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diff --git a/7447-h/7447-h.htm b/7447-h/7447-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1cd146c --- /dev/null +++ b/7447-h/7447-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4321 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Rising of the Court, by Henry Lawson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rising of the Court, by Henry Lawson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Rising of the Court + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Release Date: July 25, 2009 [EBook #7447] +Last Updated: October 9, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RISING OF THE COURT *** + + + + +Produced by Geoffrey Cowling, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE RISING OF THE COURT + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Henry Lawson + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> Note: Only the prose stories are reproduced here, not the + poetry. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE RISING OF THE COURT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> “ROLL UP AT TALBRAGAR” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> WANTED BY THE POLICE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE BATH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> INSTINCT GONE WRONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE HYPNOTIZED TOWNSHIP </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE EXCISEMAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> MATESHIP IN SHAKESPEARE’S ROME </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE RISING OF THE COURT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, then tell us, Sings and Judges, where our meeting is to be, + when the laws of men are nothing, and our spirits all are free + when the laws of men are nothing, and no wealth can hold the fort, + There’ll be thirst for mighty brewers at the Rising of the Court. +</pre> + <p> + The same dingy court room, deep and dim, like a well, with the clock high + up on the wall, and the doors low down in it; with the bench, which, with + some gilding, might be likened to a gingerbread imitation of a throne; the + royal arms above it and the little witness box to one side, where so many + honest poor people are bullied, insulted and laughed at by third-rate + blackguardly little “lawyers,” and so many pitiful, pathetic and noble + lies are told by pitiful sinners and disreputable heroes for a little + liberty for a lost self, or for the sake of a friend—of a “pal” or a + “cobber.” The same overworked and underpaid magistrate trying to keep his + attention fixed on the same old miserable scene before him; as a weary, + overworked and underpaid journalist or author strives to keep his + attention fixed on his proofs. The same row of big, strong, healthy, + good-natured policemen trying not to grin at times; and the police-court + solicitors (“the place stinks with ‘em,” a sergeant told me) wrangling + over some miserable case for a crust, and the “reporters,” shabby some of + them, eager to get a brutal joke for their papers out of the accumulated + mass of misery before them, whether it be at the expense of the deaf, + blind, or crippled man, or the alien. + </p> + <p> + And opposite the bench, the dock, divided by a partition, with the women + to the left and the men to the right, as it is on the stairs or the block + in polite society. They bring children here no longer. The same shaking, + wild-eyed, blood-shot-eyed and blear-eyed drunks and disorderlies, though + some of the women have nerves yet; and the same decently dressed, but + trembling and conscience-stricken little wretch up for petty larceny or + something, whose motor car bosses of a big firm have sent a solicitor, + “manager,” or some understrapper here to prosecute and give evidence. + </p> + <p> + But, over there, on a form to one side of the bench-opposite the witness + box—and as the one bright spot in this dark, and shameful, and + useless scene—and in a patch of sunlight from the skylight as it + happens—sit representatives of the Prisoners’ Aid Society, Prison + Gate and Rescue Brigades, etc. (one or two of the ladies in nurses’ + uniforms), who are come to help us and to fight for us against the Law of + their Land and of ours, God help us! + </p> + <p> + Mrs Johnson, of Red Rock Lane, is here, and her rival in revolution, + One-Eyed Kate, and Cock-Eyed Sal, and one or two of the other aristocrats + of the alley. And the weeping bedraggled remains of what was once, and not + so long ago, a pretty, slight, fair-haired and blue-eyed Australian girl. + She is up for inciting One-Eyed Kate to resist the police. Also, Three-Pea + Ginger, Stousher, and Wingy, for some participation in the row amongst the + aforementioned ladies. (Wingy, by the way, is a ratty little one-armed + man, whose case is usually described in the head-line, as “A ‘Armless + Case,” by one of our great dailies.) And their pals are waiting outside in + the vestibule—Frowsy Kate (The Red Streak), Boko Bill, Pincher and + his “piece,” etc., getting together the stuff for the possible fines, and + the ten-bob fee for the lawyer, in one case, and ready to swear to + anything, if called upon. And I myself—though I have not yet entered + Red Rock Lane Society—on bail, on a charge of “plain drunk.” It was + “drunk and disorderly” by the way, but a kindly sergeant changed it to + plain drunk (though I always thought my drunk was ornamental). + </p> + <p> + Yet I am not ashamed—only comfortably dulled and a little tired—dully + interested and observant, and hopeful for the sunlight presently. We low + persons get too great a contempt for things to feel much ashamed at any + time; and this very contempt keeps many of us from “reforming.” We hear + too many lies sworn that we know to be lies, and see too many unjust and + brutal things done that we know to be brutal and unjust. + </p> + <p> + But let us go back a bit, and suppose we are still waiting for the + magistrate, and think of Last Night. “Silence!”—but from no human + voice this time. The whispering, shuffling, and clicking of the court + typewriter ceases, the scene darkens, and the court is blotted out as a + scene is blotted out from the sight of a man who has thrown himself into a + mesmeric trance. And: + </p> + <p> + Drink—lurid recollection of being “searched”—clang of iron + cell door, and I grope for and crawl on to the slanting plank. Period of + oblivion—or the soul is away in some other world. Clang of cell door + again, and soul returns in a hurry to take heed of another soul, belonging + to a belated drunk on the plank by my side. Other soul says: + </p> + <p> + “Gotta match?” + </p> + <p> + So we’re not in hell yet. + </p> + <p> + We fumble and light up. They leave us our pipes, tobacco and matches; + presently, one knocks with his pipe on the iron trap of the door and asks + for water, which is brought in a tin pint-pot. Then follow intervals of + smoking, incoherent mutterings that pass for conversation, borrowings of + matches, knockings with the pannikin on the cell door wicket or trap for + more water, matches, and bail; false and fitful starts into slumber + perhaps—or wild attempts at flight on the part of our souls into + that other world that the sober and sane know nothing of; and, gradually, + suddenly it seems, reason (if this world is reasonable) comes back. + </p> + <p> + “What’s your trouble!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know. Bomb outrage, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Drunk?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s yours!” + </p> + <p> + “Same boat.” + </p> + <p> + But presently he is plainly uneasy (and I am getting that way, too, to + tell the truth), and, after moving about, and walking up and down in the + narrow space as well as we can, he “rings up” another policeman, who + happens to be the fat one who is to be in charge all night. + </p> + <p> + “Wot’s up here?” + </p> + <p> + “What have I been up to?” + </p> + <p> + “Killin’ a Chinaman. Go to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + Policeman peers in at me inquiringly, but I forbear to ask questions. + </p> + <p> + Blankets are thrown in by a friend of mine in the force, though we are not + entitled to them until we are bailed or removed to the “paddock” (the big + drunks’ dormitory and dining cell at the Central), and we proceed to make + ourselves comfortable. My mate wonders whether he asked them to send to + his wife to get bail, and hopes he didn’t. + </p> + <p> + They have left our wicket open, seeing, or rather hearing, that we are + quiet. But they have seemingly left some other wickets open also, for from + a neighbouring cell comes the voice of Mrs Johnson holding forth. The + locomotive has apparently just been run into the cleaning sheds, and her + fires have not had time to cool. They say that Mrs Johnson was a “lady + once,” like many of her kind; that she is not a “bad woman”—that is, + not a woman of loose character—but gets money sent to her from + somewhere—from her “family,” or her husband, perhaps. But when she + lets herself loose—or, rather, when the beer lets her loose—she + is a tornado and a terror in Red Rock Lane, and it is only her fierce, + practical kindness to her unfortunate or poverty-stricken sisters in her + sober moments that keeps her forgiven in that classic thoroughfare. She + can certainly speak “like a lady” when she likes, and like an intelligent, + even a clever, woman—not like a “woman of the world,” but as a woman + who knew and knows the world, and is in hell. But now her language is the + language of a rough shearer in a “rough shed” on a blazing hot day. + </p> + <p> + After a while my mate calls out to her: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! for God’s sake give it a rest!” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon Mrs Johnson straightway opens on him and his ancestry, and his + mental, moral, and physical condition—especially the latter. She + accuses him of every crime known to Christian countries and some Asiatic + and ancient ones. She wants to know how long he has been out of jail for + kicking his wife to pieces that time when she was up as a witness against + him, and whether he is in for the same thing again? (She has never set + eyes on him, by the way, nor he on her.) + </p> + <p> + He calls back that she is not a respectable woman, and he knows all about + her. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon she shrieks at him and bangs and kicks at her door, and demands + his name and address. It would appear that she is a respectable woman, and + hundreds can prove it, and she is going to make him prove it in open + court. + </p> + <p> + He calls back that his name is Percy Reginald Grainger, and his town + residence is “The Mansions,” Macleay Street, next to Mr Isaacs, the + magistrate, and he also gives her the address of his solicitor. + </p> + <p> + She bangs and shrieks again, and states that she will get his name from + the charge sheet in the morning and have him up for criminal libel, and + have his cell mate up as a witness—and hers, too. But just here a + policeman comes along and closes her wicket with a bang and cuts her off, + so that her statements become indistinct, or come only as shrieks from a + lost soul in an underground dungeon. He also threatens to cut us off and + smother us if we don’t shut up. I wonder whether they’ve got her in the + padded cell. + </p> + <p> + We settle down again, but presently my fellow captive nudges me and says: + “Listen!” From another cell comes the voice of a woman singing—the + girl who is in for “inciting to resist, your worship,” in fact. “Listen!” + he says, “that woman could sing once.” Her voice is low and sweet and + plaintive, as of a woman who had been a singer but had lost her voice. And + what do you think it is? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The crowd in accents hushed reply— + “Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.” + </pre> + <p> + Mrs Johnson’s cell is suddenly silent. Then, not mimickingly, mockingly, + or scornfully, but as if the girl is a champion of Jesus of Nazareth, and + is hurt at the ignorance of the multitude, and pities <i>Him</i>: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now who is this Jesus of Nazareth, say? +</pre> + <p> + The policeman, coming along the passage, closes the wicket in her door, + but softly this time, and not before we catch the plaintive words again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The crowd in accents hushed reply + “Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.” + </pre> + <p> + My fellow felon throws the blanket off him impatiently, sits up with a + jerk, and gropes for his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “God!” he says. “But this is red hot! Have you got another match?” + </p> + <p> + I wonder what the Nazarene would have to say about it. + </p> + <p> + Sleep for a while. I wonder whether they’ll give us time, or we’ll be able + to sleep some of our sins off in the end, as we sleep our drink off here? + Then “The Paddock” and day light; but there’s little time for the Paddock + here, for we must soon be back in court. The men borrow and lend and + divide tobacco, lend even pipes, while some break up hard tobacco and roll + cigarettes with bits of newspaper. If it is Sunday morning, even those who + have no hope for bail, and have long horrible day and night before them, + will sometimes join in a cheer as the more fortunate are bailed. But the + others have tea and bread and butter brought to them by one of the + Prisoners’ Aid Societies, who ask for no religion in return. They come to + save bodies, and not to fish for souls. The men walk up and down and to + and fro, and cross and recross incessantly, as caged men and animals + always do—and as some uncaged men do too. + </p> + <p> + “Any of you gentlemen want breakfast?” Those who have money and appetites + order; some order for the sake of the tea alone; and some “shout” two or + three extra breakfasts for those who had nothing on them when they were + run in. We low people can be very kind to each other in trouble. But now + it’s time to call us out by the lists, marshal us up in the passage and + draft us into court. Ladies first. But I forgot that I am out on bail, and + that the foregoing belongs to another occasion. Or was it only + imagination, or hearsay? Journalists have got themselves run in before + now, in order to see and hear and feel and smell for themselves—and + write. + </p> + <p> + “Silence! Order in the Court.” I come like a shot out of my nightmare, or + trance, or what you will, and we all rise as the magistrate takes his + seat. None of us noticed him come in, but he’s there, and I’ve a quaint + idea that he bowed to his audience. Kindly, humorous Mr Isaacs, whom we + have lost, always gave me that idea. And, while he looks over his papers, + the women seem to group themselves, unconsciously as it were, with Mrs + Johnson as front centre, as though they depended on her in some vague way. + She has slept it off and tidied, or been tidied, up, and is as + clear-headed as she ever will be. Crouching directly behind her, supported + and comforted on one side by One-Eyed Kate, and on the other by Cock-Eyed + Sal, is the poor bedraggled little resister of the Law, sobbing + convulsively, her breasts and thin shoulders heaving and shaking under her + openwork blouse—the girl who seemed to pity Jesus of Nazareth last + night in her cell. There’s very little inciting to resist about her now. + Most women can cry when they like, I know, and many have cried men to jail + and the gallows; but here in this place, if a woman’s tears can avail her + anything, who, save perhaps a police-court solicitor and + gentleman-by-Act-of-Parliament, would, or dare, raise a sneer. + </p> + <p> + I wonder what the Nazarene would have to say about it if He came in to + speak for her. But probably they’d send Him to the receiving house as a + person of unsound mind, or give Him worse punishment for drunkenness and + contempt of court. + </p> + <p> + His Worship looks up. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Johnson (from the dock): “Good morning, Mr Isaacs. How do you do? + You’re looking very well this morning, Mr Isaacs.” + </p> + <p> + His Worship (from the Bench): “Thank you, Mrs Johnson. I’m feeling very + well this, morning.” + </p> + <p> + There’s a pause, but there is no “laughter.” The would-be satellites don’t + know whom the laugh might be against. His Worship bends over the papers + again, and I can see that he is having trouble with that quaintly humorous + and kindly smile, or grin, of his. He has as hard a job to control his + smile and get it off his face as some magistrates have to get a smile on + to theirs. And there’s a case coming by and by that he’ll have to look a + bit serious over. However— + </p> + <p> + “Jane Johnson!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs Johnson is here present, and reminds the Sergeant that she is. + </p> + <p> + Then begins, or does begin in most courts, the same dreary old drone, like + the giving out of a hymn, of the same dreary old charge: + </p> + <p> + “You—Are—Charged—With—Being—Drunk—And—Disorderly—In—Such—And— + Such—A—Street—How—Do—You—Plead—Guilty—Or—Not—Guilty?” + But they are less orthodox here. The “disorderly” has dropped out of Mrs + Johnson’s charge somehow, on the way from the charge room. I don’t know + what has been going on behind the scenes, but, anyway, it is Christmas- + time, and the Sergeant seems anxious to let Mrs Johnson off lightly. It + means anything from twenty-four hours or five shillings to three months on + the Island for her. The lawyers and the police—especially the + lawyers—are secretly afraid of Mrs Johnson. + </p> + <p> + However, again— + </p> + <p> + The Sergeant: “This woman has not been here for six weeks, your Worship.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs Johnson (who has him set and has been waiting for him for a year or + so): “It’s a damned lie, Mr Isaacs. I was here last Wednesday!” Then, + after a horrified pause in the Court: “But I beg <i>your</i> pardon, Mr + Isaacs.” + </p> + <p> + His Worship’s head goes down again. The “laughter” doesn’t come here, + either. There is a whispered consultation, and (it being Christmas-time) + they compromise with Mrs Johnson for “five shillings or the risin’,” and + she thanks his Worship and is escorted out, rather more hurriedly than is + comportable with her dignity, for she remarks about it. + </p> + <p> + The members of the Johnsonian sisterhood have reason to be thankful for + the “lift” she has given them, for they all get off lightly, and even the + awful resister of Law-an’-order is forgiven. Mrs Johnson has money and is + waiting outside to stand beers for them; she always shouts for the boys + when she has it. And—what good does it all do? + </p> + <p> + It is very hard to touch the heart of a woman who is down, though they are + intensely sympathetic amongst themselves. It is nearly as hard as it is to + combat the pride of a hard-working woman in poverty. It was such women as + Mrs Johnson, One-Eyed Kate, and their sisters who led Paris to Versailles; + and a King and a Queen died for it. It is such women as Mrs Johnson and + One-Eyed Kate and their sisters who will lead a greater Paris to a greater + Versailles some day, and many “Trust” kings and queens, and their princes + and princesses shall die for it. And that reminds me of two reports in a + recent great daily: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Miss Angelina De Tapps, the youngest daughter of the well-known + great family of brewers, was united in the holy bonds of matrimony + to Mr Reginald Wells—(here follows a long account of the smart + society wedding). The happy pair leave en route for Europe per the + —next Friday. + + Jane Johnson, an old offender, again faced the music before Mr + Isaacs, S.M., at the Central yesterday morning—(here follows a + “humorous” report of the case). +</pre> + <p> + Next time poor Mrs Johnson will leave <i>en route</i> for “Th’ Island” and + stay there three months. + </p> + <p> + The sisters join Mrs Johnson, who has some money and takes them to a + favourite haunt and shouts for them—as she does for the boys + sometimes. Their opinions on civilization are not to be printed. + </p> + <p> + Ginger and Wingy get off with the option, and, though the fine is heavy, + it is paid. They adjourn with Boko Bill, and their politics are lurid. + </p> + <p> + Squinny Peters (plain drunk—five bob or the risin’), who is peculiar + for always paying his fine, elects to take it out this time. It appears + that the last time Squinny got five bob or the risin’ he ante’d up the + splosh like a man, and the court rose immediately, to Squinny’s intense + disgust. He isn’t taking any chances this time. + </p> + <p> + Wild-Flowers-Charley, who recently did a fortnight, and has been out on + bail, has had a few this morning, and, in spite of warnings from and + promises to friends, insists on making a statement, though by simply + pleading guilty he might get off easily. The statement lasts some ten + minutes. Mr Isaacs listens patiently and politely and remarks: + </p> + <p> + “Fourteen days.” + </p> + <p> + Charley saw the humour of it afterwards, he says. + </p> + <p> + But what good does it all do? + </p> + <p> + I had no wish to treat drunkenness frivolously in beginning this sketch; I + have seen women in the horrors—that ought to be enough. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “ROLL UP AT TALBRAGAR” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jack Denver died at Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, + And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man; + Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her daughter’s grief was wild, + And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child. + But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far, + To raise the longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar. + + -<i>Ben Duggan</i>. +</pre> + <p> + Both funerals belonged to Big Ben Duggan in a way, though Jack Denver was + indirectly the cause of both. + </p> + <p> + Jack Denver was reckoned the most popular man in the district (outside the + principal township)—a white man and a straight man—a white + boss and a straight sportsman. He was a squatter, though a small one; a + real squatter who lived on his run and worked with his men—no dummy, + super, manager for a bank, or swollen cockatoo about Jack Denver. He was + on the committees at agricultural shows and sports, great at picnics and + dances, beloved by school children at school feasts (I wonder if they call + them feasts still), giver of extra or special prizes, mostly sovs. and + half-sovs., for foot races, etc.; leading spirit for the scrub district in + electioneering campaigns—they went as right as men could go in the + politics of those days who watched and went the way Jack Denver went; + header of subscription lists for burnt-out, flooded-out, sick, hurt, dead + or killed or otherwise knocked-out selectors and others, or their + families; barracker and agitator for new provisional schools, assister of + his Reverence and little bush chapels, friend of all manner of wanderers—careless, + good-hearted scamps in trouble, broken-hearted new chums, wrecks and + failures and outcasts of any colour or creed, and especially of old King + Jimmy and the swiftly vanishing remnant of his tribe. His big + slab-and-shingle and brick-floored kitchen, with its skillions, built on + more generous plans and specifications than even the house itself, was the + wanderer’s goal and home in bad weather. And—yes, owner, on a small + scale, of racehorses, and a keen sportsman. + </p> + <p> + Jack Denver and Big Ben Duggan were boys together on the old selections, + and at the new provisional bark school at Pipeclay; they went into the + Great North-West together “where all the rovers go”—stock-riding and + droving and overlanding, and came back after a few years bronzed and + seasoned and with wild yarns. + </p> + <p> + Jack married and settled down on a small run his father had bought near + Talbragar, and his generous family of tall, straight bush boys and tall, + straight bush girls grew up and had their sweethearts. But, when Jack + married, Big Ben Duggan went back again, up into Queensland and the Great + North-West, with a makeshift mate who had also lost his mate through + marriage. Ever and again, after one, and two, and three years—the + periods of absence lengthening as the years went on—Big Ben Duggan + would come back home, and stay a while (till the Great North-West began to + call insistently) at Denver’s, where he would be welcomed jubilantly by + all—even the baby who had never seen him—for there was + “something about the man.” And, until late on the night of his return, he + and Jack would sit by the fire in winter, or outside on the woodheap in + summer, and yarn long and fondly about the Wide Places, and strange things + they knew and understood. + </p> + <p> + How sudden things are! Ben was back (just in time for the holidays and the + Mudgee races) out of the level lands, where distance dwells in her halls + of shimmering haze, after following her for five years. + </p> + <p> + They were riding home from the races, the women and children in carts and + buggies, the men and boys on horseback—of course. They raced each + other along the road, across short cuts, through scrub and timber, and + back to the slow-coming overloaded vehicles again, some riding wildly and + recklessly. Jack Denver was amongst them, his heart warmed with good luck + at the races, good whisky to wet it, and the return of his old mate. + “We’re as good as the best of the young ‘uns yet, Ben!” he cried, as they + swung through the trees. “Ain’t we, you old—?” + </p> + <p> + And then and there it happened. + </p> + <p> + A new chum suggested that Jack had more than he thought aboard and was + thrown from his horse; but the new chum was repudiated with scorn and bad + words and indignation by bushmen and bushwomen alike—as indeed he + would be by any bushman who had seen a drunken rider ride. + </p> + <p> + “I learnt him to ride when he was a kiddy about so high,” said old + Break-the-News Fosbery, resentfully gasping and gulping, “and Jack wasn’t + thrown.” It was thought at first that his horse had shied and run him + against a tree, or under an overhanging branch; but Ben Duggan had seen + it, and explained the thing to the doctor with that strange calmness or + quietness that comes to men in the midst of a life’s grief. Jack was + riding loosely, and swung forward just as the filly, a fresh young thing, + threw back her head; and it struck him with sledge-hammer force, full in + the face. + </p> + <p> + He was dead, even before they got him to Anderson’s Halfway Inn. There was + wild racing back to town for doctors, and some accidents; one horse was + killed and another ridden to death. Others went as a forlorn hope in + search of Doc. Wild, eccentric Yankee bush “quack,” who had once saved one + of Denver’s little girls from diphtheria; others, again, for Peter + M’Laughlan, bush missionary, to face the women—for they couldn’t. + </p> + <p> + Big Ben Duggan, blubbering unashamed by the bedside, put his hand on Mrs + Denver’s shoulder, as she crouched there, wild-eyed, like a hunted thing. + “Nev—never mind, Mrs Denver!” he blurted out, with a note as of + indignation and defiance—just for all the world as if Jack Denver + had done a wrong thing and the district was down on him—“he’ll have + the longest funeral ever seen in these parts! Leave that to me.” Then some + of the women took her out to her daughter’s. Big Ben Duggan gave terse + instructions to some of the young riders about, and then, taking the best + and freshest horse, the cross-country scrub swallowed him—west. The + young men jumped on their horses and rode, fan-like, east. + </p> + <p> + They took Jack Denver home. They always took their dead home first, + whenever possible, and no matter the distance, before taking them to their + last long home; and they do it yet, I suppose. They are not always so + particular about it in cities, from what I’ve seen. + </p> + <p> + But this was a strange funeral. They had arranged mattress and sheet in + the bottom of a four-wheeler, and covered him with sheet, blanket, and + quilt, though the weather was warm; and over the body, from side to side + of the trap, they had stretched the big dark-green table-cloth from + Anderson’s dining-room. The long, ghostly, white, cleared government road + between the dark walls of timber in the moonlight. The buggies and carts + behind, and the dead-white faces and glistening or despairingly staring + eyes of the women—wife, daughters, and nieces, and those who had + come to help and comfort. The men—sons and brothers, and few mates + and chums and sweethearts—riding to right and left like a bodyguard, + to comfort and be comforted who needed comfort. + </p> + <p> + Now and again a brother or son—mostly a brother—riding close + to the wheel, would suddenly throw out his arm on the mud splasher, of + buggy or cart, and, laying his head on it, sob as he rode, careless of + tyre and spokes, till a woman pushed him off gently: + </p> + <p> + “Take care of the wheel, Jim—mind the wheel.” + </p> + <p> + The eldest son held the most painful position, by his mother’s side in the + first buggy, supported by an aunt on the other side, while somebody led + his horse. In the next buggy, between two daughters, sat a young fellow + who was engaged to one of them—they were to be married after the + holidays. The poor girls were white and worn out; he had an arm round + each, and now and again they rested their heads on his shoulders. The + younger girl would sleep by fits and starts, the sleep of exhaustion, and + start up half laughing and happy, to be stricken wild-eyed the next moment + by terrible reality. Some couldn’t realize it at all—and to most of + them all things were very dreamy, unreal and far away on that lonely, + silent road in the moonlight—silent save for the slow, stumbling + hoofs of tired horses, and the deliberate, half-hesitating clack-clack of + wheel-boxes on the axles. + </p> + <p> + Ben Duggan rode hard, as grief-stricken men ride—and walk. At Cooyal + he woke up the solitary storekeeper and told him the news; then along that + little-used old road for some miles both ways, and back again, rousing + prospectors and fossickers, the butcher of the neighbourhood, clearers, + fencers, and timber-getters, in hut and tent. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s up?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Ben Duggan! Jack Denver’s dead! Killed ridin’ home from the races! + Funeral’s to-morrow. Roll up at Talbragar or the nearest point you can get + to on the government road. Tell the neighbours and folks.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! How did it happen?” + </p> + <p> + But the hoofs of Ben’s horse would be clattering or thudding away into the + distance. + </p> + <p> + He struck through to Dunne’s selection—his brother-in-law, who had + not been to the races; then to Ross’s farm—Old Ross was against + racing, but struck a match at once and said something to his auld wife + about them black trousers that belonged to the black coat and vest. + </p> + <p> + Then Ben swung to the left and round behind the spurs to the school at Old + Pipeclay, where he told the schoolmaster. Then west again to Morris’s and + Schneider’s lonely farms in the deep estuary of Long Gully, and through + the gully to the Mudgee-Gulgong road at New Pipeclay. The long, dark, + sullenly-brooding gully through which he had gone to school in the + glorious bush sunshine with Jack Denver, and his sweetheart—now but + three hours his hopelessly-stricken widow; Bertha Lambert, Ben’s + sweetheart—married now, and newly a grandmother; Harry Dale—drowned + in the Lachlan; Lucy Brown—Harry’s school-day and boy-and-girl + sweetheart—dead; and—and all the rest of them. Far away, far + away—and near away: up in Queensland and out on the wastes of the + Never-Never. Riding and camping, hardship and comfort, monotony and + adventure, drought, flood, blacks, and fire; sprees and—the rest of + it. Long dry stretches on Dead Man’s Track. Cutting across the country in + No Man’s Land where there were no tracks into the Unknown. Chancing it and + damning it. Ill luck and good luck. Laughing at it afterwards and joking + at it always; he and Jack—always he and Jack—till Jack got + married. The children used to say Long Gully was haunted, and always + hurried through it after sunset. It was haunted enough now all right. + </p> + <p> + But, raising the gap at the head of the gully, he woke suddenly and came + back from the hazy, lazy plains; the + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Level lands where Distance hides in her halls of shimmering haze, + And where her toiling dreamers ride towards her all their days; +</pre> + <p> + where “these things” are ever far away, and Distance ever near—and + whither he had drifted, the last hour, with Jack Denver, from the old Slab + School. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether old Fosbery’s got through yet?” he muttered, with + nervous anxiety, as he looked down on the cluster of farms and scattered + fringe of selections in the broad moonlight. “I wonder if he’s got there + yet?” Then, as if to reassure himself: “He must have started an hour + before me, and the old man can ride yet.” He rode down towards a farm on + Pipeclay Creek, about the centre of the cluster of farms, vineyards, and + orchards. + </p> + <p> + Old Fosbery—otherwise Break-the-News—was a character round + there. If he was handy and no woman to be had, he was always sent to break + the news to the wife of a digger or bushman who had met with an accident. + He was old, and world-wise, and had great tact—also great experience + in such matters. Bad news had been broken to him so many times that he had + become hardened to it, and he had broken bad news so often that he had + come to take a decided sort of pleasure in it—just as some bushman + are great at funerals and will often travel miles to advise, and organize, + and comfort, and potter round a burying and are welcomed. They had broken + the news to old Fosbery when his boy went wrong and was “taken” (“when + they took Jim”). They had broken the news to old Fosbery when his + daughter, Rose, went wrong, and bolted with Flash Jack Redmond. They had + broken the news to the old man when young Ted was thrown from his horse + and killed. They had broken the news to the old man when the unexpected + child of his old age and hopes was accidentally burnt to death. So the old + man knew how it felt. + </p> + <p> + The farm was the home of one of Jack Denver’s married sisters, and, as + there was no woman to go so far in the night they had sent old Fosbery to + tell her. Folks were most uneasy and anxious, by the way, when they saw + old Fosbery coming unexpectedly, and sometimes some of them got a bad + start—but it helped break the news. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if he ain’t there, I suppose I’ll have to do it,” thought Ben as he + passed quietly through the upper sliprails and neared the house. “The old + man might have knocked up or got drunk after all. Anyway, no one might + come in the morning till it’s too late—it always happens that way—and—besides, + the women’ll want time to look up their black things.” + </p> + <p> + But, turning the corner of the cow-yard, he gave a sigh of relief as he + saw old Fosbery’s horse tied up. They were up, and the big kitchen + lighted; he caught a glimpse of a shock of white hair and bushy white + eyebrows that could have belonged to no one except old Break-the-News. + They were sitting at the table, the tearful wife pouring out tea, and by + the tokens Ben knew that old Fosbery had been very successful. He rode + quietly to the lower sliprails, let them down softly, led his horse + carefully over them, put them up cautiously, and stood in a main road + again. He paused to think, leaning one arm on his saddle and tickling the + nape of his neck with his little finger; his jaw dropped, reflecting and + grief forgotten in the business on hand, and the horse “gave” to him, + thinking he was about to mount. He was tired—weary with that strange + energetic weariness that cannot rest. It was five miles from Mudgee and + the news was known there and must have spread a bit already; but the bulk + of the Gulgong and Gulgong Road race-goers had passed here before the + accident. Anyway, he thought he might as well go over and tell old + Buckolts, of the big vineyard, across the creek, who was a great admirer + of Jack Denver and had been drinking with him at the races that day. Old + Buckolts was a man of weight in the district, and was always referred to + by all from his old wife down, as “der boss,” and by no other term. The + old slab farmhouse and skillions and out-houses, and the new square brick + house built in front, were all asleep in the moonlight. The dogs woke the + old man first (as was generally the case), as Ben opened the big white + home gate and passed through without dismounting. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s dat? Who voss die [there]?” shouted the old man as the horse’s + hoofs crunched on the white creek-bed gravel between the two houses. + </p> + <p> + “Ben Duggan!” + </p> + <p> + “Vot voss der matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Jack Denver’s dead—killed riding home from the races.” + </p> + <p> + “Vot dat you say?” + </p> + <p> + Ben repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Go avay! Go home and go to sleep! You voss shoking—and trunk. Vat + for you gum by my house mit a seely cock mit der bull shtory at dis hour + of der night?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s only too true, Mr Buckolts,” said Ben. “I wish to God it wasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got der yoomps, Pen. Go to der poomp and poomp on your head and + den turn in someveers till ter morning. I tells von of der pot’s to gif + you a nip and show you a poonk. Vy! I trink mit Shack Denver not twelf + hour ago!” + </p> + <p> + But Ben persisted: “I’m not drunk, Mr Buckolts, and I ain’t got the + horrors—I wish to God I was an’ had. Poor Jack was killed near + Anderson’s, riding home, about six o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + Though Ben couldn’t see him, he could feel and hear by his tones, that old + Buckolts sat up in bed suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mein Gott</i>! How did it happen, Pen?” + </p> + <p> + Ben told him. + </p> + <p> + “Ven and veer voss der funeral?” + </p> + <p> + Ben told him. + </p> + <p> + “Frett! Shonny! Villie! Sharley!” shouted the old man at the top of his + voice to the boys sleeping in the old house. “Get up and pring all der + light horses in from der patticks, and gif dem a goot feet mit plenty + corn; and get der double-parrelled puggy ant der sinkle puggy and der + three spring carts retty. Dere vill pe peoples vanting lifts to-morrow. + Ant get der harnesses and sattles retty. Vake up, olt vomans!” (Mrs + Buckolts must have been awake by this time.) “Call der girls ant see to + dere plack tresses. Py Gott, ve <i>moost</i> do dis thing in style. Does + his poor sister know over dere across the creeks, Pen? Durn out! you lazy, + goot-for-noddings, or I will chain you up on an ants’ bed mit a rope like + a tog; do you not hear that Shack Denver voss dett?” + </p> + <p> + “I vill sent some of der girls over dere first thing in der morning. Holt + on, Pen, ant I vill sent you out some vine.” + </p> + <p> + Ben rode with the news to Lee’s farm where Maurice Lee—at feud with + Buckolts and a silent man—was, for he had known Denver all his life, + and had gone, in his young days, on a long droving trip with him and Ben + Duggan. + </p> + <p> + A little later Ben returned to the main road on a fresh horse. He turned + towards Gulgong, and rode hard; past the new bark provisional school and + along the sidings. He left the news at Con O’Donnell’s lonely tin grocery + and sly-grog shop, perched on the hillside—(“God forgive us all!” + said Con O’Donnell). He left the news at the tumble-down public-house, + among the huts and thistles and goats that were left of the Log Paddock + Rush. There were goats on the veranda and the place seemed dead; but there + were startled replies and inquiries and matches struck. He left the news + at Newton’s selection, and Old Bones Farm, and at Foley’s at the foot of + Lowe’s Peak, close under the gap between Peak and Granite Ridge. Then he + turned west, at right angles to the main road, and took a track that was + deserted except for one farm and on every alternate Sunday. He passed the + lonely little slab bush “chapel” of the locality, that broke startlingly + out of the scrub by the track side as he reached it; and left the news at + Southwick’s farm at the end of the blind track. At more than one farm he + left the bushwoman hurriedly looking up her “black things;” and at more + than one, one of the boys getting his bridle to catch his horse and ride + elsewhere with the news. + </p> + <p> + Ben rode back, through the moonlight and the moon-shadow haunted paddocks, + and the naked, white, ringbarked trees, along Snakes Creek, parallel with + the main road he had recently travelled till he struck Pipeclay Creek + again lower down. He turned down the track towards the river, and at the + junction left word at Lowe’s—one of the old land-grant families. The + dogs woke an old handy man (who had been “sent out” in past ages for + “knocking a donkey off a hen-roost“--as most of them were) and Ben told him + to tell the family. + </p> + <p> + At Belinfante’s Bridge across the Cudgegong Ben struck a big camp of + bullock-drivers, some going down with wool and some going back for more. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on, Ben,” cried Jimmy Nowlett, from his hammock under his wagon as + Ben was riding off—“Hold on a minute! I want to look at yer.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy got his head out of his bunk very cautiously and carefully, and his + body after it—there were nut ends of bolts, a heavy axle, and + extremely hard projections, points, and corners within a very few short + inches of his chaff-filled sugar-bag pillow. Slipping cannily on to his + hands and knees, he crawled out under the tail-board, dragging his “moles” + after him, and stood outside in the moonlight shaking himself into his + trousers. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was a little man who always wore a large size in moleskins—for + some reason best known to himself—or more probably for no reason at + all; or because of a habit he’d got into accidentally years ago—or + because of the motherly trousers his mother used to build for him when he + was a boy. And he always shook himself into his pants after the manner of + a woman shaking a pillow into a clean slip; his chin down on his chest and + his jaw dropped, as if he’d take himself in his teeth, after the manner of + the woman with a pillow, were he not prevented by sound anatomical + reasons. + </p> + <p> + “You look reg’lerly tuckered out, Ben,” he said, “an’ yer horse could do + with a spell too. Git down, man, and have a pint er tea and a bite.” + </p> + <p> + Ben got down wearily and knew at once how knocked up he was. He sat right + down on the hard ground, embracing and drawing up his knees, and felt as + if he’d like never to get up again: while Jimmy shook some chaff and corn + that he carried for his riding hack into a box for the horse, and his + travelling mate, Billy Grimshaw, lifted his big namesake half full of cold + tea, on to the glowing coals by the burning log—looking just like an + orang-outang in a Crimean shirt. + </p> + <p> + Ben got a fresh horse at Alfred Gentle’s farm under the shadow of Granite + Ridge, and then on to Canadian (th’ Canadian Lead of the roaring days), + which had been saved from the usual fate by becoming a farming township. + Here he roused and told the storekeeper. Then up the creek to Home Rule, + dreariest of deserted diggings. + </p> + <p> + He struck across the ages-haunted bush, and up Chinaman’s Creek, past “the + Chinamen’s Graves,” and through the scrub and over the ridges for the + Talbragar Road. For he had to see Jack Denver home from start to finish. + </p> + <p> + Glaring, hot and dusty, lay the long, white road; coated with dust that + felt greasy to the touch and taste. The coffin was in a four-wheeled trap, + for the solitary hearse that Mudgee boasted then was to meet them some + three miles out of town—at the racecourse, as it happened, by one of + those eternal ironies of fate. (Jones, the undertaker, had had another job + that morning.) The long string of buggies and carts and horsemen; other + buggies and carts and horsemen drawn respectfully back amongst the trees + here and there along the route; male hats off and held rigidly vertical + with right ears as the coffin passed; and drivers waiting for a chance to + draw into the line. + </p> + <p> + Think of it; up early on the first morning, a long day at the races, a + long journey home, awake and up all night with grief and sympathy. Some of + the men had ridden till daylight; the women, worn out and exhausted, had + perhaps an hour or so of sleep towards morning—yet they were all + there, except Ben Duggan, on the long, hot, dusty road back, heads + swimming in the heat and faces and hands coated with perspiration and dust—and + never, never once breaking out of a slow walk. It would have been the same + had it been pouring with rain. I have seen funerals trotting fast in + London, and they are trotting more and more in Australian cities, with + only “the time” for an excuse. But in the bush I have never seen a funeral + faster than the slowest of walks no matter who or what might wait, or what + might happen or be lost. They stood by their dead well out there. Maybe + some of the big, simple souls had a sort of vague idea that the departed + would stand a better show if accompanied as far as possible by the + greatest possible number of friends—“barrackers,” so to speak. + </p> + <p> + Here all the shallow and involuntary sham of it, the shirking of a dull + and irksome duty—a bore, though the route be only a mile or so. The + satisfied undertaker, and the hard-up professional mutes and mourners in + seedy, mouldy, greeny-black, and with boozers’ faces and noses and a + constant craving for beer to help them bear up against their grief and + keep their mock solemn faces. Out there you were carried to the hearse or + trap from your home, and from the hearse or trap to your grave—and + with infinite carefulness and gentleness—on the shoulders of men, + and of men who had known and loved you. + </p> + <p> + There had been wonder and waiting in the morning for Ben Duggan; and the + women especially, on the way home, when free from restraint, were greatly + indignant against him. To think that he should break out and go on the + drunk on this day of all days, when his oldest mate and friend was being + carried to his grave. The men, knowing how he had ridden all night, found + great excuses; but later on some grew anxious and wondered what could have + become of him. + </p> + <p> + Some, returning home by a short cut, passed over Dead Man’s Gap beyond + Lowe’s Peak. + </p> + <p> + “Wonder what could have become of Ben Duggan.” mused one, as they rode + down. + </p> + <p> + There and then their wonders ceased. + </p> + <p> + A party of road-clearers had been at work along the bottom, and there was + much smoke from the burning-off, which must have made the track dim and + vague and uncertain at night. Just at the foot of the gap, clear of the + rough going, a newly-fallen tree lay across the track. It was stripped—had + been stripped late the previous afternoon, in fact; and, well, you won’t + know, what a log like that is when the sap is well up until you have + stepped casually on to it to take a look round. A confident skip, with + your boot soles well greased, on to the ice in a glaciarium for the first + time would be nothing to it in its results, I fancy. (I remember we + children used to scrape the sap off, and eat it with satisfaction, if not + with relish—white box I think the trees were.) + </p> + <p> + Ben must have broken into a canter as he reached the level, as indeed his + horse’s tracks showed he did, and the horse must have blundered in the + smoke, or jumped too long or too short; anyway, his long slithering shoe + marks were in the sap on the log, and he lay there with a broken leg and + shoulder. He had struck it near the stump and the sharp edge of an outcrop + of rock. + </p> + <p> + There was more breakneck riding, and they got a cart and some bedding and + carried Ben to Anderson’s, which was handiest, if not nearest, and there + was more wild and reckless riding for the doctor. + </p> + <p> + One got a gun, and rode back to shoot the horse. + </p> + <p> + Ben’s case was hopeless from the first. He was hurt close to that big + heart of his, as well as having a fractured skull. He talked a lot of the + selections and old John Tierney, of the old bark school; and the + Never-Never country with Jack—and, later on, of the present. “What’s + Ben sayin’ now, Jim?” asked one young bushman as another came out of the + room with an awestruck face. + </p> + <p> + “He’s sayin’ that Jack Denver’s dead, killed ridin’ home from the races, + an’ that the funeral’s to-morrow, an’ we’re to roll up at Talbragar!” + answered the other, with wide eyes, a blank face and in an awed voice. + “He’s thinkin’ to-day’s yisterday.” + </p> + <p> + But towards the end, under the ministrations of the doctor, Ben became + conscious. He rolled his head a little on the pillow after he woke, and + then, seeming to remember all that happened up to his stunning fall, he + asked quietly: + </p> + <p> + “What sort of a funeral did Jack have?” + </p> + <p> + They told him it was the biggest ever seen in the district. + </p> + <p> + “Muster bin more’n a mile long,” said one. + </p> + <p> + “Watcher talkin’ about, Jim?” put in another. “Yer talkin’ through yer + socks. It was more’n a mile an’ a half, Ben, if it was er inch. Some of + the chaps timed it an’ measured it an’ compared notes as well as they + could. Why, the head was at the Racecourse when the tail was at Old—” + </p> + <p> + Ben sank back satisfied and a little later took the track that Jack Denver + had taken. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WANTED BY THE POLICE + </h2> + <p> + Could it have been the Soul of Man and none higher that gave spoken and + written word to the noblest precepts of human nature? For the deeper you + sound it the more noble it seems, in spite of all the wrong, injustice, + sin, sorrow, pain, religion, atheism, and cynics in the world. We make (or + are supposed to make, or allow others to make) laws for the protection of + society, or property, or religion, or what you will; and we pay thousands + of men like ourselves to protect those laws and see them carried out; and + we build and maintain expensive offices, police stations, court-houses and + jails for the protecting and carrying out of those laws, and the punishing + of men—like ourselves—who break them. Yet, in our heart of + hearts we are antagonistic to most of the laws, and to the Law as a whole + (which we regard as an ass), and to the police magistrates and the judges. + And we hate lawyers and loathe spies, pimps, and informers of all + descriptions and the hangman with all our soul. For the Soul of Man says: + Thou shalt not refuse refuge to the outcast, and thou shalt not betray the + wanderer. + </p> + <p> + And those who do it we make outcast. + </p> + <p> + So we form Prisoners’ Aid Societies, and Prisoners’ Defence Societies, and + subscribe to them and praise them and love them and encourage them to + protect or defend men from the very laws that we pay so dearly to + maintain. And how many of us, in the case of a crime against property—and + though the property be public and ours—would refuse tucker to the + hunted man, and a night’s shelter from the pouring rain and the scowling, + haunting, threatening, and terrifying darkness? Or show the police in the + morning the track the poor wretch had taken? I know I couldn’t. + </p> + <p> + The Heart of Man says: Thou shalt not. + </p> + <p> + At country railway stations, where the trains stop for refreshments, when + a prisoner goes up or down in charge of a policeman, a native delicacy + prevents the local loafers from seeming to notice him; but at the last + moment there is always some hand to thrust in a clay pipe and cake of + tobacco, and maybe a bag of sandwiches to the policeman. + </p> + <p> + And, when a prisoner escapes, in the country at least—unless he be a + criminal maniac in for a serious offence, and therefore a real danger to + society—we all honestly hope that they won’t catch him, and we don’t + hide it. And, if put in a corner, most of us would help them not to catch + him. + </p> + <p> + The thing came down through the ages and survived through the dark Middle + Ages, as all good things come down through the ages and survive through + the blackest ages. The hunted man in the tree, or cave, or hole, and + strangers creeping to him with food in the darkness, and in fear and + trembling; though he was, as often happened, an enemy to their creed, + country, or party. For he was outcast, and hungry, and a wanderer whom men + sought to kill. + </p> + <p> + These were mostly poor people or peasants; but it was so with the rich and + well-to-do in the bloody Middle Ages. The Catholic country gentleman + helping the Protestant refugee to escape disguised as a manservant (or a + maidservant), and the Protestant country gentleman doing likewise by a + hunted Catholic in his turn, as the battles went. Rebel helping royalist, + and royalist helping rebel. And always, here and there, down through those + ages, the delicate girl standing with her back to a door and her arms + outstretched across it, and facing, with flashing eyes, the soldiers of + the king or of the church—or entertaining and bluffing them with + beautiful lies—to give some poor hunted devil time to hide or + escape, though she a daughter of royalists and the church, and he a rebel + to his king and a traitor to his creed. For they sought to kill him. + </p> + <p> + There was sanctuary in those times, in the monkeries—and the + churches, where the soldiers of the king dared not go, for fear of God. + There has been sanctuary since, in London and other places, where His or + Her Majesty’s police dared not go because of the fear of man. The “Rocks” + was really sanctuary, even in my time—also Woollomooloo. Now the + only sanctuary is the jail. + </p> + <p> + And, not so far away, my masters! Down close to us in history, and in + Merrie England, during Judge Jeffreys’s “Bloody Assize,” which followed on + the Monmouth rebellion and formed the blackest page in English history, “a + worthy widow named Elizabeth Gaunt was burned alive at Tyburn, for having + sheltered a wretch who himself gave evidence against her. She settled the + fuel about herself with her own hands, so that the flames should reach her + quickly; and nobly said, with her last breath, that she had obeyed the + sacred command of God, to give refuge to the outcast and not to betray the + wanderer.” (Charles Dickens’s <i>History of England.</i>) + </p> + <p> + Note, I am not speaking of rebel to rebel, or loyalist to loyalist, or + comrade to comrade, or clansman to clansman in trouble—that goes + without saying—but of man and woman to man and woman in trouble, the + highest form of clannishness, the clannishness that embraces the whole of + this wicked world—the Clan of Mankind! + </p> + <p> + French people often helped English prisoners of war to escape to the coast + and across the water, and English people did likewise by the French; and + none dared raise the cry of “traitors.” It was the highest form of + patriotism on both sides. And, by the way, it was, is, and shall always be + the women who are first to pity and help the rebel refugee or the fallen + enemy. + </p> + <p> + Succour thine enemy. + </p> + <p> + There must have been a lot of human kindness under the smothering, + stifling cloud of the “System” and behind the iron clank and swishing + “cat” strokes of brutality—a lot of soul light in the darkness of + our dark past—a page that has long since been closed down—when + innocent men and women were transported to shame, misery, and horror; when + mere boys were sent out on suspicion of stealing a hare from the squire’s + preserves, and mere girls on suspicion of lifting a riband from the + merchant’s counter. But the many kindly and self-sacrificing and even + noble things that free and honest settlers did, in those days of + loneliness and hardship, for wretched runaway convicts and others, are + closed down with the pages too. My old grandmother used to tell me tales, + but—well, I don’t suppose a wanted man (or a man that wasn’t wanted, + for that matter) ever turned away from her huts, far back in the wild + bush, without a quart of coffee and a “feed” inside his hunted carcass, or + went short of a bit of bread and meat to see him on, and a gruff but + friendly hint, maybe, from the old man himself. And they were a type of + the early settlers, she an English lady and the daughter of a clergyman. + Ah! well— + </p> + <p> + Do you ever seem to remember things that you could not possibly remember? + Something that happened in your mother’s life, maybe, if you are a girl, + or your father’s, if you are a boy—that happened to your mother or + father some years, perhaps, before you were born. I have many such + haunting memories—as of having once witnessed a murder, or an + attempt at murder, for instance, and once seeing a tree fall on a man—and + as a child I had a memory of having been a man myself once before. But + here is one of the pictures. + </p> + <p> + A hut in a dark gully; slab and stringy-bark, two rooms and a detached + kitchen with the boys’ room roughly partitioned off it. Big clay + fire-place with a big log fire in it. The settler, or selector, and his + wife; another man who might have been “uncle,” and a younger woman who + might have been “aunt;” two little boys and the baby. It was raining + heavens hard outside, and the night was as black as pitch. The uncle was + reading a report in a paper (that seemed to have come, somehow, a long way + from somewhere) about two men who were wanted for sheep- and + cattle-stealing in the district. I decidedly remember it was during the + reign of the squatters in the nearer west. There came a great gust that + shook the kitchen and caused the mother to take up the baby out of the + rough gin-case cradle. The father took his pipe from his mouth and said: + “Ah, well! poor devils.” “I hope they’re not out in a night like this, + poor fellows,” said the mother, rocking the child in her arms. “And I hope + they’ll never catch ‘em,” snapped her sister. “The squatters has enough.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder where poor Jim is?” the mother moaned, rocking the baby, and + with two of those great, silent tears starting from her haggard eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh don’t start about Jim again, Ellen,” said her sister impatiently. “He + can take care of himself. You were always rushing off to meet trouble + half-way—time enough when they come, God knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, Ellen,” put in Uncle Abe, soothingly, “he was up in + Queensland doing well when we last heerd of him. Ain’t yer never goin’ to + be satisfied?” + </p> + <p> + Jim was evidently another and a younger uncle, whose temperament from + boyhood had given his family constant cause for anxiety. + </p> + <p> + The father sat smoking, resting his elbow on his knee, bunching up his + brush of red whiskers, and looking into the fire—and back into his + own foreign past in his own foreign land perhaps: and, it may be, thinking + in his own language. + </p> + <p> + Silence and smoke for a while; then the mother suddenly straightened up + and lifted a finger: + </p> + <p> + “Hush! What’s that? I thought I heard someone outside.” + </p> + <p> + “Old Poley coughin’,” said Uncle Abe, after they’d listened a space. “She + must be pretty bad—oughter give her a hot bran mash.” (Poley was the + best milker.) + </p> + <p> + “But I fancied I heard horses at the sliprails,” said the mother. + </p> + <p> + “Old Prince,” said Uncle Abe. “Oughter let him into the shed.V + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said the mother, “there’s someone outside.” There <i>was</i> a + step, as of someone retreating after peeping through a crack in the door, + but it was not old Poley’s step; then, from farther off, a cough that was + like old Poley’s cough, but had a rack in it. + </p> + <p> + “See who it is, Peter,” said the mother. Uncle Abe, who was dramatic and + an ass, slipped the old double-barrelled muzzle-loader from its leathers + on the wall and stood it in the far corner and sat down by it. The mother, + who didn’t seem to realize anything, frowned at him impatiently. The + coughing fit started again. It was a man. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there? Anyone outside there?” said the settler in a loud voice. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right. Is the boss there? I want to speak to him,” replied a + voice with no cough in it. The tone was reassuring, yet rather strained, + as if there had been an accident—or it might be a cautious policeman + or bushranger reconnoitring. + </p> + <p> + “Better see what he wants, Peter,” said his sister-in-law quietly. + “Something’s the matter—it may be the police.” + </p> + <p> + Peter threw an empty bag over his shoulders, took the peg from the door, + opened it and stepped out. The racking fit of coughing burst forth again, + nearer. “That’s a church-yarder!” commented Uncle Abe. + </p> + <p> + The settler came inside and whispered to the others, who started up, + interested. The coughing started again outside. When the fit was over the + mother said: + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute till I get the boys out of the road and then bring them + in.” The boys were bundled into the end room and told to go to bed at + once. They knelt up on the rough bed of slabs and straw mattress, instead, + and applied eyes and ears to the cracks in the partition. + </p> + <p> + The mother called to the father, who had gone outside again. + </p> + <p> + “Tell them to come inside, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Better bring the horses into the yard first and put them under the shed,” + said the father to the unknown outside in the rain and darkness. Clatter + of sliprails let down and tired hoofs over them, and sliprails put up + again; then they came in. + </p> + <p> + Wringing wet and apparently knocked up, a tall man with black curly hair + and beard, black eyes and eyebrows that made his face seem the whiter; + dressed in tweed coat, too small for him and short at the sleeves, + strapped riding-pants, leggings, and lace-up boots, all sodden. The other + a mere boy, beardless or clean shaven, figure and face of a native, but + lacking in something; dressed like his mate—like drovers or + stockmen. Arms and legs of riders, both of them; cabbage-tree hats in left + hands—as though the right ones had to be kept ready for something + (and looking like it)—pistol butts probably. The young man had a + racking cough that seemed to wrench and twist his frame as the settler + steered him to a seat on a stool by the fire. (In the intervals of + coughing he glared round like a watched and hunted sneak-thief—as if + the cough was something serious against the law, and he must try to stop + it.) + </p> + <p> + “Take that wet coat off him at once, Peter,” said the settler’s wife, “and + let me dry it.” Then, on second thoughts: “Take this candle and take him + into the house and get some dry things on him.” + </p> + <p> + The dark man, who was still standing in the doorway, swung aside to let + them pass as the settler steered the young man into the “house;” then + swung back again. He stood, drooping rather, with one hand on the + door-post; his big, wild, dark eyes kept glancing round and round the room + and even at the ceiling, seeming to overlook or be unconscious of the + faces after the first keen glance, but always coming back to rest on the + door in the partition of the boys’ room opposite. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you sit down by the fire and rest and dry yourself?” asked the + settler’s wife, rather timidly, after watching him for a moment. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the door again, abstractedly it seemed, or as if he had not + heard her. + </p> + <p> + Then Uncle Abe (who, by the way, was supposed to know more than he should + have been supposed to know) spoke out. + </p> + <p> + “Set down, man! Set down and dry yerself. There’s no one there except the + boys—that’s the boys’ room. Would yer like to look through?” + </p> + <p> + The man seemed to rouse himself from a reverie. He let his arm and hand + fall from the doorpost to his side like dead things. “Thank you, missus,” + he said, apparently unconscious of Uncle Abe, and went and sat down in + front of the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Hadn’t you better take your wet coat off and let me dry it?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” He took off his coat, and, turning the sleeve, inside out, + hung it from his knees with the lining to the fire then he leaned forward, + with his hands on his knees, and stared at the burning logs and steam. He + was unarmed, or, if not, had left his pistols in the saddle-bag outside. + </p> + <p> + Andy Page, general handy-man (who was there all the time, but has not been + mentioned yet, because he didn’t mention anything himself which seemed + necessary to this dark picture), now remarked to the stranger, with a + wooden-face expression but a soft heart, that the rain would be a good + thing for the grass, mister, and make it grow; a safe remark to make under + the present, or, for the matter of that, under any circumstances. + </p> + <p> + The stranger said, “Yes; it would.” + </p> + <p> + “It will make it spring up like anything,” said Andy. + </p> + <p> + The stranger admitted that it would. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Abe joined in, or, rather, slid in, and they talked about the + drought and the rain and the state of the country, in monosyllables + mostly, with “Jesso,” and “So it is,” and “You’re right there,” till the + settler came back with the young man dressed in rough and patched, but + dry, clothes. He took another stool by his mate’s side at the fire, and + had another fit of coughing. When it was over, Uncle Abe remarked “That’s + a regular church-yarder yer got, young feller.” + </p> + <p> + The young fellow, too exhausted to speak, even had he intended doing so, + turned his head in a quick, half-terrified way and gave it two short jerky + nods. + </p> + <p> + The settler had brought a bottle out—it was gin they kept for + medicine. They gave him some hot, and he took it in his sudden, + frightened, half-animal way, like a dog that was used to ill-usage. + </p> + <p> + “He ought to be in the hospital,” said the mother. + </p> + <p> + “He ought to be in bed right now at once,” snapped the sister. “Couldn’t + you stay till morning, or at least till the rain clears up?” she said to + the elder man. “No one ain’t likely to come near this place in this + weather.” + </p> + <p> + “If we did he’d stand a good chance to get both hospital and a bed pretty + soon, and for a long stretch, too,” said the dark man grimly. “No, thank + you all the same, miss—and missus—I’ll get him fixed up all + right and safe before morning.” + </p> + <p> + The father came into the end room with a couple of small feed boxes and + both boys tumbled under the blankets. The father emptied some chaff, from + a bag in the corner, into the boxes, and then dished some corn from + another bag into the chaff and mixed it well with his hands. Then he went + out with the boxes under his arms, and the boys got up again. + </p> + <p> + The mother had brought two chairs from the front room (I remember the kind + well: black painted hardwood that were always coming to pieces and with + apples painted on the backs). She stood them with their backs to the fire + and, taking up the young man’s wet clothes, which the settler had brought + out under his arm and thrown on a stool, arranged them over the backs of + chairs and the stool to dry. He lost some of his nervousness or seared + manner under the influence of the gin, and answered one or two questions + with reference to his complaint. + </p> + <p> + The baby was in the cradle asleep. The sister drew boiling water from the + old-fashioned fountain over one side of the fire and made coffee. The + mother laid the coarse brownish cloth and set out the camp-oven bread, + salt beef, tin plates, and pintpots. This was always called “setting the + table” in the bush. “You’d better have it by the fire,” said the bush-wife + to the dark man. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, missus,” he said, as he moved to a bench by the table, “but + it’s plenty warm enough here. Come on, Jack.” + </p> + <p> + Jack, under the influence of another tot, was in a fit state to sit down + to a table something like a Christian, instead of coming to his food like + a beaten dog. + </p> + <p> + The hum of bush common-places went on. One of the boys fell across the bed + and into deep slumber; the other watched on awhile, but must have dozed. + </p> + <p> + When he was next aware, he saw, through the cracks, the taller man putting + on his dried coat by the fire; then he went to a rough “sofa” at the side + of the kitchen, where the young man was sleeping—with his head and + shoulders curled in to the wall and his arm over his face, like a possum + hiding from the light—and touched him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Jack,” he said, “wake up.” + </p> + <p> + Jack sprang to his feet with a blundering rush, grappled with his mate, + and made a break for the door. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, Jack,” said the other, gently yet firmly, holding and + shaking him. “Go in with the boss and get into your own clothes—we’ve + got to make a start.” The other came to himself and went inside quietly + with the settler. The dark man stretched himself, crossed the kitchen and + looked down at the sleeping child; he returned to the fire without + comment. The wildness had left his eyes. The bushwoman was busy putting + some tucker in a sugar-bag. “There’s tea and sugar and salt in these + mustard tins, and they won’t get wet,” she said, “and there’s some butter + too; but I don’t know how you’ll manage about the bread—I’ve wrapped + it up, but you’ll have to keep it dry as well as you can.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, missus, but that’ll be all right. I’ve got a bit of + oil-cloth,” he said. + </p> + <p> + They spoke lamely for a while, against time; then the bushwoman touched + the spring, and their voices became suddenly low and earnest as they drew + together. The stranger spoke as at a funeral, but the funeral was his own. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care about myself so much,” he said, “for I’m tired of it, and—and—for + the matter of that I’m tired of everything; but I’d like to see poor Jack + right, and I’ll try to get clear myself, for his sake. You’ve seen him. I + can’t blame myself, for I took him from a life that was worse than jail. + You know how much worse than animals some brutes treat their children in + the bush. And he was an ‘adopted.’ You know what that means. He was + idiotic with ill-treatment when I got hold of him. He’s sensible enough + when away with me, and true as steel. He’s about the only living human + thing I’ve got to care for, or to care for me, and I want to win out of + this hell for his sake.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and they were all silent. He was measuring time, as his next + words proved: “Jack must be nearly ready now.” Then he took a packet from + some inside pocket of his blue dungaree shirt. It was wrapped in + oil-cloth, and he opened it and laid it on the table; there was a small + Bible and a packet of letters—and portraits, maybe. + </p> + <p> + “Now, missus,” he said, “you mustn’t think me soft, and I’m neither a + religious man nor a hypocrite. But that Bible was given to me by my + mother, and her hand-writing is in it, so I couldn’t chuck it away. Some + of the letters are hers and some—someone else’s. You can read them + if you like. Now, I want you to take care of them for me and dry them if + they are a little damp. If I get clear I’ll send for them some day, and, + if I don’t—well, I don’t want them to be taken with me. I don’t want + the police to know who I was, and what I was, and who my relatives are and + where they are. You wouldn’t have known, if you do know now, only your + husband knew me on the diggings, and happened to be in the court when I + got off on that first cattle-stealing charge, and recognized me again + to-night. I can’t thank you enough, but I want you to remember that I’ll + never forget. Even if I’m taken and have to serve my time I’ll never + forget it, and I’ll live to prove it.” + </p> + <p> + “We—we don’t want no thanks, an’ we don’t want no proofs,” said the + bushwoman, her voice breaking. + </p> + <p> + The sister, her eyes suspiciously bright, took up the packet in her sharp, + practical way, and put it in a work-box she had in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + The settler brought the young fellow out dressed in his own clothes. The + elder shook hands quietly all round, or, rather, they shook hands with + him. “Now, Jack!” he said. They had fastened an oilskin cape round Jack’s + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Jack came forward and shook hands with a nervous grip that he seemed to + have trouble to take off. “I won’t forget it,” he said; “that’s all I can + say—I won’t forget it.” Then they went out with the settler. The + rain had held up a little. Clatter of sliprails down and up, but the + settler didn’t come back. + </p> + <p> + “Wonder what Peter’s doing?” said the wife. + </p> + <p> + “Showin’ ‘em down the short cut,” said Uncle Abe. + </p> + <p> + But, presently, clatter of sliprails down again, and cattle driven over + them. + </p> + <p> + “Wonder what he’s doing with the cows,” said the wife. + </p> + <p> + They waited in wonder, and with growing anxiety, for some quarter of an + hour; then Abe and Andy, going out to see, met the settler coming back. + </p> + <p> + “What in thunder are you doing with the cows, Peter?” asked Uncle Abe. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just driving them out and along a bit over those horse tracks; we + might get into trouble,” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + When the boys woke it was morning, and the mother stood by the bed. “You + needn’t get up yet, and don’t say anyone was here last night if you’re + asked,” she whispered, and went out. They were up on their knees at once + with their eyes to the cracks, and got the scare of their young lives. + Three mounted troopers were steaming their legs at the fire—their + bodies had been protected by oilskin capes. The mother was busy about the + table and the sister changing the baby. Presently the two younger + policemen sat down to bread and bacon and coffee, but their senior (the + sergeant) stood with his back to the fire, with a pint-pot of coffee in + his hand, eating nothing, but frowning suspiciously round the room. + </p> + <p> + Said one of the young troopers to Aunt Annie, to break the lowering + silence, “You don’t remember me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I do; you were at Brown’s School at Old Pipeclay—but I was + only there a few months.” + </p> + <p> + “You look as if you didn’t get much sleep,” said the senior-sergeant, + bluntly, to the settler’s wife, “and your sister too.” + </p> + <p> + “And so would you,” said Aunt Annie, sharply, “if you were up with a sick + baby all night.” + </p> + <p> + “Sad affair that, about Brown the schoolmaster,” said the younger trooper + to Aunt Annie. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aunt Annie, “it was indeed.” + </p> + <p> + The senior-sergeant stood glowering. Presently he said brutally—“The + baby don’t seem to be very sick; what’s the matter with it?” + </p> + <p> + The young troopers move uneasily, and one impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “You should have seen her” (the baby) “about twelve o’clock last night,” + said Aunt Annie, “we never thought she would live till the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, didn’t you?” said the senior-sergeant, in a half-and-half tone. + </p> + <p> + The mother took the baby and held it so that its face was hidden from the + elder policeman. + </p> + <p> + “What became of Brown’s family, miss?” asked the young trooper. “Do you + remember Lucy Brown?” + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know,” answered Aunt Annie, “all I know is that they went + to Sydney. But I think I heard that Lucy was married.” + </p> + <p> + Just then Uncle Abe and Andy came in to breakfast. Andy sat down in the + corner with a wooden face, and Uncle Abe, who was a tall man, took up a + position, with his back to the fire, by the side of the senior trooper, + and seemed perfectly at home and at ease. He lifted up his coat behind, + and his face was a study in bucolic unconsciousness. The settler passed + through to the boys’ room (which was harness room, feed room, tool house, + and several other things), and as he passed out with a shovel the sergeant + said, “So you haven’t seen anyone along here for three days?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the settler. + </p> + <p> + “Except Jimmy Marshfield that took over Barker’s selection in Long Gully,” + put in Aunt Annie. “He was here yesterday. Do you want him?” + </p> + <p> + “An’ them three fellers on horseback as rode past the corner of the lower + paddock the day afore yesterday,” mumbled Uncle Abe, “but one of ‘em was + one of the Coxes’ boys, I think.” + </p> + <p> + At the sound of Uncle Abe’s voice both women started and paled, and looked + as if they’d like to gag him, but he was safe. + </p> + <p> + “What were they like?” asked the constable. + </p> + <p> + The women paled again, but Uncle Abe described them. He had imagination, + and was only slow where the truth was concerned. + </p> + <p> + “Which way were they going?” asked the constable. “Towards Mudgee” (the + police-station township), said Uncle Abe. + </p> + <p> + The constable gave his arm an impatient jerk and dropped Uncle Abe. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Abe looked as if he wanted badly to wink hard at someone, but there + was no friendly eye in the line of wink that would be safe. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s strange,” said the sergeant, “that the men we’re after didn’t + look up an out-of-the-way place like this for tucker, or horse-feed, or + news, or something.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here,” said Aunt Annie, “we’re neither cattle duffers nor + sympathizers; we’re honest, hard-working people, and God knows we’re glad + enough to see a strange face when it comes to this lonely hole; and if you + only want to insult us, you’d better stop it at once. I tell you there’s + nobody been here but old Jimmy Marshfield for three days, and we haven’t + seen a stranger for over a fortnight, and that’s enough. My sister’s + delicate and worried enough without you.” She had a masculine habit of + putting her hand up on something when holding forth, and as it happened it + rested on the work-box on the shelf that contained the cattle-stealer’s + mother’s Bible; but if put to it, Aunt Annie would have sworn on the Bible + itself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh well, no offence, no offence,” said the constable. “Come on, men, if + you’ve finished, it’s no use wasting time round here.” + </p> + <p> + The two young troopers thanked the mother for their breakfast, and strange + to say, the one who had spoken to her went up to Aunt Annie and shook + hands warmly with her. Then they went out, and mounting, rode back in the + direction of Mudgee. Uncle Abe winked long and hard and solemnly at Andy + Page, and Andy winked back like a mechanical wooden image. The two women + nudged and smiled and seemed quite girlish, not to say skittish, all the + morning. Something had come to break the cruel hopeless monotony of their + lives. And even the settler became foolishly cheerful. + </p> + <p> + Five years later: same hut, same yard, and a not much wider clearing in + the gully, and a little more fencing—the women rather more haggard + and tired looking, the settler rather more horny-handed and silent, and + Uncle Abe rather more philosophical. The men had had to go out and work on + the stations. With the settler and his wife it was, “If we only had a few + pounds to get the farm cleared and fenced, and another good plough horse, + and a few more cows.” That had been the burden of their song for the five + years and more. + </p> + <p> + Then, one evening, the mail boy left a parcel. It was a small parcel, in + cloth-paper, carefully tied and sealed. What could it be? It couldn’t be + the Christmas number of a weekly they subscribed to, for it never came + like that. Aunt Annie cut the discussion short by cutting the string with + a table knife and breaking the wax. + </p> + <p> + And behold, a clean sugar-bag tightly folded and rolled. + </p> + <p> + And inside a strong whitey-brown envelope. + </p> + <p> + And on the envelope written or rather printed the words: + </p> + <p> + “For horse-feed, stabling, and supper.” + </p> + <p> + And underneath, in smaller letters, “Send Bible and portraits to——.” + (Here a name and address.) + </p> + <p> + And inside the envelope a roll of notes. + </p> + <p> + “Count them,” said Aunt Annie. + </p> + <p> + But the settler’s horny and knotty hands trembled too much, and so did his + wife’s withered ones; so Aunt Annie counted them. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty pounds!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty pounds!” mused the settler, scratching his head in a perplexed way. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty pounds!” gasped his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Aunt Annie sharply, “fifty pounds!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ll get it settled between yer some day!” drawled Uncle Abe. + </p> + <p> + Later, after thinking comfortably over the matter, he observed: + </p> + <p> + “Cast yer coffee an’ bread an’ bacon upon the waters—” + </p> + <p> + Uncle Abe never hurried himself or anybody else. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BATH + </h2> + <p> + The moral should be revived. Therefore, this is a story with a moral. The + lower end of Bill Street—otherwise William—overlooks Blue’s + Point Road, with a vacant wedge-shaped allotment running down from a + Scottish church between Bill Street the aforesaid and the road, and a + terrace on the other side of the road. A cheap, mean-looking terrace of + houses, flush with the pavement, each with two windows upstairs and a + large one in the middle downstairs, with a slit on one side of it called a + door—looking remarkably skully in ghastly dawns, afterglows, and + rainy afternoons and evenings. The slits look as if the owners of the + skulls got it there from an upward blow of a sharp tomahawk, from a + shorter man—who was no friend of theirs—just about the time + they died. The slits open occasionally, and mothers of the nation, mostly + holding their garments together at neck or bosom, lean out—at right + angles almost—and peer up and down the road, as if they are casually + curious as to what is keeping the rent collector so late this morning. + Then they shut up till late in the day, when a boy or two comes home from + work. The terrace should be called “Jim’s Terrace” if the road is not + “James’s” Road, because no bills ever seem to be paid there as they are in + our street—and for other reasons. There are four houses, but seldom + more than two of them occupied at one time—often only one. Tenants + never shift in, or at least are never seen to, but they get there. The + sign is a furtive candle light behind an old table cloth, a skirt, or any + rag of dark stuff tacked across the front bedroom window, upstairs, and a + shadow suggestive of a woman making up a bed on the floor. + </p> + <p> + If more than two of the houses are occupied there is almost certain to be + an old granny with ragged grey hair, who folded her arms tight under her + ragged old breasts, and bends her tough old body, and sticks her ragged + grey old head out of the slit called a door, and squints up and down the + road, but not in the interests of mischief-making—they are never + here long enough—only out of mild, ragged, grey-headed curiosity + regarding the health or affairs of the rent collector. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps there are no bills to be collected in Skull Terrace because no + credit is given. No jugs are put out, because there is no place to put + them, except on the pavement, or on the narrow window ledges, where they + would be in great and constant danger from the feet or elbows of + passers-by. There are no tradesmen’s entrances to the houses in Skull + Terrace. + </p> + <p> + Tenants and sub-tenants often leave on Friday morning in the full glare of + the day. Granny throws down garments from the top window to hurry things, + and the wife below ties up much in an old allegedly green or red + table-cloth, on the pavement, at the last moment. Van of the “bottle ho” + variety. It is all done very quickly, and nobody takes any notice—they + are never there long enough. Landlord, landlady, or rent collector—or + whatever it is—calls later on; maybe, knocks in a tired, even bored, + way; makes inquiries next door, and goes away, leaving the problem to take + care of itself—all kind of casual. The business people of North + Sydney, especially removers and labourers, are very casual. Down old + Blue’s Point Road the folk get so casual that they just exist, but don’t + seem to do so. + </p> + <p> + One thing I never could make out about Skull Terrace is that when one + house becomes vacant from a house agent’s point of view—there is a + permanent atmosphere of vacancy about the whole terrace—the people + of another move into it. And there’s not the slightest difference between + the houses. It is because the removal is such a small affair, I suppose, + and the change is, the main thing. I always do better for awhile in a new + house—but then I always did seem to get on better somewhere else. + </p> + <p> + There are many points, or absence of points, about Skull Terrace that fit + in with Jim’s casualness as against Bill’s character, therefore Blue’s + Point Road ought to be James’s Street. + </p> + <p> + But just now, in the heat of summer, the terrace happens to be full, and + all the blinds are decent—the two new-comers are newly come down to + Skull Terrace, and the other blinds are looked up, washed, and fixed up by + force of example or from very shame’s sake. + </p> + <p> + All of which seems to have nothing whatever to do with the story, except + that the scene is down opposite my balcony as I think and smoke, and it is + a blur on one of the most beautiful harbour views in the world. + </p> + <p> + I had been working hard all day, mending the fence, putting up a + fowl-house and some lattice work and wire netting, and limewashing and + painting. Labours of love. I’d rather build a fowl-house than a “pome” or + story, any day. And when finished—the fowl-house, I mean—I sit + and contemplate my handiwork with pure and unadulterated joy. And I take a + candle out several times, after dark, to look at it again. I never got + such pleasure out of rhyme, story, or first-class London Academy notice. I + find it difficult to drag myself from the fowl-house, or whatever it is, + to meals, and harder to this work, and I lie awake planning next day’s + work until I fall asleep in the sleep of utter happy weariness. And I’m up + and at it, before washing, at daylight. But I was a carpenter and + housepainter first. + </p> + <p> + Well, it had been a long, close day, and I was very dirty and tired, but + with the energy and restlessness of healthy, happy tiredness when work is + unfinished. But I was out of two-inch nails, and the shops were shut. + </p> + <p> + Then it struck me to start up the copper and have a real warm bath after + my own heart and ideas. The bathroom is outside, next the wash-house and + copper. There were plenty of splinters and ends of softwood that were mine + by right of purchase and labour. My landlady is, and always has been, + sensitive on the subject of firewood. She’ll buy anything else to make the + house comfortable and beautiful. She has been known to buy a piano for one + of her nieces and burn rubbish in the stove the same day. I knew she was + uneasy about the softwood odds and ends, but I couldn’t help that—she’d + still be sentimental about them if she had a stack of firewood as big as + the house. There’s at least one thing that most folk hate to buy—mine’s + boot-laces or bone studs, so long as I can make pins or inked string do. + </p> + <p> + I put a bucket of water in the copper, started a fire under that sent + sparks out of the wash-house flue at an alarming rate, filled the copper + to the brim, and, in the absence of a lid, covered it with a piece of + flattened galvanized iron I had. + </p> + <p> + I tacked the side edge of a strip of canvas to the matchboard wall along + over the inner edge of the bath, fastened a short piece of gas-pipe to the + outer edge, with pieces of string through holes made in it, and let it + hang down over the bath, leaving a hole at the head for my head and + shoulders. I was going to have a long, comfortable, and utterly lazy and + drowsy hot water and steam bath, you know. + </p> + <p> + I fastened a piece of clothes-line round and over the head of the bath, + and twisted an old toilet-table cover and a towel round it where it sagged + into the bath, for a head rest-also to be soaped for where I couldn’t get + at my back with my hands. + </p> + <p> + I went up to my room for some things, and it struck me to arrange two + chairs by the bed—candle and matches and tobacco on one side, and a + pile of Jack London, Kipling, and Yankee magazines on the other, with the + last <i>Lone Hand</i> and <i>Bulletin</i> on top. + </p> + <p> + Going down with pyjamas, towel, and soap, it struck me to have a kettle + and a saucepan full of water on the stove to use as the water from the + copper cooled. + </p> + <p> + I took a roomy, hard-bottomed kitchen chair into the bathroom; on it I + placed a carefully scraped, cleared, and filled pipe, matches, more + tobacco, tooth-brush, saucer with a lump of whiting and salt, piece of + looking-glass—to see progress of the teeth—and knife for + finger and toe nails. And I knocked up a few three-inch iron nails in the + wall to hang things on. I placed a clean suit of pyjamas over the back of + the chair, and over them the towels. + </p> + <p> + I arranged with the landlady to have a good cup of coffee made, as she + knows how to make it, ready to hand in round the edge of the door when I + should be in the bath. There’s nothing in that. I’ve been with her for + years, and on account of the canvas it would be just the same as if I were + in bed. On second thought I asked her to hand in some toast—or bread + and butter and bloater paste—at the same time. I fed the fire with + judgment, and the copper boiled just as the last blaze died down. I got a + pail and carried the water to the bath, pouring it in through the opening + at the head. The last few pints I dipped into the pail with a cup. I + covered the opening with a towel to keep the steam and heat in until I was + ready. I got the boiling water from the kitchen into the bucket, covered + it with another towel, and stood it in a handy corner in the bathroom. + </p> + <p> + I made an opening, turned on the cold water, and commenced to undress. I + hung my clothes on the wall, till morning, for I intended to go straight + from the bath to bed in my pyjamas and to lie there reading. + </p> + <p> + I turned off the cold water tap to be sure, lifted the towel off, and put + my good right foot in to feel the temperature—into about three + inches of cold water, and that was vanishing. + </p> + <p> + I’d forgotten to put in the plug. + </p> + <p> + I’m deaf, you know, and the landlady, hearing the water run, thought I was + flushing out the bath (we were new tenants) and wondered vaguely why I was + so long at it. + </p> + <p> + I dressed rather hurriedly in my working clothes, went inside, and spread + myself dramatically on the old cane lounge and covered my face with my + oldest hat, to show that it was comic and I took it that way. But my + landlady was so full of sympathy, condolence, and self-reproach (because + she failed to draw my attention to the gurgling) that she let the coffee + and toast burn. + </p> + <p> + I went up and lay on my bed, and was so tired and misty and far away that + I went to sleep without undressing, or even washing my face and hands. + </p> + <p> + How many, in this life, forget the plug! + </p> + <p> + And how many, ah! how many, who passed through, and are passing through + Skull Terrace, commenced life as confidently, carefree, and clear headed, + and with such easily exercised, careful, intelligent, practised, and + methodical attention to details as I did the bath business arrangements—and + forgot to put in the plug. + </p> + <p> + And many because they were handicapped physically. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INSTINCT GONE WRONG + </h2> + <p> + Old Mac used to sleep in his wagon in fine weather, when he had no load, + on his blankets spread out on the feed-bags; but one time he struck + Croydon, flush from a lucky and good back trip, and looked in at the (say) + Royal Hotel to wet his luck—as some men do with their sorrow—and + he “got there all right.” Next morning he had breakfast in the + dining-room, was waited on as a star boarder, and became thoroughly + demoralized; and his mind was made up (independent of himself, as it were) + to be a gentleman for once in his life. He went over to the store and + bought the sloppiest suit of reach-me-downs of glossiest black, and the + stiffest and stickiest white shirt they had to show—also four bone + studs, two for the collar and two for the cuffs. Then he gave his worn + “larstins” to the stable-boy (with half a crown) to clean, and—proceeded. + He put the boots on during the day, one at a time between drinks, gassing + all the time, and continued. He concluded about midnight, after a very + noisy time and interviews with everyone on sight (slightly interrupted by + drinks) concerning “his room.” It was show time, you see, and all the + rooms were as full as he was—he was too full even to share the + parlour or billiard room with others; but he consented at last to a + shake-down on the balcony, the barmaid volunteering to spread the couch + with her own fair hands. + </p> + <p> + Towards daylight he woke, for one of the reasons why men do wake. It is + well known, to people who know, that old campers-out (and young men new to + it, too) will wake <i>once</i>—if in a party, each at different + times—to tend to their cattle, or listen for the hobbles of their + horses, or simply to rise on their elbows and have a look round—the + last, I suppose, from an instinct born in old dangerous times. Mac woke + up, and it was dark. He reached out and his hand fell, instinctively, on + the rail of the balcony, which was to him (instinctively—and that + shows how instinct errs) the rail of the side of his wagon, in which as I + have said, he was wont to sleep. So he drew himself up on his knees and to + his feet, with the instinctive intention of getting down to (say) put some + chaff and corn in the feed-bags stretched across the shafts for the + horses; for he intended, by instinct, to make an early start. Which shows + how instinct can never be trusted to travel with memory, but will get + ahead of it—or behind it. (Say it was instinct mixed with or + adulterated by drink.) He got a long, hairy leg over and felt + (instinctively) for the hub of the wheel; his foot found and rested on the + projecting ledge of the balcony floor outside, and that, to him, was the + hub all right. He swung his other leg over and expected to drop lightly on + to the grass or dust of the camp; but, being instinctively rigid, he fell + heavily some fifteen feet into a kerbed gutter. + </p> + <p> + As a result of his howls lights soon flickered in windows and fanlights; + and with prompt, eager, anxious, and awed bush first-aid and assistance, + they carried a very sober, battered and blasphemous driver inside and + spread mattresses on the floor. And, some six weeks afterwards, an image, + mostly of plaster-of-Paris and bandages, reclined, much against its will, + on a be-cushioned cane lounge on the hospital veranda; and, from the only + free and workable corner of its mouth, when the pipe was removed, came + shockingly expressed opinions of them—newfangled—two-story—! + “night houses” (as it called them). And, thereafter, when he had a load + on, or the weather was too bad for sleeping in or under his wagon, the + veranda of a one-storied shanty (if he could get to it) was good enough + for MacSomething, the carrier. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HYPNOTIZED TOWNSHIP + </h2> + <p> + They said that Harry Chatswood, the mail contractor would do anything for + Cobb & Co., even to stretching fencing-wire across the road in a + likely place: but I don’t believe that—Harry was too good-hearted to + risk injuring innocent passengers, and he had a fellow feeling for + drivers, being an old coach driver on rough out-back tracks himself. But + he did rig up fencing-wire for old Mac, the carrier, one night, though not + across the road. Harry, by the way, was a city-born bushman, who had been + everything for some years. Anything from six-foot-six to six-foot-nine, + fourteen stone, and a hard case. He is a very successful coach-builder + now, for he knows the wood, the roads, and the weak parts in a coach. + </p> + <p> + It was in the good seasons when competition was keen and men’s hearts were + hard—not as it is in times of drought, when there is no competition, + and men’s hearts are soft, and there is all kindness and goodwill between + them. He had had much opposition in fighting Cobb & Co., and his + coaches had won through on the outer tracks. There was little malice in + his composition, but when old Mac, the teamster, turned his teams over to + his sons and started a light van for parcels and passengers from + Cunnamulla—that place which always sounds to me suggestive of + pumpkin pies—out in seeming opposition to Harry Chatswood, Harry was + annoyed. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps Mac only wished to end his days on the road with parcels that were + light and easy to handle (not like loads of fencing wire) and passengers + that were sociable; but he had been doing well with his teams, and, + besides, Harry thought he was after the mail contract: so Harry was + annoyed more than he was injured. Mac was mean with the money he had not + because of the money he had a chance of getting; and he mostly slept in + his van, in all weathers, when away from home which was kept by his wife + about half-way between the half-way house and the next “township.” + </p> + <p> + One dark, gusty evening, Harry Chatswood’s coach dragged, heavily though + passengerless, into Cunnamulla, and, as he turned into the yard of the + local “Royal,” he saw Mac’s tilted four-wheeler (which he called his + “van”) drawn up opposite by the kerbing round the post office. Mac always + chose a central position—with a vague idea of advertisement perhaps. + But the nearness to the P.O. reminded Harry of the mail contracts, and he + knew that Mac had taken up a passenger or two and some parcels in front of + him (Harry) on the trip in. And something told Harry that Mac was asleep + inside his van. It was a windy night, with signs of rain, and the curtains + were drawn close. + </p> + <p> + Old Mac was there all right, and sleeping the sleep of a tired driver + after a long drowsy day on a hard box-seat, with little or no back railing + to it. But there was a lecture on, or an exhibition of hypnotism or + mesmerism—“a blanky spirit rappin’ fake,” they called it, run by + “some blanker” in “the hall;” and when old Mac had seen to his horses, he + thought he might as well drop in for half an hour and see what was going + on. Being a Mac, he was, of course, theological, scientific, and + argumentative. He saw some things which woke him up, challenged the + performer to hypnotize him, was “operated” on or “fooled with” a bit, had + a “numb sorter light-headed feelin’,” and was told by a voice from the + back of the hall that his “leg was being pulled, Mac,” and by another + buzzin’ far-away kind of “ventrillick” voice that he would make a good + subject, and that, if he only had the will power and knew how (which he + would learn from a book the professor had to sell for five shillings) he + would be able to drive his van without horses or any thing, save the pole + sticking straight out in front. These weren’t the professor’s exact words—But, + anyway, Mae came to himself with a sudden jerk, left with a great Scottish + snort of disgust and the sound of heavy boots along the floor; and after a + resentful whisky at the Royal, where they laughed at his scrooging bushy + eyebrows, fierce black eyes and his deadly-in-earnest denunciation of all + humbugs and imposters, he returned to the aforesaid van, let down the + flaps, buttoned the daft and “feekle” world out, and himself in, and then + retired some more and slept, as I have said, rolled in his blankets and + overcoats on a bed of cushions, and chaff-bag. + </p> + <p> + Harry Chatswood got down from his empty coach, and was helping the yard + boy take out the horses, when his eye fell on the remnant of a roll of + fencing wire standing by the stable wall in the light of the lantern. Then + an idea struck him unexpectedly, and his mind became luminous. He unhooked + the swinglebar, swung it up over his “leader’s” rump (he was driving only + three horses that trip), and hooked it on to the horns of the hames. Then + he went inside (there was another light there) and brought out a bridle + and an old pair of spurs that were hanging on the wall. He buckled on the + spurs at the chopping block, slipped the winkers off the leader and the + bridle on, and took up the fencing-wire, and started out the gate with the + horse. The boy gaped after him once, and then hurried to put up the other + two horses. He knew Harry Chatswood, and was in a hurry to see what he + would be up to. + </p> + <p> + There was a good crowd in town for the show, or the races, or a stock + sale, or land ballot, or something; but most of them were tired, or at tea—or + in the pubs—and the corners were deserted. Observe how fate makes + time and things fit when she wants to do a good turn—or play a + practical joke. Harry Chatswood, for instance, didn’t know anything about + the hypnotic business. + </p> + <p> + It was the corners of the main street or road and the principal short + cross street, and the van was opposite the pub stables in the main street. + Harry crossed the streets diagonally to the opposite corner, in a line + with the van. There he slipped the bar down over the horse’s rump, and + fastened one end of the wire on to the ring of it. Then he walked back to + the van, carrying the wire and letting the coils go wide, and, as + noiselessly as possible, made a loop in the loose end and slipped it over + the hooks on the end of the pole. (“Unnecessary detail!” my contemporaries + will moan, “Overloaded with uninteresting details!” But that’s because + they haven’t got the details—and it’s the details that go.) Then + Harry skipped back to his horse, jumped on, gathered up the bridle reins, + and used his spurs. There was a swish and a clang, a scrunch and a + clock-clock and rattle of wheels, and a surprised human sound; then a bump + and a shout—for there was no underground drainage, and the gutters + belonged to the Stone Age. There was a swift clocking and rattle, more + shouts, another bump, and a yell. And so on down the longish main street. + The stable-boy, who had left the horses in his excitement, burst into the + bar, shouting, “The Hypnertism’s on, the Mesmerism’s on! Ole Mae’s van’s + runnin’ away with him without no horses all right!” The crowd scuffled out + into the street; there were some unfortunate horses hanging up of course + at the panel by the pub trough, and the first to get to them jumped on and + rode; the rest ran. The hall—where they were clearing the willing + professor out in favour of a “darnce”—and the other pubs decanted + their contents, and chance souls skipped for the verandas of weather-board + shanties out of which other souls popped to see the runaway. They saw a + weird horseman, or rather, something like a camel (for Harry rode low, + like Tod Sloan with his long back humped—for effect)—apparently + fleeing for its life in a veil of dust, along the long white road, and + some forty rods behind, an unaccountable tilted coach careered in its own + separate cloud of dust. And from it came the shouts and yells. Men shouted + and swore, women screamed for their children, and kids whimpered. Some of + the men turned with an oath and stayed the panic with: + </p> + <p> + “It’s only one of them flamin’ motor-cars, you fools.” + </p> + <p> + It might have been, and the yells the warning howls of a motorist who had + burst or lost his honk-kook and his head. + </p> + <p> + “It’s runnin’ away!” or “The toff’s mad or drunk!” shouted others. “It’ll + break its crimson back over the bridge.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it!” was the verdict of some. “It’s all the crimson carnal things are + good for.” + </p> + <p> + But the riders still rode and the footmen ran. There was a clatter of + hoofs on the short white bridge looming ghostly ahead, and then, at a + weird interval, the rattle and rumble of wheels, with no hoof-beats + accompanying. The yells grew fainter. Harry’s leader was a good horse, of + the rather heavy coachhorse breed, with a little of the racing blood in + her, but she was tired to start with, and only excitement and fright at + the feel of the “pull” of the twisting wire kept her up to that speed; and + now she was getting winded, so half a mile or so beyond the bridge Harry + thought it had gone far enough, and he stopped and got down. The van ran + on a bit, of course, and the loop of the wire slipped off the hooks of the + pole. The wire recoiled itself roughly along the dust nearly to the heels + of Harry’s horse. Harry grabbed up as much of the wire as he could claw + for, took the mare by the neck with the other hand, and vanished through + the dense fringe of scrub off the road, till the wire caught and pulled + him up; he stood still for a moment, in the black shadow on the edge of a + little clearing, to listen. Then he fumbled with the wire until he got it + untwisted, cast it off, and moved off silently with the mare across the + soft rotten ground, and left her in a handy bush stockyard, to be brought + back to the stables at a late hour that night—or rather an early + hour next morning—by a jackaroo stable-boy who would have two + half-crowns in his pocket and afterthought instructions to look out for + that wire and hide it if possible. + </p> + <p> + Then Harry Chatswood got back quickly, by a roundabout way, and walked + into the bar of the Royal, through the back entrance from the stables, and + stared, and wanted to know where all the chaps had gone to, and what the + noise was about, and whose trap had run away, and if anybody was hurt. + </p> + <p> + The growing crowd gathered round the van, silent and awestruck, and some + of them threw off their hats, and lost them, in their anxiety to show + respect for the dead, or render assistance to the hurt, as men do, round a + bad accident in the bush. They got the old man out, and two of them helped + him back along the road, with great solicitude, while some walked round + the van, and swore beneath their breaths, or stared at it with open + mouths, or examined it curiously, with their eyes only, and in breathless + silence. They muttered, and agreed, in the pale moonlight now showing, + that the sounds of the horses’ hoofs had only been “spirit-rappin’ + sounds;” and, after some more muttering, two of the stoutest, with subdued + oaths, laid hold of the pole and drew the van to the side of the road, + where it would be out of the way of chance night traffic. But they + stretched and rubbed their arms afterwards, and then, and on the way back, + they swore to admiring acquaintances that they felt the “blanky + ‘lectricity” runnin’ all up their arms and “elbers” while they were + holding the pole, which, doubtless, they did—in imagination. + </p> + <p> + They got old Mac back to the Royal, with sundry hasty whiskies on the way. + He was badly shaken, both physically, mentally, and in his convictions, + and, when he’d pulled himself together, he had little to add to what they + already knew. But he confessed that, when he got under his possum rug in + the van, he couldn’t help thinking of the professor and his creepy (it was + “creepy,” or “uncanny,” or “awful,” or “rum” with ‘em now)—his + blanky creepy hypnotism; and he (old Mac) had just laid on his back + comfortable, and stretched his legs out straight, and his arms down + straight by his sides, and drew long, slow breaths; and tried to fix his + mind on nothing—as the professor had told him when he was “operatin’ + on him” in the hall. Then he began to feel a strange sort of numbness + coming over him, and his limbs went heavy as lead, and he seemed to be + gettin’ light-headed. Then, all on a sudden, his arms seemed to begin to + lift, and just when he was goin’ to pull ‘em down the van started as they + had heard and seen it. After a while he got on to his knees and managed to + wrench a corner; of the front curtain clear of the button and get his head + out. And there was the van going helter-skelter, and feeling like Tam + o’Shanter’s mare (the old man said), and he on her barebacked. And there + was no horses, but a cloud of dust—or a spook—on ahead, and + the bare pole steering straight for it, just as the professor had said it + would be. The old man thought he was going to be taken clear across the + Never-Never country and left to roast on a sandhill, hundreds of miles + from anywhere, for his sins, and he said he was trying to think of a + prayer or two all the time he was yelling. They handed him more whisky + from the publican’s own bottle. Hushed and cautious inquiries for the + Professor (with a big P now) elicited the hushed and cautious fact that he + had gone to bed. But old Mac caught the awesome name and glared round, so + they hurriedly filled out another for him, from the boss’s bottle. Then + there was a slight commotion. The housemaid hurried scaredly in to the bar + behind and whispered to the boss. She had been startled nearly out of her + wits by the Professor suddenly appearing at his bedroom door and calling + upon her to have a stiff nobbler of whisky hot sent up to his room. The + jackaroo yard-boy, aforesaid, volunteered to take it up, and while he was + gone there were hints of hysterics from the kitchen, and the boss + whispered in his turn to the crowd over the bar. The jackaroo just handed + the tray and glass in through the partly opened door, had a glimpse of + pyjamas, and, after what seemed an interminable wait, he came tiptoeing + into the bar amongst its awe-struck haunters with an air of great mystery, + and no news whatever. + </p> + <p> + They fixed old Mac on a shake-down in the Commercial Room, where he’d have + light and some overflow guests on the sofas for company. With a last + whisky in the bar, and a stiff whisky by his side on the floor, he was + understood to chuckle to the effect that he knew he was all right when + he’d won “the keystone o’ the brig.” Though how a wooden bridge with a + level plank floor could have a keystone I don’t know—and they were + too much impressed by the event of the evening to inquire. And so, with a + few cases of hysterics to occupy the attention of the younger women, some + whimpering of frightened children and comforting or chastened nagging by + mothers, some unwonted prayers muttered secretly and forgettingly, and a + good deal of subdued blasphemy, Cunnamulla sank to its troubled slumbers—some + of the sleepers in the commercial and billiard-rooms and parlours at the + Royal, to start up in a cold sweat, out of their beery and hypnotic + nightmares, to find Harry Chatswood making elaborate and fearsome passes + over them with his long, gaunt arms and hands, and a flaming red + table-cloth tied round his neck. + </p> + <p> + To be done with old Mac, for the present. He made one or two more trips, + but always by daylight, taking care to pick up a swagman or a tramp when + he had no passenger; but his “conveections” had had too much of a shaking, + so he sold his turnout (privately and at a distance, for it was beginning + to be called “the haunted van”) and returned to his teams—always + keeping one of the lads with him for company. He reckoned it would take + the devil’s own hypnotism to move a load of fencingwire, or pull a + wool-team of bullocks out of a bog; and before he invoked the ungodly + power, which he let them believe he could—he’d stick there and + starve till he and his bullocks died a “natural” death. (He was a bit + Irish—as all Scots are—back on one side.) + </p> + <p> + But the strangest is to come. The Professor, next morning, proved + uncomfortably unsociable, and though he could have done a roaring business + that night—and for a week of nights after, for that matter—and + though he was approached several times, he, for some mysterious reason + known only to himself, flatly refused to give one more performance, and + said he was leaving the town that day. He couldn’t get a vehicle of any + kind, for fear, love, or money, until Harry Chatswood, who took a day off, + volunteered, for a stiff consideration, to borrow a buggy and drive him + (the Professor) to the next town towards the then railway terminus, in + which town the Professor’s fame was not so awesome, and where he might get + a lift to the railway. Harry ventured to remark to the Professor once or + twice during the drive that “there was a rum business with old Mac’s van + last night,” but he could get nothing out of him, so gave it best, and + finished the journey in contemplative silence. + </p> + <p> + Now, the fact was that the Professor had been the most surprised and + startled man in Cunnamulla that night; and he brooded over the thing till + he came to the conclusion that hypnotism was a dangerous power to meddle + with unless a man was physically and financially strong and carefree—which + he wasn’t. So he threw it up. + </p> + <p> + He learnt the truth, some years later, from a brother of Harry Chatswood, + in a Home or Retreat for Geniuses, where “friends were paying,” and his + recovery was so sudden that it surprised and disappointed the doctor and + his friend, the manager of the home. As it was, the Professor had some + difficulty in getting out of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EXCISEMAN + </h2> + <p> + Harry Chatswood, mail contractor (and several other things), was driving + out from, say, Georgeville to Croydon, with mails, parcels, and only one + passenger—a commercial traveller, who had shown himself unsociable, + and close in several other ways. Nearly half-way to a place that was + half-way between the halfway house and the town, Harry overhauled “Old + Jack,” a local character (there are many well-known characters named “Old + Jack”) and gave him a lift as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + “Hello! Is that you, Jack?” in the gathering dusk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “Then jump up here.” + </p> + <p> + Harry was good-natured and would give anybody a lift if he could. + </p> + <p> + Old Jack climbed up on the box-seat, between Harry and the traveller, who + grew rather more stand—(or rather <i>sit</i>) offish, wrapped + himself closer in his overcoat, and buttoned his cloak of silence and + general disgust to the chin button. Old Jack got his pipe to work and + grunted, and chatted, and exchanged bush compliments with Harry + comfortably. And so on to where they saw the light of a fire outside a hut + ahead. + </p> + <p> + “Let me down here, Harry,” said Old Jack uneasily, “I owe Mother Mac + fourteen shillings for drinks, and I haven’t got it on me, and I’ve been + on the spree back yonder, and she’ll know it, an’ I don’t want to face + her. I’ll cut across through the paddock and you can pick me up on the + other side.” + </p> + <p> + Harry thought a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Sit still, Jack,” he said. “I’ll fix that all right.” + </p> + <p> + He twisted and went down into his trouser-pocket, the reins in one hand, + and brought up a handful of silver. He held his hand down to the coach + lamp, separated some of the silver from the rest by a sort of sleight of + hand—or rather sleight of fingers—and handed the fourteen + shillings over to Old Jack. + </p> + <p> + “Here y’are, Jack. Pay me some other time.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, Harry!” grunted Old Jack, as he twisted for his pocket. + </p> + <p> + It was a cold night, the hint of a possible shanty thawed the traveller a + bit, and he relaxed with a couple of grunts about the weather and the + road, which were received in a brotherly spirit. Harry’s horses stopped of + their own accord in front of the house, an old bark-and-slab whitewashed + humpy of the early settlers’ farmhouse type, with a plank door in the + middle, one bleary-lighted window on one side, and one forbiddingly blind + one, as if death were there, on the other. It might have been. The door + opened, letting out a flood of lamp-light and firelight which blindly + showed the sides of the coach and the near pole horse and threw the coach + lamps and the rest into the outer darkness of the opposing bush. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Harry?” called a voice and tone like Mrs Warren’s of the + Profession. + </p> + <p> + “It’s me.” + </p> + <p> + A stoutly aggressive woman appeared. She was rather florid, and looked, + moved and spoke as if she had been something in the city in other years, + and had been dumped down in the bush to make money in mysterious ways; had + married, mated—or got herself to be supposed to be married—for + convenience, and continued to make money by mysterious means. Anyway, she + was “Mother Mac” to the bush, but, in the bank in the “town,” and in the + stores where she dealt, she was <i>Mrs</i> Mac, and there was always a + promptly propped chair for her. She was, indeed, the missus of no other + than old Mac, the teamster of hypnotic fame, and late opposition to Harry + Chatswood. Hence, perhaps, part of Harry’s hesitation to pull up, farther + back, and his generosity to Old Jack. + </p> + <p> + Mrs or Mother Mac sold refreshments, from a rough bush dinner at + eighteenpence a head to passengers, to a fly-blown bottle of ginger-ale or + lemonade, hot in hot weather from a sunny fly-specked window. In between + there was cold corned beef, bread and butter, and tea, and (best of all if + they only knew it) a good bush billy of coffee on the coals before the + fire on cold wet nights. And outside of it all, there was cold tea, which, + when confidence was established, or they knew one of the party, she served + hushedly in cups without saucers; for which she sometimes apologized, and + which she took into her murderous bedroom to fill, and replenish, in its + darkest and most felonious corner from homicidal-looking pots, by + candle-light. You’d think you were in a cheap place, where you shouldn’t + be, in the city. + </p> + <p> + Harry and his passengers got down and stretched their legs, and while Old + Jack was guardedly answering a hurriedly whispered inquiry of the + traveller, Harry took the opportunity to nudge Mrs Mac, and whisper in her + ear: + </p> + <p> + “Look out, Mrs Mac!—Exciseman!” + </p> + <p> + “The devil he is!” whispered she. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-e-es!” whispered Harry. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Harry!” she whispered. “Never a word! I’ll take care of him, + bless his soul.” + </p> + <p> + After a warm at the wide wood fire, a gulp of coffee and a bite or two at + the bread and meat, the traveller, now thoroughly thawed, stretched + himself and said: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, Mrs Mac, haven’t you got anything else to offer us?” + </p> + <p> + “And what more would you be wanting?” she snapped. “Isn’t the bread and + meat good enough for you?” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—you know—” he suggested lamely. + </p> + <p> + “Know?—I know!—What do <i>I</i> know?” A pause, then, with + startling suddenness, “Phwat d’y’ mean?” + </p> + <p> + “No offence, Mrs Mac—no offence; but haven’t you got something in + the way of—of a drink to offer us?” + </p> + <p> + “Dhrink! Isn’t the coffee good enough for ye? I paid two and six a pound + for ut, and the milk new from the cow this very evenin’—an’ th’ + water rain-water.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—you know what I mean, Mrs Mac.” + </p> + <p> + “An’ I doan’t know what ye mean. <i>Phwat do ye mean</i>? I’ve asked ye + that before. What are ye dhrivin’ at, man—out with it!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I mean a little drop of the right stuff,” he said, nettled. Then he + added: “No offence—no harm done.” + </p> + <p> + “O-o-oh!” she said, illumination bursting in upon her brain. “It’s the + dirrty drink ye’re afther, is it? Well, I’ll tell ye, first for last, that + we doan’t keep a little drop of the right stuff nor a little drop of the + wrong stuff in this house. It’s a honest house, an’ me husband’s a honest + harrd-worrkin’ carrier, as he’d soon let ye know if he was at home this + cold night, poor man. No dirrty drink comes into this house, nor goes out + of it, I’d have ye know.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, now, Mrs Mac, between friends, I meant no offence; but it’s a cold + night, and I thought you might keep a bottle for medicine—or in case + of accident—or snake-bite, you know—they mostly do in the + bush.” + </p> + <p> + “Medicine! And phwat should we want with medicine? This isn’t a + five-guinea private hospital. We’re clean, healthy people, I’d have ye + know. There’s a bottle of painkiller, if that’s what ye want, and a packet + of salts left—maybe they’d do ye some good. An’ a bottle of + eye-water, an’ something to put in your ear for th’ earache—maybe + ye’ll want ‘em both before ye go much farther.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mrs Mac—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no more of it!” she said. “I tell ye that if it’s a nip ye’re afther, + ye’ll have to go on fourteen miles to the pub in the town. Ye’re coffee’s + gittin’ cowld, an’ it’s eighteenpence each to passengers I charge on a + night like this; Harry Chatswood’s the driver an’ welcome, an’ Ould Jack’s + an ould friend.” And she flounced round to clatter her feelings amongst + the crockery on the dresser—just as men make a great show of filling + and lighting their pipes in the middle of a barney. The table, by the way, + was set on a brown holland cloth, with the brightest of tin plates for + cold meals, and the brightest of tin pint-pots for the coffee (the + crockery was in reserve for hot meals and special local occasions) and at + one side of the wide fire-place hung an old-fashioned fountain, while in + the other stood a camp-oven; and billies and a black kerosene-tin hung + evermore over the fire from sooty chains. These, and a big bucket-handled + frying-pan and a few rusty convict-time arms on the slab walls, were + mostly to amuse jackaroos and jackarooesses, and let them think they were + getting into the Australian-dontcherknow at last. + </p> + <p> + Harry Chatswood took the opportunity (he had a habit of taking + opportunities of this sort) to whisper to Old Jack: + </p> + <p> + “Pay her the fourteen bob, Jack, and have done with it. She’s got the + needle to-night all right, and damfiknow what for. But the sight of your + fourteen bob might bring her round.” And Old Jack—as was his way—blundered + obediently and promptly right into the hole that was shown him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mrs Mae,” he said, getting up from the table and slipping his hand + into his pocket. “I don’t know what’s come over yer to-night, but, anyway—” + Here he put the money down on the table. “There’s the money I owe yer for—for—” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” she demanded, turning on him with surprising swiftness for + such a stout woman. + </p> + <p> + “The—the fourteen bob I owed for them drinks when Bill Hogan and me—” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t owe me no fourteen bob for dhrinks, you dirty blaggard! Are ye + mad? You got no drink off of me. Phwat d’ye mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Beg—beg pardin, Mrs Mac,” stammered Old Jack, very much taken + aback; “but the—yer know—the fourteen bob, anyway, I owed you + when—that night when me an’ Bill Hogan an’ yer sister-in-law, Mary + Don—” + </p> + <p> + “What? Well, I—Git out of me house, ye low blaggard! I’m a honest, + respictable married woman, and so is me sister-in-law, Mary Donelly; and + to think!—Git out of me door!” and she caught up the billy of + coffee. “Git outside me door, or I’ll let ye have it in ye’r ugly face, ye + low woolscourer—an’ it’s nearly bilin’.” + </p> + <p> + Old Jack stumbled dazedly out, and blind instinct got him on to the coach + as the safest place. Harry Chatswood had stood with his long, gaunt figure + hung by an elbow to the high mantelshelf, all the time, taking alternate + gulps from his pint of coffee and puffs from his pipe, and very calmly and + restfully regarding the scene. + </p> + <p> + “An’ now,” she said, “if the <i>gentleman’s</i> done, I’d thank him to pay—it’s + eighteenpence—an’ git his overcoat on. I’ve had enough dirty insults + this night to last me a lifetime. To think of it—the blaggard!” she + said to the table, “an’ me a woman alone in a place like this on a night + like this!” + </p> + <p> + The traveller calmly put down a two-shilling piece, as if the whole affair + was the most ordinary thing in the world (for he was used to many bush + things) and comfortably got into his overcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mrs Mae, I never thought Old Jack was mad before,” said Harry + Chatswood. “And I hinted to him,” he added in a whisper. “Anyway” (out + loudly), “you’ll lend me a light, Mrs Mac, to have a look at that there + swingle-bar of mine?” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure, Harry,” she said, “for you’re a white man, anyway. I’ll + bring ye a light. An’ all the lights in heaven if I could, an’—an’ + in the other place if they’d help ye.” + </p> + <p> + When he’d looked to the swingle-bar, and had mounted to his place and + untwisted the reins from a side-bar, she cried: + </p> + <p> + “An’ as for them two, Harry, shpill them in the first creek you come to, + an’ God be good to you! It’s all they’re fit for, the low blaggards, to + insult an honest woman alone in the bush in a place like this.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Mrs Mac,” said Harry, cheerfully. “Good night, Mrs Mac.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Harry, an’ God go with ye, for the creeks are risen after + last night’s storm.” And Harry drove on and left her to think over it. + </p> + <p> + She thought over it in a way that would have been unexpected to Harry, and + would have made him uneasy, for he was really good-natured. She sat down + on a stool by the fire, and presently, after thinking over it a bit, two + big, lonely tears rolled down the lonely woman’s fair, fat, blonde cheeks + in the firelight. + </p> + <p> + “An’ to think of Old Jack,” she said. “The very last man in the world I’d + dreamed of turning on me. But—but I always thought Old Jack was + goin’ a bit ratty, an’ maybe I was a bit hard on him. God forgive us all!” + </p> + <p> + Had Harry Chatswood seen her then he would have been sorry he did it. + Swagmen and broken-hearted new chums had met worse women than Mother Mac. + </p> + <p> + But she pulled herself together, got up and bustled round. She put on more + wood, swept the hearth, put a parcel of fresh steak and sausages—brought + by the coach—on to a clean plate on the table, and got some potatoes + into a dish; for Chatswood had told her that her first and longest and + favourite stepson was not far behind him with the bullock team. Before she + had finished the potatoes she heard the clock-clock of heavy wheels and + the crack of the bullock whip coming along the dark bush track. + </p> + <p> + But the very next morning a man riding back from Croydon called, and stuck + his head under the veranda eaves with a bush greeting, and she told him + all about it. + </p> + <p> + He straightened up, and tickled the back of his head with his little + finger, and gaped at her for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” he said, “that wasn’t no excise officer. I know him well—I + was drinking with him at the Royal last night afore we went to bed, an’ + had a nip with him this morning afore we started. Why! that’s Bobby + Howell, Burns and Bridges’ traveller, an’ a good sort when he wakes up, + an’ willin’ with the money when he does good biz, especially when there’s + a chanst of a drink on a long road on a dark night.” + </p> + <p> + “That Harry Chatswood again! The infernal villain,” she cried, with a jerk + of her arm. “But I’ll be even with him, the dirrty blaggard. An’ to think—I + always knew Old Jack was a white man an’—to think! There’s fourteen + shillin’s gone that Old Jack would have paid me, an’ the traveller was + good for three shillin’s f’r the nips, an’—but Old Jack will pay me + next time, and I’ll be even with Harry Chatswood, the dirrty mail carter. + I’ll take it out of him in parcels—I’ll be even with him.” + </p> + <p> + She never saw Old Jack again with fourteen shillings, but she got even + with Harry Chatswood, and—But I’ll tell you about that some other + time. Time for a last smoke before we turn in. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MATESHIP IN SHAKESPEARE’S ROME + </h2> + <p> + How we do misquote sayings, or misunderstand them when quoted rightly! For + instance, we “wait for something to turn up, like Micawber,” careless or + ignorant of the fact that Micawber worked harder than all the rest put + together for the leading characters’ sakes; he was the chief or only + instrument in straightening out of the sadly mixed state of things—and + he held his tongue till the time came. Moreover—and “<i>Put a pin in + that spot, young man</i>,” as Dr “Yark” used to say—when there came + a turn in the tide of the affairs of Micawber, he took it at the flood, + and it led on to fortune. He became a hardworking settler, a pioneer—a + respected early citizen and magistrate in this bright young Commonwealth + of ours, my masters! + </p> + <p> + And, by the way, and strictly between you and me, I have a shrewd + suspicion that Uriah Heep wasn’t the only cad in David Copperfield. + </p> + <p> + Brutus, the originator of the saying, took the tide at the flood, and it + led him and his friends on to death, or—well, perhaps, under the + circumstances, it was all the same to Brutus and his old mate, Cassius. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And this, my masters, brings me home, + Bush-born bard, to Ancient Rome. +</pre> + <p> + And there’s little difference in the climate, or the men—save in the + little matter of ironmongery—and no difference at all in the women. + </p> + <p> + We’ll pass over the accident that happened to Caesar. Such accidents had + happened to great and little Caesars hundreds of times before, and have + happened many times since, and will happen until the end of time, both in + “sport” (in plays) and in earnest: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: ....How many ages hence + Shall this our lofty scene be acted over + In states unborn and accents yet unknown? + + Brutus: How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport, + That now at Pompey’s basis lies along + No worthier than the dust! +</pre> + <p> + Shakespeare hadn’t Australia and George Rignold in his mind’s eye when he + wrote that. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: So oft as that shall be, + So often shall the knot of us be call’d + The men that gave their country liberty. +</pre> + <p> + Well, be that as it will, I’m with Brutus too, irrespective of the merits + of the case. Antony spoke at the funeral, with free and generous + permission, and see what he made of it. And why shouldn’t I? and see what + I’ll make of it. + </p> + <p> + Antony, after sending abject and uncalled-for surrender, and grovelling + unasked in the dust to Brutus and his friends as no straight mate should + do for another, dead or alive—and after taking the blood-stained + hands of his alleged friend’s murderers—got permission to speak. To + speak for his own ends or that paltry, selfish thing called “revenge,” be + it for one’s self or one’s friend. + </p> + <p> + “Brutus, I want a word with you,” whispered Cassius. “Don’t let him speak! + You don’t know how he might stir up the mob with what he says.” + </p> + <p> + But Brutus had already given his word: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Antony: That’s all I seek: + And am moreover suitor that I may + Produce his body to the market place, + And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, + Speak in the order of his funeral. + + Brutus: You shall, Mark Antony. +</pre> + <p> + And now, strong in his right, as he thinks, and trusting to the honour of + Antony, he only stipulates that he (Brutus) shall go on to the platform + first and explain things; and that Antony shall speak all the good he can + of Caesar, but not abuse Brutus and his friends. + </p> + <p> + And Antony (mark you) agrees and promises and breaks his promise + immediately afterwards. Maybe he was only gaining time for his good friend + Octavius Caesar, but time gained by such foul means is time lost through + all eternity. Did Mark think of these things years afterwards in Egypt + when he was doubly ruined and doubly betrayed to his good friend Octavius + by that hot, jealous, selfish, shallow, shifty, strumpet, Cleopatra, and + Octavius was after his scalp with a certainty of getting it? He did—and + he spoke of it, too. + </p> + <p> + Brutus made his speech, a straightforward, manly speech in prose, and the + gist of the matter was that he did what he did (killed Caesar), not + because he loved Caesar less, but because he loved Rome more. And I + believe he told the simple honest truth. + </p> + <p> + Then he acts as Antony’s chairman, or introducer, in a manly + straightforward manner, and then he goes off and leaves the stage to him, + which is another generous act; though it was lucky for Brutus, as it + happened afterwards, that he was out of the way. + </p> + <p> + Mark Antony gets all the limelight and blank verse. He had the “gift of + the gab” all right. Old Cassius referred to it later on in one of those + “words-before-blows” barneys they had on the battlefield where they hurt + each other a damned sight more with their tongues than they did with their + swords afterwards. + </p> + <p> + We’ve all heard of Antony’s speech: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. +</pre> + <p> + Which was a lie to start with. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The evil that men do lives after them, + The good is oft interred with their bones. +</pre> + <p> + Which is not so true in these days of newspapers and magazines. And so on. + He says that Brutus and his friends are honourable men about nine times in + his short speech. Now, was Mark Antony an honourable man? + </p> + <p> + And then the flap-doodle about dead Caesar’s wounds, and their poor dumb + mouths, and the people kissing them, and dipping their handkerchiefs in + his sacred blood. All worthy of our Purves trying to pump tears out of a + jury. + </p> + <p> + But it fetched the crowd; it always did, it always has done, it always + does, and it always will do. And the hint of Caesar’s will, and the open + abuse of Brutus and Co. when he saw that he was safe, and the cheap + anti-climax of the reading of the will. Nothing in this line can be too + cheap for the crowd, as witness the melodramas of our own civilized and + enlightened times. + </p> + <p> + Antony was a noble Purves. + </p> + <p> + And the mob rushed off to burn houses, as it has always done, and will + always do when it gets a chance—it tried to burn mine more than + once. + </p> + <p> + The quarrel scene between Brutus and Cassius is one of the best scenes in + Shakespeare. It is great from the sublime to the ridiculous—you must + read it for yourself. It seems that Brutus objected to Cassius’s, or one + of his off-side friends’ methods of raising the wind—he reckoned it + was one of the very things they killed Julius Caesar for; and Cassius, + loving Brutus more than a brother, is very much hurt about it. I can’t + make out what the trouble really was about and I don’t suppose either + Cassius or Brutus was clear as to what it was all about either. It’s + generally the way when friends fall out. It seems also that Brutus thinks + that Cassius refused to lend him a few quid to pay his legions, and, you + know, it’s an unpardonable crime for one mate to refuse another a few quid + when he’s in a hole; but it seems that the messenger was but a fool who + brought Cassius’s answer back. It is generally the messenger who is to + blame, when friends make it up after a quarrel that was all their own + fault. Messengers had an uncomfortable time in those days, as witness the + case of the base slave who had to bring Cleopatra the news of Antony’s + marriage with Octavia. + </p> + <p> + But the quarrel scene is great for its deep knowledge of the hearts of men + in matters of man to man—of man friend to man friend—and it is + as humanly simple as a barney between two old bush mates that threatens to + end in a bloody fist-fight and separation for life, but chances to end in + a beer. This quarrel threatened to end in the death of either Brutus or + Cassius or a set-to between their two armies, just at the moment when they + all should have been knit together against the forces of Mark Antony and + Octavius Caesar; but it ended in a beer, or its equivalent, a bowl of + wine. + </p> + <p> + Earlier in the quarrel, where Brutus asks why, after striking down the + foremost man in all the world for supporting land agents and others, + should they do the same thing and contaminate their fingers with base + bribes? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I’d rather be a dog and bay the moon, + Than such a Roman. +</pre> + <p> + Cassius says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus, bait not me + I’ll not endure it: you forget yourself, + To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, + Older in practice, abler than yourself + To make conditions. + + Brutus: Go to, you are not, Cassius. + + Cassius: I am. + + Brutus: I say you are not. +</pre> + <p> + And so they get to it again until: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: Is it come to this? + + Brutus: You say you are a better soldier: + Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, + And it shall please me well: for mine own part, + I shall be glad to learn of noble men. + + Cassius: You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus; + I said, an elder soldier, not a better. + Did I say better? +</pre> + <p> + (What big boys they were—and what big boys we all are!) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: If you did, I care not. + + Cassius: When Caesar lived he durst not thus have moved me. + + Brutus: Peace, peace! you durst not thus have tempted him. + + Cassius: I durst not! + + Brutus: No. + + Cassius: What! Durst not tempt him! + + Brutus: For your life you durst not. + + Cassius: Do not presume too much upon my love; + I may do that I shall be sorry for. + + Brutus: You have done that you should be sorry for. +</pre> + <p> + And so on till he gets to the matter of the refused quids, which is + cleared up at the expense of the messenger. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: .... Brutus hath rived my heart + A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities, + But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. + + Brutus: I do not, till you practise them on me. + + Cassius: You love me not. + + Brutus: I do not like your faults. + + Cassius: A friendly eye could never see such faults. + + Brutus: A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear + As huge as high Olympus. +</pre> + <p> + Then Cassius lets himself go. He calls on Antony and young Octavius and + all the rest of ‘em to come and be revenged on him alone, for he’s tired + of the world (“Cassius is aweary of the world,” he says). He’s hated by + one he loves (that’s Brutus). He’s braved by his “brother” (Brutus), + checked like a bondman, and Brutus keeps an eye on all his faults and puts + ‘em down in a note-book, and learns ‘em over and gets ‘em off by memory to + cast in his teeth. He offers Brutus his dagger and bare breast and wants + Brutus to take out his heart, which, he says, is richer than all the quids—or + rather gold—which Brutus said he wouldn’t lend him. He wants Brutus + to strike him as he did Caesar, for he reckons that when Brutus hated + Caesar worst he loved him far better than ever he loved Cassius. + </p> + <p> + Remember these men were Southerners, like ourselves, not cold-blooded + Northerners—and, in spite of the seemingly effeminate Italian + temperament, as brave as our men were at Elands River. The reason of + Brutus’s seeming coldness and hardness during the quarrel is set forth in + a startling manner later on, as only the greatest poet in this world could + do it. + </p> + <p> + Brutus tells him kindly to put up his pig-sticker (and button his shirt) + and he could be just as mad or good-tempered as he liked, and do what he + liked, Brutus wouldn’t mind him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + .... Dishonour shall be humour. + O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb + That carries anger as the flint bears fire, + Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark + And straight is cold again. +</pre> + <p> + Whereupon Cassius weeps because he thinks Brutus is laughing at him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hath Cassius lived + To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, + When grief and blood ill-temper’d vexeth him. + + Brutus: When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too. + + Cassius: Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. + + Brutus: And my heart too. +</pre> + <p> + Then Cassius explains that he got his temper from his mother (as I did + mine). + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: O Brutus! + + Brutus: What’s the matter? [Shakespeare should have added `now.‘] + + Cassius: Have not you love enough to bear with me, + When that rash humour which my mother gave me + Makes me forgetful? + + Brutus: Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth, + When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, + He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so. +</pre> + <p> + And all this on the brink of disaster and death. + </p> + <p> + But here comes a rare touch, and we might as well quote it in full. + </p> + <p> + Mind you, I am following Shakespeare, and not history, which is mostly + lies. + </p> + <p> + A great poet’s instinct might be nearer the truth; after all. Of course + scholars know that Macbeth (or Macbethad) reigned for upwards of twenty + years in Scotland a wise and a generous king—so much so that he was + called “Macbathad the Liberal,” and it was Duncan who found his way to the + throne by way of murder; but it didn’t fit in with Shakespeare’s plans, + and—anyway that’s only a little matter between the ghosts of Bill + and Mac which was doubtless fixed up long ago. More likely they thought it + such a one-millionth part of a trifle that they never dreamed of thinking + of mentioning it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Noise within.) + + Poet (within): Let me go in to see the generals; There is some + grudge between ‘em—‘tis not meet + They be alone. + + Lucilius (within): You shall not come to them. + + Poet (within): Nothing but death shall stay me. +</pre> + <p> + (“Within” in this case is, of course, without—outside the tent where + Lucilius and Titinius are on guard.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Enter POET. + + Cassius: How now! What’s the matter? + + Poet: For shame, you generals! What do you mean? + Love, and be friends, as two such men should be: + For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye. + + Cassius: Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme! + + Brutus: Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence! + + Cassius: Bear with him, Brutus; ‘tis his fashion. + + Brutus: I’ll know his humour when he knows his time: + What should the wars do with these jingling fools? + Companion, hence! + + Cassius: Away, away, be gone! + + (Exit POET.) +</pre> + <p> + Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit a black eye (<i>Lawson</i>). + Shakespeare was ever rough on poets—but stay! Consider that this + great world of Rome and all the men and women in it were created by a + “jingling fool” and a master of bad—not to say execrable—rhymes, + and his name was William Shakespeare. You need to sit down and think + awhile after that. + </p> + <p> + Brutus sends Lucilius and Titinius to bid the commanders lodge their + companies for the night, and then all come to him. Then he gives Cassius a + shock and strikes him to the heart for his share in the quarrel. It is + almost directly after the row, when they have kicked out the “jingling + fool” of a poet. Cassius does not know that Brutus has to-day received + news of the death, in Rome, of his good and true wife Portia, who, during + a fit of insanity, brought on by her grief and anxiety for Brutus, and in + the absence of her attendant, has poisoned herself—or “swallowed + fire,” as Shakespeare has it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus (to Lucius, his servant): Lucius, a bowl of wine! + Cassius: I did not think you could have been so angry. + Brutus: O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. + + Cassius: Of your philosophy you make no use, + If you give place to accidental evils. + + Brutus: No man bears sorrow better:—Portia is dead. + + Cassius: Ha! Portia! + + Brutus: She is dead. + + Cassius: How ‘scaped I killing when I cross’d you so! + O insupportable and touching loss! + Upon what sickness? + + Brutus: Impatient of my absence, + And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony + Have made themselves so strong: for with her death + That tidings came; with this she fell distract, + And, her attendants absent, swallowed fire. + + Cassius: And died so? + + Brutus: Even so. + + Cassius: O, ye immortal gods! +</pre> + <p> + (Enter Lucius, with a jar of wine, a goblet, and a taper.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine: + In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. + (Drinks.) + + Cassius: My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. + Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup; + I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love. + (Drinks.) +</pre> + <p> + You ought to read that scene carefully. It will do no one any harm. It did + me a lot of good one time, when I was about to quarrel with a friend whose + heart was sick with many griefs that I knew nothing of at the time. You + never know what’s behind. + </p> + <p> + Titinius and Messala come in, and proceed to discuss the situation. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Come in, Titinius!! Welcome, good Messala. + Now sit we close about this taper here, + And call in question our necessities. + + Cassius (on whom the wine seems to have taken some effect): + Portia, art thou gone? + + Brutus: No more, I pray you. + Messala, I have here received letters, + That young Octavius and Mark Antony + Come down upon us with a mighty power, + Bending their expedition towards Philippi. +</pre> + <p> + Messala has also letters to the same purpose, and they have likewise news + of the murder, or execution, of upwards of a hundred senators in Rome. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: Cicero one! + Messala: Cicero is dead. +</pre> + <p> + Poor Brutus! His heart had cause to be sick of many griefs that day. + Messala thinks he has news to break, and Brutus draws him out. How many + and many a man and woman, with a lump in the throat, have broken sad and + bad news since that day, and started out to do it in the same old gentle + way: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Messala: Had you your letters from your wife, my lord? + + Brutus: No, Messala. + + Messala: Nor nothing in your letters writ of her? + + Brutus: Nothing, Messala. + + Messala: That, methinks, is strange. + + Brutus: Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours? +</pre> + <p> + Maybe it strikes Messala like a flash that Brutus is in no need of any + more bad news just now, and it had better be postponed till after the + battle: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Messala: No, my lord. + + Brutus: Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. + + Messala: Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell: + For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. + + Brutus: Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala: + With meditating that she must die once + I have the patience to endure it now. +</pre> + <p> + Poor Messala comes to the scratch again rather lamely with a little weak + flattery: “Even so great men great losses should endure;” and Cassius + says, rather mixedly—it might have been the wine—that he has + as much strength in bearing trouble as Brutus has, and yet he couldn’t + bear it so. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have as much of this in art as you, + But yet my nature could not bear it so. + + Brutus: Well, to our work alive. What do you think + Of marching on Philippi presently? +</pre> + <p> + Brutus was a strong man. Portia’s spirit must bide a while. They discuss a + plan of campaign. Cassius is for waiting for the enemy to seek them and so + get through his tucker and knock his men up, while they rest in a good + position; but Brutus argues that the enemy will gather up the country + people between Philippi and their camp and come on refreshed with added + numbers and courage, and it would be better for them to meet him at + Philippi with these people at their back. The politics or inclination of + the said country people didn’t matter in those days. “There is a tide in + the affairs of men”—and so they decide to take it at the flood and + float high on to the rocks at Philippi. Ah well, it led on to immortality, + if it didn’t to fortune. + </p> + <p> + Well, there’s no more to say. Brutus thinks that the main thing now is a + little rest—in which you’ll agree with him; and he sends for his + night-shirt. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good night, Titinius: noble, noble Cassius, + Good night, and good repose! +</pre> + <p> + That old fool of a Cassius—remorseful old smooth-bore—is still + a bit maudlin—maybe he had another swig at the wine when Shakespeare + wasn’t looking. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: O my dear brother! + This was an ill beginning of the night + Never come such division ‘tween our souls! + Let it not, Brutus. + + Brutus: Everything is well. + + Cassius: Good night, my lord. + + Brutus: Good sight, good brother. +</pre> + <p> + Titinius and Messala: Good night, Lord Brutus. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Farewell, every one. +</pre> + <p> + And Cassius is the man whom Caesar denounced as having a lean and hungry + look: “Let me have men about me that are fat... such men are dangerous.” + (Mr Archibald held with that—and he had a lean, if not a hungry, + look too.) When Antony put in a word for Cassius, Caesar said that he + wished he was fatter anyhow. “He thinks too much,” Caesar said to Antony. + He read a lot; he could look through men; he never went to the theatre, + and heard no music; he never smiled except as if grinning sarcastically at + himself for “being moved to smile at anything.” Caesar said that such men + were never at heart’s ease while they could see a bigger man than + themselves, and therefore such men were dangerous. “Come on my right hand, + for this ear is deaf, and tell me truly what thou think’st of him.” + (That’s a touch, for deafness in people affected that way is usually + greater in the left ear.) + </p> + <p> + When Lucilius returned from taking a message from Brutus to Cassius <i>re</i> + the loan of the fivers aforementioned and other matters—and before + the arrival of Cassius with his horse and foot, and the quarrel—Brutus + asked Lucilius what sort of a reception he had, and being told “With + courtesy and respect enough,” he remarked, “Thou hast described a hot + friend cooling,” and so on. But Cassius will cool no more until death + cools him to-morrow at Philippi. + </p> + <p> + The rare gentleness of Brutus’s character—and of the characters of + thousands of other bosses in trouble—is splendidly, and ah! so + softly, pictured in the tent with his servants after the departure of the + others. It is a purely domestic scene without a hint of home, women, or + children—save that they themselves are big children. The scene now + has the atmosphere of a soft, sad nightfall, after a long, long, hot and + weary day full of toil and struggle and trouble—though it is really + well on towards morning. + </p> + <p> + Lucius comes in with the gown. Brutus says, “Give me the gown,” and asks + where his (Lucius’s) musical instrument is, and Lucius replies that it’s + here in the tent. Brutus notices that he speaks drowsily. “Poor knave, I + blame thee not, thou are o’er-watched.” He tells him to call Claudius and + some other of his men: “I’d have them sleep on cushions in my tent.” They + come. He tells them he might have to send them on business by and by to + his “brother” Cassius, and bids them lie down and sleep, calling them + sirs. They say they’ll stand and watch his pleasure. “I will not have it + so; lie down, good sirs.” He finds, in the pocket of his gown, a book he’d + been hunting high and low for—and had evidently given Lucius a warm + time about—and he draws Lucius’s attention to the fact: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so: + I put it in the pocket of my gown. + + Lucius: I was sure your lordship did not give it to me. + + Brutus: Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful, etc. +</pre> + <p> + He asks Lucius if he can hold up his heavy eyes and touch his instrument a + strain or two. But better give it all—it’s not long: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lucius: Ay, my lord, an’t please you. + + Brutus: It does, my boy: + I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. + + Lucius: It is my duty, sir. + + Brutus: I should not urge thy duty past thy might; + I know young bloods look for a time of rest. + + Lucius: I have slept, my lord, already. + + Brutus: It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again; + I will not hold thee long: if I do live, + I will be good to thee. (Music, and a song.) + This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber, + Lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy + That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good-night; + I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee: + If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument; + I’ll take it from thee; and, good boy, good-night. + Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn’d down + Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. + (He sits down.) +</pre> + <p> + A man for all time! How natural it all reads! You must remember that he is + a tired man after a long, strenuous day such as none of us ever know. The + fate of Rome and his—a much smaller matter—are hanging on the + balance, and tomorrow will decide; but he is so mind-dulled and + shoulder-weary under the tremendous burden of great things and of many + griefs that he is almost apathetic; and over all is the cloud of a loss + that he has not yet had time to realize. He is self-hypnotized, so to + speak, and his mind mercifully dulled for the moment on the Sea of + Fatalism. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Enter GHOST of CAESAR + + Brutus: How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? + I think it is the weakness of mine eyes + That shapes this monstrous apparition. + It comes upon me. Art thou any thing? + Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil + That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare? + Speak to me what thou art! +</pre> + <p> + His very “scare,” or rather his cold blood and staring hair are as things + apart, to be analysed and explained quickly and put aside. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ghost: Thy evil spirit, Brutus. +</pre> + <p> + That was frank enough, anyway. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Why comest thou? + + Ghost: To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. + + Brutus: Well; then I shall see thee again? + + Ghost: Ay, at Philippi. + (Vanishes.) +</pre> + <p> + That was very satisfactory, so far. But Brutus, having taken heart, as he + says, would hold more talk with the “ill spirit.” A ghost always needs to + be taken quietly—it’s no use getting excited and threshing round. + But Caesar’s, being a new-chum ghost and bashful, was doubtless + embarrassed by his cool, matter-of-fact reception, and left. It didn’t + matter much. They were to meet soon, above Philippi, on more level terms. + </p> + <p> + But I cannot get away from the idea that Caesar’s ghost’s visit was made + in a friendly spirit. Who knows? Perhaps Portia’s spirit had sent it to + comfort Brutus: her own being prevented from going for some reason only + known to the immortal gods. + </p> + <p> + Then Brutus wakes them all. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lucius: The strings, my lord, are false. + + Brutus: He thinks he is still at his instrument. + Lucius, awake! +</pre> + <p> + And after questioning them as to whether they cried out in their sleep, or + saw anything, he bids the boy sleep again (it is easy for tired boys to + sleep at will in camp) and sends two of the others to Cassius to bid him + get his forces on the way early and he would follow. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Go and commend me to my brother Cassius; + Bid him set on his powers betimes before, + And we will follow. + + Varro and Claudius: It shall be done, my lord. +</pre> + <p> + For, being a wise soldier, as well as a brave and gentle one, he reckoned, + no doubt, that it would be best to have a strong man in the rear until the + field was actually reached, for the benefit of would-be deserters, and + unconsidered trifles of country people-and maybe for another reason not + totally disconnected with his erratic friend Cassius. + </p> + <p> + Just one more scene, and a very different one, before we hurry on to the + end, as they have done to Philippi. It’s the only scene in which those two + unlucky Romans, Cassius and Brutus, seem to score. + </p> + <p> + It is during the barney, or as Shakespeare calls it, the “parley” before + the battle. Those parleys never seemed to do any good—except to make + matters worse, if I might put it like that: it’s the same, under similar + circumstances, right up to to-day. Enter on one side Octavius Caesar, Mark + Antony, and their pals and army; and, on the other, Brutus and Cassius and + the friends and followers of their falling fortunes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Words before blows: is it so, countrymen? + + Octavius: Not that we love words better, as you do. +</pre> + <p> + You see, Octavius starts it. + </p> + <p> + Brutus lays himself open: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. + Antony: In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words: + Witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart, + Crying, “Long live! hail, Caesar!” + </pre> + <p> + This is one for Brutus, though it contains a lie. But Cassius comes to the + rescue: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: Antony, + The posture of your blows are yet unknown, + But, for your words, they rob the Hybla bees + And leave them honeyless. + + Antony: Not stingless too. + + Brutus: O, yes, and soundless too; + For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony, + And very wisely threat before you sting. +</pre> + <p> + That was one for Antony, and he gets mad. “Villains!” he yells, and he + abuses them about their vile daggers hacking one another in the sides of + Caesar (a little matter that ought to be worn threadbare by now), and + calls them apes and hounds and bondmen and curs, and O, flatterers (which + seems to be worst of all in his opinion—for he isn’t one, you know), + and damns ‘em generally. + </p> + <p> + Old Cassius remarks, “Flatterers!” + </p> + <p> + Then Octavius breaks loose, and draws his Roman chopper and waves it + round, and spreads himself out over Caesar’s three-and-thirty wounds—which + ought to be given a rest by this time, but only seem to be growing in + number—and swears that he won’t put up said chopper till said wounds + are avenged, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Or till another Caesar + Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. +</pre> + <p> + Brutus says quietly that he cannot die by traitors unless he brings ‘em + with him. (He sent one to Egypt later on.) Octavius says he hopes he + wasn’t born to die on Brutus’s sword; and Brutus says, in effect, that + even if he was any good he couldn’t die more honourably. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, + Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. + + Cassius: A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour, + Join’d with a masker and a reveller! +</pre> + <p> + Octavius calls off his dogs, and tells them to come on to-day if they + dare, or if not, when they have stomachs. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cassius: Why, now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! + The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. +</pre> + <p> + Yes, I reckon old Cassius (“old” in an affectionate sense) and Brutus came + out top dogs from that scrap anyway. And, yes, Antony <i>was</i> good at + orating. He was great at orating over dead men—especially dead + “friends” (as he called his rivals) and dead enemies. Brutus was “the + noblest Roman of them all” when Antony came across him stiff later on. Now + when I die— + </p> + <p> + Octavius, by the way, orated over Antony and his dusky hussy later on in + Egypt, and they were the most “famous pair” in the world. I wonder whether + the grim humour of it struck Octavius <i>then</i>: but then that young man + seemed to have but little brains and less humour. + </p> + <p> + But now they go to see about settling the matter with ironmongery. You can + imagine the fight; the heat and the dust, for it was spring in a climate + like ours. The bullocking, sweating, grunting, slaughter, the crack and + clash and rattle as of fire-irons in a fender. The bad Latin language; the + running away and chasing <i>en masse</i> and by individuals. The mutual + pauses, the truces or spells—“smoke-ho’s” we’d call ‘em—between + masses and individuals. The battered-in, lost, discarded or stolen + helmets; the blood-stained, dinted, and loosened armour with bits missing, + and the bloody and grotesque bandages. The confusion amongst the soldiers, + as it is to-day—the ignorance of one wing as to the fate of the + other, of one party as to the fate of the other, of one individual as to + the fate of another: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills [directions + to officers] + Unto the legions on the other side: +</pre> + <p> + Poor Cassius, routed and in danger of being surrounded, and thinking + Brutus is in the same plight, or a prisoner or dead—and that + Titinius is taken or killed—gets his bondman, whose life he once + saved, to kill him in return for his freedom. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts; + And when my face is cover ‘d, as ‘tis now, + Guide thou the sword. + Caesar, thou art revenged, + Even with the sword that kill’d thee. +</pre> + <p> + Good-bye, Cassius, old chap! + </p> + <p> + Titinius and Messala, coming too late, find Cassius dead; and Titinius, + being left alone while Messala takes the news to Brutus, kills himself + with Cassius’s sword. Titinius, farewell! + </p> + <p> + Come Brutus and those that are left. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? + + Messala: Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. + + Brutus: Titinius’ face is upward. + + Cato: He is slain. +</pre> + <p> + Grim mates in a grim day in a grim hour. Then the cry of Brutus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! +</pre> + <p> + But if he were, perhaps he only gathered old Cassius and Titinius to be + sure of their company with him and Brutus amongst the gods a little later. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Friends, I owe more tears + To this dead man than you shall see me pay. + I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. +</pre> + <p> + And, after making arrangements for the removal of Cassius’s body, they go + to try their fortunes in a second fight. Young Cato is killed and good + Lucilius taken. Comes Brutus beaten, with Dardanius his last friend, and + his three servants, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. +</pre> + <p> + Strato, exhausted, goes to sleep, as man can sleep during a battle; and + Brutus whispers the others, one after another, to kill him; but they are + shocked and refuse: “I’ll rather kill myself,” “I do such a deed?” etc. He + begs Volumnius, his old schoolmate, to hold his sword-hilt while he runs + on it, for their love of old. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Volumnius: That’s not the office for a friend, my lord. +</pre> + <p> + There are alarums, and they urge him to fly, for it’s no use stopping + there. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. + Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; + Farewell to thee too, Strato! Countrymen, + My heart doth joy that yet in all my life + I found so man but he was true to me. +</pre> + <p> + Ye gods! but it’s grand. I wish to our God that I could say as much—or + that man or woman [n]ever found me untrue. Could Antony say as much, + afterwards, in Egypt—or Octavius! with Antony then on his mind? Even + Antony’s last man and servant failed him in the end, killing himself + rather than kill his master. But Strato— + </p> + <p> + There are more alarums and voices calling to them to run. They urge Brutus + again, and he tells them to go and he’ll follow. They all run except + Strato, who hesitates. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brutus: I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord: + Thou art a fellow of a good respect; + Thy life hath had some snatch of honour in it + Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, + While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato? + + Strato: Give me your hand first: fare you well, my lord. + + Brutus: Farewell, good Strato. Caesar, now be still: + I kill’d not thee with half so good a will. +</pre> + <p> + Brutus, good night! + </p> + <p> + I like Shakespeare’s servants. They seem to show that he sprang from + servants or common people rather than from lords and masters, for he deals + with them very gently. It must be understood that servants, bond and free, + were born unto the same house and served it for generations; and so down + to modern England, where the old nurse and the tottering old gardener + often nursed and played with “Master Will,” when his father, the dead and + gone old squire, was a young man. + </p> + <p> + See where Timon’s servants stand in the only patch of sunlight in that + black and bitter story: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Enter Flavius, with two or three SERVANTS. + + 1 Serv.: Hear you, master steward, where’s our master? + Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining? + + Flav.: Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you? + Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, + I am as poor as you. + + 1 Serv.: Such a house broke! + So noble a master fall’n! All gone! and not + One friend to take his fortune by the arm, + And go along with him! + + 2 Serv.: As we do turn our backs + From our companion thrown into his grave, + So his familiars to his buried fortunes + Slink all away; leave their false vows with him, + Like empty purses pick’d; and his poor self, + A dedicated beggar to the air, + With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty, + Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows. + + Enter other Servants + + Flav.: All broken implements of a ruin’d house. + + 3 Serv.: Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery; + That see I by our faces; we are fellows still, + Serving alike in sorrow: leak’d is our bark, + And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, + Hearing the surges threat; we must all part + Into this sea of air. + + Flav.: Good fellows all, + The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you. + Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake + Let’s yet be fellows; let’s shake our heads, and say, + As ‘twere a knell unto our master’s fortunes, + “We have seen better days.” Let each take some. + (Giving them money.) + Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more: + Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes on Australianisms. Based on my own speech over the years, with + </h2> + <p> + some checking in the dictionaries. Not all of these are peculiar to + Australian slang, but are important in Lawson’s stories, and carry + overtones. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + barrackers: people who cheer for a sporting team, etc. + boko: crazy. + bushman/bushwoman: someone who lives an isolated existence, far from + cities, “in the bush”, “outback”. (today: “bushy”. In New + Zealand it is a timber getter. Lawson was sacked from a forestry + job in New Zealand, “because he wasn’t a bushman”:-) + bushranger: an Australian ``highwayman’’, who lived in the `bush’— + scrub—and attacked and robbed, especially gold carrying coaches + and banks. Romanticised as anti-authoritarian Robin Hood figures— + cf. Ned Kelly—but usually very violent. + US use was very different (more = explorer), though some + lexicographers think the word (along with “bush” in this sense) + was borrowed from the US... + churchyarder: Sounding as if dying—ready for the churchyard = cemetery + cobber: mate, friend. Used to be derived from Hebrew chaver via + Yiddish. General opinion now seems to be that it entered the + language too early for that—and an English etymology is preferred. + fiver: a five pound (sterling) note (or “bill”) + fossick: pick out gold, in a fairly desultory fashion. In old + “mullock” heaps or crvices in rocks. + jackaroo: (Jack + kangaroo; sometimes jackeroo)—someone, in early + days a new immigrant from England, learning to work on a + sheep/cattle station (U.S. “ranch”.) + kiddy: young child. “kid” plus ubiquitous Australia “-y” or “-ie” + nobbler: a drink, esp. of spirits + overlanding: driving (or, “droving”, cattle from pasture to market + or railhead.) + pannikin: a metal mug. + Pipeclay: or Eurunderee, Where Lawson spent much of his early life + (including his three years of school... + Poley: name for s hornless (or dehorned) cow. + skillion(-room): A “lean-to”, a room built up against the back of + some other building, with separate roof. + sliprails: portion of a fence where the rails are lossely fitted + so that they may be removed from one side and animal let through. + smoke-ho: a short break from, esp., heavy physical work, and those who + wish to can smoke. + sov.: sovereign, gold coin worth one pound sterling + splosh: money + Sqinny: nickname for someone with a squint. + Stousher: nickname for someone often in a fight (or “stoush”) + swagman (swaggy): Generally, anyone who is walking in the “outback” + with a swag. (See “The Romance of the Swag”.) Lawson also + restricts it at times to those whom he considers to be tramps, + not looking for work but for “handouts” (i.e., “bums” in US. In view + of the Great Depression, 1890->, perhaps unfairly. In 1892 it was + reckoned 1/3 men were out of work) +</pre> + <p> + GJC <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rising of the Court, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RISING OF THE COURT *** + +***** This file should be named 7447-h.htm or 7447-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/4/4/7447/ + +Produced by Geoffrey Cowling, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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