In Bad Company and other stories

The constant clash that the shear-blades makeWhen the fastest shearers are making play

(as Mr. 'Banjo' Paterson has it, in 'The Two Devines,' more than twenty years later), could not but challenge attention. This also was accepted. I received a cheque in due course, which came at a time when such remittances commenced to have more interest for me than had been the case for some years past.

The station was sold in the adverse pastoral period of '68-'69, through drought, debt, financial 'dismalness of sorts'; but 'that is another story.' Christmas time found me in Sydney, where it straightway began to rain with unreasonable persistency (as I thought), now it could do me no good; never left off (more or less) for five years. The which, in plenteousness of pasture and high prices for wool and stock, were the most fortunate seasons for squatters since the 'fifties,' with their accompanying goldfields prosperity.

The last station having been sold, there was no chance of repairing hard fortune by pastoral investment. 'Finis Poloniæ.' During my temporary sojourn in Sydney I fell across a friend to whom in other days I had rendered a service. He suggested that I might turn to profitable use a facile pen and some gift of observation. My friend, who had filled various parts in the drama of life, some of them not undistinguished, was now a professional journalist. He introduced me to his chief, the late Mr. Samuel Bennett, proprietor of the Sydney Town and Country Journal. That gentleman, whom I remember gratefully for his kind and sensible advice, gave me a commission for certain sketches of bush life – a series of which appeared from time to time. For him I wrote my first tale, The Fencing of Wanderoona, succeeding which, The Squatter's Dream, and others, since published in England, appeared in the weekly paper referred to.

Thus launched upon the 'wide, the fresh, the ever free' ocean of fiction, I continued to make voyages and excursions thereon – mostly profitable, as it turned out. A varied colonial experience, the area of which became enlarged when I was appointed a police magistrate and goldfields commissioner in 1871, supplied types and incidents. This position I held for nearly twenty-five years.

Although I had, particularly in the early days of my goldfields duties, a sufficiency of hard and anxious work, entailing serious responsibility, I never relinquished the habit of daily writing and story-weaving. That I did not on that account neglect my duties I can fearlessly aver. The constant official journeying, riding and driving, over a wide district, agreed with my open-air habitudes. The method of composition which I employed, though regular, was not fatiguing, and suited a somewhat desultory turn of mind. I arranged for a serial tale by sending the first two or three chapters to the editor, and mentioning that it would last a twelvemonth, more or less. If accepted, the matter was settled. I had but to post the weekly packet, and my mind was at ease. I was rarely more than one or two chapters ahead of the printer; yet in twenty years I was only once late with my instalment, which had to go by sea from another colony. Every author has his own way of writing; this was mine. I never but once completed a story before it was published; and on that occasion it was – sad to say – declined by the editor. Not in New South Wales, however; and as it has since appeared in England, it did not greatly signify.

In this fashion Robbery Under Arms was written for the Sydney Mail after having been refused by other editors. It has been successful beyond expectation; and, though I say it, there is no country where the English language is spoken in which it has not been read.

I was satisfied with the honorarium which my stories yielded. It made a distinct addition to my income, every shilling of which, as a paterfamilias, was needed. I looked forward, however, to making a hit some day, and with the publication of Robbery Under Arms, in England, that day arrived. Other books followed, which have had a gratifying measure of acceptance by the English-speaking public, at home and abroad.

As a prophet I have not been 'without honour in mine own country.' My Australian countrymen have supported me nobly, which I take as an especial compliment, and an expression of confidence, to the effect that, as to colonial matters, I knew what I was writing about.

In my relations with editors, I am free to confess that I have always been treated honourably. I have had few discouragements to complain of, or disappointments, though not without occasional rubs and remonstrances from reviewers for carelessness, to which, to a certain extent, I plead guilty. In extenuation, I may state that I have rarely had the opportunity of correcting proofs. As to the attainment of literary success, as to which I often receive inquiries, as also how to secure a publisher, I have always given one answer: Try the Australian weekly papers, if you have any gift of expression, till one of them takes you up. After that the path is more easy. Perseverance and practice will ordinarily discover the method which leads to success.

A natural turn for writing is necessary, perhaps indispensable. Practice does much, but the novelist, like the poet, is chiefly 'born, not made.' Even in the case of hunters and steeplechasers, the expression 'a natural jumper' is common among trainers. A habit of noting, almost unconsciously, manner, bearing, dialect, tricks of expression, among all sorts and conditions of men, provides 'situations.' Experience, too, of varied scenes and societies is a great aid. Imagination does much to enlarge and embellish the lay figure, to deepen the shades and heighten the colours of the picture; but it will not do everything. There should be some experience of that most ancient conflict between the powers of Good and Evil, before the battle of life can be pictorially described. I am proud to note among my Australian brothers and sisters, of a newer generation, many promising, even brilliant, performances in prose and verse. They have my sincerest sympathy, and I feel no doubt as to their gaining in the future a large measure of acknowledged success.

As to my time method, it was tolerably regular. As early as five or six o'clock in the morning in the summer, and as soon as I could see in winter, I was at my desk, proper or provisional, until the hour arrived for bath and breakfast. If at a friend's house, I wrote in my bedroom and corrected in the afternoon, when my official duties were over. At home or on the road, as I had much travelling to do, I wrote after dinner till bedtime, making up generally five or six hours a day. Many a good evening's work have I done in the clean, quiet, if unpretending roadside inns, common enough in New South Wales. In winter, with a log fire and the inn parlour all to myself, or with a sensible companion, I could write until bedtime with ease and comfort. My day's ride or drive might be long, cold enough in winter or hot in summer, but carrying paper, pens, and ink I rarely missed the night's work. I never felt too tired to set to after a wholesome if simple meal. Fatigue has rarely assailed me, I am thankful to say, and in my twenty-five years of official service I was never a day absent from duty on account of illness, with one notable exception, when I was knocked over by fever, which necessitated sick-leave. It has been my experience that in early morning the brain is clearer, the hand steadier, the general mental tone more satisfactory, than at any other time of day.

A MOUNTAIN FOREST

Excepting perhaps the ocean, nothing in Nature is more deceitful than a mountain forest. Last time we crossed through snow, enveloped in mist and drenched with pitiless rain. Now, no one could think evil hap could chance to the wayfarer here – so dry the forest paths, so blue the sky, so bright the scene, so soft the whispering breeze. The shadows of the great trees fall on the emerald sward, tempering the ardent sun-rays. Flickers of light dance in the thickets, and laugh at the stern solemnity of the endless groves. Bird-calls are frequent and joyous. We might be roaming in the Forest of Arden, and meet a 'stag of ten' in the glade, for any hint to the contrary. Forest memories come into our heads as we stride merrily along the winding track. Robin Hood and his merry men, Friar Tuck and Little John! Oh, fountain of chivalry! How indissolubly a forest life in the glad summer days seems bound up with deeds of high emprise; how linked with the season of love and joy, hope and pride, with a sparkle of the cup of that divinest life-essence, youthful pleasure.

'Here shall he fear no enemy,But winter and rough weather.'

As we thus carol somewhat loudly, we are aware of a man standing motionless, regarding us, not far from a gate, humorously supposed to restrain the stock in these somewhat careless-ordered enclosures. Ha! what if he be a robber? We have been 'stuck up' ere now, and mislike the operation. He has something in his hand too. May it be a 'shooting-iron,' as the American idiom runs?

We continue to sing, however,

'Viator vacuus coram latronem.'

Our treasury consists of half-a-sovereign and an old watch, a new hat and a clean shirt – what matter if he levy on these? He has a dog, however, – that is a good sign. Bushrangers rarely travel with dogs. And the weapon is a stick. Ha! it is well. Only an official connected with the railway line, awaiting the mailman. We interchange courtesies, and are invited to the camp with proffer of hospitality. We feel compelled to decline. We may not halt by any wayside arbour.

We reach St. Bago Hospice at Laurel Hill before lunch time. Sixteen miles over a road not too smooth. Really, we have performed the stage with ridiculous ease. We are half tempted to go on to Tumut; but twenty-eight miles seems a longish step. Let us not be imprudently enthusiastic. We decide to remain. The hospice has put on a summer garb, and is wholly devoid of snowballs or other wintry emblems. The great laurel, the noble elm, the hawthorn, are in full leaf and flower. The orchard trees are greenly budding. At the spring well in the creek five crimson lories are drinking. They stand on a tray, so to speak, of softest emerald moss, walking delicately; all things tell of summer.

During the afternoon, so fresh did we feel that we took a stroll of five miles, and visited the nearest farmer. As we stepped along the red-soiled path, amid the immense timber, we realised the surroundings of the earlier American settlers. Hawk-eye might have issued from the ti-tree thicket by the creek and chuckled in his noiseless manner, while he rested la longue carabine on a fallen log. Uncas and Chingachgook would, of course, have turned up shortly afterwards.

The tiny creek speeds swiftly onward over ancient gold-washings and abandoned sluice channels. Tracks of that queer animal the wombat (Phascolomys) near his burrows and galleries are frequent. His habitat is often near the sea, but here is proof that he can accommodate himself to circumstances. Easily-excavated soil like this red loam is necessary for his comfort apparently. Ferns are not objected to. Our host at Bago informed us that one dull winter's evening he observed two animals coming towards him through the bush. He took them to be pigs, until, shooting with both right and left barrels, they turned out to be wombats. He had happened to be near their burrow, to which they always make if disturbed. In confirmation of this statement he presented me with a skin – dark brown in colour – with long coarse hair, something between that of a dog and a kangaroo. The thick hide covers the body in loose folds. The dogs become aware by experience that, on account of its thickness and slippery looseness, it is vain to attempt capture of a wombat. Retreating to his burrow, he scratches earth briskly into his opponent's mouth and eyes until he desists. One peculiarity of this underground animal is, that the eyes are apparently protected by a movable eyebrow, which, in the form of a small flap of skin, shuts over the indispensable organ.

We are politely received at the selector's house. A few cattle are kept; pigs and poultry abound. The father and son 'work in the creek' for gold, when the water is low, and thus supplement the family earnings. Clearing is too expensive as yet to be entered into on a large scale. Want of roads must militate for a while against farming profits in rough and elevated country. A flower-garden and orchard bear testimony to the richness of the soil. But looking forward to the value of the timber, the certainty of annual crops, the gradual covering of the pasture with clover and exotic grasses, the day is not distant in our opinion when the agriculture of this region will stand upon a safe and solvent basis. It is hard to overestimate the value of a moist, temperate climate, and this the inhabitants of the vicinity possess beyond all dispute.

The sun is showing above the tall tree-tops as we sit at breakfast next morning. The air is keen. We need the fire which glows in the cavernous chimney. In ten minutes we are off – ready to do or die – to accomplish the voluntary march or perish by the wayside.

How pleasant is it as we swing along in the fresh morning air. If we had had a mate – one who read the same books, thought the same thoughts, had the same tastes, and in a general way was congenial and sympathetic – our happiness would be complete. But in this desperately busy, workaday land, properly-graduated companionship is difficult to procure.

Still, to those who do not let their minds remain entirely fallow, there is choice companionship in these wooded highlands – that of the nobles and monarchs of literature is always at hand; ceases not the murmuring talk of half-forgotten friends, acquaintances, lovers, what not, of the spirit-world of letters; 'songs without words,' wit and laughter, tears and sighs, pæans of praise, sadly humorous subtleties, recall and repeat themselves. So we are not entirely alone, even were there not the whispering leaves, the frowning tree-trunks, the tremulous ferns and delicate grasses, the smiling flowerets, each with its own legend to keep us company. The sun mounts higher in the heavens; still it is not too hot. The green gloom of the great woodland lies between us, a shade against the fiercest sun-rays. So we fare on joyously. Three hours' fair walking brings us to the end of the forest proper. We take one look, as we stand on a clear hill-top – while on either side great glens are hollowed out like demoniac punch-bowls (the Australian native idiom) – at the mountains, at the oceans of frondage.

We are on the 'down grade.' At our feet lies the Middle Adelong, with deserted gold-workings, sluices, and all the debris of water-mining; a roomy homestead, with orchard pertaining, once an inn doubtless; now no longer, as I can testify.

It is high noon and hot withal. The sun, no longer fended off by o'erarching boughs, becomes aggressive. We have gained the valley and lost the cooling breeze. We request a glass of water, which is handed to us by the good-wife. We drink, and, seating ourselves upon a log on the hillside, commence upon a crust of bread – unwonted foresight this – with considerable relish. As we happen to have Carl Vosmaer's Amazon in our hand (every step of the way did we carry her), we tackle an æsthetic chapter with enthusiasm.

In twenty minutes we breast the hill, a trifle stiffer for the rest, and, it may be fancy, our left boot-sole has developed an inequality not previously sensitive. We swing along, however, in all the pride of 'second wind,' and fix our thoughts upon the next stage, eight miles farther on. We have come about sixteen.

We pass another hill, a plateau, and then a long declivitous grade. By and by we enter upon the fertile valley which leads to Tumut. The green valley of river-encircled sward on either side is one mat of clover and rye-grass. We display an increasing preference for the turf as distinguished from the roadway. The sun is becoming hotter. The clouds have retired. There is a hint of storm. The heavy air is charged with electricity. We put on the pace a little. One may as well have this sort of thing over in a condensed form.

Here we stop to look at a man ploughing for maize. Our brow is wet with 'honest – ,' whatsy name? We must weigh pounds less than this morning. How far to the Gilmore Inn? 'Four miles!' Thermometer over a hundred in the shade. We set our teeth and march on. We are acquiring the regular slouching swing of the 'sundowner,' it appears to us. There is nothing like similar experience for producing sympathy. We can almost fancy ourselves accosting the overseer with the customary, 'Got any work, sir, for a man to do?' and subsiding to the traveller's hut, with the regulation junk of meat and pannikin of flour. Can partly gauge the feelings of the honest son of toil, weary, athirst, somewhat sore-footed (surely there must be a nail?), when said overseer, being in bad temper, tells him to go to the deuce, that he knows he won't take work if it's offered, and that he has no rations to spare for useless loafers.

It is more than an hour later – we think it more than an hour hotter – as we sight the Gilmore Inn, near rushing stream, hidden by enormous willows. We have abstained from drinking of the trickling rill, hot and dusty as we are. Thoughts of 'that poor creature, small beer,' obtrude, if the local optionists have not abolished him.

In the parlour of this snug roadside inn we put down our 'swag,' and order a large glass of home-brewed and a crust of bread. We certainly agree with Mr. Swiveller, 'Beer can't be tasted in a sip,' especially after a twenty-mile trudge. When we put down the 'long-sleever' there is but a modicum left.

We give ourselves about half an hour here, by which time we are cooled and refreshed, as is apparently the day. Sol is lower and more reasonable. We sling on, by no means done – rather improving pace than otherwise – till overtaken by a friend and his family in a buggy. He kindly proffers to drive us in; but we have made it a point of honour to walk every yard, so we decline. He will leave the valise at our hotel – which kindness we accept. The rest is easy going. We lounge into the 'Commercial' as if we had just dismounted, and order a warm bath and dinner, with the mens conscia recti in a high state of preservation.

THE FREE SELECTOR

A Comedietta

ACT I

Enter The Honourable Rufus Polyblock, Member of Upper House, and immensely rich squatter – his Overseer, Mr. Gayters (imperfectly educated).

The Hon. Rufus. Well, Gayters, how's everything gettin' on? I mean the sheep, of course. Splendid season, ain't it? Grand lambing, tremendous heavy clip, eh? Why, you look dubersome?

Gayters. Marked 92 per cent of lambs all round. The clip'll be heavier than it was last year – that means money off a hundred and fifty thousand sheep, but —

Hon. Rufus. Sheep right; lambs too; shearing all to the good; why, what can be wrong? (Walks up and down.) Must be them infernal, underminding free selectors. Rot 'em! if they ain't worse than blackfellows or dingoes – and you can't shoot 'em or poison 'em legally; not yet, that is —not yet!

Gayters. You've about hit it, sir. I'd hardly the face to tell you, one of 'em's taken up the main camp, opposite the big water-hole – a half-section, too! [320 acres.]

Hon. Rufus. What! Our main camp! Good Gad! Why, the country's goin' to destruction! The best water-hole on the creek, too. Why, I thought that had been secured. Wasn't Sam Appinson to take it up last Thursday?

Gayters. Yes, sir; cert'nly, sir; but his mother went and died the day afore, and he had to go down the country. Didn't think it would matter for a week; when this young chap pops in, all on a sudden like, and collars it. It's turned out quite contrairy, ain't it, sir?

Hon. Rufus. Contrairy! It's ruination, that's what it is! It'll play h – l and Tommy with the sheep in the Ban Ban Paddock. What's to keep 'em off his pre-lease? And he can pound 'em any day he likes. He'll do me thousands of pounds' worth of harm with his beggarly half-section. Have to buy him out and give him two prices – the old story.

Gayters. I hardly think he'll agree to that, sir! I heard him yesterday say, says he, 'I'm a-going to settle down for good, and make a home in this wilderness; this here land is so fertile,' says he —

Hon. Rufus. Wilderness indeed! On a flat like that! Fert'le, fert'le – what's that? Good corn land? D – n his impudence; what's it to him, I'd like to know? Is he going to cultivate for a living in a dry country? Bah! I've seen them kind of coves afore. I give him two years to lose everything, to his shirt! What sort of a chap is he, Gayters?

Gayters. Well, a civil-spoken young man enough, sir. Talks very nice, and seems to know himself. I should take him to be a gentleman.

Hon. Rufus. A gentleman! Bosh! How the devil can he be a gentleman and a free selector, eh? A feller that robs people of their land. He's next door to a cattle duffer. He'd turn bushranger, only he ain't got pluck enough.

Gayters. Very true, sir; cert'nly, sir; but he says it's not agin the law.

Hon. Rufus. The law! Hang the law! What's that got to do with it? A parcel of fellers that never owned a run or a foot of ground get into this Lower 'Ouse and makes laws to bind people that could buy 'em out over and over again. D'ye call that honest? I call it daylight robbery; and I'm not a-goin' to keep laws made that way if I can find a way to drive through 'em; yes, through 'em, with a coach and four!

Gayters. Yes, sir; but what are we to do? He'll have his nine hundred and sixty acres of pre-lease, and our sheep can't be kept off it nohow.

Hon. Rufus. Put a man on to free select right agin his frontage, take up two flocks, and shepherd all round him. I'll feed him out; I'll make him keep to his blasted half-section. Curse him! I'll ruin him! Damme! I'll have him in gaol afore I've done with him. I'll —

Enter Miss Dulcie Polyblock in her riding-habit, alsoMiss Alice Merton (a friend)

Miss Dulcie. Why, dad, what's all this about? Who's to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, whatever that means? We used to have it in our history lesson. Oh, I want to tell you something! Whom do you think we met?

Hon. Rufus. Don't know, I'm sure. Was it Lord Arthur Howard or young Goldsmith? I know they came up to Deem Deem the other day.

Miss Dulcie. Well, he was such a handsome young man, father; and so polite and gentlemanlike. Alice's horse shied at a hawker's cart, and Sultan, like an old goose, began to rear. Alice dropped her whip, so he picked it up and gave it to her with such a bow! He said he was coming to be a neighbour of ours, so perhaps it was Lord Arthur. Oh, I nearly forgot! He gave me a card, and said he hoped he might be permitted to call. Here it is.

Hon. Rufus. H'm, ha! Likely it was his lordship, or one of them swells that I heard were coming up to learn experience at Deem Deem. Old Maclaren's a regular brick for hospitality! Well, I'll ask him over, Dulcie. He won't see a prettier girl anywheres, nor a better one, tho' I say it. We must have him over to dinner on Sunday. What did you say his name was?

Miss Dulcie (reads from card). Mr. Cecil Egremont. Isn't it a pretty one?

Hon. Rufus. Eggermont, Eggermont, eh? Hand me over that paper there; it's a copy of a Application. Why, confound and smother all land-stealin' villains, if that ain't the very man that's took up my main camp! He a gentleman! He's an impostor, a swindler. He's tryin' to rob your poor old father. He's a free selector!

Both Girls (horrified). A free selector! Oh!! (Scream loudly and run out of room.)

END OF FIRST ACT

ACT II

Enter Mr. Cecil Egremont, dressed in blue Crimean shirt, moleskin trousers, knee-boots, straw hat

Egremont. And so I'm farming in Australia. A thing I've longed for all my days. Such a free, independent, pleasant life. No one to bother you; no one to interfere with you. Such a splendid large piece of land I've secured too – three hundred and twenty acres, with three times as much for grazing. Grazing right, that's the expression – a pre-lease, ha! (Looks in book.) I believe my fortune's made. Who's this? Some neighbour probably. Good-day, sir; very glad to see you.