WOODMAN'S POINT*
[footnote] *This is a more sentimental story than that of Michael
Blake, but I owe them both to the same authority.
There is a pleasant ride along the shore from Fremantle to a little
bay about seven miles distant, one side of which, covered with lofty
trees, runs far into the sea, and is called Woodman's Point. The sea
in this part appears to be only a few miles broad; Garden-island
forming the opposite shore, the southern extremity of which seems
almost to join Cape Perron, and thus presents the appearance of a
vast bay. Not long ago, the blackened remains of a small house, or
hovel, were to be seen on the verge of the wood, facing towards Cape
Perron. Around it might be distinguished the traces of a garden of
considerable extent; a few stunted vines still continued annually to
put forth the appearance of verdure, which served only to tempt the
appetite of the stray cattle that wandered down to this solitary
spot. A large bed of geraniums had extended itself across the path
which used to lead to the door of the house; and their varied and
beautiful flowers, rejoicing in this congenial climate, gave
additional melancholy to the scene. It was evident those plants had
been reared, and tended, and prized for their beauty; they had once
been carefully cultured, pruned, and watered -- now they were left to
bloom or to die, as accident permitted. Near to this bed of
geraniums, but apart and solitary, untouched even by weeds, of which
there were only few in that sandy soil, grew an English rose-tree.
Its long, unpruned boughs straggled wildly on the ground. It looked
the picture of desolation and despair. A few imperfect flowers
occasionally peeped forth, but knew only a short and precarious
existence, for the shrub being no longer sheltered behind the house,
was now exposed to the daily violence of the sea-breeze.
This widowed rose, deprived of the hand which had tended it so
carefully, and of the heart which its beauty had gladdened, seemed
now in its careless desolation awaiting the hour when it should die.
It really looked, with its drooping boughs, its torn blossoms, and
its brown leaves, rustling and sighing to the breeze, like a sentient
being mourning without hope. Those who have never lived in exile
from their native land, can have no idea of the feelings with which a
lonely colonist, long separated from all the associations of home,
would regard a solitary plant which so peculiarly calls up home
memories. Pardon us, good reader, this appearance of sentiment; you
who will read these lines in Old England -- that land which we must
ever think of with pardonable emotion -- will evince but little
sympathy with us, who necessarily feel some fond regard for the
Mother from whom we are parted, and are naturally drawn towards the
inanimate things by which we are reminded of her. There is in this
colony of western Australia a single daisy root; and never was the
most costly hot-house plant in England so highly prized as this
humble little exile. The fortunate possessor pays it far more
attention than he bestows upon any of the gorgeous flowers that bloom
about it; and those who visit his garden of rare plants find nothing
there that fills them with so profound a feeling of interest as the
meek and lowly flower which recalls to their memories the pleasant
pastures of Old England.
But to return to the ruins of Woodman's Point. This plot of land,
now so neglected and forlorn, was once the blooming garden of a very
singular old man, who owed his support to the vegetables which it
produced, and to the fish that he caught from the little cobble which
danced at anchor in the bay, whenever the weather permitted the
fisherman to exercise his art. No one knew his history, but his
conversation and deportment told you that he was of gentle birth, and
had been well educated. His manners were particularly amiable and
retiring, and every one who visited the solitary old man came away
impressed with a melancholy interest in his fate.
He always welcomed a visitor with gentle pleasure, and seemed glad of
the opportunity of showing his crops of vegetables and the flowers in
which he delighted.
The rose-tree never failed to arrest his steps for a moment. He had
brought it himself from England as a cutting, and there was evidently
some history attached to it; but he never shared his confidence with
any one; and the history of the rose-tree, like his own, was never
revealed.
There was only one point on which he betrayed any feeling of pride --
and that was his name. No one else would perhaps have been so proud
of it, but he himself ever seemed to regard it with veneration.
He called himself Anthony Elisha Simson; and never failed to make you
observe that his patronymic was spelt without a "p".
Nothing irritated him so much as to receive a note addressed, "A. E.
Simpson, Esq."
The Simsons, he would assure you, were an old family in the northern
counties of England, and traced back their genealogy to the Conquest;
whereas the Simpsons were of quite a different, and doubtless
inferior origin. Nothing more than this did he ever relate
concerning his family or his personal history.
He arrived in the colony a few years after its foundation, without
any other effects than what were contained in a portmanteau and
carpet-bag, and with only a few sovereigns in his purse. Without
associating himself with any one, he early fixed upon the spot where
he afterwards built his house, and established his permanent abode.
Here he began to make his garden, and did not disdain to earn a few
shillings occasionally by cutting fire-wood for a man who supplied
Fremantle with that necessary article. It was this occupation that
caused the settlers, who knew nothing more of him, to give him the
title of "The Woodman" -- a name which soon attached to the locality.
After he had been some time in the colony, Mr. Simson began to
express great impatience for the arrival of letters from England.
Whenever a vessel arrived at the port, he would put on his old
shooting-coat, and walk along the shore to Fremantle, where, after
having inquired in vain at the post-office, he would purchase a pound
of tea, and then return home again.
Years went by. Every time that a vessel arrived, poor Simson would
hurry to Fremantle. He would watch, with eyes of ill-repressed
eagerness, the mail carried to the post-office in boxes and large
sacks. Surely amid that multitude of letters there must be one for
him! Patiently would he wait for hours at the window, whilst the
post-master and his assistants sorted the letters; and when he had
received the usual answer to his inquiry, he would return to his
abode with down-cast looks.
As time passed on he grew more fretful and impatient. Receiving no
intelligence from England, he seemed to be anxious to return thither.
He would drop expressions which led his visitors (generally
government officers who called upon him in their rides) to believe he
would depart from the colony were he rich enough to pay his passage,
or were he not restrained by some other powerful motive.
His mind ran altogether upon the Old Country, and it was with
reluctance that he planted the vegetables and cured the fish which
were essential to his support.
For many hours during the day he used to be seen standing fixed as a
sentinel on the low rock which formed the extremity of the ridge
called after himself -- the Woodman's Point -- and looking homewards.
Doubtless, thought was busy within him -- the thought of all he had
left or acted there. None had written to him; none remembered or
perhaps wished to remember him. But home was in his heart, even
whilst he felt there was no longer a home for him. A restless
anxiety preyed upon his mind, and he grew thin and feeble; but still
whenever a sail was seen coming round the north end of Rottnest, and
approaching the port, he would seize his staff, and set out upon his
long journey to Fremantle to inquire if there were, at last, a letter
awaiting him.
May we imagine the growing despair in the heart of this poor old
exile, as life seemed ebbing away, and yet there came no news, no
hope to him from home? Frequently he wrote himself, but always to
the same address -- that of a broker, it was supposed, in
Throgmorton-street. But no answer was ever returned. Had he no
children -- no friends?
Naturally weak-minded, he had now grown almost imbecile; but his
manners were still so gentle, and every thing about him seemed to
betoken so amiable and so resigned a spirit, that those who visited
him could scarcely part again without tears. As he grew more feeble
in body, he became more anxious to receive a letter from home; he
expected that every one who approached his dwelling was the bearer of
the intelligence so long hoped for in vain; and he would hasten to
greet him at the gate with eager looks and flushed cheeks -- again
only to be disappointed.
At length it was with difficulty that he tottered to the Point, to
look for a vessel which might bring him news. Although no ship had
arrived since he last sent to the post-office, he would urge his
visitor, though with hesitating earnestness, to be so good as to call
there on his return, and ascertain if by chance a letter were not
awaiting him. He said he felt that his hour was approaching, but he
could not bear to think of setting out on that long journey without
having once heard from home. Sometimes he muttered, as it were to
himself, that treachery had been practised against him, and he would
go and expose it; but he never allowed himself to indulge long in
this strain. Sometimes he would try to raise money enough by drawing
bills to pay his passage, but no one would advance anything upon them.
Daily he became more feeble, and men began to talk of sending him a
nurse. The last visitor who beheld him alive, found him seated in
the chair which he had himself constructed, and appearing less
depressed than usual. He said he expected soon to receive news from
home, and smiled with child-like glee. His friend helped him to walk
as far as the rose-tree, which was then putting forth its buds.
"Promise," said the old man, laying his trembling hand upon the
other's arm, "promise that when I am gone you will come and see them
in full blow? Promise! you will make me happy."
The next day they sent a lad from Fremantle to attend upon him. The
boy found him seated in his chair. He was dead. A mound of earth at
the foot of a mahogany-tree, still marks the spot where he was
buried. Those 'friends' at home who neglected or repulsed him when
living, may by chance meet with this record from the hand of a
stranger -- but it will not move them; nor need it now.