I well believe this to be an unfounded charge. When will people cease to

talk of 'Australians' doing this and that, or permit colonists to differ

among themselves from birth, as elsewhere? Here, under the Southern

Cross as under Ursa Major, are born the imaginative and the practical,

the energetic, the dreamy, the slow and the brilliant, the cautious and

the rash, the persevering and the fickle. As the inscrutable human unit

enters the world, so must he or she remain, I hold, but partially

modified by human agency, until the day of death. Change of abode or

circumstance will not perceptibly alter the mysteriously-persistent

entity. The eager British or other critic sums up the inhabitants living

in five hundred different ways as typical colonists. 'The Australian'

(saith he) 'does this, or looks like that, dislikes formality, or abhors

uniformity. He is quick, but not persevering; he is not so profound, so

long enduring, so "thorough" as the Englishman.' Such reasoners surely

assume that all Australians 'to the manner born' were hewn out of one

primeval eucalyptus log, instead of, as I had the honour to remark

before, possessing in full abundance the endless differentiations and

divergences from the parent type, and from each other, so noticeable in

Great Britain.

Know, O friendly generaliser, that there be tall Australians and short

Australians, lean Australians, and those to whom the increase of adipose

tissue is a sore trial. There be fair-haired and dark-haired, brown-and

auburn-haired youths and maidens, and ever, as the outward man or woman

ripens diverse under the same sun, do the invisible forces of the mind

wax faint or fierce, feeble-clinging or deathless-strong. There are

speculative, rash Australians; also cautious, _very wary_ Australians.

Some to whom gold is but dross, peculiarly difficult to 'pocket' in

life's billiard-table, and woefully given to the losing hazard; others

to whom pence and half-pence are dear as the rarest coins of the

collector, prone to fight for or hoard them with desperate tenacity.

'Natives' who are ready to accept the gravest charge without a grain of

self-distrust; 'natives' to whom responsibility is a misery and a

burden. Some there are who from childhood to old age scarcely glance at

any literary product except a newspaper. Born on the same stream, or

tending the same herds, shall be those whose every waking thought is

more or less connected with books; to whom the unvisited regions of the

Old World, through such glorious guides, are rendered common and

familiar. There is _no_ generic native Australian definition, such as we

carelessly apply to Englishmen, Americans, Frenchmen, or Germans, when

we call the first practical, the second 'go-ahead,' the third gay, the

fourth solid. The Australian, perhaps, more nearly resembles the Briton,

from whom he has chiefly sprung, than any other sub-variety of mankind.

There may be a slight but noticeable tendency to variation, but it

smacks of progressive development rather than of retrogression. Let it

be remembered that the inhabitants of the principal subdivisions of

Britain have mingled and intermarried in Australia to a greater degree

than is possible in the mother-country. Doubtless English and Scotch,

Scotch and Irish, and so on, continuously form alliances in Britain; but

there scarcely can have been such a thorough sifting up together, such

intermixture of blood there, as where the three divisions, having been

imported in rateably even quantities, have intermarried, for nearly a

century. The thorough welding of Celt and Saxon, Dane and Norseman,

Ancient Briton, Scoto-Celt, and Hiberno-Saxon strains, is hardly

possible except in a colony. Hence Australia may eventually produce a

type of the highest physical and mental vigour possible to the race. It

has been conceded that borderers—presumably mixed—have always excelled

in stature and mental calibre the pure races. As much may be asserted in

days to come of Australians. As it is, instances are not wanting of a

type of manhood combining harmoniously those qualities of which English,

Irish, and Scotch have from time immemorial been accustomed to boast.

I conclude this outline of a deeply-important question by recording my

deliberate conviction, that in the essentials of character, the Southern

British race truly resembles and in none falls short of the parent

stock. Apparent physical peculiarities may be explained, as the results

of a higher average standard of living, a less stationary habit, and the

unshared freshness of a glorious atmosphere.

The Great South Land, in extent and variety of climate and soil, offers

a more fruitful field for the development of the root-qualities of the

race than did any former abiding-place of the great Aryan stock. And

though the average stature be exceeded, and the rugged lineaments, no

longer ocean-striving, but fanned by softer airs, approximate more

closely to the chiselled features of the Greek, ever and for ever more

will Australia 'keep unchanged the strong heart of her sons'; for ages

yet to come jealously claiming the proud title of 'Britons of the

South,' and as such, when the world's war-dogs bay around the sacred

standard of the Empire, eagerly emulous to be enrolled among the

'Soldiers of the Queen.'

MY SCHOOL DAYS

It savours of the improbable to assert that the life-careers of my

school-comrades have proved to be mainly in development of their boyish

traits of character; yet in the majority of instances such has been the

case.

Sir James Martin, late Chief Justice of New South Wales, was always

_facile princeps_ among us—in every class, in every subject. He may not

have posed as a too industrious worker, but, whatever his method, he

mastered every department of knowledge which he essayed with unvarying

success. That he, in common with most of the 'old boys,' wrote with ease

and effectiveness was due, perhaps, to the care bestowed upon the study

of English composition. It was a speciality of the school. Hugh Ranclaud

once produced an essay so polished and scholarly that suspicion of

plagiarism was aroused. A subject was given to him, 'Marauders by land

or sea,' to work out under supervision. He emerged triumphantly from the

ordeal. The first numbers of _Pickwick_ appearing about that time, in

green covers, if I mistake not, Martin commenced a tale, embodying a

similar style of incident. I forget the title now, but some numbers were

printed. It was a boy's audacious imitation, but even at this distance

of time I recall the undoubted ability of his performance. Part of the

action was laid in London, a city, strangely enough (though he knew more

of its history and topography than many a dweller within sound of Bow

Bells), that he was never destined to behold.

William Forster was much the same kind of boy as he was a man:

obstinately honest, uncompromising, detesting the expedient; clever at

classics and mathematics, yet with a strong leaning to poetry. He left

us to go to the King's School at Parramatta, then in charge of the Rev.

Mr. Forrest, Hovenden. Hely, Whistler and Eustace Smith, Moule, the

Rossi Brothers, Walter Lamb, and a large contingent of Stephens were

contemporaries. Alfred of that ilk and I were great chums. He was a

steady worker, as were most of that branch of his family. Consett

(Connie) was then a handsome, clever boy, who could learn anything when

he liked, but was not over-fond of work. Matthew Henry (now a Supreme

Court judge), on the other hand, was an insatiable acquirer of

knowledge, and bore off a bagful of prizes, so to speak, at every

examination. Frank, his cousin, was not over-eager about draughts from

the Pierian spring, which led to misunderstandings between him and our

worthy master; but he was famous for tenacity of purpose and indomitable

resolution, qualities which served him well in after-life. Among the

boys who came comparatively late was George Rowley. He must have been

fourteen, at least, and by no means forward. In two years he was not far

from the head of the school. The Brennans—John, the late sheriff, and

his brother Joseph—David Moore, a Minister of the Crown in Victoria in

days to come, David Forbes, the present judge, and George Lord were the

Spofforths, Bannermans, and Massies of that long-past day—old fashioned,

perhaps, in a cricketing sense, but prophetic of triumphs to come.

There were fights now and then, and 'what for no?' But these necessary

conflicts were conducted with all proper decorum at the bottom of the

playground. Mr. Cape, very properly, did not discourage them as long as

there was no unfairness. I reminded Mr. William Crane, stipendiary

magistrate, years since, of an obstinate engagement between us, in which

his superior science gained the victory. I 'knocked back' or put out a

knuckle of my right hand (as our schoolboy phrase was) in that or some

other desperate fray. Dr. Parsons, a medical friend whom I met in the

street, reduced the swelling for me. The worthy stipendiary showed a

similar displacement, attributable to the same cause, as we compared

notes.

Ronald Cameron was one of our leading champions, being ready to fight

anything or anybody at short notice. He challenged to the combat Cyrus

Doyle, a long-limbed native, big enough to eat him, with the assurance

of a gamecock defying an emu. He lost the fight, of course; but no other

boy of his size in the school would have thought of commencing it. He

had been at sea for a year, and was thereby enabled to tell us wonderful

tales of his adventures among the South Sea Islands—much after the

fashion of 'Jack Harkaway,' who, however, like gas in the time of Guy

Fawkes, 'wasn't then inwented.' In after-years a report was current

among us that he was lost at sea. Whether true or not I am unable to

say. He certainly was, with the exception of Carden Collins, the most

utterly fearless boy I ever saw.

Of course, with so large a school, under masters were required. These

gentlemen were excellent teachers and conscientious disciplinarians.

First came Mr. Murray, the English and arithmetical master; then Mr.

O'Brien, writing master and teacher of mathematics. He had a way of

saying, when arrived at the Q.E.D. of a problem in Euclid, 'And the

thing is done.' How well I remember his desk and the pen he was always

mending! No steel pens in those days. We had to learn to mend our own

quill pens and keep them in good order. If the pens were bad and the

writing suffered thereby, we suffered in person. This led to the careful

preparation of the obsolete goose-quill—now a figure of speech, a thing

of the past.

The Rev. Mr. Woolls was for a year or more classical master. He

afterwards went to Parramatta and established himself independently. A

fair-haired, ruddy-faced, Kingsley-looking young Englishman was he when

he first came to Sydney College. He was the ideal tutor, and most

popular with us all: strict in school, but full of life and gaiety when

lessons were over.

The late Reverend David Boyd, afterwards of East Maitland, a graduate of

Trinity College, Dublin, succeeded him. He was an accomplished person if

you like: a first-rate classical scholar, with a fair knowledge of

French, German, and Italian—possibly Hebrew, for he knew pretty well

everything, from astronomy to single-stick, fencing to comparative

philology. He rode, drove, shot, fished, painted, was musical,

mathematical—a mesmerist doubtless. 'Omnibus rebus et quibusdem aliis'

ought to have been his motto. We boys looked upon him as a successor of

the Admirable Crichton, and revered him accordingly. I was very glad

when he 'followed the rush' to Port Phillip in 1842, and gave the

Hammonds, Howards, myself, and a few other ex-Sydney College boys our

last year's teaching. We ought to have made the most of it, for, as none

of us got any more, we had to rely upon those early years of

conscientious grounding for the foundation of any edifice of learning we

should elect to place thereon. It has proved extremely useful to all of

us, and it was no one's fault but our own if we did not imbibe every

form of useful knowledge short of what university training alone could

have supplied.

Besides these gentlemen we had drawing and French masters. Mr. Rodius

was a German artist, a painter in watercolours and a limner of

likenesses in crayon. Many of the early celebrities will owe whatever

immortality they may secure, to his industrious pencil. Still linger in

old colonial mansions a few portraits, not obtruded perhaps, but too

life-like to be lost sight of, bearing the signature 'C. Rodius.' In our

family scrap-album several water-colour sketches are to be seen, showing

perhaps more than the portraits—which were necessary 'pot-boilers' in

that material age—the true artistic touch. He used to scold us, his

pupils, for our indifference and inattention: 'Ven I was yong I did rone

a whole mile every day so as to be in dime vor my bainding lezzon; I

belief you would all rone a mile do esgabe it.' I don't know that he

succeeded in forming artists of that generation, but possibly we may

have been rendered more appreciative of the paintings which most of us

were to behold in the Galleries of Europe. Mr. Stanley, our French

master, knew his Paris intimately, I doubt not. He had the Parisian

accent, too, very different in quality from the provincial French which,

when spoken fluently, enables so many professors of the language to pass

muster. He was a man of distinguished bearing and 'club' form,

resembling curiously in appearance, and in some other ways, a late

fashionable celebrity. Why he had come to live in a colony and teach

French at a boarding-school we might wonder, but had no means of

ascertaining. His life, doubtless, contained one of the romances of

which Australia was at that time full. He was generous to all his

pupils. No unkind word was ever said regarding him. He imparted to us a

thorough comprehension of the genius of the language; and if we never

fully probed the subtle distinctions of irregular verbs, it was no fault

of his. Long afterwards, when at the Grand Hôtel de Louvre, or the

'Trois Frères Provencaux,' I was able to make my wants known, surrounded

by British and American capitalists, sitting mute as fishes, I recalled

with gratitude Mr. Stanley's faithful monitions.

One of our school games was, of course, that of 'fives.' We played

against one of the high gables of the college building, where the ground

had been partially levelled; but it was rather rough still. A road-party

was doing something to the present College Street when a master

suggested that I should ask my friend Mr. Felton Mathew, then

Surveyor-General and Chief Road-superintendent, to allow the men to

complete our 'fives' court. Mr. Mathew was our neighbour at Enmore; he

bought the ground from my father on which he built Penselwood. My

request was granted, and a party of men under an overseer soon made

another place of it.

A tragical incident connected with the game occurred about this time.

Some of the boys were playing in Sydney against a high wall in a court

built for the purpose. It was not properly supported, for it fell

suddenly, killing poor Billy Jones, who was one of the players. I don't

think I remember any other accident. There was an epidemic of influenza,

precisely like the 'fog fever' of recent years in symptom, cause, and

effect. It was universal, severe, and troublesome, but we all recovered

in due time. Even 'fog fever,' therefore, is no new thing. A certain

school of weather prophets is convinced that, as they state their

proposition, 'the seasons have changed; since the old colonial days they

have become drier or cooler, even hotter, sometimes.' After a pretty

clear recollection of most of the seasons since the 'three years'

drought' of 1836-7-8, I am opposed to that belief. What has been will be

again. People were justified in surmising about the time of last autumn

that it had forgotten how to rain in New South Wales and part of

Queensland. In this year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and

eighty-seven that theory may be said to have exploded.

What was a really exceptional, even phenomenal, form of weather,

however, did take place in and near Sydney in one of the dry years

mentioned, which was a fall of snow. We made snowballs at Enmore and

enjoyed the usual schoolboy amusements connected therewith. It must have

been nearly as cold a day as last Monday week. There was snow on all the

hills around Albury, but I did not hear of any snowballing quite so near

Sydney as I refer to. If the Messrs. Chaffey Brothers succeed in their

irrigation scheme, and make the Mildura salt-bush wilderness to bloom as

the rose, we may attain partial security from droughts at least.

Nevertheless let us pray to be delivered from the legendary visitations

which grey-headed aboriginals have described to pioneer settlers. Such

an one, unbroken for _seven years_, is now laying waste Queensland.

The sons of Sir Thomas Mitchell—Livingstone, Roderick, and Murray—were

among the denizens of that old enclosure of learning, where, as Hood so

truly sings—

Ay! there's the playground—there's the lime,

Beneath whose shade in summer's prime

So wildly I have read!

Who sits there now and skims the cream

Of young romance and weaves a dream

Of love and cottage bread?

Who, indeed! and how few are left of all that joyous crew that ran and

leaped, shouted and whooped with the delight of abounding animal

spirits? Besides the Mitchells were the sons of Colonel Snodgrass; the

Dowlings, the present worthy judge and his brother Vincent; the

Ritchies; the Nortons, James and John; George Wigram Allen; the

Mannings, Arthur and Henry. These with others might be considered the

aristocratic section, but there were no divisions founded upon social

inequalities. We learned and fed, played and lived generally, in

generous and hearty fellowship.

William Wentworth the younger, who afterwards distinguished himself at

Cambridge, but died early, was intellectually a loss to his native land

of no trifling extent.

John Lang, whose name to this day is well remembered in the Madras

Presidency, was a Sydney College boy. Known to be clever, no one was

surprised to hear that he distinguished himself at Cambridge, and passed

as a barrister with credit. He made a short visit to Sydney afterwards,

where, politically, he followed the banner of Mr. Wentworth. But he

preferred to quit Australia for the exciting life and larger fees with

which Indian barristers are credited. There, thanks to an unusual

facility for acquiring languages, he acquired legal celebrity and a

brilliant forensic reputation. He gained the historic case of Jootie

Persaud, a native contractor, against the Government, which involved

half a million of money. His fee, it was said, paid by the grateful

plaintiff, was the royal one of a _lakh of rupees_ (£10,000). A

brilliant companion, a more than popular society man, whose promising

career was cut short by an early death, he found time to write several

Anglo-Indian and an Australian novelette or two. _Will He Marry Her?_,

_The Forger's Wife_, _York; you're wanted_, are still in constant

demand, judging from the number of cheap editions issued. But to my mind

_Wanderings in India_ is one of the best of the lighter descriptions of

Eastern life ever published. The mingled realism and pathos of the style

have been rarely excelled.

Our worthy master was fully aware that moral suasion was by no means

wholly to be relied upon for the steady stimulation of his troop along

the high-road of knowledge. Yet did he make from time to time appeals to

the higher nature, attributed to boys in improving works of fiction.

'Bear in mind,' he would say on these occasions, 'that you are to be the

future leaders and guides of society in this new country, which is

destined to develop into such a great and important one. Out of your

ranks, from among those who stand before me in this hall this day, will

be chosen the judges, the magistrates of the land, the clergymen, the

lawyers, the legislators and civil servants. These high positions and

responsible offices must be filled by you, or boys of like age and

training, when grown to be men. Should you not, therefore, strive

earnestly, resolutely, to fit yourselves to discharge the duties to

which in the course of nature you are to be called, intelligently,

efficiently, honourably? And is there any probability that such will be

the case unless you apply yourselves lovingly, perseveringly, to the

tasks set you by me, your teacher and your friend, for which purpose and

no other you are placed here by your worthy parents? Master Jones will

now commence the Latin lesson of the day—the second ode of Horace, if I

mistake not, etc.'

Portions of this wise, thoughtful advice were probably retained

mechanically, as an exercise of memory, though not seriously reflected

upon. Much passed 'in at one ear and out of the other,' unheeded and

soon forgotten, with the incredible heedlessness of early youth. Yet how

strangely accurate has been the fulfilment of these long-past warnings.

Among us then stood in embryo a Chief Justice, since eminent among high

legal authorities, dying in proved possession of a massive intellect, a

wide-reaching grasp of principles, a rapid faculty of generalisation

which will ever cause his memory to be revered and his decisions to be

quoted; three puisne judges, all of whom have earned the respect of men

for legal attainment and unswerving impartiality; a Right Honourable

Privy Councillor of our Gracious Sovereign, whose Jubilee (now that half

a century has rolled by since Hugh Ranclaud and I, arms crony-like about

each other's necks, heard the Proclamation of her majority read under

the oaks of Macquarie Place) received a world-wide celebration. A Privy

Councillor, moreover, whose privilege it was, by one act of

statesmanlike inspiration, to nationalise Australia and to immortalise

himself.

Alfred Stephen became a clergyman, always a hard-working, conscientious

parish priest, beloved by his parishioners. He died in harness. Poor

Connie, when I saw him many a year after his schoolboy days, was no

longer handsome and careless, but as an eminent solicitor, and thus

chained to the Bench, a galley-slave of the law, comparatively war-worn

of visage. And pray what are we all in middle life but the bond-slaves,

scarcely disguised, of some form of ownership which we dignify with the

name of Circumstance? He and his brother Matthew Henry were in the House

of Assembly at one time, thus justifying the prophecy as to the school

being the nursery of future legislators.

Sir James Martin was Her Majesty's Attorney-General, and afterwards

Chief-Justice William Forster was in more than one Ministry. Allan

Macpherson was for many years regularly returned to Parliament. Sir

George Wigram Allen, the steadiest of workers at school, again kept

close to Hood's humorous declaration—

Each little boy at Enfield School

Became an 'Enfield's Speaker.

He, with the Honourable James Norton, his neighbour and class-fellow,

but continued unchanged the steadfastness and success of his school

record. With one's schoolfellows the physical proportion seems to alter

strangely and, in a sense, unnaturally in the aftertime. The big boys,

the eldsters of one's early days, when met with in other years, appear

unaccountably shrunken; while the 'little boys' of the same period seem

to have developed abnormally and assumed the gigantic. For instance, a

small orphan creature was brought to the school very young. He seemed

unable to face the strangeness of his surroundings. When, years

afterwards, I met at the race-ground of another colony an athletic

six-foot manager of a cattle-station, mounted on a fiery steed, and by

repute the show stock-rider of the district, I could not reconcile it to

credibility that he should be the 'Bluey' (such was his sobriquet) of

our school days. He was, nevertheless.

The Broughtons of Tumut, Archer and Robert—now no more—were among the

elders of the Sydney College. During the last two years I have visited

their homes in that romantic corner of New South Wales. All this time I

had a curiosity to explore their ancient town of Tumut under the shadow

of the Australian Alps, with its rushing river, green valleys, and

romantic scenery. I shall always feel thankful that my desire has been

gratified.

We were not permitted to go boating in the harbour unless in charge of

relatives. And very properly. But we were allowed to bathe in the summer

afternoons, after applying for formal leave.

Our greatest treat was, on the Saturday half-holiday, the picnic to

Double Bay. We chose this as being a quasi-romantic spot. Some one had

commenced a mansion there and had not completed it. There was a deserted

vineyard, which looked like an amphitheatre; an artificial fish-pond

too—an object of deep interest. In those golden summer eves we gathered

bagfuls of the native currant—a small fruit capable of being converted

into jam in spite of a startling acidity of flavour—and having eaten our

lunch, 'sub Jove,' used to fish, bathe, and scamper about the beach till

it was time to return. Still runs the tiny creek into which we used to

dash 'like troutlets in a pool'; still ebb and flow the tides of the

little bay; but the neighbourhood is crowded with buildings, incongruous

to the scene, and the glory of youthful adventure, which then pervaded

all things, like the _genius loci_, has, with the long-past years, fled

for ever.

SYDNEY FIFTY YEARS AGO

Soon after we went to live at Enmore, I being then nine or ten years

old, my first pony was presented to me by my father. A tiny Timor mare

was little Bet; Dick Webb, the well-known horse-dealer and livery-stable

keeper, being the intermediary. Cargoes of these small Eastern horses,

degenerate in size only, from scant feeding and crowded pastures, were

then imported from the islands of Timor and Lombok. Disrespectful

remarks have been written touching the quality of these early Australian

hackneys. They were accused of spoiling the breed of our horses.

Spoiling, forsooth! Nothing better ever trod on turf than these

miniature Barbs, for such they undoubtedly were. Clean-legged,

long-pasterned, bright-eyed, lean-headed, mostly with well-placed

shoulders and well-bent hocks, each with pluck enough for a troop of

horse—where could one get a better cross than these wonderful little

'tats,' with legs and feet of iron, and though only ranging from ten to

twelve hands high, able to carry a heavy man a long day's journey?

The Shetland pony, grand little chap as he may be, is a degenerate

cart-horse, nothing more; he can trot, walk, and carry a burly

gamekeeper up a steep hillside, but he has no pace. The Timor ponies, on

the contrary, with light-weights, could make very fair racing time, were

high-couraged and untiring, in or out of condition, bequeathing to their

offspring the fire and speed of the Eastern horse, with a quality of

legs and feet difficult to find nowadays. My little mare was a trotter,

a jumper, a clever all-round hack. A colt of my next Timor mare I used

to ride when I was a man grown, nearly twelve stone in weight, the which

impost he could carry like a bird, and even bolt with occasionally.

More than one fashionably bred racehorse of the present day has the

blood of a Timor ancestress in his veins, and though the fact is not

obtruded, doubtless owes the staying power and undeniable legs and feet

to that infusion. In those early days whole cargoes of them were brought

through the streets of Sydney by the sailors, the manner being

thus—half-a-dozen were tied neck to neck with strong short ropes, a

halter attached to the one on the near side of the string, the which a

couple of stalwart sailors tugged manfully, another encouraging the line

from the rear. They were half-covered with hieroglyphs in the shape of

brands. Prices ranged from five pounds to ten, according to quality. The

sons of well-to-do people were to be seen mounted upon them. When fed

and groomed they were as showy and fast hackneys as a light-weight would

desire.

While dwelling upon these incidents of an earlier day, the hours and

limits of school deserve notice. At the Sydney College we were expected

to attend at nine o'clock in the morning. At mid-day an hour's recess

was granted. In that interval the boarders dined; the day-scholars

having disposed of their lunches hurriedly, went in for as much play as

the time would admit. From 1 o'clock till 3 P.M. was occupied by

afternoon school; the day-scholars departing then whithersoever they

listed. The boarders dispersed to play cricket, went for a walk or into

town—after applying for leave in the latter cases. On Saturday we worked

from nine till twelve, when the half-holiday set in. There was no whole

holiday in my day. And three morning hours, multiplied by the weeks in a

year, should account for a fair measure of work.

After the country had become fairly prosperous and it was seen that tens

of thousands of men could find work and room for their energy in the

virgin waste of the interior, immigration was encouraged by the

Government of the day. A bounty was paid to each emigrant or to the

agent who recommended or persuaded him to come to the far, unknown land.

It was curious, even then, to find a class which held that they had a

vested labour interest in the colony—which disapproved strongly of

assisted, unrestricted immigration. They complained that other persons

should come out at the expense of the State to compete, as they alleged,

with them and lower the price of labour.

'It was the prisoners' colony,' asserted the demagogues who formulated

this view. 'Free men had no right to come here, subsisted and helped by

the Government.'

Enmore, being about three miles from the Sydney College, was rather far

for a daily walk before the advent of little Bet, but with the aid of a

drive now and then (of course there were no omnibuses) I managed it

pretty well at first. The only house at all near us was tenanted by Mrs.

Erskine, with whose sons I used to beguile the tedium of the road. Once

we asked a wood-carter for a lift, whom not acceding to our request, we

pelted with stones. He complained to the authorities, and we suffered in

person accordingly. Then an adventure befell which led to grief and

anxiety. It might well have been serious. I had started on the

home-track in the afternoon, when one of the tropical storms not unknown

in Sydney to this day commenced. The rain came down as if to repeat the

deluge, an inch apparently falling every ten minutes. The low lands near

the Haymarket were flooded. I was drenched. Streams and torrents coursed

down every channel. The drains burst up. Things looked bad for a long

walk with creeks to cross. At this juncture a tidy-looking old woman

(she sold milk) invited me to enter her dwelling. I did so, and found

myself in a neat and cleanly cottage. The rain not abating, she invited

me to stay for tea, exhibiting most excellent bread and butter. Finally,

discovering that I had so far to go and the waters being still 'out,'

she prevailed upon me, nothing loth, to remain all night.

Unluckily, as it turned out, my father was in town, and had called at

the school to take me home. He was told that I had left shortly before.

Driving rapidly, being eager to overtake me, he reached home to find

that I had not turned up. After an anxious interval, during which fears

obtruded themselves that I had fallen into a creek or water-hole and so

got drowned, he rode back into town, searching vainly of course for my

extremely naughty self, then calmly reading by the light of a tallow

candle, my aged hostess meanwhile knitting. When he again visited the

College on the off-chance of my having concluded to return, and was told

to the contrary, he gave me up for lost. Mr. Cape, however, stated his

belief that R. B., though of tender years, was a boy exceptionally

capable of taking care of himself, and probably would be found even now

in a place of safety.

This, however, was accepted by my anxious parent merely as an amiable

attempt at consolation, whereupon he rode home again through mud and

mire in despairing mood. A restless early riser by habit, he was in the

saddle before dawn, with a view to having the creeks and hollows

searched, when happening to pass my old woman's cottage, I recognised

the horses first (Australian fashion), my stern Governor and the groom

next. I called out. He turned and saw me. Anger would have been natural

and deserved. But he was too overjoyed at my return from the dead, as he

doubtless considered it. 'God forgive you, my boy, for what you have

caused us to suffer,' was all that he said. I rode home behind the

groom, and was received, I need not say, with what transports of

delight. Ah me, how ungrateful are we all for the care and tenderness

lavished upon us in childhood!

'All's well that ends well' is a comforting and satisfactory proverb.

The good old dame was duly thanked and rewarded. Matters soon returned

to their former footing. But one mischance, directly proceeding from the

demoralisation of the household on that night, was of a serious and

melancholy nature. Our inestimable Alderney cow took advantage of the

open door of the feed-room to assimilate part of a truss of Lucerne hay;

then, 'acting with no more judgment than to take a drink,' died from

excessive inflation. An irreparable loss, and one remembered against me

at intervals long afterwards.

Promoted to the Timor mare, I used to make pretty good time down

Brickfield Hill and so round Black Wattle Swamp and Mr. Shepherd's

garden. She was a good trotter, and I have owned a performer in that

line—fast, extra, or only moderate, but always a trotter—from that time

to this. A trotter is generally a good animal otherwise. I have seen few

exceptions.

Mr. A. B. Spark, a mercantile magnate of the day, was our neighbour at

Cook's River. I was sent with a letter early one spring morning to

Tempé. There I found the good old gentleman in his garden. 'Can you eat

strawberries, my boy?' was his prompt inquiry. It is unnecessary to

repeat my answer. 'Then set to, and we'll have breakfast afterwards.'

That is the way to talk to a boy! I could have died for him; I respect

his memory now. At breakfast he told me that the pretty freestone,

white-columned house had been built on the model of a Greek temple in

the Vale of Tempé. Hence its classical name, which it still retains. The

fresh eggs, laid by pure Spanish hens, were the largest I had ever seen.

When he showed me some lop-eared rabbits after breakfast and promised me

a pair, my heart was almost too full. I rode back the happiest boy in

the land, and never forgot the old gentleman's amazing kindness.

It may be that kindly memory, eliding the darker shadows of the past,

presents the colonial period which I am recalling, from 1831 to 1840, as

almost Arcadian in peaceful simplicity, in steadfast industry, in

freedom from atrocious crime, compared with later developments. And yet

New South Wales was then to all intents and purposes a convict colony.

Shiploads of prisoners arrived from time to time. Expirees from Tasmania

no doubt made their way to a land where wages were comparatively high,

and where new country offered a refuge from close official inspection.

Whether the old-fashioned rule—strict, vigilant, unrelaxing—was better

suited to the natural man, free or bond, than the present

mercy-mongering management, may partly be judged by results.

'The bush'—a vast and trackless wilderness—was gradually being occupied

and reclaimed by that strange lover of the waste places of the earth,

the wilful, wicked, wandering Anglo-Saxon. Tragedies from time to time

doubtless occurred. Bushrangers were not unknown, but what were they to

the Kellys, the Halls and Gilbert, the Clarks and Morgans? Aboriginal

blacks were shot occasionally; more than one cruel murder was brought

home to the perpetrators, for which they justly atoned. At the same time

a lonely hut-keeper or shepherd was often found prone and motionless,

speared or clubbed as the case might be; many a stock-rider's horse came

home without him. Yet, in a general way, life and property were far more

secure under the modified martial law of the period than they have been

known to be under a constitutional Government and quasi-democratic rule.

When it is considered that for half a century the worst criminals of the

old country, as well as the more ordinary rogues, had been sent to

Australia, it says much for the management or for the material that so

orderly and improvable a society was evolved.

If there were occasional crimes of deepest dye, who could feel surprise?

The wonder was that they were so few in comparison to the population.

Captain Knatchbull, ex-post-captain R.N., knocks out the brains of a

poor washerwoman for the sake of eight pounds sterling, ending on the

gallows a life of curiously varied villainy, which had included

attempted poisoning, mutiny, and betrayal of comrades. There was the

memorable 'Fisher's Ghost' tragedy, in which a supernatural agent was

alleged to have led to the discovery of a deed of blood. There were

crimes, doubtless, that cried aloud to heaven for vengeance, but which

never will be fully known till the Great Day. But discovery,

arraignment, and trial followed close on the heels of wrongdoers. In a

general way—I assert it unhesitatingly—Sydney was as quiet, as peaceful

and orderly in appearance as any town in Britain, save in the purlieus

of that half-recognised Alsatia, 'The Rocks'; more decent, sober, and

outwardly well-behaved than George Street and Pitt Street in 1887.

It may truly be suggested that one of the great dangers of modern

civilisation—certainly of Australian national life—would appear to be

the crowding of an unreasonable proportion of the inhabitants into the

cities and larger towns.

An increasingly dangerous class is there encouraged to grow and

multiply, averse to the honest and well-paid toil of the country,

preferring to it a precarious employment in a city, with the

accompaniment of the baser pleasures; clamouring at every interval of

employment for relief works, subsisting but for _panem et circenses_,

like the profligate populace of old Rome, the pandering to which

eventually sapped the grandeur and glory of the Mistress of the World.

_Absit omen!_

At the corner of Elizabeth and King Streets might have been seen a

provisional lock-up, used for the temporary detention of criminals about

to be tried at the adjoining courts. A rudely-hewn pillar of sandstone

had been deposited there, and served as a seat for wayfarers or persons

more immediately concerned. We schoolboys were chiefly interested in the

stocks, that old-fashioned detainer in which drunken and disorderly

persons were securely placed for such periods—a portion of a day—as the

magistrates might consider expedient. In such fashion was Hudibras fast

imprisoned when the lady and her steward coming by gazed on him bowed to

the earth with shame. In this ancient engine of distraint upon the human

property, in default of other, did the malcontents of the day sit,

stolid and defiant, upon a more or less uncomfortable seat, 'fast bound

in misery and iron.' One doubts whether it would not be more effectual

now than the short sentence served in a comfortable, secluded

establishment, which the modern offender boasts that 'he can do on his

head.'

During the whole period of the time embraced in my reminiscence, I

cannot recall a week while we lived in Sydney or near to it, that the

Domain and Botanical Gardens were not a joy, a solace, a luxury to us

and to the society with which we were acquainted. What a priceless boon

was thus bestowed upon the inhabitants of Sydney then and for all time

by the dedication of this lovely natural park to the public! What

walks—what drives—what merry bathing parties—what lingering in summer

eves—what early morning saunters has not this precious primeval

fragment, this art-adorned yet beauteous wilderness, witnessed? The

pleasure then enjoyed by the toil-worn citizen, the stranger, or the

invalid was more exquisite and intense, from an assured freedom from

that modern pest, the larrikin. All who were met with in the gardens

were courteous and well-mannered persons for the most part; for

whomsoever conducted themselves otherwise there was a short shrift, and

if not a ready gallows, an effectively deterrent punishment.

The early formation of William Street, now the great arterial highway to

Darlinghurst and the aristocratic suburbs, was then progressing. In its

straight course it carved away a few acres of the Rosebank suburban

property then owned by Mr. Laidley. On the triangular portion so excised

were three white cedars, the most graceful of our shade trees. No doubt

the proprietor was compensated for the severance and resumption, though

not at the prices ruling in favour of latter-day claimants.

What fortunes might have been made by judicious, or even injudicious,

purchasers of suburban land in those days! No one foresaw that any

notable rise in value would take place in less than a century or two.

That land purchased by the acre would sell for such prices in the life

of the buyer, by _the foot_, entered not into the mind of man. Wharves,

street frontages, building sites, allotments all passed under the hammer

of the Government auctioneer of the day at curiously low prices. Who was

to foresee that gold, silver, copper, iron, lead, and tin were all to

make their appearance in peaceful, pastoral New South Wales and her

erstwhile appanage the Port Phillip District, afterwards the Colony of

Victoria?

The great public schools of that day were our College, the King's School

at Parramatta, and the Normal Institution, this last organised by Dr.

Lang—that eminent colonising clergyman. The Reverend Robert Forrest was

the Principal of the King's School. He was understood to have been a

strict disciplinarian, as indeed he needed to be. We of the Sydney

College thought ourselves superior in scholarship; but doubtless good

work was done then as now at the Parramatta school.

Mr. Carmichael—Scottish, of course—presided at the Normal Institution,

which was situated on the northern side of the Racecourse, or Hyde Park

as at present named. We were near enough to play cricket together

sometimes; also to fight, indeed, as occasions of strife will arise

among schoolboys. Roland Cameron, a boy by nature warlike in the earlier

stages of life, had then his celebrated combat, having challenged an

oldster of the Normal, a head taller than himself. He didn't come off

victorious, but he walked forth with an apparently calm consciousness

that he couldn't be really conquered, which I have rarely seen

paralleled among later and more tragic experiences.

OLD TIME THOROUGHBREDS

When the sons of Woden are admitted into Valhalla, it will be an

incomplete Elysium for some of us, maugre the perennial flow of ale and

the æsthetic fancy of the goblets, unless the good steed Hengst, whom we

have so loved on earth, be permitted resurrection. Alick and Jimmy

Hunter would miss Romeo. Could Cornborough be excluded from any realm of

bliss which contained 'Dolly' Goldsmith? How superior were those grand

horses, not to mention The Premier and Rory O'More, in all their

attributes to the average human individual, about whose title to such

noble immortality there is no question. I cannot believe that they are

doomed to extinction, to eternal oblivion. They are dead and gone,

doubtless. But lest any reader of these memories should lack future

opportunity of feasting his eyes upon those wondrous equine shapes, I

essay faintly to recall their leading characteristics.

Romeo, son of Sir Hercules and Pasta, was a golden chestnut, with a

narrow blaze and white hind legs. Originally imported to Tasmania from

England, he was in 1842 located at Miamamaluke Station on the 'Devil's

River' in Victoria, then the property of the Messrs. Hunter. He died in

my possession some years later, and, as I used to look at him for at

least half an hour every day for the first few months of ownership, I

may, without presumption, attempt a pen-and-ink portrait.

Not a large horse—he might almost be classified as small, indeed,

compared with modern fashionable families, but of superb symmetry and

superfine quality. 'A head light and lean,' though scarcely equal to The

Premier's, his neck was of moderate length, with a delicately-marked

crest. But his shoulder! Never have I seen mortal horse with such

another. It was a study. So oblique was it; so graceful and elastic was

the fore-action in consequence, that you wondered how horses of less

perfect mechanism got on at all. His back was short, his croup high. The

finely formed, silken-haired tail, which after his death hung in my

room, was set on like that of an Arab. He might easily have been ridden

without a girth to the saddle. Though his back appeared to be hardly the

length of one, he stood over more ground than horses that looked bigger

in every way. His barrel was rounded and well ribbed up. Below the knee

and hock the legs were admirably clean and flat-boned, with pasterns

just long enough to give the elastic motion which so peculiarly

distinguishes the thoroughbred.

In those days (I was young, to be sure) I occasionally relieved my

pent-up feelings by the perpetration of verse. In an old scrap-book are

traced certain 'Lines to a Thoroughbred' which must have been inspired

by Romeo. They commence—

Is he not glorious, in the high beauty proud,

Which from his desert-spurning Arab sires

To him was given? Mark the frontlet broad!

The delicate, pointed ear, and silken mane,

Scarce coarser than the locks which Delia boasts,

Attest his stainless race, etc.

Allusion was also made, if I mistake not, to a problematic ancestor, the

well-ridden steed of the poets, who after

Children's voices greet the rescued sire,

became 'a cherished playmate, loving and beloved.' Though high-tempered

enough, Romeo was a good-humoured horse in the main, but the

companionship of grooms and stable-boys had partly rubbed off the

inherited _gentillesse_ of the desert. Notably in one particular.

Whether he had been in some way teased or troubled, or that some

mischievous groom had been at the pains to teach him the specific trick,

I cannot say; but the fact was notorious that if any one—in or near the

stable—made a noise with the mouth, like the drawing of a cork, the old

horse fell into a paroxysm of rage and went open-mouthed at all and

sundry being within reach at the time.

The knowledge of this peculiarity was turned to account more than once

as a practical joke, sometimes with results more or less unpleasant to

the unsuspecting bystander. But the joke occasionally recoiled. I happen

to know of one instance. A well-known veterinary surgeon of those days,

one Mr. Robertson—afterwards drowned in the Goulburn, poor

fellow!—happened to be paying a visit of inspection, when a thoughtless

friend made the cork-drawing signal. It was Romeo _versus_ Robertson,

with a vengeance. Like a wild horse of the prairies, he charged the

astonished vet, a resolute active man, who had all he could do to

protect himself with a heavy, cutting whip which he fortunately carried

at the time. He got out of the box unharmed, but seriously ruffled and

demoralised.

The first thing which occurred to him, however, on banging the door of

the loose-box behind him, was to lay his whip with hearty goodwill and

emphasis across the shoulders of the humourist. Robertson was a burly

Scot of more than average physique. His blood was up, and I do not

recall the fact of the author of this unusually keen jest making

effective resistance. He probably was cured of that particular form of

joking, and learned practically that horseplay is one of the games in

which two can engage. I never knew the old horse to commit unprovoked

assaults, and think that some unusual experience must have led to the

tendency described.

Though ordinarily well-behaved, it will be noted that there was a savour

of dangerous dealing when aroused, and, as might be expected, a few of

his progeny were not famous for the mildness of their tempers. They

were, however, handsome and distinguished-looking, good in every

relation of equine life. They supplied for many years a regular

contingent to all the races in Victoria, and, indeed, within a widely

extended radius round Kalangadoo and beyond the South Australian border.

Few indeed were the meets, metropolitan or provincial, in which a Romeo

colt or filly did not figure in the first flight. Latterly he became the

property of Mr. Hector Norman Simson, from whose stud the celebrated

Flying Doe and other cracks were evolved.

Young Romeo, Baroness, Countess, and Clinker had all won reputations on

the Flemington race-course—which then presented a somewhat different

appearance—before 1842. Young Romeo, a handsome, upstanding, dark

chestnut horse, then the property of Captain Brunswick Smyth of the 50th

Regiment, was raffled, in 1843, I think for a hundred and fifty guineas.

We took a five-guinea ticket, but my drawing, innocently young as I then

was, did not carry the proverbial gambler's luck. Oberon, a sweet little

white-faced chestnut that Dr. David Thomas used to drive somewhat

unprofessionally as tandem leader about Melbourne in 1851, was one of

the later offspring. The worthy doctor, ever ready for a lark, delighted

in getting Oberon's head over the shoulders of stout old gentlemen in

the street before they were aware of him or his chariot.

It was somewhere near the end of the 'forties,' those pioneering years

paving the way to the golden era which set in for Australia shortly

after their decease. I happened to be in Melbourne upon a cattle

speculation. At Kirk's Bazaar after breakfast I saw my ideal steed in a

loose-box, apparently for sale. After feasting my eyes upon him for a

reasonable period, I interviewed Mr. Dalmahoy Campbell, and sought

particulars.

The old horse by this time had grown hollow-backed, and was evidently on

his last legs. Still at a moderate price he would not be unprofitable,

and the value of his blood distributed amid my stud could hardly, I

thought, be over-estimated. The main thing to be considered by a prudent

young pastoralist (I really was one in those days) was the price. This

turned out to be under £50. Money was not abundant in that particular

year. Stock were ludicrously cheap. For some reason his owners had

decided to sell the dear old horse. His age and growing infirmities were

against him. Still here was a chance I might never get again. I had just

made a largish offer for the store cattle referred to. There was no use

talking, however. I felt like a man who had been offered the Godolphin

Arabian by a sheik hard-pushed for a ransom. I _must_ have the horse;

that was all about it.

There was another slight difficulty. I had not ten £5 notes in my

pocket. Far otherwise. I stated facts in the office. I can see old

'Dal's' kind face as he said, 'We'll take your bill at three months, my

boy; that will give you time to turn round.' I gratefully assented, and

Romeo—intoxicating thought—was mine. That was my first bill. Never

before did I write 'Rolf Boldrewood' across the face or back or below

any of those insidious substitutes for ready money. Would that the

negotiable instrument had been my last. Well impressed on my mind was

the look of the worthy gentleman who managed the financial department of

the firm which had the privilege of 'keeping my account' when I

exultingly informed him of my transaction. He had grown grey in

commerce, not altogether successfully. Doubtless memory carried him back

for a moment over years of high hope, guarded enterprise, succeeded by

wearing anxiety and dull despair. Looking into my youthful, sanguine

countenance, he said, 'Take my advice, and never sign another. I wish

_I_ had never seen one.'

I did _not_ take his advice, it is hardly necessary to say. It was many

a year before the application came in. Such is the general course of

events. But if every future acceptance had been as anxiously considered,

as punctually paid, and as profitably contracted as Number One

aforesaid, no great harm would have been done.

I rode proudly out of Melbourne next day, leading my valued purchase,

duly muzzled and sheeted, along the western road. Travelling by easy

stages, only varied by a swim across the Leigh River, 'where ford there

was none,' I got on well. It was an anxious moment for me, though, when

the strong current swept my precious steed round in midstream; but he

fought gallantly for a landing, which we finally gained. A slip, a

stagger, and we were safely over. At Dunmore he received the admiration

which was his due, while I was congratulated on my enterprise and good

fortune.

When I reached home the illustrious stranger was treated with deserved

attention. A roomy loose-box was specially dedicated to his use. Boiled

food, ground corn, every delicacy of the season was lavished upon him. A

revival of constitution apparently took place. But he only lived a year,

leaving behind him, however, at Dunmore the beautiful, graceful Pasta,

half-sister to St. George, and also to The Margravine and Track-Deer;

and at Squattlesea Mere, Bonnie Dundee, Ben Bolt, Fairy, and a few other

notable nags. 'He owed me nothing,' as his groom said when I sorrowfully

attended his burial in the capacity of chief mourner. He lies under a

blackwood tree on an 'island' in the mere, where the close-spreading

clover blossoms climb and struggle amid the tussock grass of the

marshes. He was accorded respectful interment, and my grief was more

sincere than that which accompanies more ostentatious funerals. He had

not perhaps the opportunity which another year would have furnished of

leaving an illustrious progeny in the Port Fairy district, but some of

his offspring made their mark.

Dundee, being my principal hackney and stock horse, was a wonderful

performer. An admixture of Clifton blood gave him height and 'scope.' He

had the sloped Romeo shoulder, with propelling machinery of unusual

power. He was fortunately just short of racing speed. But he was a grand

'camp horse'; could be ridden without flinching right into the shoulder

of the worst outlaw of the herd, carrying a fourteen-stone weight over

any three-railed fence, and stay for a week. He lived to make a

trans-Murray reputation, and still the wild riders of the mallee

remember the powerful chestnut that was so well to the front with

Sylvester Browne and the brothers Beveridge in more than one

'moonlighting' foray.

Ben Bolt, his half-brother, was a bright chestnut, with four white legs,

a broad blaze, and a considerable quantity of white in the corners of

his eyes, with which he had an uncanny way of regarding his rider. He

was truly illustrious in more ways than one. There is no record of any

white man (or black one either) having seen him tired. At the end of the

longest day, or the most terrific 'cutting-out' work, Ben's head was up,

his clear eyes watchful, his uneasy tail, switching slowly from side to

side, like a leopard not fully agitated. He had been known to leave

Melbourne after a trip with fat cattle (his rider had a young wife on

the station certainly), and late on the second day the marshes of the

Eumeralla were in sight. A hundred and eighty miles—winter weather too!

I can state from personal experience that as a hackney he was

deliciously easy, fast, and free. But the luxurious sensation of being

so charmingly carried was modified by the ever-present thought that he

could 'buck you into a tree-top' whenever it so pleased him; and at what

minute the fit might take him no one had ever been able to foretell.

Sprung from a daughter of the Traveller line, Ben inherited the dire

resolution of that potent blood, with a fervent intensity peculiar to

the descendants of Romeo. The 'nick' was therefore only a partial

success. If one had required, as do certain Indian rajahs, a horse

warranted to distinguish himself in combat with a tiger, Ben Bolt was

the very animal. Once let him get his heels into position and no living

tiger would have had a show. He might as well spring at a mitrailleuse.

But under saddle he was distinctly unreliable.

I used to break my own colts in those days, and in the course of events

Ben was duly haltered and enticed into the stable. Though sensitive

certainly, he was not overtly rebellious until the third day, when he

kicked at me in what I held to be an unfair and treacherous manner. I

gave him a tap in requital with the butt-end of a hay-fork, upon which

he deliberately kicked down the partition between his and the next

loose-box. He hardly left a slab standing, and generally conducted

himself as if he was not sure whether he would not smash the whole

building while he was about it.

I avoided contention after this, and in every way applied myself to calm

his fears and inspire confidence. It was all in vain. When approached he

would contract every muscle till his flesh felt like a board, glaring

the while at you with his strangely bright, white-rimmed eyes, in a

blood-curdling homicidal way. However, at the end of a week I backed

him, looking to every strap and girth, and picking a good soft spot to

fall on. He was led, as was the fashion then, along by the side of

another horse, and, to every one's surprise, walked away like an old

stager. No irregularity took place the next day or the one following.

His mouth was good; he held his head up. I was charmed, and rode him

proudly about by myself. Next morning he was queer and sullen, and in

the middle of the day, for no earthly reason apparently, reared,

plunged, bolted, and commenced to buck like a demon. I 'stuck to him'

until he gradually got way on, and being apparently temporarily insane,

ran into a paling fence, against which he fell down. I came off, of

course, but remounted, when he did nothing further.

I rode him daily afterwards, until he passed into the second stage of

breaking, being comparatively handy and pleasanter than many older

horses, but we never seemed to get nearer to confidential relations. He

took me unawares again ('underhand,' as Mr. Paterson's native young man

hath it) while out on the run, and kicked savagely at me while falling.

I began to think—having certain responsibilities—that it was hardly

worth while to run such risk of life and limb only for the sake, too, of

twenty or thirty pounds, and the strictly local reputation of 'being

able to ride anything.'

So I relinquished the task of Ben's education to Frank Lawrence, my stud

groom, than whom no better rough-rider ever sat in saddle. Plucky,

patient, and a fine horseman generally, he gradually brought the rebel

round. The reformation was apparently complete. Kept in regular work, he

ceased to be fractious, and acquired a decent character in the

neighbourhood. He even carried the black boy without protest.

Months passed. The stock-riders were mustering up for the morning's

work—neighbours and station hands. Frank was sitting carelessly on Ben

Bolt, now regularly 'made' and recognised as a stock-horse. Suddenly,

without a moment's warning he 'exploded'—there is no other word for it.

Before any one could offer a remark, Frank was catapulted on to the

crown of his head, and Ben was tearing down the paddock, kicking at his

bridle-reins and trying to send the saddle after the man. Frank arose

slowly, and after a careful examination of his neck had convinced him

that it was not really broken, as might have been surmised, said, 'I

believe Ben means to finish me yet.'

'I would shoot him now if I thought that, Frank,' I answered; 'the

treacherous brute. Better take another horse to-day.'

Frank, of course, would not hear of this, and remounted the ungrateful

one, led up as he was in a few minutes, with eyes like burning coals and

nostrils quivering in anything but a reassuring manner. He made no sign,

however, and came in, after about fourteen hours' galloping and camp

work, as fresh as a daisy.

When the station changed hands I passed our mutual friend over to Frank,

who sold him at a profit. Our paths lay thenceforward apart. Years

afterwards, my brother and I walked into the stables of Cobb and Co. at

Hamilton, by candlelight, while awaiting a start in the mail. The team

which interested us stood harnessed and ready.

'Did you ever see that chestnut leader before?' I queried.

'Great Jove! there he stands—white legs and all—the dear old tiger. To

think that we should ever come _to sit behind Ben Bolt!_'

'Looks like it.'

'Nice horse that chestnut with the white hind legs, ostler.'

'Pretty fair, sir. Depends on 'ow 'e's 'andled, in a manner of

speakin'.'

'So I should think. How did you get him?'

'Well, he chucked Mr. Jones sky-high; broke his back-ribs, like; so he

took and swapped him to the Company.'

'How does he go?'

'Well, he _goes_ right enough when you get him in, but we drives him a

double stage every day, just to stiddy him. He's been a year on this

piece, and we don't care how soon we get shut on 'im.'

As the day broke, the cry of 'all aboard' was sounded; the passengers

took their seats in the coach as the horses were led out. The leaders

were not 'hitched' till the last moment; Ben Bolt having a second helper

told off to him as he came out with head up and waving tail, the old

fashion. _Very_ quickly and noiselessly was he attached, and as the

driver drew his reins tight the coach moved on, without a word or

whip-touch, Ben demonstrating by the way in which he went into his

collar that he was ready and willing to undertake the whole contract. At

the end of our stage of twenty-two miles, done in quick time, three

horses only were taken out. Ben Bolt, after having run true and level

for every yard of the distance, and never once having slackened his

pace, was treated to another twenty miles in the company of the fresh

team.

'Good horse, that near-side leader,' I remarked to the driver

tentatively.

'He's the devil on four legs, if you want to know,' gruffly answered

that official; 'takes me all my time to watch him. He'll smash some of

us yet, if he don't kill himself first.'

I returned a year after to find the prediction verified. Ben Bolt was no

more. True to his name and reputation, he had broken away from the

helper while being put to, and after a headlong gallop was discovered to

have injured himself beyond hope of recovery. He died a soldier's death.

But for the 'accidents and offences' resulting from his demoniac temper,

I shall always hold his maternal ancestor, Traveller, mainly

responsible.

THE FIRST PORT FAIRY HUNT

The cattle were pretty well broken to their new run at Squattlesea Mere.

Little more was necessary than to go round them daily and discourage

explorers. The heathen were temporarily at rest, brooding (like the

Boers) over fresh ambuscades. A suspicion of monotone pervaded the

'eucalyptine cloisterdom,' when, neither by telegram nor newspaper—our

Arcadia knew neither brain-disturber in 1844—word came orally,

personally transmitted, that the Mount Rouse Hounds were to throw off at

Port Fairy, with races to follow, the whole to wind up with a ball.

These astonishing tidings so affected me that I became unable to settle

down to daily details. A meet with _real_ fox-hounds, races,

and—temptation overwhelming—a ball! I have resisted things in my day,

have exhibited Spartan virtue in sorrowful altruism, economies,

mortifications of the flesh, what not. But this special attraction was

complicated, ingenious, subtly alluring 'in the brave days when we were

twenty-one.' I lacked a year or so of that romantic period, and

consequently was more prudent, more intolerant, and more abstemious than

in the aftertime. People may talk as they like, but youth is the time

for wisdom. That riper years bring prudence, steadfastness,

circumspection, indeed any improvement of mind or body, is a widespread

error. It is a fable of the wary ancient. The real sage, the true

philosopher, the consistent disciple, is the ingenuous youth. The Greeks

knew this. Contrast Telemachus with that old humbug Ulysses,

far-travelled, much experienced in war; council, battle, and peace alike

familiar to him. How reprehensible was his conduct, flirting with

Calypso and other beguilers, poor lonely 'Griselda Penelope' doing her

worsted work and tatting from year to year, the excellent Telemachus

meanwhile looking after the 'selection' at Ithaca. However, this is

miles away from the scent. 'Get in there, Fancy.'

In the solitude of my slab-hut this announcement stirred my blood. I

considered the pecuniary aspect of the question, and was nearly not

going at all. Coin was scarce in the forties, credit shy and difficult.

More prudent by far it seemed to remain quietly at home. And yet it

_was_ hard. A glimpse of Paradise to be had scarce thirty miles away. A

brilliant idea flashed, meteor-like, through my brain. The expense would

not amount to more than a bullock. One bullock! The herd was increasing.

And I could work so much harder afterwards. My conscience was salved. I

made the modest preparations befitting that pioneer period. The valise

was packed, the black mare was run in, and proudly mounting that fast,

clever hackney, I took the track to the crossing-place of the Shaw

River, singing aloud for pure joyousness of heart, like a mavis in

springtime.

When I arrived in Port Fairy, and took up my quarters at the Merrijig

Hotel (the southern aboriginal predicate signifying 'good,' and thus

equivalent to the 'Budgeree' of the Kamilaroi), what news and marvels

were afloat! The town was full. Everybody was there or coming; also

everybody's favourite horse. All the world and his wife were 'on the

march for Rome.' Mr. James Lord had arrived from Tasmania with a draft

of hounds for John Cox of Werongurt; had also brought with him The

Caliph as a present to the same gentleman from his old friend Sir

Richard Dry. The Caliph was a hunting celebrity; I was naturally anxious

to see him. The Dunmore people were not down, but were coming of course,

with Neil Kennedy and Bob Craufurd, Fred Burchett, the Aplins, Captain

and Mrs. Baxter, the Hunters (Alick and Jimmy), George Youl, and the

Kemps, Claud Farie, and his partner Rodger—in fact, everybody, as I said

before. Old Tom, the stock-rider, had managed to trap a fine dingo.

To-morrow the hounds would throw off near Archie M'Neill's farm, across

the Moyne. There were to be races the day after, including a

steeplechase, for which Richard Rutledge was going to ride Freedom, a

well-known blood hackney. Mr. Rodger had bought the grey racing pony

Skipjack, a winner on the Melbourne turf. The ball was to be in the big

room of the Merrijig Hotel. Could imagination have devised anything more

ecstatically delightful?

The _table d'hôte_ dinner that night was a thing to remember—a score or

two of men, none of whom had passed 'the golden prime,' while the

greater proportion had but lately entered manhood. One or two might have

been described by a cynic as beardless boys. I was the youngest squatter

in the district. I then exhibited more discretion than has always

characterised the mature individual. However, _nemo omnibus_. We had few

misgivings about the future in those days. We said to the present 'Stay,

for thou art fair,' disturbing not ourselves about autumnal tints.

Such laughter, such jests—keen and incisive enough in all conscience!

Such horse-talk—when every man was an owner, a breeder, a connoisseur

more or less, of the noble animal; moreover, always possessed a

favourite hackney, which he held to be a combination of all the equine

virtues. The flowing bowl of the period was not disregarded—claret and

champagne were the weaknesses of the day; Dalwood and Cawarra, Yering

and Tahbilk, were all to come; even whisky had not made good its footing

in society. But for the preponderance of the 'kindly Scot' in Victoria,

the 'real Donald' would have been traditionary. However, then as now,

the clans mustered strong in the rich pastures west of Geelong. Our

host, Archie M'Neill, a stalwart, sinewy Highlander, was a horse-breeder

too, Archie's colt being a promising sapling Traveller. The old

hereditary feelings had by no means died out. A neighbour of his was

wont, when 'the maut gat abune the meal,' to formulate thus his tribal

antipathies: 'I'm Macdonald frae Glencoe! D—n the bloody Campbells of

Glenlyon!'

Although there were necessarily differences of opinion—as will arise

even among friends on such topics at such times—we enjoyed ourselves in

all proper moderation. There was far more talking, laughing, and indeed

singing, than steady drinking. In those days it was wonderful how

musically inclined were all honest revellers. Just before the finale a

messenger came to say that 'Old Tom' had made the usual miscalculation,

and was then lodged in the Port Fairy lock-up. It was not to be endured

that the purveyor of the quarry which was to furnish our entertainment

for the morrow, should languish in a dungeon. We arose and in a body

marched to the watch-house, where any amount of bail was proffered to

the astonished constable. The cell-door being opened, the veteran came

forth, bent and humbled, looking not unlike an old dog-fox himself, as

he sought his couch unobtrusively, vowing supernatural sobriety for the

morrow.

The morning broke—a lovely sight;

The sun flashed down on armour bright,

wrote Hugh Ranclaud in his Marmion period. Slightly altered, this

description might have suited our array, which, owing to circumstances,

exhibited more variety and good intention than uniformity. A pink or

two, a good many black cut-aways, with a green riding-coat worn by John

Cox, the uniform of a Tasmanian hunt club. His tall figure as he reined

The Caliph, a grand half-Arab grey sixteen-hander, up to any weight over

any country, looked workman-like. Cords and tops were tolerably

plentiful, though 'butcher boots,' such as most of us affected for

ordinary stock-riding, were in the ascendant.

One frolicsome youngster, indeed, in default of a pink, resolved to

conform as nearly as possible to the fashion of his forefathers. To this

end he possessed himself of a bright red serge shirt, such as was

occasionally donned by all sorts and conditions of men in those days of

sincere effort. This he persuaded the village tailor to fashion into the

form of a coatee, and thus arrayed, he rode proudly amid the

front-rankers, congratulating himself, with perfect correctness, upon

having added a fresh sensation to the entertainment. Fred Burchett had

two chestnut hackneys, one a neat cob named Friendship. This day he rode

the other, which he had christened Love, being, as he explained, 'very

like friendship, only nicer.' Bob Cox (Robert Clerk's brother-in-law—not

related to the Clarendon family) might have been there on Bessborough. I

am not certain whether he did not join our band of heroes later on. But,

if so, the hunt missed that day a joyous comrade, a handsome face with

bright dark eyes, never unwelcome in hall or bower; one of the boldest

yet most artistic horsemen that ever sat in saddle. Poor old Bob! I used

often to think how I should have enjoyed mounting him 'regardless,' and

pitting him against the best men with the Quorn, the Pytchley, or

wherever the unrivalled English sport in the ancestral isle still holds

sway. What nice things a Monte Cristo might do—in that and a few other

ways!

The hounds were to throw off on the Warrnambool side of the Moyne, where

a broad flat was bounded by farms and the line of sand-dunes, which ran

parallel to the sea. A variety of jumping was ensured by this choice of

country, the farm fences being of every shade of height, breadth, and

solidity. Sound and springy was the turf. If the dingo, when turned

down, took the cross country line towards Tower Hill, he was likely to

lead us a dance, unless he found refuge in one of the wombat holes with

which the ferny slopes, breast high in bracken, abounded.

It must have been ten o'clock or thereabouts when Mr. Lord, arrayed in

the well-worn pink, cords, tops, and hunting-cap complete, conducted the

spotted beauties across the ford of the Moyne. Within an hour all the

Port Fairy world—among which half-a-dozen riding-habits showed that the

ladies were not willing to be left out of the excitement—was gathered

around. The Australian Reynard, all-ignorant that his imported compeer

was, in after-years, to be a prize for scalp-hunters, had been liberated

previously, with a due allowance of law, and on a line which involved a

reasonable share of fencing. After a preliminary cast or two, the

leading hounds hit off the scent, and with a burst of melody which

caused more than one of us to anticipate the sensations of Mr. Jorrocks,

away went the flower of the horsemen of the western district, riding

rather jealous, it must be admitted, but not to be stopped by anything

under a six-foot stock-yard fence.

It was a scene to be remembered. The blue sky, the green sward, sound

and springy as a cricket-ground, the limitless ocean plain, the long

resounding surge, the eager hounds, the medley of horsemen now slightly

tailing off, as the pack raced with a breast-high scent towards the

volcanic crest of Tower Hill.

Many were the falls, various the fortunes, of those who followed hounds

that day. Every man rode as if the honour, firstly, of his station, of

the district afterwards, were centred in him personally. It was before

the Traveller days, so that the Dunmore triumvirate were mounted on

steeds that, though good of their kind and well-bred (for they always

went in for blood), were not quite up to the form of St. George and

Trackdeer, Triton or Jupiter. William Campbell rode a roan, Houndsfoot,

five years old; and Macknight, I believe, his grand old mare Die

Vernon—one of those brilliant all-round goers that you couldn't put

wrong.

I rode my favourite black mare Tanny, the dam of Hope, Clifton, Red

Deer, and Comanchee—the first three winners in the aftertime either on

the flat or 'over the sticks.' She could both jump and gallop, as I must

show when I have time.

I regret that I cannot supply details anent this almost prehistoric run.

I recall The Caliph sailing over everything and taking all manner of

fences, from 'chock and log' to stiff three-railers, in his stride.

Freedom would probably be running away as usual, being a horse that no

mortal man could hold for the first mile. Alick Hunter and his brother,

doubtless, were there or thereabouts; and Robert Clerk of Mummumberrich

(the M.F.H. in time to come) was forward enough with Rocket in spite of

weight over the average. It was pretty straight going. We were used to

risks by flood and field. Ordinary stock-riding was hardly safer than

this or any other run with hounds. Matters were prosperous, and

everybody was looking forward to a first-class run, when 'the devil or

some untoward saint' put it into our quarry's head to double back as

nearly as possible along the line upon which he had come.

We had the satisfaction of taking nearly the same jumps over again,

when, lo and behold! dingo, apparently bent on self-destruction, made

across the hummocks, and charging the Pacific Ocean as if he meant to

cross over to Tasmania, swam gaily out to sea. As he reached the surf

the desperate pack raced down to the beach, where they sniffed and

circled in unwonted doubt and desperation. Eventually Reynard found the

enterprise disproportionate to his powers, and, swimming back, reached

the beach in a state of exhaustion. The hounds were whipped off,

however, and Old Tom and his bag being again called into requisition,

the sheep-killer was reserved for another and perhaps a straighter run.

The day but half done. We had therefore leisure as we rode homeward for

a considerable amount of general chaff and criticism, which resulted, as

usual, in wagers and a match or two.

Now my friend James Irvine of Dunmore had been riding the racing pony

Skipjack, a very perfectly-shaped grey with a square tail, such being

the mistaken fashion of that day and, I grieve to say, of the later one.

He was an acknowledged flier, and having won races at Flemington (or the

Melbourne Course as it was then called) was thought too good for

anything in the provinces. I had always considered my black mare to be

fast, but as she was wholly untried it might have been only the fond

fancy which a man has for his favourite. Still I believed in her. It

ended in my challenging the redoubtable Skipjack for a mile spin on the

following day, present riders up.

The odds were against me, inasmuch as the mare was off grass and,

excepting on this occasion, had not seen oats for months. She was not

even shod, whereas her antagonist was, if not in training, in hard

stable condition. Like many of the best hacks of those days he had been

bred in Tasmania. He showed Arab blood, and probably owed his speed and

strength to that ancient race. Tanny, on the other hand, was a

Sydney-sider by extraction, her dam being brought over in 'Howie's mob,'

one of the earliest lots of horses driven overland. I saw them sold in a

cattle-yard, then standing at the corner of Bourke and Swanston Streets.

Mr. Purves senior afterwards occupied the cottage built there, for I

remember him showing me Banker in the stable. Dr. Campbell lived there

afterwards. A similar sale in the same spot would excite astonishment

now in any given forenoon.

So it was an intercolonial contest. More than this, it was all Eumeralla

against the Hopkins, inasmuch as Mr. Rodger abode at Merang, while the

Dunmores and I rode home towards the setting sun from Port Fairy. Old

Tom, a veteran in the pig-skin and a judge of pace, told his friends

that 'Tanny was the divil's own mare to pull, but if the masther could

hould her the first half mile, she'd give Skipjack his work to do at the

finish.' A trifle of speculation resulted, the odds being tempting.

James Irvine was a well-known workman on the flat and a light weight.

Bets were taken accordingly, and a book or two made in a small way. When

on the morrow the entire population of the district turned out to see

the races, and when, ours being the first, we did the customary

pipe-opener, the leading artists at Goodwood or Ascot felt less pride,

possibly less desperate determination.

Down went the flag and off went we. With much ado mastering the mare's

wild impulse to bolt, as she had done many a time before in company, I

lay well up to my friend, but allowed him to make the pace. He made it a

cracker accordingly, hoping to run me out—his obvious line with a slower

or untrained horse. But I bided my time. The mare knew me well and

gradually steadied down to the work, and when a safe distance from home

I made my effort and landed the good, game animal a winner by a neck, I

felt, amid cheers, congratulations, and smiles, as if earth had no

higher glories to offer, life no brighter joys. 'Bedad, she's a great

mare intirely,' said Old Tom as he led her away. 'I wouldn't say but

she'd win the Maiden Plate if we thrained her. There's an iligant course

at the Native Dog-Hole.' This suggestion was not followed up. Though

passionately fond of horses, I was a practical person in those days,

eschewing all connection with public racing on principle.

There were other races, a Hack Scurry among them, then a

highly-enjoyable picnic lunch, after which the principal event of the

day, the steeplechase, was to come off. A fair hunting line had been

marked, including among others a solid 'dead-wood' fence. For this race

there were a dozen starters more or less, and great was the excitement.

The black mare and I were among them, I know—the morning's exercise not

being considered of sufficient importance to keep us out of it.

The Caliph was thought too good for the company, and was therefore not

entered by his owner. Macknight and Bob Craufurd, Fred Burchett and I,

Neil Kennedy and Dick Rutledge, with some others of the old set, were

duly marshalled in line and started. It was on that occasion, during

some preparatory schooling, that Neil made his famous reply to Norman

M'Leod, who, himself a fine horseman and steeplechase jock, scandalised

at Neil's loose riding, thus expostulated—

'Look here, Kennedy, why don't you lift your horse at his fence?'

'Lift be d—d,' returned Neil in desperation; 'I've quite enough to do

_to hold on_.'

Neil was utterly fearless, a sort of Berserker horseman, ready to ride

any sort of horse at any manner of leap, of any height, breadth, or

stiffness; but he was not famous for adherence to the pig-skin. Falls,

many or few, made no difference in his willingness to try his luck

again. If he did not break his neck, practice would make him perfect in

time. So, accordingly, Neil faced the starter on a hard puller, full of

faith in his star, and confident in future triumphs.

The first fence was wide and high, composed of brush-timber and more or

less negotiable, so we sailed over in line in a gallant and satisfactory

way. The next was reasonable. Then came our rasper, the dead-wood fence,

a kind of wooden wall, raised to nearly five feet, and composed of logs,

stumps, and roots of trees, piled horizontally after a compact and

unyielding fashion.

Freedom, with Dick Rutledge up, leading by a dozen lengths, flew it

without altering stride. Bob Craufurd was over next. Neil Kennedy and I

racing for a place charged it, when his horse, hitting it hard,

performed a complete somersault, balancing himself for a moment on the

broad of his back, and sending Neil flying so far ahead that there was

as little danger of his being crushed as likelihood of his being in the

race afterwards.

The majority were fairly up at the finish: three made a creditable

struggle for second place; but Freedom, a fast two-miler, won the race

from end to end, and taking all his leaps without baulk or mistake was

never challenged.

So ended the second day's sport. Sport indeed, was it not? How little

the faint copies of recreation, misnamed pleasure, resemble it nowadays!

As we went home the tide was in, the ford deep, with a fair swim in the

midstream, which was the reason I chose to take the short cut I suppose,

thus letting off the exuberance of youthful spirits as well as directing

certain bright eyes towards myself and the mare as we breasted the broad

water.

The remainder of the day but sufficed to see all the horses properly

looked to, after their exciting day, in the loose-boxes or improvised

stabling which 'The Merrijig,' when put on its metal, was enabled to

supply; afterwards a dinner, which, if the cooking was not quite equal

to that of the 'Trois Frères Provencaux' or the Café Riche, was more

thoroughly enjoyed. Lastly came the needful preparation for the ball.

The ladies who had come into town specially for the affair were

accommodated at Mr. Rutledge's hospitable mansion or other private

houses. This was just as well, as the modified communism which extended

to shirt collars, ties, boots and shoes, indeed to all wearing apparel

whatever, involved so much rushing in and out of rooms that awkward

_contretemps_ must inevitably have occurred.

The music was that of a piano—a really good one—lent for the occasion,

and the new dining-hall of the hotel, then constructed by way of

addition, properly draped and lighted, made a commodious and effective

ballroom.

Would that I could have photographed the costumes displayed that

evening—among us men of course. Ladies always manage to be becomingly

arrayed under whatever contradictory circumstances. It was not so easy

in our stage of civilisation—recently emerged from the pioneer epoch—to

provide irreproachable raiment. Few possessed the accredited articles;

fewer still bore them about when travelling.

I can hear the waltz now, and see the lady who played, as with one rapt

glance I took in the situation on entering the room, for I had my

toilette troubles to overcome, and was a trifle late. What did we dance

in those days, more than fifty years agone? The _trois temps_ and hop

waltzes, the galop, quadrilles, lancers; I think there must have been

reels, Scots being in the majority. But no polka, no _deux temps_ or

'military' waltz, no Highland or other schottische, certainly no

Washington Post. That sounds a tame programme, doesn't it? Still we

danced and talked, nay, even flirted, very much as people do nowadays,

and enjoyed ourselves generally, more, far more, than the comparatively

languid moderns. It must have looked something like a hunt ball, though

a slightly unconventional one, inasmuch as those who were conscious of

correct riding toggery elected to sport it. Every variety of rig, in

coats, shirts, collars and ties, boots and shoes, from tops to feminine

stuff-boots (and not bad things on a pinch), adorned the main body. The

supper was welcomed as the crowning glory of the evening. Healths were

proposed, speeches were made, dancing was resumed with additional

spirit, and daylight found us still unsated—ready, indeed, to begin the

programme _da capo_. Prudence and the counsels of the aged, as

represented by the infrequent paterfamilias, however prevailed, and the

patriotic melody having sounded, there was an end to joy unconfined for

the present. Everything had been a triumphant success. No awkwardness of

any sort had occurred, if we may except an impromptu _tableau vivant_—a

pretty housemaid fleeing Ariadne-like into the ladies' dressing-room,

closely pursued by an enterprising youngster, who did not discover,

until too late, the awful presence which he had invaded. A wrathful

senior declined to see the classic appositeness of the incident, and

muttered threats of vengeance dire; but upon Bacchus being adroitly

suggested to be in fault, as of old, he was gradually appeased. And so

with laugh and jest, and many a pleasant memory to cherish, we fared

homewards next day from the First Port Fairy Hunt.

BENDEMEER

That bower and its music I never forget,

But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,

I think—Is the nightingale singing there yet?

Do the roses still bloom by the calm Bendemeer?

The æsthetic pioneer who bestowed this romantic name upon the New

England village between Tamworth and Uralla probably realised a hazy

similarity. Yet roses must have been few and far between, eminently

suitable as are soil and climate; and the nightingale awaits the

millennium of acclimatisers. The sparrow—wastrel of Europe that he

is—doth first appear. The clear stream of the Macdonald, winding through

the green hill-encircled valley, renders the comparison faintly

apposite. On the whole, the name of Bendemeer will sound as well to our

federal successors as Curra-wohbo-lah or Murra-munga-myne; and if it

sets young Australia to reading _Lalla Rookh_, it may act as a

counterpoise to overmuch devotion to wool and horse-racing—may even tend

to the cult which _emollit mores_.

These slight incongruities notwithstanding, I would counsel any

Australian Beckford, in want of a site for the antipodean Fonthill, to

realise the poet's dream in the vale of Bendemeer (Great Northern

Railway line, New South Wales), and so immortalise himself in the minds

of generations of grateful compatriots.

As I stand in front of the little hostelry in the sweet moonrise of this

summer night and gaze around, my heart sympathises with the unknown

sentimental sponsor. I feel constrained to admit that he had the true

poetic insight, piercing the measureless spaces of the future—

Far as human eye can see.

It is the last month of the year, in the hour for a 'midsummer night's

dream' (antipodean); the fervent noonday glare has given place to the

fresh, delicious temperature which in this elevated region succeeds

sunset; the heavens are cloudless. As the moon's orb is slowly lifted,

the grand mountain-chain which lies beyond the head waters of the river

shows clearly defined in majestic gloom and ebon shades.

On the hills which enclose this fair green valley, each tree-stem,

bough, and frond is traced with pre-Raphaelite distinctness. Fronting

the inn, on the river-terrace, hang the pendent branches of an aged

willow-tree, the umbrageous spread of which has caused its utilisation

as a shade for the horses of customers and wayfarers. A round dozen of

these have just been released from durance, as their owners, warned of

the closing hour, ride off into the night. The equestrian habit

principally differentiates the tavern of the new country from that of

the old. Otherwise, in the matter of civility, cleanliness, and

quietude, this particular inn and some others I affect in my rambles

closely resemble the snug roadside retreats of Old England.

As I pace slowly over the thick green sward which carpets the

river-meadow, the thought pursues me of what changes the future Lord

of Bendemeer would find requisite. Aided by the Genius of Capital,

they could not be wholly impracticable. And what a delicious Palace of

Summer Delights, a charmed refuge from the world's woe and the

clamorous chatter of society, might he rear amidst these cloistered

shades! Important alterations, not in accordance with latter-day

legislation, would be first effected. The acquisition of the freehold

for leagues around, the disestablishment of stores, telegraph-and

post-offices—pernicious contrivances these last for bringing unrest

into remotest solitudes; the closing of schools and churches; the

abrogation of the utilities; the suppression of trade; the exile of

industry; I include with regret the old-fashioned, reposeful hostelry.

Happy thought! It would probably be spared until the army of workmen

required for the erection of the palace had been disbanded; as also,

for similar reasons, the police-barrack which dominates the district,

whence issues the man-at-arms of the period, 'native and to the manner

born,' but soldierly and erect of bearing—a sleuth-hound in pursuit of

horse-thieves and highwaymen, mounted and accoutred proper upon the

good steed which he alone can rein.

The railway-line has been averted by good genii or through the _laissez

aller_ tone of thought which characterises the inhabitants of the vale.

It clangs and thunders through a gorge on the head waters of the river,

thus avoiding desecration by scrambling tourists and irreverent sons of

commerce; but a huge, white, staring wooden bridge, the financial goal

and triumph of the local tradesfolk, disfigures the rippling moonlit

water. At a wave of the magic wand it disappears. A fairy-like structure

arises in its place, delicate with marble tracery of pillars and arches,

where the elves may flit love-whispering through the long sweet nights,

may beckon to the Lorelei as she combs her tresses and warbles the

fateful song on the rock which guards the midstream above the shimmering

whirlpool.

The passes are guarded; the river-course on either side securely

barricaded against the conditional purchaser and the drover—sole

survivors they of the raider and moss-trooper, which a too considerate

civilisation permits. Deer alone are permitted to crop the herbage of

the park-like slopes; under the heavy shadows of the mountain, the

leaping trout and lordly salmon, the ancient carp with silver-gleaming

sides, would flash through stream and pool (this last no visionary

image) as the shadows lengthened and the twilight stole tremulously

forward. When the day was done, on such a full-orbed night as this, 'the

harp, the lute, the viol's cry' should awaken the echoes as a most fair

company (for would not all gallant knights and _gracieuses_, dames and

damsels—whether summoned from afar or dwelling near at hand—with

attendant poets and troubadours, be free of right to the enchanted

vale?) flee the hours with song and dance till bright Cynthia paled at

the approaching dawn, or, wandering through cedarn alleys and

rose-thickets, listen to the nightingale's song as it blended with the

murmur of silver-plashing fountains. The gnomes that dwell in the

mountain passes, where they pile undreamed-of heaps of ore, steal forth

to watch the enchanted revels. The river elves and fays float through

mazy measures in fairy rings, or recline, 'neath starry fragrant

blossoms, on rose-leaf couches. Even the unseen genius of the Austral

wild—no malign, amorphous terror, but a benignant sylvan deity—might

peer through the forest leaves and smile wonderingly at the fantasies of

the 'coming race.'

Hark! Is that the grey owl? With strange, unmelodious cry he stirs the

stillness. I turn to watch him, as he swims the night air with moveless

wing—dropping, like the emissary of an evil witch, on the willow branch

between me and the moon. Bird of ill omen, thou hast shattered my dream!

The Palace has disappeared, the lutes are silent, the fair company

dispersed; the nightingale, that sang of 'love, and love's sharp woe,'

is mute for another century. Only the faint plash of the river, rippling

over its sand-bars; only the mountain shadows beneath the waning,

gibbous moon; only the unbroken silence of the Austral woodland,

brooding, majestic, as of one watching through the eternities for the

birth of a nation. 'The light that never was on sea or land' fades

rapidly, and with the sigh that greets the evanishing of the undersoul's

fair fantasies I seek my couch.

* * * * *

An early _réveillé_ comes Duty, with reason-compelling Circumstance; a

deputation demanding answers to questions, of which due notice has been

given. 'Enterprises of great pith and moment are imminent.' We must to

horse and away, not betaking ourselves to pilgrim's staff, as is

customary with us; time permits not. What bard—was it the sweet singer

of a Brisbane Reverie, 'The Complaint of the Doves,' the laureate of

Royalty (black), the minstrel of the desert steed, that in a lighter

hour proclaimed—

For I am bound to Stanthorpe town,

And time with me is tin?

We are not journeying quite so far as the stanniferous stronghold; yet

is our errand not unconnected with the metal that the Silures and

Phœnicians delved for in Cornwall long before Julius Cæsar, without

reference to the susceptibilities of king, kaiser, or chancellor,

established his protectorate of Britain.

The stern Roman, the world's master, has vanished from among the tribes

of men. His descendant, an ignoble _fainéant_, a stolid peasant, or a

hired model, sells the right to mould the heroic form which has survived

the heroic soul. The wide-ranging, sea-roving Anglo-Saxon, descendant of

the fiercer races, has succeeded to his heritage of universal empire.

But can it be that the mother of nations is sinking into senile

decrepitude, with selfish querulousness evading responsibility, only to

lapse into deserved decay of power, and well-merited insignificance in

the council halls of the world?

Oh for one hour of Wallace wight,

Or well-skilled Bruce to rule the fight!

sang Scotland's bard, in the lament for the fortunes of the field which

sealed his country's fate. May not the modern Briton make the

application, and in mingled wrath and despair regret the lost leader,

who trod firmly, if warily, who drifted not, irresolutely weak, from

peril to disasters, and delayed not the call to arms until the foe was

at the gate of the citadel?[2]

Footnote 2:

Written in 1884.

But this savours of the digressive. Where are we? Whither is this

plaguey, many-sided, chiefly unnecessary, or wholly superfluous, mental

apparatus, as some hold (being rarely serviceable in the muck-rake or

money-storing business), leading us? To fairyland but yesternight; anon

to Albion, Germany, Rome, amid Liberal Ministers even, to their Austral

countrymen all too illiberal, stepfatherly, stern, repressive. Prose and

the present to the rescue! So we fare on, the trooper and I, along the

course of the Macdonald, in the fresh purity of this New England summer

morn. How blithe and gladsome are all things! Hard is it to believe that

disease, death, and unforeseen disaster can exist in so fair a world!

The river ripples merrily onward, or sleeps in deep pools under

o'erhanging oaks, whence the shy wild-duck floats out with dusky brood,

or the heron rises from the reedy marge and sweeps along the winding

stream. Masses of granite overhang the water. The everlasting hills rear

themselves, scarped and terraced, at dizzy altitudes on either side. The

late rains have lent a velvet, emerald tinge to the thick-growing matted

sward. Marguerites, dandelions, white and yellow immortelles, the

crimson bunches of hakea, fringed violets, with bright purple masses of

swainsonia, diversify mead and upland. Tiny rills and springheads show a

well-watered country—'a land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will.'

Ever and anon the willow, with foliage of vivid tender green, contrasts

with the sombre filaments of the river oak.

My companion is an active, intelligent young fellow—a native-born

Australian, whose fair hair and steadfast grey-blue eyes show that the

Anglo-Saxon type is not likely to alter materially in Southern Britain.

He and his horse are well suited—the latter a well-bred bay, fast at a

finish, and ready to stay for ever. He has done a hundred miles on end

before now, and been ridden twenty hours out of the twenty-four. In more

than one skirmish, when revolvers were out, he has proved steady under

fire, and is the very model, in appearance, in condition, and pace, of

what a charger should be in a troop of Irregular Horse. As he stretches

along with smooth, fast, easy stride, he looks as quiet as a lamb, and

what superficial critics call 'properly broken in.' None the less will

he refuse to let a stranger bridle, much less ride him; he would in such

case snort and plunge like an unbacked colt.

I have had no experience of the metropolitan police, against whom it is

occasionally the wont of a section of the press to say hard things.

These may be true or false, for what I know, though I am disposed to

believe the latter. But for the last twenty years I have had much

knowledge of the mounted portion of the New South Wales force in the

towns and districts of the interior, and I willingly record my

testimony—not being in official relations with them at present—that a

more efficient, well-disciplined, well-behaved body of men—smart,

serviceable, and self-respecting—does not exist in any part of the

world. In old days they were sometimes at a disadvantage against

outlaws, who could ride and track like Comanchee Indians, the police

being chiefly of British birth and rearing. But the mounted troopers are

now largely recruited from natives of the colony, or men who have lived

here from their youth. In one of these, as in my guide of to-day, the

cattle-thief or other criminal has a pursuer to contend with as well

mounted as himself, and fully his match in all the arcana of bushcraft.

But good as the white Australian may be at following a track, his sable

compatriot is a degree better. A tamed preadamite, either borrowed for

the occasion from a squatter, or attached by pay and cast-off uniform to

a police-barrack, makes a matchless sleuth-hound. Such a one, I am told,

helped to run down a notorious party of horse-thieves in these very

mountains, following with astonishing accuracy the marauders, who

travelled _only by night_, using every artifice as well to blind tracks

and divert pursuers.

We cross the river once more, and note an island, upon which in

floodtime a leading pastoral proprietor was washed down and nearly

drowned. Another mile discovers a picturesquely-situated homestead,

overlooking the river, where, winding round a granite promontory, it

turns westward on its way to the great plain beyond the 'divide.' The

roses proclaim their vicinity to the famed Bendemeer, the decomposed

granite having a special chemical affinity; while the violets, large of

leaf and profuse of bloom, seem as if prepared to found a new variety,

so widely do they differ from the ordinary floweret.

For half a century or more has the venerable pioneer dwelt hard by the

river-brim, where now, handsomely lodged, garden-surrounded, he

dispenses hospitality, with all the concomitants of successful pastoral

life around him, save and excepting only the wife and bairns, the

stalwart sons and bright-eyed daughters, with which so worthy and

energetic a colonist should have strengthened the State. But 'non cuivis

contingit adire Corinthum'; it is not every man's lot thus to wind up

life's tale. And it may be conceded that he who at an advanced age,

retaining every faculty unimpaired, is permitted to view the work of his

hands, conducted from the stage of the untamed wild to smiling

prosperity, who can look forward cheerfully to end his days among a

population entirely composed of friends and well-wishers, has secured a

large proportion of the good which is permissible to mortal man.

Onward, still onward, ride we, for many a mile must be passed ere

sunset. Onward through rugged defiles and rock-strewn passes, over which

the sure-footed steeds are constrained to clamber like chamois. Indeed

we are nearly blocked in consequence of adopting one very tempting

'cut,'—by the way, in bush parlance, the old English predicate has been

eliminated, and with reason; one does not speak of a 'long cut,'—for we

find ourselves in the centre of a rock labyrinth locally termed a

'gaol.' The path, however, amid the huge boulders eventually conducts us

to a grand granite-floored terrace, apparently constructed by one of the

Kings of Bashan. Here we have a wide, extended view of the varied

landscape, 'valley and mountain and woodland,' but it does not otherwise

serve our purpose.

Speedily recovering lost ground, we strike the creek and the tin mines

thereon located, which had been the cause of the exploration. The

sanguine, undaunted prospectors are as usual delving and ditching,

felling the forest, constructing dams, and generally committing assault

and robbery upon patient mother Hertha.

We see the stream tin being washed out everywhere, like dark-coloured

pebbly gravel. We note where the same rivulet has been formerly ravaged

by the wandering mining hordes. We thread the gorges which lead into a

rock-walled alpine valley, not inaptly named the 'Giant's Den,' and

there meet with tin—more tin—_toujours_ tin. For this fastness of the

Titans has been turned into the Grand United Sluicing Company—no

liability, let us say—and for the ten thousandth time, more or less, we

admire the indomitable pluck and sanguine confidence of the miner

proper. Here steam engines, pumping machinery, iron piping by the mile,

dams, houses, men and material, are all found, in different stages of

adaptation to an end. Evidently the shareholders, some of whom are

practical men of transcolonial experience, have faith in the venture.

The energetic Victorian captain beguiles us into a long, hot, pedestrian

tour of inspection. He, always in advance, shovel on shoulder, prospects

from time to time, and 'pans out,' with invariable success, the

stanniferous gravel. Sooth to say, we have reached at length the mystic

region where there is no 'want of tin.' It occurs everywhere in

abundance—in new ground, in old workings, in mullock, in trenches, in

each and every conceivable place. At the end of our bit of training,

which mentally places us on a footing with Weston and other 'peds' of

fame, we express our opinion that, with a steady supply of water for

ground-sluicing, the Company should pay handsome dividends for years to

come. The energetic captain, 'bred and born in a briar patch,' that is,

on a goldfield, so that he is a 'legitimate miner' in every sense of the

word, smiles appreciatively. We thankfully resume the saddle, and bid

farewell to the 'Giant's Den.' 'It may be for years; it may be for

ever.'

SPORT IN AUSTRALIA

Very early in a land peopled by the roving Englishman did sport of one

kind or another begin to put forth those shoots which have since so

grown and burgeoned. For some years there must have been so few horses,

that racing contests were difficult if not impossible. The first cattle

were herded without horses, some of the pedestrian stockmen acquiring

thereby extraordinary speed of foot. It was customary for early

Australians to make longish journeys on foot, and legends are yet rife

in colonial families as to the distances performed then by the

seniors—tales which strike with astonishment their descendants, who

rarely walk, much less run.

We doubt not, however, that as soon as the colts and fillies began to

grow up, their young riders, with or without leave, commenced to

ascertain their relative speed.

Parramatta has, it is said, the honour of holding the first race meeting

in 1810, the example being followed by the officers of the 73rd

Regiment, then in Sydney, who utilised the reserve now known as Hyde

Park for the purpose. From that time annual races commenced to be held

there. The country towns, as they arose, were only too eager to follow

the example of the metropolis. Favourites of the turf acquired fame

which was trumpeted abroad through the restricted sporting circles of

the day.

Sir John Jamison's Bennelong—named after a well-known aboriginal—was one

of the early racing celebrities. He ran against Mr. Lawson's Spring Gun

in 1829 for a heavy wager as they went then; and the old-world system of

heats finishing up Spring Gun, he won easily. He carried off the

principal turf events in Parramatta in 1832. In the same year Mr. H.

Bayley's imported colt, Whisker, won the great races at the Hawkesbury

meeting. Trotting was not entirely overlooked. It appears that a Mr.

Potter's horse trotted twelve miles within the hour for a bet of £30,

winning by fifteen seconds.

In May 1834 the Sydney Subscription Races were held on the New Course,

Botany Road, for the first time. This course was new as compared with

Hyde Park, but came to be called 'the old Sandy Course,' in relation to

Homebush, the next established convincing-ground. At this meeting, Mr.

C. Smith's Chester, a son of Bay Camerton, won the Cup; Whisker the

Ladies' Purse. This grand horse won the Town Plate of £50; also the

Ladies' Purse, £25, again beating Chester. Whisker, for whom £1400 had

been offered three days previously, died within the week. I was present

at that same old Sandy Course in the autumn of 1835, when Chester beat

his half-brother Traveller—the latter fated to belong to my old friend

and neighbour, Charles Macknight, at Dunmore, Victoria, in years to

come. The well-known Emigrant mare, Lady Godiva, ran at the same

meeting, and won her race for the Ladies' Purse, containing the modest

sum of £30. The Town Plate was £50.

The celebrated horse Jorrocks, 'clarum et venerabile nomen' in turf

annals, belonged to that period. A son of Whisker from Lady Emily

(imported), he inherited some of the best racing-blood in the world; the

dry air and nutritive pasturage of his native land did the rest. A horse

of astonishing speed, stoutness, and courage, his record covers a longer

list of victories than that of any other Australian racehorse. In those

days of three-mile heats, he might not win the first, but rarely lost

the succeeding ones. It used to be said that when the 'native' lads

began to cheer, Jorrocks seemed to comprehend the situation, and would

win on the post or die in the attempt. I saw him once, a retired

veteran, and can never forget his shape, almost symmetrically perfect. A

long forehand, with light, game head and full eye, grand sloping

shoulders, cask-like back-rib, muscular quarter and Arab croupe, legs

like iron, as indeed they needed to have been; a long, low horse,

scarcely exceeding fifteen hands, I should say, in height—such was

Jorrocks.

Intercolonial races began in 1849. Without railways there was a

difficulty in transporting horses; but it was overcome. Petrel, the

property of Mr. Colin Campbell, a popular Victorian squatter, ran a

great race on the Melbourne Course with Mr. Austin's Bessie Bedlam, a

beautiful daughter of Cornborough.

Dark brown, with tan muzzle.

Gordon's description might have been written for her. She was, to my

thinking, the handsomest mare ever stripped on an Australian course.

Petrel won, and Mr. Campbell gave a ball at the Prince of Wales' Hotel

in Melbourne on the strength of his winnings, at which I was a guest—and

a very good ball it was. The same year saw Emerald and Tally-ho (from

New South Wales), Coronet and Hollyoake (of Tasmania), beaten by the

Victorian horse Bunyip, a big powerful bay. He won the Town Plate,

Publicans' Purse, and Ladies' Purse at the same meeting; and starting

for fourteen principal races that season, won them all—a truly

phenomenal animal.

By this time the gold 'boom of booms' had occurred. There were no more

£50 Town Plates. In 1856 Alice Hawthorn won £1000 for Mr. Chirnside,

beating Mr. Warby's Cardinal Wiseman; in her turn losing the three-mile

race with Veno—an intercolonial duel—for £2000. In 1859 I saw Flying

Buck win the Champion Melbourne Sweepstakes for £1000, eighteen

starters, and may have heard the late Mr. Goldsborough offer a thousand

to thirty against him after the start, and Roger Kelsall call out

'taken.'

The pageant of Flemington on Cup day was yet a visionary forecast. Mr.

Bagot had not appeared above the horizon. First King, Briseis, Archer,

and Glencoe—much less Carbine and Trenton—were in the dimmest futurity.

I was to see Adam Lindsay Gordon win the steeplechase of '69 upon

Viking, with Babbler half a length behind. Glencoe the same year bore

the coveted Cup trophy to New South Wales.

What a wondrous change had taken place in a few short years between the

primitive racing and rude surroundings of the old Botany Course and the

shaven lawns, the flower-beds, the asphalt walks, the immense

grand-stands, the order, comfort, and perfect organisation of Randwick

and Flemington—exceeding indeed, in these respects, the race-courses of

the old country! What a difference in the size and quality of the fields

of running horses, in the amount of money wagered, in the multitude that

attends, in the facilities of rail and road by which the tens of

thousands of spectators are safely, comfortably disposed of in transit!

In these and other astounding developments of the era we cannot but mark

the transition stage from a colony to a nation, from a collection of

humble towns and hamlets to a cluster of cities commencing to take rank

with the world's important centres. An Anglo-Saxon dominion unmatched,

for the period of its existence, in wealth and culture, population and

trade, in progress in all that constitutes true, steadfast, abiding

civilisation.

With respect to sport other than horse-racing, the men who had left

'Merrie England' so far away across the Southern main, conscious that in

many cases they had looked their last upon that earthly paradise of the

angler, the huntsman, the fowler, and the deer-stalker, began to cast

about for substitutes and compromises. Hares and rabbits there were none

(did we catch a cheer, or was it a groan?); but the active marsupials

which then overspread the land afforded reasonable coursing, and led to

the formation of a breed of greyhounds, stronger, fiercer, in some

instances hardly less fleet, than those of the old country. Reynard was

still absent, but Brer Dingo was fast across the open, and a good

stayer, while his insatiable appetite for mutton and poultry rendered

him beyond a doubt the fox's natural successor. Even as a 'bagman' he

was fairly serviceable.

Thus at an early date in Tasmania, a land of farms and small enclosures,

and later on in Sydney, the old-world rural recreation, with pinks and

tops, horn and hound, huntsman and whipper-in, 'accoutred proper,' was

welcomed and supported. In Victoria there are now home-grown foxes in

abundance, with hares, and, alas, rabbits in still greater proportion

for them to subsist upon; while as to the fields, no straighter goers

are to be found in Christendom—_moi qui parle_—than our young

Australians, men and maidens, married or single—let the stiff

three-railers of Petersham and Ballarat, Geelong and Rooty-hill testify;

no better horses—fast, well-bred, clever, and up to weight. It seems

hard that distance, expense, and long voyage should stand in the way of

members of Australian hunt clubs trying their own and their steeds'

mettle in 'the Shires.'

Now for the gun. Wild-fowling has obtained always on the inland lakes

and rivers, on marsh and lagoons, with quail and snipe, more or less,

still extant; yet it must be confessed that it has chiefly partaken of

the nature of 'pot-hunting.' In marshy localities snipe are abundant in

the season—I have known a bag made of twenty-five couple in Squattlesea

Mere in old days; but the quail, the brown variety of which more nearly

resembles the partridge, has a way of disappearing from haunts too much

disturbed. Unlike the partridge, it will not return to the same

cornfields year after year. The native pheasant is a shy bird, for the

most part inhabiting the thickets of the interior and the forests of the

main range—localities where sport can hardly be carried out under proper

conditions. The wild turkey is a grand bird, both as to size and

flavour, but wary and a dweller on plains. He is only to be approached

by stratagem.

In New South Wales, Victoria, and Tasmania, the partridge and pheasant,

though often imported—my old friend Mr. Yaldwyn brought out both to his

station near Macedon early in the 'forties'—have never thriven in the

bush proper. Edible seeds and berries are scarce, while natural enemies

are plentiful. In New Zealand, a virgin Britannia of the South, the

converse obtains. There are in that priceless possession, obtained by

pluck and luck (before we got into the habit of advertising for the

colonisation of our territory by foreigners), no eagles, no crows, no

dingoes or dasyures. Partridges or pheasants turned loose in the woods

of the North Island multiply apace, and a tremendous bag of the former

was made to my knowledge by a Sydney proprietor on a visit there,

walking in breast-high fern, but a few years since. As to introduced

game, a herd of red deer, led by a 'stag of ten,' may be seen on the

grassy slopes of Laverton, within easy reach of Melbourne, and near

enough for an occasional hunt, while fallow deer are plentiful, both

there and in other Australian localities. Among the farms they have

grown to be somewhat of a nuisance indeed; hence a trifle of justifiable

poaching no doubt occasionally takes place. In a general way no great

harm has been done by the introduction of European game. Hares have

increased amazingly, while greyhounds of stainless pedigree, with

coursing matches to suit all comers, are plentiful in every country

district.

But the 'werry important and particlar' exception to this comfortable

doctrine has been the rabbit. Alack! and alack! What evil genius,

hostile to the good South Land, prompted the importation of that fiend

in a fur-jacket? 'Brer Rabbit' has amply revenged upon us the sufferings

of his kind in bygone ages, and left a balance yet unpaid. What have we

spent on him? What tens of thousands of pounds sterling are yet to be

disbursed by suffering squatters, o'erburdened tax-payers, even by the

humble 'retrenched' civil servant, against whom appears to be the hand

of every man in the hour of financial need!

But the subject is too painful. Far removed from any description of

sport. Sport? Ha! ha! Death, indeed, is the closer designation. However

we may have been deceived as to certain results 'on this behalf,' let us

not forget that our enemy is, like most of his congeners, excellent

eating—good alike on the table of the poor man and the rich. In time, as

population advances and smaller enclosures become necessary, his doom of

extermination will be fulfilled, while the more harmless ministers of

sport will be protected and encouraged.

About cricket it seems unnecessary to dilate. It has been taught

sedulously to the Australian boy, by precept and example. No

denominational bias has hindered _that_ lesson being learned

thoroughly—a fair argument, by the way, supposing the national

reputation and existence to depend solely upon cricket, in favour of the

secular system. How all our boys love it! Did I not see a youngster, of

say seven or eight, yesterday, leading two small brothers, with one cry

of 'Cricket match!' dash up to the engraving of the Gentlemen of England

and 'Our Boys' in London, on the cricket-ground, now on view in a

bookseller's window in George Street? How they gloated over it!

Many a good match have I seen in the old Hyde Park, when the Sydney

College boys had a right of occupation there for a special purpose. His

Honour Judge Forbes, then a crack bowler at one wicket, with Mr. William

Roberts senior performing the part of the historic veteran of Dingley

Dell with the bat. William Still looking out for a catch, George Hill or

Geoffrey Eager, or Moule or Hovenden Hely, alert at cover-point or slip,

mid-wicket or long-stop.

Ah me! those days have gone, and how many of those who then ran and

shouted in all the glee of youthful spirits and health! Those who remain

are growing old, if not in the 'serious and yellow' stage, and the young

ones are coming on, doubtless to fill their places, 'in arms, in arts,

in song.' When Hugh Hamon Massie made that 206 score for the Australian

team against Oxford, our British cousins were probably of the same

opinion. His triumph on that occasion was by no means a solitary one,

and successive teams have demonstrated that in Australians our kin

beyond sea will always find foemen worthy of their steel. Long may the

friendly rivalry last; and in the deadlier contests to come—as surely

they _must_ come—may they always stand, like Highlanders, 'shouther to

shouther.'[3]

Footnote 3:

Written in 1885. A prophecy fulfilled in February 1900.

Next to the outside of a horse—even, perhaps, as regards the coast

towns, before that instinctively natural position—your true Australian

is most at home in a boat. Those who watch the appearance of Sydney

Harbour on a holiday must come to the conclusion that as a nursery for

seamen it is excelled by few sea-boards in the world. Gay is the

sea-lake with every kind of sailing craft, from the fifty-ton yacht,

brand new and not launched under a cost of £2000 or £3000, to the canvas

dingy flying along, bows under, with a big sail, and the youthful crew

perched like seagulls on the weather gunwale. When a capsize occurs,

which with these craft is a matter 'quite frequent,' they dive like a

brood of wild-ducks, as they right their frail craft, and are soon

bowling along as reckless as ever.

With such aquatic habits, small wonder if we have bred or trained the

men who have beaten with the sculls not only old England but the

world—ay, the world!—at this particular sport. Not only is it now

demonstrated that we possess equal skill in all the manlier

exercises—the boast of the island Briton, and at which he was long held

to be unrivalled—but that in strength, stature, and the desperate

courage which prolongs the contest to the last dangerous degree of

exhaustion and afterwards, our men, Australian-born or reared, are equal

to the best Briton that ever trod a plank, or to the best transatlantic

colonist, himself superior in that special section of sport to his

British kinsmen.

All Sydney boys, of whatever degree, take naturally to the boat. And

when I saw a young friend but the other day, in a Masaniello rig, expand

his broad chest and glide into stroke with one stretch of his bronzed

muscular arms, I hummed instinctively as I watched the retreating skiff,

'Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves.'

The 'incomplete angler' necessarily commenced by deep-line fishing in

Botany Bay, where he discovered the highly-edible schnapper, that

moderately-boned fish of comfortable size and toothsome flavour. To him

all honour therefor. Also the rock and other cod-fish, whiting, bream,

mullet, trumpeter, flounder, sole, and many others (not forgetting

yellow-tail for bait)—all these for sea-fish are not to be surpassed. It

was some years before the lordly Murray Cod was handled with the help of

rod and line, by reason of the Murray, our Australian Mississippi, not

being then discovered.

Since then we have made piscatorial advance, and doubtless shall make

more. If we have not finally settled the question as to the

acclimatisation of _Salmo ferox_ in Tasmania, we have the best of all

evidences of the existence of trout of exceptional size in Australian

waters. Fly-fishing is still in its infancy, though the _thymallus_ of

the Yarra Falls rises eagerly, and gives good sport. Trout and herring

furnish many an hour's enjoyment to the disciple of Izaak Walton in

Tasmania. Huge lake-trout are to be found in the erstwhile eel-tenanted

deeps of New Zealand. A salmo-appearing fish, weight 27 lbs., was killed

in Tasmania in 1893.

In time—only give us time—and rest assured, my Australian brethren and

English kinsfolk, that we shall have such sport in the South Land

generally as shall do no discredit to our race—the best all-round

sportsmen in the world. And so, fully aware that this is a bald and

incomplete sketch of the rise and progress of sport in Australia, but

promising to do better (if spared) at the next Centennial, and wishing

us all good fun and fortune at this, one Australian hunter's horn must

cease 'blowing' and sound the recall.

OLD STOCK-RIDERS

So poor old 'Flash Jack' is dead, says the _Port Fairy Gazette_, drowned

in a creek—a stock-rider's not unfitting end. We remember him, young,

_debonair_, tall, sinewy and active, with longish, curling brown locks

of which he was rather proud, as also of the cabbage-tree hat of the

period. But every one seems to be old nowadays except a crowd of juniors

so painfully young that one wonders they are permitted to take life

seriously. His sobriquet was acquired more through the ebullitions of a

harmless vanity than from any of the offensive qualities which the

well-worn colonial adjective is wont to imply. There was a certain

amount of 'blow' about Jack, doubtless, but never in undue proportion to

his attainments, which, as a stock-rider, horse-breaker, and mailman,

were admitted to be creditable. His introduction to the Port Fairy

district was through the Messrs. Carmichael, while before taking service

with them he had reached Melbourne from England in the _Eagle_, Captain

Buckley—both ship and commander favourably known in the early days.

A rumour prevailed that Jack was the scion of a good family; had been

sent to sea as a midshipman, possibly to cure the malady of 'wildness,'

for which a voyage to or residence in Australia is (erroneously) held to

be a specific. It did not answer in Jack's case, for he quitted his

ship, 'taking to the bush' (in a restricted sense), and never afterwards

abandoning it. Uncommunicative about such matters generally, he threw

out hints from time to time that he was not in the position for which

his early associations had prepared him.

'My name's not Crickmere, Mas'r Rolf,' he said to me once, as we were

riding through the Eumeralla marshes. (He always adopted the fiction

that he was an old retainer of our family.) '_Far from it._' But after

this dark saying he relapsed into his usual reserve on the subject and

enlightened me no further. One trait of character which was in keeping

with his presumed social past he was well known to possess.

'You seem mighty independent, my man,' said an employer to him on one

occasion.

'Yes,' replied Jack proudly, 'and I can uphold it.'

He was in my service before and after 'the gold' as stock-rider,

horse-breaker, and road-hand, both at Port Fairy and Lake Boga. Not the

man to save his wages; unlike many of his contemporaries, who are now

men of substance, Jack varied but little in his non-possession of the

world's goods. But there were many homesteads in his old district where

he was always sure of a welcome, a glass of grog, and a week's lodgings,

so that when out of employment he was never in any great straits.

With one influential class of the community he was especially

acceptable, and a favourite to the last. He had a natural 'Hans the

boatman' faculty for amusing children, whom he delighted by making

miniature stockwhips and other bush requisites, while they never tired

of listening to his wondrous tales of flood and field.

In the matter of stockwhip-making he was a second 'Nangus Jack,' and,

moreover, an extraordinary performer with that weapon in the saddle. I

have seen him cantering along with a steady stock-horse, standing in the

saddle and cracking a brace of stockwhips, one in either hand—a feat

which any young gentleman is free to try if he wishes to ascertain if it

be easy or otherwise. He had been through the rougher experiences of

bush life, and mentioned casually, once, having been speared by blacks

in Gippsland. The company being disposed to treat the statement as

'Jack's yarn,' he gave ocular proof by exhibiting a cicatrice, far from

trifling in dimensions, where the jagged spear-point had been cut out

above his hip-bone.

He was a reliable horse-breaker, for several reasons. Being long and

loose of frame, he rode a good deal 'all over his horse'—unlike some

breakers, who are so still and noiseless in their method that any

unwonted cheerfulness of manner is apt to startle their pupils into

'propping,' But as Jack on his excursions was always singing, shouting,

and whistling; leaning half out of his saddle to greet a friend, or

leaving his colts tied up at a public-house; by the time he had done

with them they were safe for anybody, and would be difficult to alarm or

astonish on account of these varied experiences.

As a road-hand Jack was quite in his element, and a decided acquisition

to any overlanding party. He would have been invaluable in South Africa.

Always in good humour, he kept every one alive during the monotonous

days of driving and dreary nights of watching with his songs and

stories, his 'quips and quiddities.' He was also of signal service to

the commissariat, making frequent _reconnaissances_ where the country

was inhabited, and returning with new-laid eggs, butter, and other

delicacies, out of which he had wheedled the farmers' wives or

daughters.

At one time or other Jack had been in the employment of all the

principal stockholders in the Port Fairy district, including Mr. John

Cox of Werongurt, the Messrs. Rutledge, Campbell, and Macknight,

Kennedy, Carmichael, and others. His never staying very long in one

place was less due to any fault of his own than to an inherent

restlessness and love of change. A born roamer, with strong Bohemian

proclivities, Jack had wandered over a considerable portion of the

colony. With commendable taste he latterly elected to make Western

Victoria his habitual residence; and, strangely enough, he was fated to

finish a roving life as nearly as possible at the place where he first

took service, more than forty years since, on his first arrival in the

district.