Produced by Col Choat. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Recollections of Geoffrey Hamlyn
by
Henry Kingsley
TO
MY FATHER AND MOTHER
THIS BOOK, THE FRUIT OF SO MANY WEARY
YEARS OF SEPARATION, IS DEDICATED WITH
THE DEEPEST LOVE AND REVERENCE
CONTENTS
I INTRODUCTORY.
II THE COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE OF JOHN THORNTON, CLERK, AND THE
BIRTH OF SOME ONE WHO TAKES RATHER A CONSPICUOUS PART IN OUR
STORY.
III THE HISTORY OF (A CERTAIN FAMILY LIVING IN) EUROPE, FROM THE
BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR TO THE PEACE OF 1818, CONTAINING FACTS
HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.
IV SOME NEW FACES.
V IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACCOMPLICE TO A MISPRISION OF
FELONY.
VI GEORGE HAWKER GOES TO THE FAIR--WRESTLES, BUT GETS THROWN ON
HIS BACK, SHOOTS AT A MARK, BUT MISSES IT.
VII MAJOR BUCKLEY GIVES HIS OPINION ON TROUT-FISHING, ON
EMIGRATION, AND ON GEORGE HAWKER.
VIII THE VICAR HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE.
IX WHEN THE KYE CAME HAME.
X IN WHICH WE SEE A GOOD DEAL OF MISCHIEF BREWING.
XI IN WHICH THE VICAR PREACHES A FAREWELL SERMON.
XII IN WHICH A VERY MUSCULAR CHRISTIAN INDEED, COMES ON THE STAGE.
XIII THE DISCOVERY OF THE FORGERIES.
XIV THE MAJOR'S VISIT TO THE "NAG'S-HEAD."
XV THE BRIGHTON RACES, AND WHAT HAPPENED THEREAT.
XVI THE END OF MARY'S EXPEDITION.
XVII EXODUS.
XVIII THE FIRST PUFF OF THE SOUTH WIND.
XIX I HIRE A NEW HORSEBREAKER.
XX A WARM CHRISTMAS DAY.
XXI JIM STOCKBRIDGE BEGINS TO TAKE ANOTHER VIEW OF MATTERS.
XXII SAM BUCKLEY'S EDUCATION.
XXIII TOONARBIN.
XXIV IN WHICH MARY HAWKER LOSES ONE OF HER OLDEST SWEETHEARTS.
XXV IN WHICH THE NEW DEAN OF B---- MAKES HIS APPEARANCE, AND
ASTONISHES THE MAJOR OUT OF HIS PROPRIETY.
XXVI WHITE HEATHENS
XXVII THE GOLDEN VINEYARD.
XXVIII A GENTLEMAN FROM THE WARS.
XXIX SAM MEETS WITH A RIVAL, AND HOW HE TREATED HIM.
XXX HOW THE CHILD WAS LOST, AND HOW HE GOT FOUND AGAIN--WHAT
CECIL SAID TO SAM WHEN THEY FOUND HIM--AND HOW IN CASTING
LOTS, ALTHOUGH CECIL WON THE LOT, HE LOST THE PRIZE.
XXXI HOW TOM TROUBRIDGE KEPT WATCH FOR THE FIRST TIME.
XXXII WHICH IS THE LAST CHAPTER BUT ONE IN THE SECOND VOLUME.
XXXIII IN WHICH JAMES BRENTWOOD AND SAMUEL BUCKLEY, ESQUIRES,
COMBINE TO DISTURB THE REST OF CAPTAIN BRENTWOOD, R.A. AND
SUCCEED IN DOING SO.
XXXIV HOW THEY ALL WENT HUNTING FOR SEA ANEMONES AT CAPE
CHATHAM--AND HOW THE DOCTOR GOT A TERRIBLE FRIGHT--AND HOW
CAPTAIN BLOCKSTROP SHOWED THAT THERE WAS GOOD REASON FOR IT.
XXXV A COUNCIL OF WAR.
XXXVI AN EARTHQUAKE, A COLLIERY EXPLOSION, AND AN ADVENTURE.
XXXVII IN WHICH GEORGE HAWKER SETTLES AN OLD SCORE WITH WILLIAM LEE,
MOST HANDSOMELY, LEAVING, IN FACT, A LARGE BALANCE IN HIS
OWN FAVOUR.
XXXVIII HOW DR. MULHAUS GOT BUSHED IN THE RANGES, AND WHAT BEFEL HIM
THERE.
XXXIX THE LAST GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM.
XL THE STORM BURSTS.
XLI WIDDERIN SHOWS CLEARLY THAT HE IS WORTH ALL THE MONEY SAM
GAVE FOR HIM.
XLII THE FIGHT AMONG THE FERN-TREES.
XLIII ACROSS THE SNOW.
XLIV HOW MARY HAWKER HEARD THE NEWS.
XLV IN WHICH THERE ARE SOME ASTONISHING REVELATIONS WITH REGARD
TO DR. MULHAUS AND CAPTAIN DESBOROUGH.
XLVI IN WHICH SAM MEETS WITH A SERIOUS ACCIDENT, AND GETS CRIPPLED
FOR LIFE.
XLVII HOW MARY HAWKER SAID "YES."
XLVIII THE LATEST INTELLIGENCE.
Chapter I
INTRODUCTORY.
Near the end of February 1857, I think about the 20th or so, though it
don't much matter; I only know it was near the latter end of summer,
burning hot, with the bushfires raging like volcanoes on the ranges,
and the river reduced to a slender stream of water, almost lost upon
the broad white flats of quartz shingle. It was the end of February, I
said, when Major Buckley, Captain Brentwood (formerly of the
Artillery), and I, Geoffry Hamlyn, sat together over our wine in the
veranda at Baroona, gazing sleepily on the grey plains that rolled away
east and north-east towards the sea.
We had sat silent for some time, too lazy to speak, almost to think.
The beautiful flower-garden which lay before us, sloping towards the
river, looked rather brown and sere, after the hot winds, although the
orange-trees were still green enough, and vast clusters of purple
grapes were ripening rapidly among the yellowing vine-leaves. On the
whole, however, the garden was but a poor subject of contemplation for
one who remembered it in all its full November beauty, and so my eye
travelled away to the left, to a broad paddock of yellow grass which
bounded the garden on that side, and there I watched an old horse
feeding.
A very old horse indeed, a horse which seemed to have reached the
utmost bounds of equine existence. And yet such a beautiful beast. Even
as I looked some wild young colts were let out of the stockyard, and
came galloping and whinnying towards him, and then it was a sight to
see the old fellow as he trotted towards them, with his nose in the
air, and his tail arched, throwing his legs out before him with the
ease and grace of a four-year-old, and making me regret that he wasn't
my property and ten years younger;--altogether, even then, one of the
finest horses of his class I had ever seen, and suddenly a thought came
over me, and I grew animated.
"Major Buckley," I said, "what horse is that?"
"What horse is that?" repeated the major very slowly. "Why, my good
fellow, old Widderin, to be sure."
"Bless me!" I said; "You don't mean to say that that old horse is alive
still?"
"He looks like it," said the major. "He'd carry you a mile or two, yet."
"I thought he had died while I was in England," I said. "Ah, major,
that horse's history would be worth writing."
"If you began," answered the major, "to write the history of the horse,
you must write also the history of every body who was concerned in
those circumstances which caused Sam to take a certain famous ride upon
him. And you would find that the history of the horse would be reduced
into very small compass, and that the rest of your book would assume
proportions too vast for the human intellect to grasp."
"How so?" I said.
He entered into certain details, which I will not give. "You would
have," he said, "to begin at the end of the last century, and bring one
gradually on to the present time. Good heavens! just consider."
"I think you exaggerate," I said.
"Not at all," he answered. "You must begin the histories of the Buckley
and Thornton families in the last generation. The Brentwoods also, must
not be omitted,--why there's work for several years. What do you say,
Brentwood?"
"The work of a life-time;" said the captain.
"But suppose I were to write a simple narrative of the principal events
in the histories of the three families, which no one is more able to do
than myself, seeing that nothing important has ever happened without my
hearing of it,--how, I say, would you like that?"
"If it amused you to write it, I am sure it would amuse us to read it,"
said the major.
"But you are rather old to turn author," said Captain Brentwood;
"you'll make a failure of it; in fact, you'll never get through with
it."
I replied not, but went into my bedroom, and returning with a thick
roll of papers threw it on the floor--as on the stage the honest notary
throws down the long-lost will,--and there I stood for a moment with my
arms folded, eyeing Brentwood triumphantly.
"It is already done, captain," I said. "There it lies."
The captain lit a cigar, and said nothing; but the major said, "Good
gracious me! and when was this done?"
"Partly here, and partly in England. I propose to read it aloud to you,
if it will not bore you."
"A really excellent idea," said the major. "My dear!"--this last was
addressed to a figure which was now seen approaching us up a long vista
of trellised vines. A tall figure dressed in grey. The figure, one
could see as she came nearer, of a most beautiful old woman.
Dressed I said in grey, with a white handkerchief pinned over her grey
hair, and a light Indian shawl hanging from her shoulders. As upright
as a dart: she came towards us through the burning heat, as calmly and
majestically as if the temperature had been delightfully moderate. A
hoary old magpie accompanied her, evidently of great age, and from time
to time barked like an old bulldog, in a wheezy whisper.
"My dear," said the major; "Hamlyn is going to read aloud some
manuscript to us."
"That will be very delightful, this hot weather," said Mrs. Buckley.
"May I ask the subject, old friend?"
"I would rather you did not, my dear madam; you will soon discover, in
spite of a change of names, and perhaps somewhat of localities."
"Well, go on," said the major; and so on I went with the next chapter,
which is the first of the story.
The reader will probably ask:
"Now, who on earth is Major Buckley? and who is Captain Brentwood? and
last not least, who the Dickens are you?" If you will have patience, my
dear sir, you will find it all out in a very short time--Read on.