"And so you're my nephew Hubert," said a tall, middle-aged gentleman,
who had come on board as soon as the _Sabrina_ reached the port, and was
now shaking Hubert warmly by the hand. "A hearty welcome to South
Australia. Ah, I see; this is Mr Oldfield. My brother wrote to me
about you. You're heartily welcome too, my young friend, for so I
suppose I may call you. Well, you've come at a warm time of the year,
and I hope we shall be able to give you a warm reception. And how did
you leave your dear father, Hubert? You're very like him; the sight of
your face brings back old times to me. And how are your brothers and
sister? All well? That's right. Thank God for it. And now just put a
few things together while I speak to the captain. I'll see that your
baggage is cleared and sent up all right after you. My dog-cart's
waiting, and will take your friend and yourself and what things you may
want for a few days."
The speaker's manner was that of a man of good birth and education, with
the peculiar tone of independence which characterises the old colonist.
Hubert and Frank both felt at their ease with him at once.
It was arranged that Jacob Poole should remain with Captain Merryweather
for a few days, and should then join his new master in Adelaide. After
a very hearty leave-taking with the captain, the young men and Mr
Abraham Oliphant were soon on shore.
There was no railway from the port to the city in those days, but
travellers were conveyed by coaches and port-carts, unless they were
driven in some friend's carriage or other vehicle. Driving tandem was
much the fashion, and it was in this way that Hubert and Frank were
making their first journey inland.
"Now, my dear Hubert, and Mr Oldfield, jump in there; give me your
bags; now we're all right;" and away they started.
The first mile or two of their journey was not particularly inviting.
They passed through Albert Town, and through a flat country along a very
dusty road, trees being few and far between. A mile farther on and they
saw a group of natives coming towards them with at least half-a-dozen
ragged looking dogs at their heels. The men were lounging along in a
lordly sort of way, entirely at their ease; one old fellow, with a
grizzly white beard and hair, leaning all his weight on the shoulders of
a poor woman, whom he was using as a walking-stick. The other women
were all heavily-laden, some with wood, and others with burdens of
various sorts, their lords and masters condescending to carry nothing
but a couple of light wooden spears, a waddy, or native club, and a
boomerang.
"Poor creatures!" exclaimed Hubert; "what miserable specimens of
humanity; indeed, they hardly look human at all."
"Ah," said his uncle, "there are some who are only too glad to declare
that these poor creatures are only brutes, that they have no souls.
I've heard a man say he'd as soon shoot a native as a dingo; that is, a
wild dog."
"But _you_ don't think so, dear uncle?"
"Think so! no indeed. Their intellects are sharp enough in some things.
Yes; it is very easy to take from them their lands, their kangaroo, and
their emu, and then talk about their having no souls, just to excuse
ourselves from doing anything for them in return. Why, those very men
who will talk the most disparagingly of them, do not hesitate to make
use of them; ay, and trust them too. They will employ them as
shepherds, and even as mounted policemen. But let us stop a moment, and
hear what they have to say."
He drew up, and the natives stopped also, grinning from ear to ear.
They were very dark, a dusky olive colour; the older ones were hideously
ugly, and yet it was impossible not to be taken with the excessive good
humour of their laughing faces.
"What name you?" cried the foremost to Mr Oliphant.
"Abraham," was the reply.
"Ah, very good Abraham," rejoined the native; "you give me copper, me
call you gentleman."
"Them you piccaninnies?" asked one of the women, pointing to Hubert and
Frank.
"No," said Mr Oliphant; "there--there are some coppers for you; you
must do me some work for them when you come to my sit-down."
"Gammon," cried the black addressed; "me plenty lazy."
"A sensible fellow," cried Frank laughing, as they drove on; "he knows
how to look after his own interests, clearly enough; surely such as
these cannot be past teaching."
"No indeed," said the other; "we teach them evil fast enough; they learn
our vices besides their own. You may be sure they drink when they can.
Ah, that curse of drunkenness! Did you think you had run away from it
when you left England? Happy for you, Hubert, that you're an abstainer;
and I suppose, Mr Oldfield, that you are one too."
"Not a pledged one," said Frank, colouring deeply, "but one in practice,
I hope, nevertheless."
"Well, I tell you honestly that you'll find neither beer, wine, or
spirits in my house. To everything else you are both heartily
welcome.--Ah, that's not so pleasant," he exclaimed suddenly.
"Is there anything amiss?" asked Hubert.
"Oh, nothing serious!" was the reply; "only a little disagreeable; but
we may perhaps escape it. We'll pull up for a moment. There; just look
on a few hundred yards."
Ahead of them some little distance, in the centre of the road, a
whirling current of air was making the dust revolve in a rapidly
enlarging circle. As this circle widened it increased in substance,
till at last it became a furious earth-spout, gathering sticks and
leaves, and even larger things, into its vortex, and rising higher and
higher in the air till it became a vast black moving column, making a
strange rustling noise as it approached. Then it left the direct road,
and rushed along near them, rising higher and higher in the air, and
becoming less and less dense, till its base completely disappeared, and
the column spent itself in a fine streak of sand some hundred feet or
more above their heads.
"A pleasant escape," said Mr Oliphant; "we shouldn't have gained either
in good looks or comfort if we had got into the thick of it."
"I should think not indeed," said Frank. "Do people often get into
these whirlwinds, or earth-spouts, or whatever they should be called?"
"Sometimes they do," said the other, "and then the results are anything
but agreeable. I have seen men go into them white--white jacket, white
waistcoat, white trousers, white hat, and come out one universal brown--
brown jacket, waistcoat, trousers, hat, eyebrows, whiskers, all brown."
"Anything but pleasant indeed," said Hubert. "But do they ever do
serious mischief?"
"Not very serious, as far as I know," replied his uncle. "Once I knew
of a pastry-cook's man who was caught in one of these whirlwinds; he had
a tray of tarts on his head, and the wind caught the tray, and whirled
it off, tarts and all. But here we are at the `Half-way house;' people
commonly can't go many miles here without the drink. They fancy that,
because we live in a country which is very hot in summer, we want more
to drink; but it's just the reverse. Drink very little of anything in
the specially hot days, and you'll not feel the want of it."
And now, after a further drive of three or four miles, the outskirts of
the city of Adelaide were nearly reached, and the distant hills became
more plainly visible.
"We shall cross the river by the ford at the back of the jail," said Mr
Oliphant, "for there's very little water in the river now."
"And is this the river Torrens?" asked Hubert, with a slight tone of
incredulity in his voice.
"You may well ask," replied his uncle, laughing. "Torrens is certainly
an unfortunate name, for it leads a stranger naturally to look for a
deep and impetuous stream. Some gentleman from Melbourne, when he first
saw it, was highly incensed and disgusted, and exclaimed, `Is this
_crack in the earth_ your river Torrens?'"
"But I suppose," inquired Frank, "it is not always as shallow as now?"
"No indeed," said the other; "I've seen it many a time a real Torrens.
When it comes rushing down, swollen by numberless little streams from
the hills, it will carry almost everything before it. Bridges, and
strong ones too, it has swept away, and you may judge both of its
violence and of the height to which it rises at such times, when I tell
you that, when a flood has subsided, you may sometimes look up and see a
dead horse sticking in the fork of a tree which had for a time been
nearly under water. And I've often thought that the drink is like this
stream; people will scarce credit at first that it can do so much
mischief--it's only a little drop, or a glass or two, but the drop
becomes a stream, and the glass a mighty river, and down goes all before
it, money, home, love, character, peace, everything. But see, that's
the jail on our left now. If there were more total abstainers, we
shouldn't want such a costly building, nor so many policemen, as we do
now. Here, as in the old country, the drink is at the bottom of nine-
tenths of the crime. And now we're just coming up to the top of Hindley
Street. Look down it; it's a busy street; you can see right away
through Rundle Street, which is a continuation of it, to the Park Lands
beyond. Now, just take a fact about the drinking habits of this colony.
You'll suppose, of course, that this street wants lighting at night.
Well; how is this done? We have no gas as yet; no doubt we shall have
it by-and-by. Well, then, look along each side of the street, and
you'll see ordinary lamps projecting from houses at tolerably regular
intervals. These houses are all public-houses. Every publican is bound
by law to keep a lamp burning outside his house every dark night; and
these lamps light the street very creditably. I use the word
`creditably' simply in reference to the lighting; doesn't that speak
volumes?"
"Yes, indeed," said Hubert; "I fear it tells of abundant crime and
misery."
"It does. But we mustn't dwell on the dark side now, for I want this to
be a bright day for us all. You see we've some nice shops in Hindley
Street."
"Yes," said Frank; "but what a remarkable variety of style in the
houses; there are no two of them, scarcely, alike in size, shape, or
height. They remind me rather of a class of boys in our dame school at
home, where big and little boys, tidy and ragged, stand side by side in
one long row."
"You are rather severe upon us," said Mr Oliphant laughing; "but we are
gradually improving; there is, however, plenty of room yet for
improvement, I allow."
And now they turned into King William Street, and drew up at the front
of a large store.
"This is my business place," said the merchant; "but I shall not ask you
to look at it now; we must be off again immediately for my country
residence among the hills. Here, James, give the horses a little water;
now then, let us start again."
A few minutes more and they were rapidly crossing the Park Lands.
"These are gum trees, I suppose?" asked Hubert.
"Yes, they are," said his uncle; "but not worth much, either for timber,
ornament, or shade. You wouldn't get much relief from the heat under
the poor shadow of their tassel-like foliage."
"What a very strange noise!" exclaimed Frank; "it seems as if a number
of stocking-looms were at work in the air."
"See now," said Mr Oliphant, "the force of habit. I'm so used to the
sound, that I was utterly unconscious of it. It is made by the cicada,
an insect very common in this country. And now, where do you suppose
we're coming to? This little village or township before us is Norwood,
and then comes Kensington. I've no doubt it will strike you as one of
the oddest things in this colony, till you get used to it, though, of
course, it isn't peculiar to this colony, how places are made close
neighbours here, which are very widely separated in the old country,
from which they are borrowed."
"But why not retain the native names?" asked Hubert.
"Ah, why not, indeed? What can be more musical in sound than Yatala,
Aldinga, Kooringa, Onkaparinga. But then, we could not always find
native names enough; and, besides this, the Englishman likes to keep the
old country before him, by giving his place some dear familiar name that
sounds like home."
In about another half hour they reached their destination among the
hills.
"The Rocks," as Mr Abraham Oliphant's place was called, was situated on
a hill-side, high above the valley, but on a moderate slope. A stout
post-and-rail fence surrounded the estate, and one of a more compact
nature enclosed the more private grounds. The house was large, and
covered a considerable surface, as there were no rooms above the
basement floor. The front windows commanded a magnificent view of the
city of Adelaide, with its surrounding lands, suburbs, and neighbouring
villages, and of the sea in the extreme distance. At the back was a
remarkable group of rocks, from which the estate took its name; these
leaned on the hill-side, and were encased in a setting of wild shrubs
and creeping plants of extraordinary beauty. A stream of purest spring
water perpetually flowed through a wide cleft in these rocks, and
afforded a deliciously cool supply, which never failed in the hottest
summer. The house was surrounded by a wide verandah, which, like the
building itself, was roofed with shingles, and up the posts and along
the edge of which there climbed a profusion of the multiflora rose. The
garden sloped away from the house, and contained an abundance of both
flowers and fruits. There was the aloe, and more than one kind of
cactus, growing freely in the open air, with many other plants which
would need the hothouse or greenhouse in a colder climate. Fig-trees,
vines, standard peach, and nectarine trees were in great abundance,
while a fence of the sharp Kangaroo Island acacia effectually kept all
inquisitive cattle at a respectful distance. The inside of the house
was tastefully but not unduly furnished, ancient and modern articles
being ranged side by side in happy fraternity; for a thorough colonist
suits his own taste, and is tolerably independent of fashion.
"Welcome once more to Australia!" exclaimed Mr Oliphant to his young
companions; "and more especially welcome to `the Rocks.' Come in: here,
let me introduce you to my eldest daughter and youngest son--Jane and
Thomas, here's your cousin Hubert; and here's his friend, Mr Frank
Oldfield; you must give them a hearty welcome."
All parties were soon at their ease together. A sumptuous dinner-tea
was soon spread on the table of the dining-room--the windows of which
apartment commanded a view, across the valley, of the city and distant
sea.
Mr Oliphant was a widower, with two daughters and four sons. Jane had
taken her mother's place; the two eldest sons were married, and settled
in other parts of the colony; the third son lived with his younger
sister at a sheep-station about twenty-five miles up the country; the
youngest son, Thomas, a boy about fifteen years old, was still at home,
and rode in daily to the collegiate school, returning in the evening.
"You'll meet your other cousins before long, I hope," said his uncle to
Hubert. "They know, of course, that you are coming; and when I send
them word that you are actually come, we shall have them riding in at an
early day. I suppose you're used to riding yourself? Ah, that's right;
then you're pretty independent. Horseflesh is cheap enough here, but it
isn't always of the choicest quality; however, I can furnish you with
what you'll want in that way. All your cousins ride, of course, by a
sort of colonial instinct. An Australian and his horse almost grow
together like a centaur."
"And do you ride much, Cousin Jane?" asked Hubert.
"Oh, never mind the `cousin;' you must drop it at once," said Mr
Oliphant. "It's Jane, and you're Hubert. But I beg Jane's pardon for
smothering her answer."
"Oh yes, Hubert," replied his cousin; "I ride, as a matter of course; we
should never get over much ground, especially in the hot weather, if we
walked as much as people seem to do in England. But I have not yet
heard how you left my dear aunt and uncle. Seeing you seems half like
seeing them; I've heard so much of them."
"I suppose you hardly venture out kangaroo-hunting, Miss Oliphant?"
asked Frank.
"I have done so once or twice in the north," she replied; "but the
kangaroo is not fond of so many white faces near his haunts, so he has
retired from these parts altogether."
"And you find you can all stand total abstinence here?" asked Hubert of
his uncle.
"Stand it!" exclaimed Mr Oliphant; "I should think so. Why, my dear
nephew, it don't need standing; it's the drink I couldn't stand. You
should see the whole lot of us when we meet at one of our great family
gatherings. Well, it's not quite the thing perhaps for a father to
say--and yet I fancy it's not very far from the truth--that you'll not
see a stouter, a better grown--Jane, shall I say handsomer?--I certainly
may say a healthier, family anywhere; and not one of us is indebted to
any alcoholic stimulant for our good looks."
"You have always, then, been an abstainer since you came to the colony?"
asked Frank.
"No, I have not; more's the pity," was the reply; "but only one or two
of my children remember the day when I first became an abstainer. From
the oldest to the youngest they have been brought up without fermented
stimulants, and abhor the very sight of them."
"And might I ask," inquired Frank, "what led to the change in your case,
if the question is not an intrusive one?"
"Oh, by all means; I've nothing to conceal in the matter," said Mr
Oliphant; "the story is a very simple one. But come, you must make a
good tea; listening is often as hungry work as talking. Well, the
circumstances were just these: when I was left a widower, more than
fourteen years ago, Jane was about twelve years old and Thomas only six
months; I was then a moderate drinker, as it is called--that is to say,
I never got drunk; but I'm sure if any one had asked me to define
`moderation,' I should have been sorely puzzled to do so; and I am quite
certain that I often exceeded the bounds of moderation, not in the eyes
of my fellow-creatures, but in the eyes of my Creator--ay, and in my own
eyes too, for I often felt heated and excited by what I drank, so as to
wish that I had taken a glass or two less,--yet all this time I never
overstepped the bounds, so as to lose my self-control. At this time I
kept a capital cellar--I mean a cellar largely stocked with choice wines
and spirits. I did not live then at `the Rocks,' but in a house on the
skirts of the city. You may be sure that I needed a good nurse to look
after so many growing children who had just lost their dear mother, and
I was happy enough to light upon a treasure of a woman--she was clean,
civil, active, faithful, honest, forbearing, and full of love to the
children; in a word, all that I could desire her to be. She took an
immense deal of care off my hands, and I could have trusted her with
everything I had. Months passed by, and I began to give large dinner-
parties--for I was rather famous for my wines. Besides this, I was
always having friends dropping in, happy to take a glass. All went on
well--so it seemed--till one afternoon a maid came running into my
sitting-room and cried out, `Oh, sir, nurse is so very ill; what must we
do?' I hurried up-stairs. There was the poor woman, sure enough, in a
very miserable state. I couldn't make it out at all.
"`Send for a doctor at once!' I cried. In a little while the doctor
came. I waited most anxiously for his report. At last he came down,
and the door was closed on us.
"`Well, doctor,' I cried, in great anxiety; `nothing very serious, I
hope? I can ill afford to lose such a faithful creature.'
"I saw a curious smile on his face, which rather nettled me, as I
thought it very ill-timed. At last he fairly burst out into a laugh,
and exclaimed, `There's nothing the matter with the woman, only she's
drunk.'
"`Drunk!' I exclaimed with horror; `impossible!'
"`Ay, but it's both possible and true too,' said the doctor; `she'll be
all right, you'll see, in a few hours.'
"And so she was. I then spoke out plainly and kindly to her. Oh, I
shall never forget her misery and shame. She made no attempt to deny
her fault, or even excuse it; she was heart-broken; she said she must go
at once. I urged her to stay, and to turn over a new leaf. I promised
to overlook what had passed, and told her that she might soon regain her
former place in my esteem and confidence. But I could not keep her; she
could not bear to remain, much as she loved the children; she must go
elsewhere and hide her disgrace.
"`But how came you to contract such a habit?' said I. And then she told
me that she began by finishing what was left in the glasses of my
friends and myself after dinner; then, as I never locked up the
cellaret--the thirst becoming stronger and stronger--she helped herself
from the bottles, till at last she had become a confirmed drunkard. I
pitied her deeply, as you may well understand; and would have kept her
on, but nothing would induce her to stay. However, I had learned a
lesson, and had made up my mind: I was determined that thenceforward no
one should ever sow the first seeds of drunkenness in my house, or have
any countenance in drinking from my _example_. The very morning the
unhappy woman left, I made a vigorous onslaught on the drink.
"`Fetch up the cellar!' I cried; and the cellar was forthwith fetched
up. Beer barrels, wine bottles and spirit-bottles, dozens of pale ale
and bitter beer, were soon dragged into light.
"`Now, fetch me the kitchen-poker!' I shouted; it was brought me, and I
commenced such a smashing as I should think has never been witnessed
before, nor is likely to be witnessed again. Right and left, and all
round me, the yard was flooded with malt liquors, spirits and wines.
Then I knocked out the bungs of the casks, and joined their contents to
the flood. You may suppose there was some little staring at all this,
but it mattered nothing to me. I was resolved that what had ruined my
poor nurse should never ruin any one else at my cost, or in my house; so
from that day to this no alcoholic stimulant has passed my lips; nor
been given by me to man, woman, or child; nor, please God, ever shall
be.--Now, my dear young friends, you have had the history of what first
led me to become a total abstainer."
There was a silence for several minutes, which was at last broken by
Hubert's asking,--
"And what became of the unhappy woman, dear uncle?"
"Ah! don't ask me. She went from bad to worse while she remained in the
colony. For so it commonly is with drunkards, but most of all with
female drunkards. I've known--and I thank God for it--many a reformed
male drunkard; but when women take decidedly to drinking, it is very
rare indeed to see them cured--at least, that has been _my_ experience.
I got poor nurse away with a friend of mine who was going in a
temperance ship to England, hoping that the habit might be broken off
during the voyage. But, alas! she broke out again soon after reaching
home, and died at last a miserable death in a workhouse. But I see you
look rather fagged, Mr Oldfield. Shall we take a turn in the garden
before it gets dark, and then perhaps you'll like a little music?"
And now we must leave Abraham Oliphant and Australia for a while, and
return to Langhurst, and some of the earlier characters of our story.