COUNTRY LIFE.
It is most undeniably true, "that there is no place like England,"
for men who are in "easy circumstances," and who therefore think no
more of direct or indirect taxation, and of those multitudinous
burthens which highly-civilized life imposes, than a besom-maker's
ass does of the load under which it daily journeys. But how many
thousands are there (children of sad parents -- Toil and Sorrow) who
find their utmost efforts scarcely sufficient to keep them out of the
debtor's prison! Continual gloom fills the chambers of their hearts;
the sun bestows its cheering rays in vain; and all the gay and
beautiful influences of the bright world of Nature fail to inspirit
him whose every energy is directed to the task of raising his family
beyond the threatening grasp of Want. In his few moments of
relaxation, when those whom he loves -- for whom he is toiling unto
death -- hang around him with gentle fondness; in those sweet
moments, when love unutterable beams through the glistening eye, and
tender solicitude watches the care-worn face, seeking to win one
happy smile -- even then, he dare not give himself up to joy. The
thought is never absent from him that life perhaps is ebbing fast;
the very labours to which his only hope of income is attached, are
gradually wearing him down to the grave; and when he is no more, what
shall be the lot of those whose beaming faces smile so sweetly? What
struggles, what miseries are in store for the beloved wife, and those
young and innocent daughters whose hearts are full of him! No! he
dare not give himself up to joy; he smiles in answer to their
endearments -- but it is rather a shadow than a sunbeam that passes
across his countenance.
How many thousands are there in England so circumstanced, who curse
the artificial state of society in which they are compelled to live!
In their profession or trade they are bound to keep up a certain
degree of appearance, or they are shunned by those whom it is their
chief interest to conciliate. The great bug-bear ever present in the
mind of an Englishman, is the dread of not being thought sufficiently
"respectable." Professional men and tradesmen depend for their
subsistence upon appearances. To be flashy is as bad as to be
shabby; the great object is to appear substantial. If you are rich,
you have less temptation to be dishonest, and may consequently be
trusted. Every man, therefore, who depends upon the opinion of
others, is compelled to assume the appearance of being comfortably
circumstanced in order to inspire confidence. Character is the
life-blood of Englishmen, but character alone will seldom extricate a
man from the slough of Poverty. In our highly artificial state of
society, something more powerful than character alone is required to
place a man in the road to fortune -- call it as you please, tact or
humbug.
This necessity for keeping up appearances in order to move in that
rank of life which his business requires him to occupy, is the
heaviest tax imposed upon the income of an Englishman. How often
does it draw from him all his profits, leaving him to lament how
little he is enabled to lay by annually for his children! Many times,
without doubt, he wishes he durst retire to a cottage too small to
admit the visits of the heartless acquaintance who form his
"fashionable" world. Does their society afford him or his family any
real happiness? Is it not rather the cause of many heart-burnings to
him and to them? How much happier he feels he should be, had he
never looked abroad for happiness, but sought it only around his own
hearth! To see his daughters elegantly attired, would gratify him
extremely, were it not for the unwelcome reminiscences of expense.
But would they look less lovely to his eyes, or be less dear to his
heart, when moving about him in the useful performance of domestic
duties, clad in homely garments, and thinking more of him and home
than of visiting and display?
How economically, and how happily too, might he live, were his own
house his world, and his wife and children the only beings for whose
opinion he cared! But alas! these are the persons whose opinion is
of least importance in his pursuit of fortune. He must do as the
world does if he would secure its smiles, and is compelled to think
less of happiness than of gain.
Is such a man happier, leading such a life, than he would be as a
colonist? Here -- ever blessed be the recollection! -- there is no
necessity for sacrificing peace of mind to appearance. The man whose
conduct proves him to be of gentlemanly mould, is everywhere treated
as an equal; and though his occupation and mode of living be ever so
humble, he loses nothing in the consideration of his
fellow-colonists. The half-pay officer, or gentleman farmer, who
occasionally drives his own cart, or sows the seed which he has
purchased in the market, is not thought less qualified to act as a
magistrate, nor is less respected by the great and small in his
neighbourhood. His cares are all directed towards obtaining
substantial comforts for his family, and not towards making a display
in the eyes of the little world around him.
Conscious that he is respected only for his character as an upright
man, and that as every one knows he is not wealthy, it would be
ridiculous to affect the appearance of wealth, he wears the coarsest
garments with more pleasure than the finest coat, and draws all his
happiness from domestic sources. His sons and daughters equally
indifferent to show -- though the latter, at least, are always neatly
dressed -- are busied with their different duties, all tending to
promote the general comfort.
Happy family! -- how pleasantly the evenings pass in your society!
Gladly would I ride many miles to spend such pleasant hours, and
witness happiness so unpretending and real. How cheerful looks that
large room, with its glorious fire of Jarra-wood and black-boys, (for
it is the winter season,) and how lightly those young girls move
about, arranging the tea-table, and preparing for the evening meal!
The kind-hearted mother, relieved of all duties but that of
superintendence, sits by the fire chatting cheerfully with the guest,
whose eyes, nevertheless, wander round the room after a certain light
and dancing shape; the host, a man of eld, but stalwart in
appearance, full of hospitality and noble courtesy, appears in his
easy slippers and an old and well-worn coat, which formerly had seen
service in London ball-rooms. He discourses not only of the crops
and colonial politics, but of literature, and the last news from
England; for like many other colonists he receives the English
papers, and patronizes the 'Quarterly Review'. On the sofa lie the
latest numbers of 'Punch' and 'the Illustrated London News' -- some
four months old, of course -- for the ladies like fun and pictures,
whilst their father laboriously wades through a three months'
accumulation of the 'Times'.
With what alacrity the old gentleman rises up and welcomes a
traveller, who has unexpectedly arrived, and has just stabled his
horse, and seen him fed before he made his appearance in the parlour!
There is no beating about the bush for a bed, or an invitation to
supper. Of the latter he is certain, and indifferent about the
former; for having slept the last night under a tree, he feels sure
of making himself comfortable on the sofa, or on the hearth-rug
before the fire. And then the girls, who have no affectation or
nonsense about them, crowd round the new-arrived, and ply him with
questions about their young friends in other parts of the colony,
and whether he was at the last ball at Government House, and what
was most worn on that occasion -- until the good man, laughing,
breaks through the circle, declaring he will answer no more
questions till he has had his supper, and, it may be, a glass of
whisky-toddy screeching hot.
During the evening the girls sing, and happily they sing well; and
they take most pleasure in those songs which papa likes best to hear.
And the poor bachelor-guest, who looks on, feels his heart melting
within him, and reviles himself for the destitution in which he lives
at home. Suddenly, perhaps, horses at a gallop are heard to enter
the yard; and soon afterwards two young fellows, fresh from the
capital, come dashing into the room, full of spirits, and vowing they
have gallopped over on purpose to ascertain whether the ladies were
still living. Here is authority of undoubted value for everything
relating to the ball at Government House; and the merits and
appearance of every person who attended it are soon brought under
discussion. This naturally inspires the young people with a desire
to dance; so the table is pushed aside, and papa being squeezed
nearly into the fire, mamma takes her place at the piano, and bursts
off with the Annen Polka.
It may seem strange to you, dear reader, who have an idea that
colonists are merely wild beasts, that such things should be. But so
it is; and though people may dance the Cellarius with more gravity in
the saloons of St. James's, I question whether dancing be half the
fun there that our light-hearted colonists seem to think it. There
are no strangers in small colonies -- it is always a family party
dancing together; and consequently, people are as merry as if it were
Christmas-time all the year round.
Your fashionable people may pity them; but God help them, poor
things! In their dark and degraded state they seem to enjoy
themselves so much, that I should not like them to be put out of
conceit with themselves, or made to repudiate whatever gives them
innocent pleasure. Nor are they entirely insensible to the good
opinion of great people; for when they learnt that the Polka was
thought vulgar at Buckingham Palace, they had serious intentions of
denying it admittance into the ball-rooms of Perth; and I sincerely
believe it would speedily have pined away and died, like a maiden
under the breath of slander, but for a confidently entertained hope
that her Majesty would never hear of the offences of the people of
Perth -- and people will do all kinds of things when they can do them
secretly. So the Polka continues to be danced in Western Australia;
and the courage of the dancers has been much revived of late by
hearing that it is still greatly in vogue at home, notwithstanding
the august censures said to have been passed upon it.
A country life might always be a happy one, were people possessed of
the smallest competence, and of properly regulated minds. There is
as much unhappiness, or at least discontent, in colonies as
elsewhere; but discontented colonists are the greatest fools in the
world, because they have themselves created the evils, and the
remedies are generally in their own power. The grand object of
man's search is happiness, which he strives to obtain by a thousand
various ways. Wealth he covets, because he fondly believes that it
contains the prize he seeks; but if happiness may be found without
wealth, of what value are riches? Money is not so indispensable a
necessary in a colony. Very little indeed suffices to enable a
proprietor on the banks of the Swan, the Avon, or the Brunswick, to
bring up his family in comfort, and to perform all the rights of a
generous hospitality. The discontent which is so often felt in
colonies arises from two causes: first, it is the natural feeling of
those who emigrate late in life; who, although unsuccessful at home,
have ever been fondly attached to home associations, to the friends
and connexions with whom they have been bound up during many years,
and to the national belief that a man can never be truly happy out of
England. In addition to this, the emigrant of mature years has been
so long accustomed to feel himself living in the very centre of
intelligence, he has so long been accustomed to watch the progress of
political action at home and on the continent, and to drink the fresh
draughts of scientific discovery at the fountain-head, that now, when
far removed from the busy and exciting scenes of the ever-moving
panorama of European life, he feels lost in the wilderness -- a
fragment of drift-wood washed ashore and left far behind by the
fast-progressing waves of Knowledge and Action.
The second cause of discontent is found in the non-acquisition of money.
Every one goes out to a colony with the full conviction that he shall
make a fortune in a few years, and then return to England and become
a man of landed interest.
A man has to conquer his first disappointments before he can become a
happy settler; he has to form new and more just ideas of his actual
position. Generally, it is necessary that he should return to
England once more before he can entirely appreciate the advantages
open to him in a colony. He then fully perceives how much more
difficult it is to obtain a bare subsistence in the old country. He
finds that with the utmost economy he cannot supply the numerous
wants of his family, and he longs for his old Australian dwelling
again, and the easy, independent life which he was accustomed to
lead, when his children used to run about in brown holland, and his
wife looked becoming in printed cotton, and thought no beverage so
good as the wine which she had assisted to make.