The amiable desire, however, of paying off old scores due to the captain, annihilated every other feeling; and when the prisoner, on being asked whether he was guilty or not guilty of the felony laid to his charge, instead of answering, cast his imploring eyes upon me, as though I knew more of the business than himself, I could not refrain from advancing towards the table occupied by the counsel and solicitors, and asking permission of the bench to give my valuable assistance to the prisoner. This being graciously accorded, the mate, with a most doleful countenance, and a very unassured voice, made answer to the plain interrogative of the Clerk of Arraigns — "Not guilty, my Lord."

Whilst the prosecutor was being examined by the Advocate General, I conned over the indictment with a meditative countenance, but without being able to see my way in the least. The captain, scowling atrociously at me and my persecuted friend, gave his evidence with the bitterest animosity. He proved his losses, and the facts of the store-room door having been broken open, and the prisoner and most of the sailors being found drunk by him on his repairing one evening to the vessel. It now became my turn to ask questions, as

Prisoner's Counsel. Your ship, Captain W., is commonly called a Temperance ship, is it not?

Captain (after a ferocious stare). I should think you knew that.

P. Counsel. And being a temperance ship, you do not allow the men, at any time, any other liquor than water?

Captain. No.

P. Counsel. In temperance ships, I suppose it sometimes happens that the men contrive to buy liquor for themselves?

Captain (looking like a bull about to charge a matadore). Boo!

P. Counsel. Do you remember the day we were off Madeira?

Captain stares and snorts.

P. Counsel. Do you remember on that day several of the sailors being remarkably light-headed — reeling about the deck?

Captain (roaring, and striking the table with his hand). Yes!

P. Counsel. Was this the effect of a 'coup de soleil', do you think?

Captain. No!

P. Counsel. Very well. Do you remember, whilst we were on the Line, the second-mate being in your cabin helping Mrs. W. to stow away some things in the lazarette, and both being found afterwards extremely unwell, and obliged to be taken to bed?

Chairman (interfering). I think the witness need not answer that question.

Advocate General. I should have made the same objection, Sir, but — (aside) I was laughing too much.

P. Counsel. Very well, Sir. I will not press it if it be disagreeable. Do you remember at St. Jago the whole of the crew being every day notoriously drunk — from eating water-melons?

Captain (recovering from an apoplectic fit). Ah-h!

P. Counsel. Do you remember, when off the Cape, the sail-maker and several others being unable to do their duty, and being pronounced by the doctor to be in a state of liquor?

Captain. Yes.

P. Counsel. Then, as it appears that on board of a temperance ship, men do occasionally (and in your vessel very often) get drunk, might not the prisoner at the time of his alleged offence have been drinking other liquor than that which formed part of your stores?

Chairman (the Captain being too full of rage to articulate). The jury will be able to draw their own inference as to that.

Captain. It was he, gentlemen; it was this — gentleman (forsooth — ha! ha!) who gave the men money on landing in order to make them drunk.

P. Counsel. Thank you for that evidence. The intelligent gentlemen in the box will perceive that it was at my expense that the unfortunate prisoner got drunk, and not at the captain's.

The prosecutor was now permitted to retire, which he did growling like a bear, amid the jeers of the populace, who always sympathize with misfortune when it appears impersonated in the dock.

The jury were also evidently in high glee, and cast most friendly looks at the prisoner, and the 'fidus Achates' who stood up for him so stoutly.

The next witness was the sail-maker, who reluctantly owned himself to have aided the prisoner in drinking some brandy which had come from the ship's stores.

P. Counsel. But, Sails, you do not mean to say that the prisoner told you he had himself taken it from the ship's stores?

Witness. Oh no, Sir, certainly not.

P. Counsel. In fact, of your own knowledge, you do not know where the liquor came from?

Witness. No, Sir; oh, no, Sir!

Here the Advocate-General administered such a lecture to the witness, who was considerably more than half-drunk at the time, that he entirely lost his wits and memory, and answered so completely at random, that the jury begged he might not be asked any more questions.

Advocate General. It is of no importance. I shall call no more witnesses, as I hold in my hand the prisoner's own confession, made before the committing magistrate, who was yourself, Mr. Chairman.

This was a knock-down blow to me, and made the jury look extremely blank. They gazed on one another in despair. The document was duly proved, and the case for the prosecution closed. The chairman asked if I wished to address the jury, but I declined, and observed that the prisoner must explain for himself what he meant by this extraordinary confession. Every thing seemed dead against the prisoner, who hung his head and looked remarkably simple. I read over the paper, which stated that he, the prisoner, with several others, on a certain day took a quantity of the captain's brandy, and got drunk thereupon.

A ray of hope beamed upon me. I started up, and the jury instinctively began to brighten; they had given up the prisoner as lost, and now they were ready to catch at a straw. I addressed the unfortunate "You state here, that you took the captain's brandy with certain of the sailors. Do you mean by that, you 'partook' of the brandy which other sailors were drinking?"

Prisoner (balbutiant). I — I — ye — ye —

P. Counsel. What do you really mean, Sir, by this written document? Do you mean to say that you yourself took this brandy, or that you partook of it with others?

Prisoner. Yes, Sir, — that I partook of it.

P. Counsel. Then, gentlemen of the jury, this document does not convict the unfortunate man at the bar; and what appears like an admission of guilt is only to be attributed to his imperfect mode of expressing himself. He admits that he partook of certain brandy stated to be the captain's, which the captain, himself, however, would lead you to suppose had been provided by me. The witness who has been examined throws no further light upon the matter; and though the prisoner himself has admitted that he partook of liquor which he believed belonged to the captain, that admission does not convict him under the present indictment, which charges him with having "feloniously taken and carried away," etc.

The jury were evidently delighted with this construction; and the people in the gallery and body of the court could scarcely be restrained from giving three cheers.

The chairman recapitulated the evidence, and left the matter in the hands of the jury, who jostled one another out of the box, and retired to "consider their verdict." As they passed through the ante-room to the apartment in which they usually held their solemn deliberations, they caught up a bucket of water which the bailiff of the court generally kept at hand for thirsty counsel or magistrates; and as soon as they had decently secluded themselves, and indulged in a genial fit of merriment, the foreman produced a bottle of brandy from his pocket, and seizing the pannikin which floated in the bucket, poured forth a good libation, and drank "towards all present." Each juryman in turn then drank the health of the foreman. After that, they all drank the prisoner's health; and as one of the number afterwards assured me, they would have conscientiously toasted the prisoner's counsel, but the liquor unfortunately failed.

The foreman then said, "Come, my lads, there's no more left, so we may as well go back again." So they jostled one another out of the room, and with composed countenances returned to the court, where they were ostentatiously conducted to their box by the sheriff's officer amid loud cries of "Silence in the court! silence there!"

Their names having been called over, the Clerk of Arraigns asked the usual question, "Have you considered your verdict, gentlemen?"

"Not guilty!" interrupted the foreman, as if he feared lest the prisoner should be convicted in spite of the jury.

"How say you," continued the clerk, "is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty!" cried the whole jury to a man; and amid thunders of acclamations the prisoner was released from the dock, and turned out of court, where he was seized upon by a multitude of sympathizers, and carried in triumph to the next public-house. There he spent the ensuing four-and-twenty hours, the hero of the day.

In this slight sketch I am conscious that I have only been able to convey to the reader a very faint idea of A COLONIAL JURY.



CHAPTER 7.

BOATING UP THE RIVER.

Whilst I was making acquaintances at Perth, my brothers, mounted on our Timor steeds, were making a tour of inspection beyond the Darling Hills. They fixed at length upon a farm at York, with about three thousand acres belonging to it, and having a good farm-house, with excellent barn and out-buildings attached. This evinced a more comfortable and luxurious state of things than they had anticipated, and they returned in high spirits to head-quarters.

It now became necessary to consider how the various goods and utensils were to be conveyed to the new settlement, which was seventy miles distant from Fremantle. We sold most of our flour and pork at a fair profit, and left by far the greater part of the other articles which we had brought out with us to be sold by a commission agent, as opportunity offered.

From various causes, but chiefly from our own ignorance in selecting our goods in London, we lost a considerable sum upon the things we had brought out. Emigrants, unless they are men of great experience, should bring all their capital to a colony in bills or specie, and not attempt to increase their property by speculating in goods. On their arrival, they will most probably find the markets already glutted, and they will be compelled either to sell at a sacrifice, or leave their effects in the hands of an agent, who will charge enormously for warehouse-rent and other expenses, and will take especial care that the unfortunate emigrant is not the party who profits most by the sale of his goods.

We had brought out with us an old artillery waggon; and all hands now set to work to put it together, which was accomplished after a good deal of difficulty. We also purchased three pair of bullocks, which were at that date very dear. One pair — magnificent animals certainly — cost fifty guineas, and the other animals twenty pounds a-piece. Now, however, the best working bullocks may be obtained for about fifteen pounds a pair. As the road so far as Guildford was excessively heavy, we resolved to convey most of our goods by water to a spot a few miles beyond that town, where a friendly settler had placed at our disposal a wooden building, consisting of a single room, situated on the banks of the river, and used occasionally by himself as a store-house for his own goods on their transit to his dwelling. The same friend lent us his own whale-boat; and by determining to convey our effects ourselves we avoided a very heavy expense. The cost of conveying necessaries from the coast to the farm settlements in the interior, has been one of the chief drawbacks to the colony. The boatmen made fortunes, whilst the farmers were nearly ruined by their charges, and those of the storekeepers in the towns.

For fifteen years, at least, the latter have grumbled with violent indignation unless their goods have realised from two to five hundred per cent profit. Resolved, therefore, to be our own boatmen, we moored our vessel at a little wooden jetty below our house, and began to pack up such articles as were designed to compose the first cargo.

I remember well the pleasure with which we stood upon that wooden jetty one summer's evening, looking upon the boat in which we were to perform our first voyage up the river, as she lightly floated before us, scarcely giving a strain upon the rope which held her to one of the posts at the end of the pier. Fig and Jezebel, always intimate friends, were hunting for bandicoots — animals less than a kangaroo-rat — which abounded in the bank below our dwelling.

Upon this bank, Hannibal was to be seen cleaning the tandem harness, suspended from the bough of a tree, and occasionally casting an eye in the direction of the sheep, for whose safety he was responsible. By the river side, our bullocks were busily engaged picking the scanty herbage. The sea-breeze blowing steadily up the river cooled the air, and seemed to bear health and spirits on its wings.

The only sound that met the ear was a rushing noise, which every now and then rose from the water along the shore. It was caused by myriads of little fish rushing into shoal water to escape from some pressing foe.

There are some minds that draw pleasure from things which in no degree affect others; to such, this was one of those seasons of tranquil happiness that leave no regrets behind. The consciousness of independence — the pleasant nature of our duties — the cheerful aspect of all around — the flattering whispers of Hope, though false as usual — all helped to form for the mental eye a picture which it loved to look upon.

And now we were busied in loading our boat. What pride we felt! no shame at being seen performing manual labour; but pride, and pleasure, and exultation. We had always been fond of boating, and now that it was about to be an useful employment, it seemed additionally agreeable. And what a noble scene for this our first adventurous voyage, upon that broad river or rather arm of the sea! We had found out the secret of human happiness, long hidden from us — business had become our pleasure. I was to be the captain, and my youngest brother and Simon composed the crew.

The boat was not loaded until late in the afternoon, and our departure was therefore postponed until the sea-breeze should set in on the following day. Still, we could not resist the delight of making an experimental trip, and so the sprit-sail and jib were set, and we shoved off into the tide-way. A whale-boat goes very fast before the wind, but will not beat, nor will she go about well without using an oar; she is not, therefore the craft best adapted for nautical evolutions, but we were too happy to find much fault with her on that occasion; and so we sailed several times across the river and back again in the very height of enjoyment. Then suddenly luffing up in the middle of the stream, the anchor was let go, and the sail brailed up, in order that we might have the pleasure of sitting still in the very midst of the waters, and rest, as it were, in the plenitude of our satisfaction; and when the anchor dragged a few yards over the sand before it held, and then suddenly brought up the boat with a jerk, it seemed the climax of our pleasure. This, the sagacious reader, in the depth of his gravity, will consider extremely boyish. But should we not rejoice and be thankful whenever we find among the many simple pleasures of our boyhood, a single one which retains the power of gladdening our maturer years? Alas! one after another they die down, and are no more to be revived. We are apt to fancy that when the pleasures of youth have lost their sweetness, and are no longer desired, it is an evidence of our increasing wisdom. But it proves only that our tastes, grown more vitiated, have taken new directions. We have only changed our follies — and for the worse.*

[footnote] *"'Tis sweet to think we grow more wise When Radcliffe's page we cease to prize, And turn to Malthus, and to Hervey, For tombs, or cradles topsy-turvy; 'Tis sweet to flatter one's dear self, And altered feelings vaunt, when pelf Is passion, poetry, romance; — And all our faith's in three per cents." R. R. Madden

The breeze! the breeze! the glorious sea-breeze comes stealing swiftly over the bar; it crosses the first bay. Like a dark shadow it moves along the face of the river, and now it has reached our landing-place and gone swiftly forwards, bringing pleasure and thankfulness on its path. Now, my men, jump in! hand me the grog and provision basket — and now loose the sails, and shove off. There, we are fairly under weigh, and little Fig whimpers his adieu to Jezebel and Nero, who for some minutes accompany the course of the boat along the shore; and then finding we are really going, remain fixed with astonishment, gazing upon their departing friend. Soon, how soon, vanishes from their breasts every feeling of regret! Before we have turned the first headland we perceive them playfully biting each other about the ears and neck: and now Nero scampers off under the trees in the direction of the house, and Jezebel (type of her sex!) hurries after him.

The breeze came rattling up the river, and the boat flew merrily before it. We had occasionally sailed to Perth in the passage-boats, and therefore knew something of the channel. Sand-spits frequently run far out into the river, and those who think only of steering a straight course, are very sure of running aground several times during the voyage.

The distance from Fremantle to Perth, by water, is about twelve miles, and it is about as many more from Perth to Guildford. After passing the ferry-reach, the river appeared about a quarter of a mile broad, having abrupt rocky banks on either side; far a-head was the wooded bottom of Freshwater Bay. Instead of coasting round this bay, we passed through a channel cut across the spit into Melville water. Here is a beautiful site for a house: a sloping lawn, covered with fine peppermint trees, which in form resemble the weeping willow, and a great variety of flowering shrubs, down to the water's edge. The view from the house (lately the seat of Alfred Waylen, Esq.) is exceedingly pleasing; on one hand is the fine sheet of Melville water, seven miles in extent, and three or four in breadth, surrounded by thick woods; in front is the graceful curve of Freshwater Bay; and on the opposite side of the house from Melville water, the river sweeps abruptly round through the deep and broad channel I have already mentioned towards the ferry-reach.

We passed up Melville water, and in about an hour and a quarter after starting came abreast of the town of Perth, which we left about three-quarters of a mile on our larboard side, and continued our passage up Perth water. We had now a difficult channel to pass through, where the river is extremely shoal; and in our inexperience we soon got the boat aground. Jumping into the water, we succeeded in shoving her again into the channel, and passed by a small island called Harrison's Island. It was here that a French exploring party took refuge after they had come so far up the river in spite of many alarms. These men were some of the crew of Captain Perron, who was engaged in a survey of this part of the coast of Australia, for the French Government. During the night they were thrown into a state of agitation and alarm by hearing incessant noises in the thick woods on the main land, that were thought by some to be the bellowing of wild bulls; by many the howling of wolves; and by others the cries of savages. After a night spent in momentary expectation of attack and massacre, the Frenchmen got into their boats and hastened down the river again with the utmost expedition, and scarcely thought themselves quite safe until they were once more on board their ship.

This account of the French navigators was uppermost in the minds of the English settlers on their first arrival, and contributed greatly to the dread they felt at wandering a few yards from the settlement. In those days, an orderly scarcely durst take a message from the Governor to the Surveyor General's tent, within sight, unless accompanied by a couple of his fellows, with their muskets ready for action.

The borders of the river were in many parts, especially on the present town site of Perth, so entangled with thick brushwood, that enemies might be lying in swarms, close at hand, without the least fear of detection. When Sir James Stirling and his party first passed up the river in boats, they had the accounts of the French sailors fully in mind, and were very cautious how they landed. They passed the night in a state of preparation, if not of alarm, and were kept in constant vigilance by the same fearful noises.

The woods were now supposed to be filled with wild beasts, and it was not until some time had elapsed that people became convinced that the dreadful sounds which assailed their ears at night proceeded from myriads of frogs. These little creatures swarm in the samphire marshes near the river, and possess voices far surpassing anything known in their species in Europe.

I was once looking out for ducks or coots in a thicket of bulrushes higher than my head, when I was startled by hearing a loud "bomb!" at no great distance from me. Having no idea what kind of wild beast had made its lair in that dense thicket, I got ready to fire both barrels on the first appearance of danger. Again the same awful noise! It must be the snorting of a bison, or vast buffalo, seeking shelter from the sun — or it may proceed from some kind of water-dragon, I thought. I looked in every direction, but could see no living creature; and at last was about to retreat in the quietest manner possible, when I espied a little frog perched on the top of a reed, about a yard from my nose, and apparently looking full in my face, whilst, ever and anon he inflated his cheeks, and uttered the fearful sounds I had heard.

But besides the dread of wild beasts, the colonists were long in the greatest apprehension of losing themselves in the vast wilderness of forest by which they were on every side enclosed. The country being extremely level, up to the Darling range of hills, which is seen trending north and south about twelve or fourteen miles at the back of Perth, a man once in the woods has no object but the sun by which to direct his course. Every now and then he comes upon an impassable swamp, which throws him out of his track, and causes him infinite difficulty before he can get round it, and then he begins to doubt of his true direction. This is certainly, an awkward predicament; and nothing is so easy as for inexperienced bushmen to lose their way. When once a man begins to doubt whether he is right, he loses all confidence in himself; he wanders first in one direction and then in another, in the hope of finding something to guide him; and fears lest every step should take him farther into the labyrinth of the forest-wilderness. I have myself been several times lost for a short period, and know how very unpleasant is the sensation. A common soldier, sent on a message from Perth to Fremantle, happened to get off the track. Becoming alarmed, he tried to recover it, but as it had made a bend, he walked as far as he thought its position ought to be, without success, and then fancied he must have mistaken the direction. He therefore diverged at right angles, and after walking a short time, recollected that he must now be going in the wrong direction, as he had left the path originally on his left hand. Accordingly he turned back again, and walked so far without perceiving any signs of the track that he now fancied he must be going parallel with it. Had he gone on a few yards father, all would have been right, but now he really took a parallel course, and after walking for some time longer, he again turned back, and walked in another direction. Now this man had the sea on one side of him, and the river on the other, at most not more than four miles apart; yet the dread of having walked back into the wilderness behind Perth overpowered his faculties, and he walked for hours in a circle of about half a mile in diameter. He might have considered that the Darling Hills were behind Perth, and must have brought him up, but reason does not always act freely at these times. At length, completely exhausted, he sat down at the foot of a tree, where he remained all night, expecting death from starvation, from the natives, or some unknown wild beasts.

The next day he walked again as long as his strength would allow, but before night sank down in the extremity of despair. It was not until the third day of his misfortunes that he was tracked up by a party sent in search of him, and guided by friendly natives, who followed his many devious steps with unerring eyes.

Another man, similarly lost in the interior, after vainly trying to recover the road, determined to make for the coast, which he knew lay to the west. He was also confident that the sun regularly set in that quarter, and therefore, he boldly determined to trust himself to the guidance of the sun, making sure, that if he followed it far enough, it must lead him to the coast at last. Accordingly, he marched after the sun till night-fall and then went cheerfully to sleep, having supped upon some bread and pork, which he carried with him. The next morning, at sunrise, he started off in the direction of his guide, perfectly unconscious that he was now retracing his steps, and journeying eastward. All day, however, he continued to follow the sun, and when it set, wondered that he had not yet reached the sea. At night, he finished his bread and pork, and the next morning set off again on his long and tedious journey; still, at night, there was no appearance of the ocean, and he fired off his gun at a black cockatoo, which he killed with his only charge of shot.

Upon this bird he lived for the next two days, and for two more he subsisted upon roots. He had now given up all hopes of discovering the sea, and had lain down to die, when he was found by his master and a party of natives, who had come in search of him.

It appeared that he was found upon almost the very spot on which he had first lost himself.

When once a man begins to believe that he is lost in the wilderness, he feels as helpless as one who is blind-folded at the game of blindman's buff, and who has been twirled round so often, that he has no idea whereabouts the door or the fire-place is situated. Those who are used to the bush steer their course with almost unerring precision by the sun, and a few known objects, but there are numbers who never acquire this power. The natives appear to know by instinct the direction of every spot they wish to reach; and many white men seem to possess the same faculty.

But I have almost forgotten that we are all this time sailing up the rive in our whale-boat. It was a very beautiful sail, and we repeatedly passed cheerful-looking farm-houses on either bank — sometimes goodly mansions with park-like enclosures about them. In the afternoon we dined upon cold wild-duck; and as each man sipped his grog in his pannikin, we felt so exceedingly cheerful, that Simon and Meliboeus favoured the public with "Away with melancholy!" and divers other agreeable ditties. The wind however died away, and evening set in as we passed Guildford. The banks of the river had now risen into steep cliffs, which threw a deep gloom over our course. We had furled the sails, and taken to the oars, and as we blindly poked our way, we began to think this kind of work was not quite so agreeable as it had at first appeared. Nothing was now to be seen but the outlines of the steep sides of the river on which occasional houses were visible, the light streaming through the windows, and making us fancy how comfortable every thing must be within, and how pleasant it would be to be sitting at supper in a cheerful room, instead of toiling at our oars with blistered hands, and without the prospect of a good bed at the end of the voyage.

Romance was gone; the sad reality of life remained. Still we pulled along, steering by turns, and doubting and wondering every hundred yards whether we had not gone past the place we sought. Sometimes we paused on our oars to debate the question, but still we continued to push on; till at length we found ourselves close abreast of the wooden building we were so anxiously looking out for, and experienced a sensation of surprise as well as of delight.

The boat was soon safely moored, and the door of the building unlocked; and by the light of a wax taper, which we had brought on purpose, we found ourselves in a large empty room, without any fire-place. A heap of dead wood was soon collected at the entrance; and a glorious fire lighted up the small enclosure which surrounded the building, and sufficiently illuminated a considerable portion of the room itself. The kettle being put on, we soon had tea ready, and managed to get through our rations of bread and pork, not forgetting to give little Fig his supper, who sat very seriously before the fire, wondering what it all meant.

Cigars, and brandy and water, having been duly administered before bed-time, we next proceeded to litter down coats and cloaks; and having made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would admit of, stretched ourselves on the floor, with a few sighs and thoughts of home, and slept until day-break.

The first thing we did next morning was to unload the boat; and then having breakfasted, and secured the door on our effects, we started on our homeward trip, and had the satisfaction of pulling the whole distance to Perth, where we were obliged to sleep the next night, as it was impossible for us to get down Melville water in the teeth of a strong sea-breeze.

When we had to start again with another load of goods, our hearts were much heavier than on the first excursion.



CHAPTER 8.

FARMS ON THE RIVER.

First impressions endure the longest, and are recalled with most pleasure. Further acquaintance does not always give us a truer idea of the value of the object, as familiarity frequently makes us overlook as insignificant that which is constantly before us. It is not the object that is proved to be really less valuable as we become better acquainted with it, but our own views which change with our position. My first impressions on visiting the various farms, or rather gentlemen's residences, on the banks of the Swan, were extremely agreeable. I thought nothing could be more delightful than to live at one of those picturesque and lovely spots. If the romance of that first feeling be now faded from my heart, it is not because I have discovered that all which I then saw was an illusion, but because a more sober state of mind — that state into which the mind settles as the excitement of sudden change and unwonted novelty subsides — teaches that happiness is not local, and that it is no more likely to be found in the finest country residence than in the main street of a town.

At the first view we are apt to imagine that people who live in one of these pleasant retreats must needs be happier than ourselves, who possess nothing but a miserable shilling.

This is the delusion; and when with increasing knowledge, we recover from this, we cease to envy and to covet.

My first ride up the Swan was a most delightful one. No park in England could be more beautiful than the grounds around some of the dwellings.

The ride through the scattered village of Guildford, with a view of the rich and extensive flats of Woodbridge, the property of Sir James Stirling, and the frequent bends of the river, is a very agreeable one. The whole country of the middle and upper Swan resembles a vast English park. We passed the pretty country church of the Middle Swan, with its modest parsonage beside it, and then proceeded through wooded ravines along a pleasant drive to one of the most hospitable mansions in the colony. Extensive stables, barns and out-buildings occupied the back of the premises. As it was now too late in the evening to see much of the surrounding scenery, we entered the house of Samuel Moore, Esq., and sat down to an excellent dinner. In the evening we had music — pianos are as common in Western Australia as in England. At night I occupied a sofa in the parlour. The excitement and novelty of my present situation — so many thousands of leagues removed from the spot on which, only a few months before, I had deemed I was to spend my life — kept me wakeful; and about one o'clock I arose, and opening the French window, stepped out into the verandah. How solemn was the scene before me, faintly lighted by the moon! In front of the house was a pretty sloping garden, and below this stretched a broad clearing, now waving with corn, amidst which rose up a number of scattered, lofty, dead trees, which had been purposely killed by ringing the bark. How mournful they looked in that gloomy light!

The river bounded this clearing, and beyond the river stretched its high bank, covered with forest trees, the advanced lines, as it were, of the vast wilderness which lay behind. From out the depths of those woods rose the occasional shrieks of an owl, or other night bird, and at intervals the long dismal howl of a wild dog — the only carnivorous animal indigenous in that country. The air was balmy, but there was something in the mournful aspect of the scene that weighed upon the spirits, and made one feel inexpressibly lonely in the midst of that boundless wilderness of forest.

Time soon takes off the edge of novelty, and long ago I have learned to feel perfectly at ease and cheerful, whilst lying in the midst of much deeper solitude, with no companions but my horse grazing near me, and the fire at my feet. There is no country in the world so safe for the traveller as Western Australia.

The next day we went over the farm of our host. His best land was on the flats at the river side, but his upland, by judicious cultivation, is made productive and valuable. A carriage-drive extends through the grounds and affords beautiful prospects of the river, and of the estates through which it runs; and on the other side, of the Darling Hills. The hedge-rows on this property are planted with olive, almond, and peach trees — an admirable policy, which ought to be adopted throughout Australia. In a few years — for the olive bears fruit much sooner here than in the south of Europe — a valuable traffic in olive-oil may be expected from this colony.

The ingenious gentleman who owns this property (which is, in point of soil, one of the worst farms on the Swan) continues annually to add to its value by his persevering system of improvement. He has had a steam-engine constructed on his own premises, and under his personal superintendence; and he grinds his own flour as well as that of his neighbours.

The neighbouring estate of W. L. Brockman, Esq., is a more valuable property, and equally attractive in possessing a well-cultivated farm, a beautiful situation, a comfortable residence, and an amiable family.

With similar energy and savoir faire, all the beautiful farms on this river might be made most enviable residences.

Whilst on the subject of farming, I may mention a reaping-machine which has been introduced into this colony from South Australia, where it was invented. It is only adapted to a very dry climate, but there it is most valuable. A pair of horses push a machine before them, which consists of a threshing-machine and a set of revolving combs, some six feet wide. These combs, in their revolutions, catch up the wheat, and tear off the ears from the stalks, throwing them back into the threshing-machine. A field of wheat is thus reaped and threshed as fast as the horses can walk over it. The straw is afterwards mown.

The roads are hard and good in this neighbourhood, and some of the settlers keep their open carriages.

I doubt whether I have conveyed to the reader a just idea of some of the pleasantest spots which are to be met with in this colony; but I would not have him (full of romantic thoughts and agricultural purposes) rush hastily into the mart and sell his substance in order to lead a life of tranquil retirement in this distant Eden. It requires a good deal of philosophy to make a contented settler. Most colonists leave England full of virtuous resolutions — with bosoms glowing with the ardent love of nature; and fully persuaded that they need nothing to make them happy but a small farm, beautifully situated, with its cottage ornee, and its spreading vines, and a noble fig-tree, beneath which they are to sit in the cool of the evening, with their little ones around them. All this they may really possess; and for some time they are in raptures at the novel feeling of being men of landed interest. This is always the first ambition of a colonist — to have some property which he may lawfully call his own. And, indeed, the human heart never expands with more satisfactory pride than in the breast of him whose territorial possessions have hitherto been confined to a few flower-pots in his parlour-window, but who now stands firmly beneath a lofty gum-tree, and looking round him, murmurs "This is mine!" It is, indeed, a very pleasant sensation, but, unfortunately, it is very short-lived.

Men do not come out to a colony to spend an income, but to make a living. When once their capital is laid out in the acquisition of a farm, and in the necessary purchase of stock, they have to raise money out of it to pay their labourers' wages, and find their households with tea, sugar, clothing, and "sundries." Many things may be grown upon your farm, but not everything. At first, the settler is satisfied with finding that he can sell sufficient produce to enable him to pay his way, provided he practise the utmost economy, and exhibit a reasonable degree of good management.

But soon there are extra expenses to be liquidated; a long illness in his family brings him in debt to the doctor; or his neighbour has injured him, and he has, thereupon, further injured himself by going to law and avenging the wrong. He now becomes discontented, and thinks he is as badly off as he was before he left England; or, perhaps he may have sustained no losses, and is just able to live on his property without getting into debt; he forgets, however, the principles on which he came out to settle; he begins to complain that he is not making money. It is true he leads an easier life than he did in England; he is not striving and struggling for existence as he was there, but he is making no money. His wife asks him daily, in the pleasantest connubial key, why he brought them all from England, to bury them there, and see nobody from morn till night? What, she urges, is to become of their children? Will Jonadab, their first-born, be a gentleman like his maternal ancestors? — But how, indeed should he, with the pursuits of a cow-boy and the hands of a scavenger? It is very well for one who cares nothing for genteel society, and whose bearish manners, in fact, unfit him for it, to lead such a life; but is she to endure this for ever, and see her daughters married to men who wear long beards and Blucher boots?

These incessant attacks at length overthrow the ennobling philosophy of the colonist. He knows not where to procure more than he already possesses, or he would gladly return to the country of his fore-fathers; but alas! he sees no prospect of gaining even a bare livelihood there. Without knowing, then, how or where to improve his condition, he deplores the penury of his lot, and sighs for wealth which he has no prospect of ever obtaining.

My own opinion has ever been that colonists, with few exceptions, must always be poor men. They may possess large estates and numerous herds; but the more numerous these herds, the less is their marketable value: for population and demand can never increase in equal ratio with the supply. A man, therefore, who possesses the elements of wealth, may still be poor in the article of money.

Nor will his estates produce him more income than his herds; for in most cases the only rent which his tenants can afford to pay is in kind. 'The only real wealth to a colony is the incessant influx of immigration, combining capital and labour.'

There are some of us, happily, who still retain the ancient philosophy. We have not thought of pecuniary wealth, and are content to live easily, with those moderate blessings which attach to a beneficent climate and a simple mode of life.

So very little is required which money can buy, that men seem to be annoyed at the fact, and insist upon creating new wants.

A great deal of discontent and repining generally prevails in a colony. People who have lived miserably in England, who have long doubtfully hovered between suicide and highway robbery, determine at length to adopt the still more melancholy alternative of emigration. After bequeathing a few tender sighs to the country which they have hitherto regarded rather as a step-mother than a parent; and having pathetically solicited the sympathy of those who more readily bestow upon them a few pounds than a few tears, in the pious hope of never seeing them more, our emigrants betake themselves to the favoured land of their adoption, in the full and confident belief that they have nothing now to do, but live "like gentlemen," though without the means, or any other qualifications of that class. Their Faith is of that affecting and unlimited description, as to lead them to suppose that He who beneficently feeds the ravens will not neglect the rooks or the drones.

In a very short time, however, they find that they are no better off in the new than they were in the old country. The gum-trees do not produce bread, nor the banksias shoulders of mutton; and, consequently, their hopes have been miserably disappointed, and they loudly proclaim their wants and sorrows in the streets. There are unfortunately in all colonies — those 'refugia peccatorum' — many emigrants of this class, idle and worthless, who have never done well, and never will succeed in any part of the world.

A colonial life is not for these men, and we recommend them to pass on to some other region as quickly as possible.



CHAPTER 9.

THE MORAL THERMOMETER OF COLONIES.

In the chief town of every colony, there is always agreeable society to be found among the resident Government officers, and the other principal inhabitants. Many estimable individuals are to be met with in all communities; in that in which I have myself resided for some years, there are many for whom I entertain the highest regard. I hope, therefore, it will not be considered that, in the remarks which I am about to make, I am actuated by any ill or invidious feeling, or at all allude to individuals. Since I have undertaken the task of drawing sketches of colonial life, I must not endeavour to conceal any portion of the truth, nor tacitly allow erroneous conclusions to be drawn from my remarks.

I have already observed that a good and kindly feeling towards one another prevails in this colony among the settlers generally. But I must qualify this remark by adding — in all cases in which individual interests are not concerned. There is less perhaps of the 'spirit of dealing' in this colony than in any other of the British empire. Ours is not a mercantile community, and the farm-settlers generally are young men of good birth and gentlemanly spirit. Still, even here, beyond all question, exists the same odious tendency (though less apparent) which prevails more or less in all colonies, to advance self-interest on every possible occasion, without being deterred by any scruples whatsoever.

When men become emigrants, they leave behind them their relations, friends, connexions, and all their old associations, and appear upon a new theatre of action, where they have no feelings to consult beyond their own personal wishes and interests.

They find themselves suddenly emancipated from all those restraints which formerly acted with a salutary influence upon their natural inclinations; and having no one near them whose opinion they regard, or whom they care to conciliate, they fall rapidly into the belief that they have no one to live for but themselves, and, consequently, make self the sole guide of all their actions, and sole god of their idolatry.

This spirit of 'Yankeeism' is the prevailing spirit of colonies. It is the natural consequence of the isolated state in which men feel themselves to exist, when they have no longer those less selfish motives of action that influenced and regulated their conduct under other circumstances. The eye of a parent no longer watches over them with approbation or anxiety; and what has a still more powerful influence upon their conduct, they are now beyond the observation of that circle of friends, relations, and acquaintance, to which they had been known from childhood; which had constituted their world, and the censure or approbation of which determined their state of self-reproach or self-satisfaction. Few men may be trusted far who can say, "I am not known here," for these are always the people who care least what they do. Good and well-meaning persons will exclaim, "Colonists can have very little sense of religion, if they allow themselves to act at a distance differently from what they would do at home." Those who have more than a theoretical acquaintance with mankind, and who are used to look upon them in their undisguised selfishness, know well that their sense of religion is greatly dependent upon the circumstances in which men find themselves placed. We are not speaking of what such and such people would do and feel, but of what is really done and felt by thousands.

Besides, I have already premised that it is not every colonist who acts on these principles, but that such is the general tendency to act in a colony.

We can now understand the origin of that intense selfishness in the American character, which has never yet been cast aside, and which, in fact, is perpetuated by a republican form of government.

The high and nice sense of honour, the chivalrous generosity, the frank acknowledgment of superiority, and the ready devotion of self to the interests of others at the call of duty, constituted the brightest ornaments of the feudal system, and still glitter (though with feebler lustre) among the fragments of that system throughout civilized Europe.

The Spirit of Trade, which has shattered feudalism, has impaired the brightness of that principle which was the soul of feudalism. Nor has religion yet succeeded in supplying the loss. Religion, which is the bond between Man and his God, has less influence in regulating his dealings with his fellows than Honour, which is the bond between man and man.*

[footnote] *In making this observation, I refer to the general conduct of the World; and am far from intending to say, that honour ought to have more influence with mankind than religion. The truly religious, a small but sacred band, "do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God."

And when the principle of honour loses its purity, you may be sure that the principle of religion is already decayed or dead. Now the principle of honour being (so to speak) of human origin, depends greatly for existence upon the opinions of men; and when we are emancipated from all great regard for those opinions, it almost inevitably follows that our sense of honour becomes much impaired; and having no longer any fear of censure, we no longer have any feeling of shame.

In a colony, then, is most apparent the accursed Spirit of Trade — that insidious spirit which undermines the truth of the heart, which destroys its most generous impulses, and sneers at every manifestation of disinterestedness. The first object of a colonist is that of a petty shopkeeper, — to grasp at every thing which is likely to benefit himself, without regard to justice, religion, or honour. His own interest is the only guide of his actions, and becomes the very soul of his existence. He came out to make a fortune, if possible, and he thinks himself justified in using every means to this end. Do not suppose that he is a downright villain who would commit highway robbery. He would be greatly shocked at such an imputation, for his conscience is still too timid for so flagrant a crime. He merely follows the golden maxim of 'caveat emptor', and, like the petty shopkeeper, thinks he is justified in cheating those who are too stupid to look after their own interests, and too ignorant or too feeble to enforce their just dues.

When that nice sense of honour which rules the conduct of the high-minded gentleman, and makes him scorn to take advantage of the ignorance or the necessities of another, ceases to influence, the accursed spirit becomes dominant, and men look with suspicion on all around them.

It has become the pride and the boast of colonists, as of horse-dealers, that they are sharp fellows; that they have cut their eye-teeth, and are remarkably wide-awake. These honourable distinctions are acknowledged by the simple-minded with alarm. They feel like men involved among a mob, and instinctively button up their pockets.

The moral thermometer in a colony is lamentably low.

We do not, however, look upon this state of things as irremediable, and without hope; on the contrary, we doubt not but the Better Spirit will in time resume its pre-eminence, and colonists will be respected for their elevated sentiments and high sense of honour, rather than for their acuteness in driving a bargain. This evil, which is the natural consequence of their present condition as isolated atoms, unconnected together by those bonds of mutual respect which confine men in older countries, will cease as society becomes re-organized, and men feel themselves occupying in a colony the same position, as regards obligations and duties, that they would have filled in the parent state. As they settle themselves more firmly in their places, they will come to feel that respect which ever attaches to the character of HOME; and conscious that example is necessary from men who occupy prominent positions, a higher tone will insensibly be assumed, and the Better Spirit again be diffused throughout all the ramifications of society. But to this end, it is most essential that every aid should be given that Government has the power to bestow. Religious instruction, and that good example which, we may assume, is ever afforded to society by the English clergy, are the principal instruments to be sought. In Western Australia there are at this time only six clergymen, who are scattered over a country many hundred miles in extent. Many districts are, unavoidably, entirely without the exhortations and offices of a minister. At King George's Sound, an important post, no clergyman is seen from one year to another. Human beings are born, married, and buried, without a minister to baptize, to teach, to bless, or to give consolation in their extremity. There is no bishop to consecrate, to watch over, or to reprove.*

[footnote] *By the munificence of Miss Burdett Coutts, a bishopric has been recently founded in South Australia; and the Western Colony is for the present to be included in the same diocese. But when it is remembered that there is no over-land communication between the colonies, and the route by sea occupies about ten days, it must be evident that this provision is very inadequate to our wants.

This is a state of things that must be remedied, or moral improvements cannot be expected.

The Roman Church has been more thoughtful of her children in this colony, there being now settled here a bishop, and about a dozen priests of that persuasion — reason the more for the active interference of a Protestant Government to protect the spiritual welfare of the Protestant community.

The next most important object is the education of the youth of the colony. So soon as ever Government can afford the grant of a few hundreds a year, free-schools ought to be established in various districts. Such is usually the scarcity of money in a colony, that parents cannot afford to bestow even the commonest education upon their children. Of course, I allude only to the general condition of society; there are individuals who educate their families in a judicious and sufficient manner; but the great prevailing want is not the less felt and deplored. Boys, the sons of men who have themselves been well educated, are early made to supply the place of labourers and servants. Hardy and manly in appearance, they are naturally rough and uncouth in manner, and unhappily possess no mental stores beyond those early principles of gain which have grown with their growth. In their anxiety that their sons should do well in the world, the parent's first object is to impress upon them the necessity of making the most of every thing. Their early powers are exercised in selling stores, sheep, cattle, or other produce, and they are applauded in proportion to the hard bargain which they have driven. If a man, threatened with law proceedings, is compelled to sell his whole crop of potatoes at a ruinous loss, our keen and knowing youngster glories in the opportunity of making a bargain by which he shall profit to the amount of a hundred per cent., though the seller return to his agitated family writhing with despair. The malleable intellect of our youth is annealed by the Demon of Gain upon the anvil of Self-interest.

National education is one of the first objects of a paternal government. The course of study ought ever to be adapted to the circumstances and position of the scholars. In the first years of a colony, the human mind peculiarly exhibits a downward tendency. Few men prove themselves in their new condition of life superior or equal to the character which they had formerly borne, as pious, learned, or humane. The circumstances which formerly so eminently conduced to the maintenance of piety, the cultivation of intellect, and the exercise of benevolence, no longer exist. Solitary and selfish from position, men of naturally generous temper and good disposition, feel their hearts contract and shrivel within them. Surrounded by a sordid and selfish crew, they find no objects for sympathy, no inducements for the increase or the preservation of knowledge, no animating impulse to lead them forward in a good cause. Struggling for a time in the net which is around them, they at length fall from the edge, down into the seething cauldron, and become fused among the mass.

'The tendency of colonization is to deteriorate.' The first object of Government should therefore be to arrest this impulse, and remedy the evil so far as may be accomplished. If the original settlers degenerate in their moral condition, their children sink still lower. When parents cease to feel the influence of those high and pure principles in which they were themselves brought up, they naturally forget to inculcate them in the minds of their offspring. What, then, are the guides that direct these in their progress through life? What can they be but Self-interest, relieved perhaps occasionally by a few touches of Good-nature?

The young women inevitably grow up mere creatures of impulse. Where are those high qualities which are necessary to give them their proper influence over the minds and actions of the other sex? Where is that powerful sense of the duties of their calling and position, that is necessary to create confidence in the breast of the lover or the husband? Where are those unswerving principles which alone can keep them, through trial and temptation, in the right way?

Woman, alas! has lost her power, when she ceases to inspire veneration and command respect.

It is the interest of every colony, and the duty of every Government, to raise the moral character and condition of the people. The necessity of this must be forcibly present in the minds of those to whom the duties of legislation are intrusted; and as the most obvious means of improvement lie in the judicious instruction of the young generation, the attention of Government must soon be directed to this grand object.



CHAPTER 10.

COUNTRY LIFE.

It is most undeniably true, "that there is no place like England," for men who are in "easy circumstances," and who therefore think no more of direct or indirect taxation, and of those multitudinous burthens which highly-civilized life imposes, than a besom-maker's ass does of the load under which it daily journeys. But how many thousands are there (children of sad parents — Toil and Sorrow) who find their utmost efforts scarcely sufficient to keep them out of the debtor's prison! Continual gloom fills the chambers of their hearts; the sun bestows its cheering rays in vain; and all the gay and beautiful influences of the bright world of Nature fail to inspirit him whose every energy is directed to the task of raising his family beyond the threatening grasp of Want. In his few moments of relaxation, when those whom he loves — for whom he is toiling unto death — hang around him with gentle fondness; in those sweet moments, when love unutterable beams through the glistening eye, and tender solicitude watches the care-worn face, seeking to win one happy smile — even then, he dare not give himself up to joy. The thought is never absent from him that life perhaps is ebbing fast; the very labours to which his only hope of income is attached, are gradually wearing him down to the grave; and when he is no more, what shall be the lot of those whose beaming faces smile so sweetly? What struggles, what miseries are in store for the beloved wife, and those young and innocent daughters whose hearts are full of him! No! he dare not give himself up to joy; he smiles in answer to their endearments — but it is rather a shadow than a sunbeam that passes across his countenance.

How many thousands are there in England so circumstanced, who curse the artificial state of society in which they are compelled to live! In their profession or trade they are bound to keep up a certain degree of appearance, or they are shunned by those whom it is their chief interest to conciliate. The great bug-bear ever present in the mind of an Englishman, is the dread of not being thought sufficiently "respectable." Professional men and tradesmen depend for their subsistence upon appearances. To be flashy is as bad as to be shabby; the great object is to appear substantial. If you are rich, you have less temptation to be dishonest, and may consequently be trusted. Every man, therefore, who depends upon the opinion of others, is compelled to assume the appearance of being comfortably circumstanced in order to inspire confidence. Character is the life-blood of Englishmen, but character alone will seldom extricate a man from the slough of Poverty. In our highly artificial state of society, something more powerful than character alone is required to place a man in the road to fortune — call it as you please, tact or humbug.

This necessity for keeping up appearances in order to move in that rank of life which his business requires him to occupy, is the heaviest tax imposed upon the income of an Englishman. How often does it draw from him all his profits, leaving him to lament how little he is enabled to lay by annually for his children! Many times, without doubt, he wishes he durst retire to a cottage too small to admit the visits of the heartless acquaintance who form his "fashionable" world. Does their society afford him or his family any real happiness? Is it not rather the cause of many heart-burnings to him and to them? How much happier he feels he should be, had he never looked abroad for happiness, but sought it only around his own hearth! To see his daughters elegantly attired, would gratify him extremely, were it not for the unwelcome reminiscences of expense. But would they look less lovely to his eyes, or be less dear to his heart, when moving about him in the useful performance of domestic duties, clad in homely garments, and thinking more of him and home than of visiting and display?

How economically, and how happily too, might he live, were his own house his world, and his wife and children the only beings for whose opinion he cared! But alas! these are the persons whose opinion is of least importance in his pursuit of fortune. He must do as the world does if he would secure its smiles, and is compelled to think less of happiness than of gain.

Is such a man happier, leading such a life, than he would be as a colonist? Here — ever blessed be the recollection! — there is no necessity for sacrificing peace of mind to appearance. The man whose conduct proves him to be of gentlemanly mould, is everywhere treated as an equal; and though his occupation and mode of living be ever so humble, he loses nothing in the consideration of his fellow-colonists. The half-pay officer, or gentleman farmer, who occasionally drives his own cart, or sows the seed which he has purchased in the market, is not thought less qualified to act as a magistrate, nor is less respected by the great and small in his neighbourhood. His cares are all directed towards obtaining substantial comforts for his family, and not towards making a display in the eyes of the little world around him.

Conscious that he is respected only for his character as an upright man, and that as every one knows he is not wealthy, it would be ridiculous to affect the appearance of wealth, he wears the coarsest garments with more pleasure than the finest coat, and draws all his happiness from domestic sources. His sons and daughters equally indifferent to show — though the latter, at least, are always neatly dressed — are busied with their different duties, all tending to promote the general comfort.

Happy family! — how pleasantly the evenings pass in your society! Gladly would I ride many miles to spend such pleasant hours, and witness happiness so unpretending and real. How cheerful looks that large room, with its glorious fire of Jarra-wood and black-boys, (for it is the winter season,) and how lightly those young girls move about, arranging the tea-table, and preparing for the evening meal! The kind-hearted mother, relieved of all duties but that of superintendence, sits by the fire chatting cheerfully with the guest, whose eyes, nevertheless, wander round the room after a certain light and dancing shape; the host, a man of eld, but stalwart in appearance, full of hospitality and noble courtesy, appears in his easy slippers and an old and well-worn coat, which formerly had seen service in London ball-rooms. He discourses not only of the crops and colonial politics, but of literature, and the last news from England; for like many other colonists he receives the English papers, and patronizes the 'Quarterly Review'. On the sofa lie the latest numbers of 'Punch' and 'the Illustrated London News' — some four months old, of course — for the ladies like fun and pictures, whilst their father laboriously wades through a three months' accumulation of the 'Times'.

With what alacrity the old gentleman rises up and welcomes a traveller, who has unexpectedly arrived, and has just stabled his horse, and seen him fed before he made his appearance in the parlour! There is no beating about the bush for a bed, or an invitation to supper. Of the latter he is certain, and indifferent about the former; for having slept the last night under a tree, he feels sure of making himself comfortable on the sofa, or on the hearth-rug before the fire. And then the girls, who have no affectation or nonsense about them, crowd round the new-arrived, and ply him with questions about their young friends in other parts of the colony, and whether he was at the last ball at Government House, and what was most worn on that occasion — until the good man, laughing, breaks through the circle, declaring he will answer no more questions till he has had his supper, and, it may be, a glass of whisky-toddy screeching hot.

During the evening the girls sing, and happily they sing well; and they take most pleasure in those songs which papa likes best to hear. And the poor bachelor-guest, who looks on, feels his heart melting within him, and reviles himself for the destitution in which he lives at home. Suddenly, perhaps, horses at a gallop are heard to enter the yard; and soon afterwards two young fellows, fresh from the capital, come dashing into the room, full of spirits, and vowing they have gallopped over on purpose to ascertain whether the ladies were still living. Here is authority of undoubted value for everything relating to the ball at Government House; and the merits and appearance of every person who attended it are soon brought under discussion. This naturally inspires the young people with a desire to dance; so the table is pushed aside, and papa being squeezed nearly into the fire, mamma takes her place at the piano, and bursts off with the Annen Polka.

It may seem strange to you, dear reader, who have an idea that colonists are merely wild beasts, that such things should be. But so it is; and though people may dance the Cellarius with more gravity in the saloons of St. James's, I question whether dancing be half the fun there that our light-hearted colonists seem to think it. There are no strangers in small colonies — it is always a family party dancing together; and consequently, people are as merry as if it were Christmas-time all the year round.

Your fashionable people may pity them; but God help them, poor things! In their dark and degraded state they seem to enjoy themselves so much, that I should not like them to be put out of conceit with themselves, or made to repudiate whatever gives them innocent pleasure. Nor are they entirely insensible to the good opinion of great people; for when they learnt that the Polka was thought vulgar at Buckingham Palace, they had serious intentions of denying it admittance into the ball-rooms of Perth; and I sincerely believe it would speedily have pined away and died, like a maiden under the breath of slander, but for a confidently entertained hope that her Majesty would never hear of the offences of the people of Perth — and people will do all kinds of things when they can do them secretly. So the Polka continues to be danced in Western Australia; and the courage of the dancers has been much revived of late by hearing that it is still greatly in vogue at home, notwithstanding the august censures said to have been passed upon it.

A country life might always be a happy one, were people possessed of the smallest competence, and of properly regulated minds. There is as much unhappiness, or at least discontent, in colonies as elsewhere; but discontented colonists are the greatest fools in the world, because they have themselves created the evils, and the remedies are generally in their own power. The grand object of man's search is happiness, which he strives to obtain by a thousand various ways. Wealth he covets, because he fondly believes that it contains the prize he seeks; but if happiness may be found without wealth, of what value are riches? Money is not so indispensable a necessary in a colony. Very little indeed suffices to enable a proprietor on the banks of the Swan, the Avon, or the Brunswick, to bring up his family in comfort, and to perform all the rights of a generous hospitality. The discontent which is so often felt in colonies arises from two causes: first, it is the natural feeling of those who emigrate late in life; who, although unsuccessful at home, have ever been fondly attached to home associations, to the friends and connexions with whom they have been bound up during many years, and to the national belief that a man can never be truly happy out of England. In addition to this, the emigrant of mature years has been so long accustomed to feel himself living in the very centre of intelligence, he has so long been accustomed to watch the progress of political action at home and on the continent, and to drink the fresh draughts of scientific discovery at the fountain-head, that now, when far removed from the busy and exciting scenes of the ever-moving panorama of European life, he feels lost in the wilderness — a fragment of drift-wood washed ashore and left far behind by the fast-progressing waves of Knowledge and Action.

The second cause of discontent is found in the non-acquisition of money. Every one goes out to a colony with the full conviction that he shall make a fortune in a few years, and then return to England and become a man of landed interest.

A man has to conquer his first disappointments before he can become a happy settler; he has to form new and more just ideas of his actual position. Generally, it is necessary that he should return to England once more before he can entirely appreciate the advantages open to him in a colony. He then fully perceives how much more difficult it is to obtain a bare subsistence in the old country. He finds that with the utmost economy he cannot supply the numerous wants of his family, and he longs for his old Australian dwelling again, and the easy, independent life which he was accustomed to lead, when his children used to run about in brown holland, and his wife looked becoming in printed cotton, and thought no beverage so good as the wine which she had assisted to make.



CHAPTER 11.

PERSECUTIONS.

Scepticism is the offspring of ignorance. There are many people still living who doubt the existence of dragons; who go so far as to assert that such creatures never did exist upon the face of this earth, and never did torment and destroy the inhabitants thereof, and persecute forlorn maidens. They scoff at the records which have descended to our times, as fabulous legends, composed by idle monks; who were accustomed to write fictitious histories during the dark ages. They deny to historical ballads that authority which Mr. Macaulay attaches to them; and yet the principal fact in the biography of Andromeda (even before the times of the monks) may have been true; and the poor people of Wantley may really have been harassed by the celebrated dragon of that ilk. We speak seriously.

Geologists have ascertained beyond a doubt that winged monsters of the size described in ancient legends did really inhabit this earth at some period or other. Happily they no longer exist of the same dimensions as formerly; like the descendants of Anak, they have become 'fined down', as it were, in the course of ages, until their proportions no longer awaken personal fear, nor do their exploits engage the attention of historians. Sometimes, however, the ancient ferocity, the propensity for devastation, still breaks forth, even in the diminutive descendants of this formidable race, and persecuted Man feels himself driven to the brink of despair.

Soon after I had settled at Perth, in a small house, with three quarters of an acre of ground about it, I began to think of improving my little territory. I thought it was a duty I owed to society to set a good example, by bringing my property into a high state of cultivation.

I intended to "make the barren desert smile" — to embower my dwelling in the midst of blossoming peas, and aspiring kidney beans, — to draw around me, as it were, a little luxuriant Eden, which should be the admiration of a Sunday public, as they stood riveted at the palings, unable to pass by without a lengthened survey; whilst the envied possessor, stooping behind his magnificent cabbages, would listen to their unstudied bursts of rapture with justifiable pride. Glowing with horticultural fervour, I rose early in the morning, and dug up the soil with stern resolution, toiling with a Patagonian pick-axe at the great roots which ran in every direction, until I thought myself a perfect pattern of a settler. My man also exerted himself with equal energy and more steady endurance; and in process of time a considerable portion of ground was got ready for seed. In order that nothing might be wanting to insure the most unlimited success, I purchased a quantity of manure, and had it drawn upon the ground. Then it was that the Evil Genius who (like the wicked Enchanter that always kept his eye upon Don Quixote,) hath ever dogged my steps, made his baleful presence manifest by the most rampant hostility. The day on which the manure arrived, I went out in my pleasure-boat upon Melville Water, accompanied by my man Hannibal, to manage the head-sheets. On our return, at dusk, we found the manure scattered all over the premises, as if it had been kicked about by a party of dancing demons.

The traces of talons were clearly discernible on the ground. I knew not what to make of it. I thought a dragon must have been rampaging about the premises. Well! the next day the man scratched the manure together again as well as he could, and we sowed a quantity of seed — peas, beans, and divers succulent vegetables. The following morning Hannibal rose late, having overslept himself, as he alleged. I was awakened by his sudden appearance at my bed-side, but no sooner sat up than I fell back again, appalled by the ghastliness of his visage.

"The d—-ls," said he, "have been again, and have scrat up the earth far and wide; and (he added using a strong expression,) I'll be dashed if there's a seed left!"

Alas! "'twas but owre true." The ground so neatly raked the evening before, which I had returned again and again to look at with fond pride, until it was obscured by darkness, was now torn up and defaced throughout its length and breadth.

"Well!" I exclaimed, as soon as I could speak, "there are dragons in the world."

I could now enter into the feelings of the poor husbandman of the dark ages, when he got up in the morning, and found a dragon finishing the last of his highly-prized dairy cows. If I could only catch him at it! I felt immediately a fit of blood-thirstiness creep over me. I could have destroyed a dozen dragons with pleasure, might I only come within reach of them. Calmly, however, I ordered Hannibal to sow the seeds again, and keep better watch and ward in future.

It now became a serious question how my property was to be protected. Am I to be subject to these incursions without defence? Is there no safeguard in this country for a man's possessions?

I finished breakfast hastily, and went to consult the chief magistrate. To my question as to how I ought to guard my garden and vegetables from the attacks of the insidious enemy, he replied by referring me to the 2 Wm. IV. No. 2, a local act, by which people whose property is trespassed upon, are allowed the privilege of impounding the trespassers.

Impound a dragon! I thanked the worthy magistrate, "But," said I, "the creatures that destroy my substance have wings, and are not to be caught by men who have none."

"The law," replied his worship, "is decisive on the subject; you must follow the law, whether you be able to follow the offender or not."

"But," said I again, "if the law gives me no protection — and merely to authorize me to impound a creature with wings, is a mockery unworthy of the dignity of the law — I may surely protect myself? I will have a file of men on guard, and fire on any creature that infringes upon the vested rights which I possess in my property. I will defend myself," said I, growing warm under the oppressive weight of the law, "and maintain my vested rights."

"No man," replied the worshipful justice, "as you know very well, has a right to defend himself, except with the weapons of the law. You will only get into scrapes if you fight with any other weapons."

Finding that I was kicking against the pricks, I made my bow, and went home again in a very ireful mood.

Hannibal had resown the beds, and was at work upon others. On seeing me, he stepped up to a fine Nuytsia floribunda, which ornaments my grounds, and taking up a double-barrelled gun that was leaning against it, gave a few significant slaps upon the breach, and smiling complacently, winked his eye. I turned away and entered the house, filled with a kind of grim satisfaction, as thoughts of vengeance flitted through my brain. Too much disturbed to sit still, I paced up and down the room, listening eagerly for sounds which should announce the hour of slaughter and revenge.

The milk of human kindness had curdled in my breast; I felt that I could sympathize with the restless anxiety of Charles IX on the memorable eve of St. Bartholomew. But the butchery of unarmed Huguenots was a different affair altogether from a war of extermination against invading dragons. I looked out of the windows every moment to see what Hannibal was about; but there he continued hoeing, and weeding, and raking, and looking as calm and amiable as the Duke when he awaited the proper moment to attack the French. Suddenly he paused; I watched him quietly drop his rake, and retire backwards behind a bush, where he remained crouching down, with the double-barrelled gun in his hands.

Unable to remain quiet any longer, I opened the window, and cried in a fierce whisper, "Kill! kill!" With his hand he motioned me to be quiet, so I withdrew and paced about the room with feverish anxiety. The discharge of both barrels made me drop into a chair. Murder had been committed! Vengeance was satisfied, and remorse arrived as usual. Remorse, the ill-favoured offspring of Fear!

"You will get yourself into scrapes," said the chief magistrate, "if you use any other weapon than the law." I reasoned with Conscience; I repeated the argument that I had a right to defend my property when the law failed to afford me protection. Dragons, said I, are 'ferae naturae'; the people of Perth, it would seem, are in the habit of keeping them as pets, and thus they come to be considered private property. But then, let the people of Perth destroy their own substance, and not mine. If they do not choose to have gardens of their own, they have no right to prevent the growth of my radishes. Because they do not like sack, shall we have no more cakes and ale? Because they can exist without cauliflowers, must I renounce all hopes of having hyssop in my pottage?

What! am I to rise up early in the morning and sow the seeds of carefulness and labour, merely for the sustenance of other people's harpies?

To whom am I to look for redress, when I know not to whom the ruthless creatures belong? — Creatures that wander far and wide in search of food; that gain their precarious subsistence by plunder and rapine; and are intensely hostile to the labours and improvements of civilization. No wonder the poet looked upon them as hell-born, and called them a pest and a curse to society: —

"———nec saevior ulla Pestis et ira Deuim Stygiis sese extulit undis."

I had made these reflections, and received a good deal of comfort from them, when Hannibal appeared at the door with a pallid countenance.

"Two of them, Sir, are done for; one's a big un — eight pounds, if he weighs an 'unce. He's a handsome feller, that un; black feathers, and spurs to his heels six inches long. They'll make a houtcry about him, I expect."

"What have you done with the carcases?"

"Dragged 'em behind the bushes. 'Tan't legal to lift the bodies."

"Go on with your work, Hannibal, and don't appear at all fluttered or discomposed. Look as if nothing had happened. If any one calls, I am not at home."

An outcry was raised about the death of the dragon. He was the favourite of a young lady who was a pet of her papa's — (next to dragons, children are the most horrid nuisances). — An accursed dog (the D—-l take all dogs! say I,) had found the body, and dragged it into the street, where it was recognised by the girl. The papa, furious at the sight of the favourite's tears, roamed and raged about the town in search of witnesses. Men of Belial are always to be found, especially in a colony, and Hannibal was openly accused of the murder.

The whole town was in a state of excitement. People seemed to think that a blow had been struck at the very roots of civil and religious liberty; and as every one had his favourite dragon, every one felt alarmed for its safety so long as Hannibal remained unpunished.

The ladies were especially bitter in their remarks and innuendoes.

I was told by 'friends', that more than one lady had observed, that an old bachelor like myself cared nothing about dragons, and therefore it was just like my selfishness to seek to deprive them of their innocent pleasures and amusements.

No one would listen to my plea of self-defence; no one regarded my losses; I was not looked upon as a sufferer; and instead of sympathy received only abuse.

A summons being issued against Hannibal, he appeared before the tribunal of two of Her Majesty's Justices of the Peace, accused of a grave misdemeanour.

As every one knew that I was the instigator of the offence, I magnanimously avowed the fact, and was requested to stand in the place of Hannibal.

In vain, however, did I use every argument to justify the deed. The chief magistrate reminded me that I had been fully advised to proceed only according to law, under the Act, 2 Wm. IV. No. 2, amended (!!) by 4 Wm. IV. No. 5; by either of which I was fully authorized to seize and impound all trespassers — a limit and license that included dragons.

My defence was allowed to be a sensible and rational one; but the law was opposed to it, and their worships were bound by oath to prefer the law to common sense. (I doubted myself whether dragons came within the Law, but the Justices decided that they were poundable animals.) This being the case, I was under the necessity of paying the sum of ten shillings damages, and as many more for costs and expenses incurred by the bailiff, in travelling up and down his bailiwick in search of the body of John Hannibal Muckthorne (whose body was all the time sitting quietly in my kitchen) — rather than go to Fremantle gaol for a month, and help to draw stones about the streets in a large cart.

I need scarcely add, that I returned home a wiser and sadder man. "Hannibal," said I, "the Spirit of the Age in this colony is opposed to territorial and to social improvement. My grounds must still remain a barren waste. Instead of embowering myself in fertility, as I had intended; instead of creating new beauties which should transfuse fresh charms into the minds of the peripatetics of Perth; I must continue to live in a desert, and shall doubtless soon subside into an ascetic recluse. Hannibal! turn the horses into the garden, and let them trample over the beds."

Thus have I reluctantly shown the reader that the dark ages still cast their shadows over the city of Perth; — the dawn of a high state of civilization is still wanting there, where man continues defenceless from the ravages of noxious monsters peculiar to an early and uncivilized era.*

[footnote] *The laws which colonists make for themselves are often as absurd as any that the Imperial Parliament thinks proper to enact for them. To this day, the only legal remedy (except an action and a shilling damages) against the winged and long-clawed nuisances that destroy the hopes and break the heart of the horticulturist, is to impound them.



CHAPTER 12.

MICHAEL BLAKE, THE IRISH SETTLER.*

[footnote] *A dry and humorous old man, who I cannot help suspecting coins a good many of his anecdotes, gave me this account of one of the early settlers, just as I record it. The fact of Blake's coming to this colony, solely because he had heard there was an estate in it called Skibbereen, (after the place of his nativity,) struck me as being something truly Irish and original. The man's whole history is given almost in the words of my informant, who professed to have received it pure from the fountain-head.

Michael Blake was a native of Skibbereen, a well-known barony in the "ould country." His parents lived in a hut, "quite handy" to the road, in the midst of a bit of turf-ground where they managed to rear their annual crops of potatoes and their sprouts of children with as little trouble to themselves as possible. Michael, as he said himself, was the youngest of four, but there were five younger than he. As soon as he could walk, his mother clothed him in an old coat of his father's, the tails of which swept the ground far behind him, as he trotted over the cabin-floor with a stick in his hand to wallop his favourite companion, the long-legged and long-snouted sow, as she lay dreaming in the door-way. His father was an upright man, and dealt equal justice among his children, whom he 'lathered' daily with the strictest impartiality. This was all the education they had any reason to expect, as the priest was always in a hurry when he called at their door, and had not time to dismount from his pony, from whose back he bestowed his blessing upon the tattered crowd of children as they pressed around, and gazed upon his Reverence with their wild grey eyes and open mouths. And their parents could not be expected to give any other education than they had themselves received.

Michael grew up, therefore, as might be expected, a hungry, dirty-faced, unbreeched, long-coated urchin. Although his parents had done no more for him than to usher him into a life of mud and misery, Nature had been more compassionate. She had bestowed upon him a restless imagination, apparently for the purpose of removing him from this scene of trouble as quickly as possible. It led him, at an early age, to explore the passes of a neighbouring bog, where he fell into a deep hole filled with water, and was just on the point of escaping from the cares of the world, when his eldest brother unfortunately came by, and fished him out. Their father seized the opportunity, and lathered them both.

Michael next travelled in a northerly direction, and reached the high-road with another brother, who was sent out to beg. Here they both sat upon a stone and cried for their breakfast, until a brilliant idea occurred to Michael, which dried his tears. He made a dirt-pie, and presented it to his brother; and they both passed their time very pleasantly, until an English carriage appeared coming along the road. Little Pat ran forward, begging and praying their honours to give him a halfpenny for the love of the Virgin, as he had been carefully instructed to do by his dear mother, whilst his father took measures to impress the lesson upon his mind and person. Michael, on his part, made a vigorous effort to cross over to the other side, crying lustily, "Please Sir, a halfpenny!" but his mother, in order to give him a good appearance in front, had buttoned the old coat wrong side before, and poor Mike, in his haste and hurry, happening to put one of his little feet into the remains of a pocket, unhappily tripped himself up, and rolled before the horses' feet. The post-boy cleverly turned them aside as quickly as possible, but nothing could prevent the hind-wheel of the carriage from grazing one of Michael's shins, and making him squall out in the most dreadful manner.

A young lady and gentleman descended from the carriage, and showed the greatest compassion for the sufferer, whom they caused to be carried by a servant to his father's hovel, whither they accompanied him, and soon relieved the anxieties of his parents by a present of five golden guineas.

Some years elapsed, and things went on in the old way with the Blake family. Mike had sprouted out into a fine gossoon of a boy, and exercised his errant disposition by running after the gentlemen when they went out shooting, and helping the keepers to carry the game. One day, a gentleman who was shooting in the neighbourhood called at his father's cabin, and asked for the little boy whom he had run over in his carriage some seven years before. Mr. Blake, senior, after blessing his honour for his goodness, and wishing him long life and every earthly happiness called to the young spalpeen to get out of that; and why was he not for coming when the gentleman was spaking to him? Mr. Blake hinted to his visitors that he should correct the manners of the youth at an early opportunity, and in the meantime Mike slyly approached with a gun that he was carrying for the keeper in his hands, and received the compliments of the gentleman on his good looks.

The end of it was that the gentleman, who was an officer, took Mike into his service; and in process of time, when he joined his regiment, Michael became his constant attendant. Dying, however, unexpectedly, as most people do, the worthy Mr. Blake, junior, was left to his own resources; and finding nothing better to do, he accepted a shilling from a friendly serjeant, and entered Her Majesty's service as a full private.