MICHAEL BLAKE, THE IRISH SETTLER.*
[footnote] *A dry and humorous old man, who I cannot help suspecting
coins a good many of his anecdotes, gave me this account of one of
the early settlers, just as I record it. The fact of Blake's coming
to this colony, solely because he had heard there was an estate in it
called Skibbereen, (after the place of his nativity,) struck me as
being something truly Irish and original. The man's whole history is
given almost in the words of my informant, who professed to have
received it pure from the fountain-head.
Michael Blake was a native of Skibbereen, a well-known barony in the
"ould country." His parents lived in a hut, "quite handy" to the
road, in the midst of a bit of turf-ground where they managed to rear
their annual crops of potatoes and their sprouts of children with as
little trouble to themselves as possible. Michael, as he said
himself, was the youngest of four, but there were five younger than
he. As soon as he could walk, his mother clothed him in an old coat
of his father's, the tails of which swept the ground far behind him,
as he trotted over the cabin-floor with a stick in his hand to wallop
his favourite companion, the long-legged and long-snouted sow, as she
lay dreaming in the door-way. His father was an upright man, and
dealt equal justice among his children, whom he 'lathered' daily with
the strictest impartiality. This was all the education they had any
reason to expect, as the priest was always in a hurry when he called
at their door, and had not time to dismount from his pony, from whose
back he bestowed his blessing upon the tattered crowd of children as
they pressed around, and gazed upon his Reverence with their wild
grey eyes and open mouths. And their parents could not be expected
to give any other education than they had themselves received.
Michael grew up, therefore, as might be expected, a hungry,
dirty-faced, unbreeched, long-coated urchin. Although his parents
had done no more for him than to usher him into a life of mud and
misery, Nature had been more compassionate. She had bestowed upon
him a restless imagination, apparently for the purpose of removing
him from this scene of trouble as quickly as possible. It led him,
at an early age, to explore the passes of a neighbouring bog, where
he fell into a deep hole filled with water, and was just on the point
of escaping from the cares of the world, when his eldest brother
unfortunately came by, and fished him out. Their father seized the
opportunity, and lathered them both.
Michael next travelled in a northerly direction, and reached the
high-road with another brother, who was sent out to beg. Here they
both sat upon a stone and cried for their breakfast, until a
brilliant idea occurred to Michael, which dried his tears. He made a
dirt-pie, and presented it to his brother; and they both passed their
time very pleasantly, until an English carriage appeared coming along
the road. Little Pat ran forward, begging and praying their honours
to give him a halfpenny for the love of the Virgin, as he had been
carefully instructed to do by his dear mother, whilst his father took
measures to impress the lesson upon his mind and person. Michael, on
his part, made a vigorous effort to cross over to the other side,
crying lustily, "Please Sir, a halfpenny!" but his mother, in order
to give him a good appearance in front, had buttoned the old coat
wrong side before, and poor Mike, in his haste and hurry, happening
to put one of his little feet into the remains of a pocket, unhappily
tripped himself up, and rolled before the horses' feet. The post-boy
cleverly turned them aside as quickly as possible, but nothing could
prevent the hind-wheel of the carriage from grazing one of Michael's
shins, and making him squall out in the most dreadful manner.
A young lady and gentleman descended from the carriage, and showed
the greatest compassion for the sufferer, whom they caused to be
carried by a servant to his father's hovel, whither they accompanied
him, and soon relieved the anxieties of his parents by a present of
five golden guineas.
Some years elapsed, and things went on in the old way with the Blake
family. Mike had sprouted out into a fine gossoon of a boy, and
exercised his errant disposition by running after the gentlemen when
they went out shooting, and helping the keepers to carry the game.
One day, a gentleman who was shooting in the neighbourhood called at
his father's cabin, and asked for the little boy whom he had run over
in his carriage some seven years before. Mr. Blake, senior, after
blessing his honour for his goodness, and wishing him long life and
every earthly happiness called to the young spalpeen to get out of
that; and why was he not for coming when the gentleman was spaking to
him? Mr. Blake hinted to his visitors that he should correct the
manners of the youth at an early opportunity, and in the meantime
Mike slyly approached with a gun that he was carrying for the keeper
in his hands, and received the compliments of the gentleman on his
good looks.
The end of it was that the gentleman, who was an officer, took Mike
into his service; and in process of time, when he joined his
regiment, Michael became his constant attendant. Dying, however,
unexpectedly, as most people do, the worthy Mr. Blake, junior, was
left to his own resources; and finding nothing better to do, he
accepted a shilling from a friendly serjeant, and entered Her
Majesty's service as a full private.
In process of time he married a wife -- a real jewel, from that "gem
of the sea" so dear to poor old England -- and accompanied his
regiment to Van Dieman's Land, en route to India. He was well known
and liked by the officers, having a peculiar talent for blarney; and
nothing pleased him so much as a little conversation with a superior.
The regiment remained seven years in Van Dieman's Land, and then
passed on to its destination, leaving a number of men, who had
received their discharge, to become settlers in the colony. Among
these was Mr. Michael Blake, who soon established himself on a block
of land, and became a prosperous colonist. But times grew bad, ere
he could retire with a fortune. His wife formed undesirable
acquaintances, and Michael endeavoured to reclaim her by wholesome
correction; but, unhappily, he bestowed so much attention upon her
amendment that he entirely neglected himself, and before he was aware
that he was falling into error, had become an habitual drunkard.
Everything now went wrong. Mike, hating himself, began to hate
everything about him; he hated the colony; he hated the magistrates,
who now and then imposed a penalty upon him; he hated the laws, and
discovered the difference between law and justice, without being able
to find any traces of the latter. His fences fell into decay; his
pigs and cattle committed trespasses, and the neighbours made him pay
damages. It was the fault of the law, or rather of the lawyers, whom
he condemned to the flames with dreadful imprecations.
Unable to pay the storekeeper for sugar and tea, judgment was given
against him, and his last surviving cow was seized by the sheriff.
He had the satisfaction of beating the officer nearly to death; but
the cow was sold notwithstanding, and he took a month's exercise on
the treadmill, whilst his wife spent the time with her friend the
excise-officer, and drank to his better health and general
improvement.
On being released, he complained to the Governor, and presented
petitions to the Legislative Council against the unjust judges who
ruled the land, and crushed the hearts out of the people.
Soon, however, softer feelings came over him; thoughts returned of
home, so long forgotten in days of prosperity. He wondered whether
his parents were alive, whom, forty years ago, he had left in the
barony of Skibbereen, and had not heard of since.
He thought of the home of his boyhood; of the antiquated cabin in
which, at the will of his father, he had so often "eaten stick;" of
the long-legged and long-snouted sow, that used to grunt uneasily in
her dreams before the fire; of the potatoes and salt for breakfast
and dinner, of which he never got enough; of the puddle before the
door, in which he used to love to dabble -- all these visions of the
past came back upon him now in the time of his sorrows, and filled
him with a craving for the scenes of his youth.
Every one in trouble goes to the Governor, who has consequently
plenty of morning-callers. A few words of sympathy from his
Excellency are very consoling, and serve the afflicted for a topic of
conversation for some time to come. "His Excellency, the last time I
saw him, desired me to write to my friends." "His Excellency
particularly wishes me to make it up with Smith, or I'd never have
forgiven him for seizing my cow." "His Excellency swears that he
can't spare me from the colony, or nothing should make me stay
another day in it," etc. etc.
Mike presented himself at the government-offices, and after waiting a
couple of hours, caught sight of the Governor as he was passing out
through the ante-room.
"God bless your Honour, it's bould I am to be stopping your Honour
and Excellency this way, and you going out too with the business of
the Nation upon your Honour's shoulders."
"What do you want, my good friend, what do you want?"
"It's your Honour and Excellency that's the good friend to me and the
poor, and many's the prayer that's offered up night and morning for
your Excellency, by them that blesses the Good God and the Virgin for
having sent your Honour to reign over us." --
"What is it, Mike, what is it? I'm in a hurry."
"And is it me that's hindering your Honour? sure and I'll walk wid ye
to the world's end and talk all the same. Och, and it's the bad
times that have come upon us all entirely -- and the ould settlers
feels it the most, as is likely. Faith and we'd all die off, out and
out, if it wasn't for your Excellency thinking of us, and schaming to
do us the good turn, when the Council (bad luck to 'em!) raises the
duties."
"My horse is waiting; I really cannot stay."
"Arrah, and it's a fine baste that same, and the two of you looks
well together, with the white cockatoo feathers, and the sword all
gould and diamonds."
Here his Excellency showed signs of mounting his horse, so Mike
hastened to whisper confidentially,
"Governor, dear, my heart's broken entirely for the ould country, and
the poor father and mother that's looking out for me night and
morning these forty years, to give me their blessing; and the woman
at home, the crathur, kills me day-by-day with her going on; and I'd
like to see ould Ireland once before I die, and Skibbereen, which
your Honour knows is the finest place under God Almighty's blessed
canopy, and I can't die in pace till I see it -- 'deed I can't,
Governor dear; and ther's a Man-of-war, no less than the Shannon
herself, going to sail for the Indies, where I'd get passed on by
Colonel Maxwell (God bless him for the rale gintleman!) only,
Governor dear, spake the good word for me to Captain Widdicombe, and
I'll be took to Calcutty free for nothing; and it's not a
tinpenny-piece that I have in the world, the blessed Virgin pity me!"
-- Here his Excellency, being mounted on horseback, felt himself in
more independent circumstances, and told Mike that he must not think
of leaving the colony without his wife, as it would be most improper
conduct (the Government would have to support her), and that he
himself had no interest with Captain Widdicombe -- His Excellency's
charger, being of an impatient temper, allowed no further time for
parley, but cantered off with his rider, leaving Mike rather at fault.
The more numerous the difficulties that appeared in the way of Mike's
return to Skibbereen, the more yearning became his desire to lay his
bones there. Every day he appeared at the Government-offices, and
waylaid the Colonial-secretary, or the Attorney-General, or some
other of the officials, entreating them to obtain a free passage for
an old soldier, whose only desire on earth was to die among the bogs
of Skibbereen.
He talked incessantly of that beautiful spot, and swore that he loved
it better than the Garden of Eden. He pined after Skibbereen as the
melancholy pelican pines for his desert home; but hope gradually
seemed to leave him -- all other friends had long since abandoned
him, and he had fallen helplessly into the power of his arch-enemy
the Rum-bottle, when a fellow-countryman arrived at Hobart Town from
Western Australia. Mr. Denis Maguire listened patiently to Mike's
pathetic lamentation over the lost Skibbereen, and then calmly
replied, "Och, but it's little that I'd disthract myself for a place
like that in the ould country; sure isn't there Skibbereen near the
Swan River, belonging to Mr. O'Driscoll, and isn't it a beautifuller
place entirely than any other Skibbereen in the world?" "What!"
interrupted Mike, "is there Skibbereen at the Swan River, and is it
Mr. O'Driscoll that's living there? Arrah! say that again, my
darling, if you plaze." Maguire repeated the statement; on which
Mike, starting up, began to dance an Irish hornpipe; and then,
stopping short of a sudden swore that he was the happiest boy alive,
and thanked the blessed Saints for all their goodness to him.
The next day he managed to sell all the remains of his property, and
made a bargain with the owner of a small coasting-vessel to convey
him and his wife (whom he was compelled to take with him) to Swan
River, where he arrived in due course of time, and managed to locate
himself at Skibbereen, where he built a hut, cultivated several acres
of land, and became quite a reformed character.
Although his landlord, Mr. O'Driscoll, was his countryman, Mike
managed to blarney him so that he did just what he liked, and never
paid any rent either in cash or in kind. His yearning desire had
been to live at Skibbereen, and now that he had attained his object
he was (wonderful to say) contented and happy.
He frequently came to Perth for the sake of a little chat with the
storekeepers and the gentry, and as he was sure to blarney some one
into giving him a dinner, he always returned home light of heart and
unimpaired in pocket. But alas! poor Mike was not destined to die in
peace at Skibbereen. A large party of the natives had suddenly
attacked the abode of a neighbouring settler, and put the owner to
death. Michael Blake and two of his friends, without waiting for
other assistance, hastened to the rescue, imperfectly armed. They
were overpowered in an instant. Blake and one of his companions fell
pierced with many spears, whilst the other, being on horseback,
escaped, carrying with him four spears fixed in his body. Years
afterwards, one of the natives who had assisted at the slaughter
coolly related the particulars of the death of Michael Blake.
When he was lying on the ground, said this man, he turned round, and
supporting himself on his arm, entreated for mercy in the most moving
terms. The savages stood round him, looking on, and listening
patiently to his address.
"Did you show him mercy?" asked my informant.
"No!" replied the savage, with calm indifference.
"What did you do?"
"We cut his tongue out."
"Wretch! what for?"
"He wongee (chattered) too much."
Poor Mike! his blarney could not save him; it had often before done
him good service, but the savages valued it not.