew and sole heir,--Pisistratus Caxton,
Esq. Yes, gentlemen, I here publicly announce to you that this
gentleman will be the inheritor of all my wealth,--freehold, leasehold,
agricultural, and mineral; and when I am in the cold grave [takes out
his pocket-handkerchief], and nothing remains of poor John Tibbets, look
upon that gentleman and say, 'John Tibbets lives again!'"
Mr. Speck (chantingly),--
"'Let the bumper-toast go round.'"
Guy Bolding.--"Hip, hip, hurrah!--three times three! What fun!"
Order is restored; dinner-things are cleared; each gentleman lights his
pipe.
Vivian.--"What news from England?"
Mr. Bullion.--"As to the Funds, sir?"
Mr. Speck.--"I suppose you mean rather as to the railways. Great
fortunes will be made there, sir; but still I think that our
speculations here will--"
Vivian.--"I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I thought, in the
last papers, that there seemed something hostile in the temper of the
French. No chance of a war?"
Major MacBlarney.--"Is it the wars you'd be after, young gentleman? If
me interest at the Horse Guards can avail you, bedad! you'd make a proud
man of Major MacBlarney."
Mr. Bullion (authoritatively).--"No, sir, we won't have a war; the
capitalists of Europe and Australia won't have it. The Rothschilds and
a few others that shall be nameless have only got to do this, sir [Mr.
Bullion buttons up his pockets],--and we'll do it, too; and then what
becomes of your war, Sir?" (Mr. Bullion snaps his pipe in the vehemence
with which he brings his hand on the table, turns round the green
spectacles, and takes up Mr. Speck's pipe, which that gentleman had laid
aside in an unguarded moment.)
Vivian.--"But the campaign in India?"
Major MacBlarney.--"Oh! and if it's the Ingees you'd--"
Mr. Bullion (refilling Speck's pipe from Guy Bolding's exclusive
tobacco-pouch, and interrupting the Major).--"India,--that's another
matter; I don't object to that. War there,--rather good for the money
market than otherwise."
Vivian.--"What news there, then?"
Mr. Bullion.--"Don't know; have n't got India stock."
Mr. Speck.--"Nor I either. The day for India is over, this is our India
now." (Misses his tobacco-pipe; sees it in Bullion's mouth, and stares
aghast. N. B. The pipe is not a clay dudeen, but a small meerschaum.--
irreplaceable in Bushland.)
Pisistratus.--"Well, uncle, but I am at a loss to understand what new
scheme you have in hand. Something benevolent, I am sure; something for
your fellow-creatures,--for philanthropy and mankind?"
Mr. Bullion (starting).--"Why, young man, are you as green as all that?"
Pisistratus.--"I, sir? No; Heaven forbid! But my--" (Uncle Jack holds
up his forefinger imploringly, and spills his tea over the pantaloons of
his nephew!)
Pisistratus, wroth at the effect of the tea, and therefore obdurate to
the sign of the forefinger, continues rapidly, "But my uncle is! Some
Grand National-Imperial-Colonial-Anti-Monopoly--"
Uncle Jack.--"Pooh! pooh! What a droll boy it is!"
Mr. Bullion (solemnly).--"With these notions, which not even in jest
should be fathered on my respectable and intelligent friend here [Uncle
Jack bows], I am afraid you will never get on in the world, Mr. Caxton.
I don't think our speculations will suit you! It is growing late,
gentlemen; we must push on."
Uncle Jack (jumping up).--"And I have so much to say to the dear boy.
Excuse us,--you know the feelings of an uncle." (Takes my arm and leads
me out of the hut.)
Uncle Jack (as soon as we are in the air).--"You'll ruin us--you, me,
and your father and mother. Yes! What do you think I work and slave
myself for but for you and yours? Ruin us all. I say, if you talk in
that way before Bullion! His heart is as hard as the Bank of
England's,--and quite right he is too. Fellow-creatures,--stuff! I
have renounced that delusion,--the generous follies of my youth! I
begin at last to live for myself,--that is, for self and relatives. I
shall succeed this time, you'll see!"
Pisistratus.--"Indeed, uncle, I hope so sincerely; and, to do you
justice, there is always something very clever in your ideas, only they
don't--"
Uncle Jack (interrupting me with a groan).--"The fortunes that other men
have gained by my ideas,--shocking to think of! What! and shall I be
reproached if I live no longer for such a set of thieving, greedy,
ungrateful knaves? No, no! Number One shall be my maxim; and I'll make
you a Croesus, my boy, I will."
Pisistratus, after grateful acknowledgments for all prospective
benefits, inquires how long Jack has been in Australia; what brought him
into the colony; and what are his present views. Learns, to his
astonishment, that Uncle Jack has been four years in the colony; that he
sailed the year after Pisistratus,--induced, he says, by that
illustrious example and by some mysterious agency or commission, which
he will not explain, emanating either from the Colonial Office or an
Emigration Company. Uncle Jack has been thriving wonderfully since he
abandoned his fellow-creatures. His first speculation, on arriving at
the colony, was in buying some houses in Sydney, which (by those
fluctuations in prices common to the extremes of the colonial mind,
which is one while skipping up the rainbow with Hope, and at another
plunging into Acherontian abysses with Despair) he bought excessively
cheap, and sold excessively dear. But his grand experiment has been in
connection with the infant settlement of Adelaide, of which he considers
himself one of the first founders; and as, in the rush of emigration
which poured to that favored establishment in the earlier years of its
existence,--rolling on its tide all manner of credulous and
inexperienced adventurers, vast sums were lost, so of those sums certain
fragments and pickings were easily gripped and gathered up by a man of
Uncle Jack's readiness and dexterity. Uncle Jack had contrived to
procure excellent letters of introduction to the colonial grandees; he
got into close connection with some of the principal parties seeking to
establish a monopoly of land (which has since been in great measure
effected, by raising the price, and excluding the small fry of petty
capitalists); and effectually imposed on them as a man with a vast
knowledge of public business, in the confidence of great men at home,
considerable influence with the English press, etc. And no discredit to
their discernment; for Jack, when he pleased, had a way with him that
was almost irresistible. In this manner he contrived to associate
himself and his earnings with men really of large capital and long
practical experience in the best mode by which that capital might be
employed. He was thus admitted into partnership (so far as his means
went) with Mr. Bullion, who was one of the largest sheep-owners and
land-holders in the colony,--though, having many other nests to feather,
that gentleman resided in state at Sydney, and left his runs and
stations to the care of overseers and superintendents. But land-jobbing
was Jack's special delight; and an ingenious German having lately
declared that the neighborhood of Adelaide betrayed the existence of
those mineral treasures which have since been brought to day, Mr.
Tibbets had persuaded Bullion and the other gentlemen now accompanying
him to undertake the land journey from Sydney to Adelaide, privily and
quietly, to ascertain the truth of the German's report, which was at
present very little believed. If the ground failed of mines, Uncle
Jack's account convinced his associates that mines quite as profitable
might be found in the pockets of the raw adventurers who were ready to
buy one year at the dearest market, and driven to sell the next at the
cheapest.
"But," concluded Uncle Jack, with a sly look, and giving me a poke in
the ribs, "I've had to do with mines before now, and know what they are.
I'll let nobody but you into my pet scheme; you shall go shares if you
like. The scheme is as plain as a problem in Euclid: if the German is
right, and there are mines, why, the mines will be worked. Then miners
must be employed; but miners must eat, drink, and spend their money.
The thing is to get that money. Do you take?"
Pisistratus.--"Not at all!"
Uncle Jack (majestically).--"A Great Grog and Store Depot! The miners
want grog and stores; come to your depot; you take their money; Q. E.
D.! Shares,--eh, you dog? Cribs, as we said at school. Put in a
paltry thousand or two, and you shall go halves."
Pisistratus (vehemently).--"Not for all the mines of Potosi."
Uncle Jack (good-humoredly).--"Well, it sha'n't be the worse for you. I
sha'n't alter my will, in spite of your want of confidence. Your young
friend,--that Mr. Vivian, I think you call him: intelligent-looking
fellow; sharper than the other, I guess,--would he like a share?"
Pisistratus.--"In the grog depot? You had better ask him!"
Uncle Jack.--"What! you pretend to be aristocratic in the Bush? Too
good. Ha, ha--they're calling to me; we must be off."
Pisistratus.--"I will ride with you a few miles. What say you, Vivian?
and you, Guy?" (As the whole party now joined us.)
Guy prefers basking in the sun and reading the "Lives of the Poets."
Vivian assents; we accompany the party till sunset. Major MacBlarney
prodigalizes his offers of service in every conceivable department of
life, and winds up with an assurance that if we want anything in those
departments connected with engineering,--such as mining, mapping,
surveying, etc.,--he will serve us, bedad, for nothing, or next to it.
We suspect Major MacBlarney to be a civil engineer suffering under the
innocent hallucination that he has been in the army.
Mr. Speck lets out to me, in a confidential whisper, that Mr. Bullion is
monstrous rich, and has made his fortune from small beginnings, by never
letting a good thing go. I think of Uncle Jack's pickled onion and Mr.
Speck's meerschaum, and perceive, with respectful admiration, that Mr.
Bullion acts uniformly on one grand system. Ten minutes afterwards, Mr.
Bullion observes, in a tone equally confidential, that Mr. Speck, though
so smiling and civil, is as sharp as a needle, and that if I want any
shares in the new speculation, or indeed in any other, I had better come
at once to Bullion, who would not deceive me for my weight in gold.
"Not," added Bullion, "that I have anything to say against Speck. He is
well enough to do in the world,--a warm man, sir; and when a man is
really warm, I am the last person to think of his little faults and turn
on him the cold shoulder."
"Adieu!" said Uncle Jack, pulling out once more his pocket-handkerchief;
"my love to all at home." And sinking his voice into a whisper: "If
ever you think better of the Grog and Store Depot, nephew, you'll find
an uncle's heart in this bosom!"
(1) A damper is a cake of flour baked without yeast, in the ashes