“My love,” suggested Mrs. Tallowfat, “he can’t go about without them.”
I made some pettish observation about the “poor Indian,” and “beauty unadorned, &c.,” but Mrs. Tallowfat said “stuff!” in a tone which precluded argument. “The Bellwethers are coming up to the station next week,” said she, “and to have a black-fellow walking about—Oh, it’s not to be thought of.”
“Budgeree, climb tree,” says King Billy, turning his dilapidations towards us with the elegant simplicity of the savage. “Slip down long o’ ’possum. Bigfellow hole that one!” There was no disputing it.
“Well, my dear,” said I, “he’ll get no more from me. I’ll—I’ll write to the department!”
His Majesty King William the First was the chieftain of the Great Glimmera blacks, and carried on his manly breast a brass label, inscribed with his name, date, and title. He was general “knock about man” on the station, and as I had been idiot enough to allow myself to be made a corresponding member of the Board for the Protection of Aboriginals, William imagined that he had a right to demand from me unlimited clothing. The Board liberally supplied the few blacks who yet survived the gin bottle with a blanket per year (by the way, the storekeepers who gave rum in exchange vowed the quality was most inferior), and by some accident the blanket intended for the monarch had been captured by some inferior aboriginal, and had never been replaced. William indignantly demanded to be clothed, and to quiet his outcries I gave him a pair of pantaloons. The gift was so highly appreciated that, when the blanket did arrive, His Majesty declined to wear it. “What for you gib it that? No good!” said he, with profound contempt, and continued to eat, drink, sleep, ride, and climb trees in my pantaloons.
“Mrs. Tallowfat,” said I, “I’ll write to the department.” I did write—a forcible, and, I flatter myself, even elegant, letter, setting forth the poor savage’s yearning for civilisation, begging that the Board would take the matter into their favourable consideration, and supply the dethroned monarch with one pair of moleskins a year. A week passed, and I received a letter from the secretary.
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8796/B.
“BOARD FOR THE PROTECTION OF ABORIGINES, “July 27, 186—. “SIR,— “I have the honour to acknowledge your letter of the 20th inst. requesting that the aboriginal named in the margin may be supplied with one pair of moleskin trousers annually by this department, and, in reply, have the honour to inform you that I will lay the letter before the Board at their next sitting, and communicate to you their decision on the subject. “I have the honour to be, Sir, “Your most obedient humble servant, “JOHN P. ROBINSON. “Secretary to the Board. “TO TITYRUS TALLOWFAT, Esq., J.P., “Cock-and-a-Bull Station, Budgeree Flat, Old Man Plains, Great Glimmera.” |
This, so far, was very satisfactory, and I triumphantly snubbed my wife, who had ventured to hint that I should find my application treated with nonchalance. Weeks, however, rolled away, Billy wore out two more pairs of trousers, and the Board did not write. I sent another despatch. No answer. Another. No answer. A third. Still no reply. I got angry, and penned a sarcastic note. “Am I Briareus?” I asked, sardonically, “that I should keep a hundred pairs of breeches on hand?” My sarcasm had the desired result. It provoked an answer.
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No. 11289/C.
“28th September, 186—. “SIR,— “I have the honour, by the direction of the Board for the Protection of Aborigines, to acknowledge the correspondence cited in the margin, and to inform you, in reply, that the Board have given your application their fullest and most complete attention. The practice, however, of supplying breeches to blackfellows is one which has not hitherto obtained in this department, authorised, under Act Vic. cxxii. sec. 4001, to provide blankets and petticoats only. I am directed, however, to inform you that the Board will again consider this somewhat important matter with a view to bringing it under the notice of the Hon. the Chief Secretary at an early date. “I am further instructed to say that your observation on the subject of Briareus is not only incorrect, but considered by the Board to be quite uncalled for. “I have the honour to be, &c., “JOHN P. ROBINSON.” |
I was staggered. What vast machinery had I not set in motion! Good gracious, I had no desire to trouble the Hon. the Chief Secretary. I would write to him and apologise. Like an ass, I did so.
In three months I received back my letter, marked in red ink, in blue ink, in green ink, minuted in all directions, and commented upon in all kinds of handwriting.
“Noted and returned W.P.S.” “Not on the business of this department O.P.G.” “Refer to the Paste and Scissors Office M.B.” “Apparently forwarded in error S.B.O.” Across the right-hand bottom corner of this maltreated document was written, in a fine bold hand, with which I afterwards became hideously familiar, “Communications on the subject of Clothing of Aboriginals must be made to the Hon. the Chief Secretary through the Gunnybag and Postage Stamp Department ONLY, O. K.”
This was decisive, though who “O. K.” was, and what the Gunnybag and Postage Stamp Department had to do with the clothing of aboriginals (who wore neither gunnybags nor postage stamps), I could not tell. However, I was not yet beaten. I wrote to the Hon. Silas Barnstarke, then Comptroller-General of Gunnybags, enclosed the returned letter, and begged that he would use his influence in the proper quarter to procure a pair of moleskins for King Billy. The Hon. Silas Barnstarke was an official by nature, and he replied, after six months, accordingly.
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8024/8749 362 B.
“GUNNYBAGS AND POSTAGE STAMP DEPART. “3rd July, 187—. (OFFICIAL.) “SIR,— “In reference to your note of the 24th of January last, I have the honour to inform you that no official cognisance of blackfellows’ breeches can at present be taken by this Department. “I have the honour, &c., “SILAS BARNSTARKE, “Comptroller of Gunnybags.” (SEMI-OFFICIAL.) “MY DEAR SIR,— “I have to regret that I am unable to comply with your very reasonable request. “Yours faithfully, “S. BARNSTARKE.” (PRIVATE.) “DEAR TALLOWFAT,—I can’t do anything about this confounded blackfellow. “Yours, “S. B.” |
In the meantime King William wore out three more pairs.
I wrote again to the Board, and, after waiting the usual time, received the following reply:—
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“3684/X
“9th October, 187—. “SIR,— “I have the honour, by direction of the Board, to inform you that they cannot at present move in the matters named in the margin. [* Blackfellows’ breeches.] The subject of the clothing of Aborigines in general has occupied the gravest attention of the Board for the last six months, but, after mature consideration, they fail to see how your request can be in any respect complied with unless by the direct authority of His Excellency the Governor in Council. “I am instructed to suggest that perhaps in the meantime, as the case seems urgent, and His Excellency is in Adelaide, a kilt might meet the difficulty. “I have the honour, &c., “JOHN P. ROBINSON.” |
A kilt meet the difficulty! No, nor half of it. In indignant terms I wrote to this half-hearted Robinson. “No one but an idiot,” said I, “could make such a preposterous suggestion.” The phlegmatic creature replied (after three weeks) as follows:—
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“3784/X
“1st November, 187—. “SIR,— “I have the honour to acknowledge your communication of the 12th October last, in which you inform me that I am an idiot, as per margin, and in reply thereto beg to inform you that on that point a difference of opinion exists in this Department. |
And he had again “the honour to be.”
This seemed a fatal blow to my hopes, but I wrote again, begged to withdraw the offensive expression made in the heat of the moment, and to request that the Board would condescend to take my petition into earnest consideration. Mr. Robinson replied in a temperate and forgiving spirit.
“The Board,” he observed, in the most elegant round-hand, “are most desirous to promote the welfare of the Aborigines in the minutest particular, and I am directed to state for your information that a proposal to amalgamate the votes for flannel petticoats and patent revolving beacons will be made to the Government, which amalgamation will enable the Board to issue one pair of moleskin trousers, as per schedule B, to every three adult aboriginals in the colony. I am directed to ask if you have any suggestions to offer with regard to cut, number of buttons, flap or fly, &c.”
I could not see how one pair of breeches between every three adult natives would “meet the difficulty,” as Mr. Robinson elegantly put it, nor did I understand why the votes for flannel petticoats and patent revolving beacons needed amalgamation, but I replied, thanking the Board, and wrote to my friend O’Dowd, member for the Glimmera, to beg him to make a “proper representation” on the subject. O’Dowd was at that time “in Opposition.” I saw in the Peacock that “the hon. member for the Glimmera gave notice that he would ask the hon. the Comptroller of Gunnybags, on the following Thursday, if he was aware of the particulars attending the case of an aboriginal known as King Billy.”
My hopes rose high when, on the following Thursday, O’Dowd delivered himself of a terrific speech, in which he accused the Government of the most wanton barbarity, and drew such a terrible picture of the trouserless monarch hiding in the dens and clefts of the rocks, that it brought tears into my eyes as I read it.
Barnstarke, however, who had kept two clerks at work night and day copying the correspondence, replied in his usual calm and dignified manner. “The attention of the Government had already been called to the lamentable condition of the Aborigines in that wealthy and populous district where the hon. member who had just sat down owned such extensive property, and he might inform the hon. member that the Government had taken steps to remedy, in some measure, the effects of the apparent parsimony of the inhabitants of the Glimmera district, by a method which he was convinced would fully satisfy every intelligent and liberal member of that House.”
O’Dowd was muzzled, but, as luck would have it, little Chips, the leader-writer to the Peacock, was in the gallery, and wanted a “subject.”
“Monstrous case about that blackfellow,” said he to the editor later in the evening. “I should like to do a smart little thing on old Barnstarke about it.”
There was nothing better going, and the article was written. I forget it now, but I know it was vastly clever, quoting Horace twice, and comparing poor Barnstarke to Le Roi Dagobert. In fact, it was full of as much withering scorn as Chips could afford for £2 2s., and Chips was liberal.
Thus encouraged by the support of the press, O’Dowd moved for a Commission to inquire into the subject of Aborigines’ breeches, with power to call for Persons and Papers.
The Commission was granted, sat at the Parliament Houses for nine mortal weeks, examined 300 witnesses, ordered “plans and specifications” of all the breeches since the original fig leaf, and, at a cost of £2000, published a Report of 1000 pages, containing a complete history of the development of breeches from the earliest ages. This Report contained my correspondence in an appendix, and advised that all the Aborigines throughout the colony, male and female, should at once be provided with three pairs of broadcloth pantaloons a-piece. In the meantime, King Billy wore out four more pairs of mine.
Elated, however, by the successful issue of my labours, I gave him the garments, and waited for my revenge. I waited for three months. It was nearly the end of the session, and I had almost begun to despair, when I received a large packet from Mr. Robinson, enclosing a copy of the Report, and asking for a “return of the number, height, age, and weight of all the aboriginals in the district.” I set to work without delay to furnish this return, and had the gratification of seeing by the papers that, “In reply to a question by Mr. O’Dowd, the Comptroller of Gunnybags informed the House that the Report of the Blackfellows’ Breeches Commission had been referred to the Board for the Protection of Aborigines, who would give the recommendation of the Commission their best attention.” It seemed that we had come back to the place whence we had started.
Nothing was done, of course, during the recess, but when the House was about to sit I saw that the Peacock was “informed that the Special Report of the Board for the Protection of Aborigines, which, we understand, will be shortly laid on the table of the House, contains some startling revelations on the subject of blackfellows’ breeches, and proves beyond a doubt the necessity for an absolute Free-trade policy for this colony.”
The Ministerial journal (the Peacock was always in opposition) hinted that it was the intention of the liberal and intelligent Government to further Protect the native industry of the colony by placing a tax of 4½d. a leg on every pair of imported moleskins—a proceeding which cannot fail to redound to the credit of that Government whose “fiscal policy we have always upheld through the medium of our advertising columns.” It was not to be expected that the Peacock could allow such a gross fallacy to pass unquestioned, so it inquired sarcastically the following morning if “its Little Bourke-street contemporary was aware that America had been plunged into a civil war in consequence of the bloomer movement, which deprived thousands of hard-working negroes of their nether garments.” “The imports of the United States during the year 1862, when a free-trade policy prevailed,” said the Peacock, “reached a total of 8,936,052.18 dol. In 1863, when Henry Clay, a member of the notorious Pantaloon-and-gaiter Ring, levied a tax of one red cent on every article of clothing that came below the knee, the Customs returns showed a deficit of 18,000,000 dol. This fact speaks for itself.”
At it again went the protectionist paper, and proved entirely to its own satisfaction that the only way to make mankind happy was to encourage the growth of a breeches industry by severe protective duties. “It is rumoured,” said the protectionist paper, “that an effort will be made by the soft goods faction to import the 200,000 pairs of breeches required for our aboriginal population. Quem deus vult perdere, &c. Such an act would blur the blush and grace of modesty. We trust that a patriotic Government will look to it. We have imported too long. Our short-sighted and venal contemporary, not satisfied with importing its Sparrows, Bulls, Editors, and Pedestrians, must needs attack the country in its most vital point, stab it in its very seat of honour. We are confident that Sir Ossian M‘Orkney, however much he may have appeared to lean towards the unholy coalition of Flinders-lane, will draw the line at breeches.”
The controversy was highly interesting, but in the meantime King Billy wore out four more pairs—leathers. I wrote to Barnstarke, informing him that, while the great question of Free-trade or Protection yet remained unsettled, my wardrobe was becoming absorbed into the surrounding forest, and that unless something was speedily done I would send the monarch breechesless to Melbourne, marked “This side up with care,” and let his country deal with him.
Barnstarke replied that, “while deprecating the indiscreet haste which I had displayed in the treatment of a matter of so much importance,” he was willing to do everything in his power, and after consultation with his colleagues, had given instructions to the Chief Commissioner of Police to forward an old pair of regulation cords, which would perhaps satisfy me. No cords came, but a very large letter from the Chief Commissioner, in which he regretted that, all the regulation cords of the Department being in constant use, he was unable to comply with the request of the Hon. the Comptroller of Gunnybags, but that he had forwarded my letter (forwarded to him through the Department of the Hon. the Chief Secretary by the Hon. the Comptroller of Gunnybags) to the Commandant of the Local Forces, with a request that he give the matter his immediate attention.
Three weeks passed, and I received a letter from the Commandant of the Local Forces, who, in a military “memo,” in red ink, begged to forward me copies of the correspondence between the Hon. the Comptroller of Gunnybags, the Chief Commissioner of Police, and himself, and to attach a list of the articles with which “it was in his power to supply me through the usual official channel.” The list was five folio pages of close print, and contained, I believe, every article under heaven except the one I desired. I replied by marking a few dozen, convinced that nothing would come of it, and wrote again to Barnstarke. Barnstarke sent me a parcel with a private note.
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(PRIVATE.)
“DEAR TALLOWFAT,— “I don’t see how to please you, but as the matter will be brought before the House shortly, and those confounded fellows in the Opposition will be sure to make a handle of it, I have begged a personal interview with the Governor, stated your case, and asked him, as an old friend of my cousin, Lord Lofty, to help me. His Excellency, in the kindest and most delicate manner, has sent me an old pair of ‘plush,’ discarded, I believe, by one of the Vice-regal domestics, and placed them entirely at your service. For goodness sake, my dear fellow, keep the matter dark, for I sadly fear that so irregular a proceeding will result in some confusion in this Department. “Yours, “S. B. “P.S.—I rely as ever on your powerful support in case of a general election.” |
We clothed King Billy in the Vice-regal Plush, and for some months he was happy. The papers having got hold of a Divorce Case, were engaged (in the cause of morality) in commenting on the particulars, and I had hoped that matters would now rest. But I had forgotten one thing—“The Audit Commissioners.”
Early in the following spring, Tommy, the boy who rode for the mail to Bullock Town, informed me that there was a packing-case at the Post-office, marked “On Her Majesty’s Service,” and addressed to me. I sent a bullock-dray for it, and it proved to be a bundle of papers from the “Audit Commissioners,” accompanied by a note from Barnstarke.
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(PRIVATE.)
“DEAR TALLOWFAT,— “I knew that we should get into a mess about those confounded breeches. It appears that they had been re-seated by the Government contractor, and that no requisition had been sent into this office. The result is that the Com. of Audit (among other queries) desire to be ‘informed’ about this ‘gross irregularity.’ The whole of the accounts of this Department are in arrear in consequence. Can you tell them what they want to know? “Yours, “S. B.” |
I rose every morning at daylight for the space of a month, and read away at the bundle. It contained some tolerably rough reading. All the accounts of His Excellency’s household were there noted, and commented upon in the most acute and accurate manner. The Audit Commissioners were continually “dropping down” upon His Excellency, as thus—His Excellency’s valet desires a water-bottle for His Excellency’s bedroom, and is informed in a brief note from the Chief Clerk in the Water-bottle Department of the Government Stores that he “must requisition for it in the usual way.” He does so, and sends in the bill “in the usual form.” A voluminous correspondence then occurs between the Government storekeeper, the Commissioners of Audit, and the contractor, as to whether “cut glass bottles” should or should not be charged for at a certain rate. This question satisfactorily settled, the contractor applies to the Government storekeeper to apply to the Commissioners of Audit to “pass the account through the Treasury,” and is informed contemptuously that “the number of pints not being stated on the voucher, the Com. of Audit are unable to forward the account in question.” This causes another correspondence with the Treasury, and, just as I had worked myself into a fever of expectation, imagining that the money must at last be paid, the Treasurer triumphantly encloses a copy of the Registrar-General’s certificate of the death of the applicant, and refers the whole matter for adjustment by the Curator of Intestate Estates.
I stumbled also upon an exciting chase after an item of 2¾d. overcharge for Farriery, which at last proved to have been paid for a threepenny drink to the smith, less the “usual discount on Government contracts;” but I found nothing bearing upon my breeches, or His Excellency’s breeches, or King Billy’s breeches, or, to speak more correctly, and in accordance with official exactness, the “one pair of double-plush extra super small-clothes, the property of Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, Fid. Def.”
With bewildered brain I returned the bundle to Barnstarke, and begged him to settle it anyhow. He replied that the only thing to do was to at once return the breeches to the Government storekeeper, “for,” said he, “if this is not done, we must move the Treasurer to put a sum of 5s. 4d. on the Supplementary Estimates, and such a course will naturally cause great inconvenience to this Department.”
I sent him down a blank cheque, begged him to fill it up for any sum he pleased, and settle the matter at once. Alas! little did I know the wisdom by which the world is governed. Barnstarke was most indignant.
“Not only,” said he, in his reply, “is the course you propose most improper, and utterly opposed to all the traditions of official business, but it would put the Department to the utmost inconvenience to entertain, even for an instant, such a monstrous proposition. You will, I trust, excuse me speaking thus plainly when I inform you that, to enable me to receive the sum of money you so rashly proffer, I should require a special vote of the House. If it is absolutely impossible for you to return the breeches, the Treasurer must be moved in the usual way.”
What could I do? The breeches were torn to shreds by this time, and fragments of them gleamed derisively from several lofty gum trees in the vicinity of the station. There was evidently no help for it. The Treasurer, poor fellow, must be “moved in the usual way,” whatever that might be.
In the Supplementary Estimates for 187—, accordingly, appeared the following item:—
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“Comptroller of Gunnybags.
“Division 492. “Subdivision 8. “His Excellency the Governor-General and Vice-Admiral of the Colony of Victoria. “For re-seating one pair of extra plush small-clothes 5s. 4d.” |
It was thought there would be a row. The Treasurer trembled when he submitted the fatal item to the House, and an ominous silence reigned. “I would ask the Hon. the Treasurer,” said Mr. Wiggintop, rising, “if this piece of wanton extravagance is to be paid for out of the Imperial or the Colonial funds.”
“The colonial funds, of course,” says a rash member from the Government benches.
Wiggintop sat down quietly, and those who knew his antipathy to Downing-street trembled for the fate of the Ministry.
The next morning the Daily Bellower, a paper that went in for economic democracy, laughed bitterly. “So then this is the way in which the Victorian taxpayer is robbed to support the liveried myrmidons of an effete and palsied aristocracy. The representative of Downing-street, not contented with gloating over the Victorian artisan from Toorak, must needs clothe his footmen out of the proceeds of the hardy miner’s toil. The rogue wants his breeches re-seated, does he? Pampered menial!”
There was no standing this. The Ministry resigned, and Wiggintop was sent for. He formed a Ministry in twenty-four hours, and went to the country with the breeches metaphorically nailed to the masthead of his future policy. “It shall be my business,” said he at an enthusiastic meeting of his constituents, “to see that every half-penny of that 5s. 4d. is paid out of the Royal Exchequer.” When Parliament met, Wiggintop called for “all the correspondence connected with this gross case of Imperial tyranny” (the Report of the Blackfellows’ Breeches Committee came in as an appendix this time), “in order that he might lay it on the table of this wronged and outraged House.” He did so, and, to the triumph of the Colonial Progress Party, it was resolved by an overwhelming majority that the question should be immediately referred to the Privy Council.
I imagined that all was over. But by the return mail Wiggintop received the gratifying intelligence that a Royal Commission had been appointed, who would examine personally the witnesses in this most important case. A few days after the Bellower informed the public that the first blow had been struck, the “pampered menial” had gone home in the Great Britain to give his evidence.
By the following mail was transmitted a list of witnesses who were required to be examined before the fourteen noblemen and gentlemen of the Royal Commission. Of course, I was one, but my blood was up now, and I resolved that I would not shrink from my duty. I left orders with my tailor to supply King Billy, and started. With my gained experience of the celerity of officialdom, I spent a couple of months in London sight-seeing, and then, thinking it about time to attend to business, wrote to the secretary to the Commission, but received no answer. I waited two months more, and then, having primed myself with names, called at Downing-street. It was the “silly season,” and London was empty. A messenger was elegantly lounging on the steps of the Colonial Office, however, and to him I addressed myself.
“Is Lord Lofty within?”
“No, his Lordship is in Greece.”
“Mr. Chichester Fortescue?”
“Gone to Norway.”
“Mr. Washington White?”
“In the south of France.”
“Mr. Fitz Clarence Paget?”
“Rusticating in Boulogne.”
“Good gracious,” said I, “is there no one to look after the interests of these two millions of colonists?”
“I think you’ll find a young gentleman upstairs,” said the messenger, carelessly.
I went upstairs, and after some investigation found the young gentleman who looked after the colonies. He was very spruce and very small, with his hair cut very short, and wore a rose in his coat and a glass in his eye. He stared at me as I entered as one who should say, “What the deuce do you mean coming into a Government office in this way?”
“Mr. Cackelby Jenks, I believe?” said I.
“Quite so. What can I do for you?”
“I have called about the Breeches Commission.”
“Ah! door B, first on the right, third turning to the left. Not here. Mistake.”
“Pardon me, sir, I have called there, and they referred me to you.”
“Oh, did they?” says Mr. Cackelby Jenks. “Ah, well, what is it?”
“I wrote some time ago to Mr. Washington White, who acts as secretary to the Commission.”
“What Commission?”
“The Breeches Commission.”
“Oh! ah! Is there such a thing? Quite so. Didn’t know. Beg your pardon. Go on.”
“My name is Tityrus Tallowfat. I am an Australian, sir, and have come 30,000 miles.”
“All right, Marrowfat; sit down. Never mind the distance; every Australian tells us that. So you’re from Victoria Island, eh?”
“Victoria, sir. Victoria; capital, Melbourne.”
“Oh! ah! yes, stupid of me, but the V’s are not in my Department, don’t you see. I take the B’s, Bermuda, and so on; but, however, never mind, I daresay we shall get on. You want to see White.”
“Well, no,” said I, “I want to know—”
“Hadn’t you better put it in writing, Marrowfat? Put it in writing now.”
“There is no occasion for that,” I said, taught by bitter experience how futile was such a course; “I have already written to Mr. White.”
“Ah!” says the young gentleman, at once relieved. “Why didn’t you say so before? Tomkins, bring me Mr. White’s letter book.” Tomkins brought it, and Mr. Jenks perused it. “You must be under a mistake, Marrowfat,” he said at last. “There’s no letter mentioned here.”
“But I wrote one, sir,” I ventured to remark.
“I rather think not, Marrowfat,” said he. “You must be in error, Marrowfat.”
“But, my dear sir—”
“But, my dear sir, the thing’s as plain as a pikestaff. We register all our letters, of course; now there is no letter registered here, so we couldn’t have received one. Don’t you see?”
“Perhaps it might have escaped you,” I hesitated again.
He smiled a patronising smile. “My dear Mr. Marrowfat, our system of registration is perfect, simply perfect; it couldn’t have escaped us.”
Just then the door was burst open, and there entered another gentleman with a letter in his hand.
“Hullo!” said Mr. Jenks, quite unabashed. “Here it is! Egad that’s strange. Thanks, my dear Carnaby, thanks. Now, sir” (to me, severely, as if I had been in fault), “perhaps you can explain your business.”
A bright idea struck me,—I would inquire as to the probable result of my inquiries.
“That letter, sir, fully explains my business. May I ask you what will become of it?”
“Become of it! It is the property of the office, sir.”
“But what will be done with it?”
“It will go through the usual official course, I presume,” said Mr. Jenks.
“And what is that, may I ask?”
“Oh,” said the young man, waving the letter as he spoke, “Mr. White will hand it to Mr. Paget, who will minute it, and send it on to Mr. Fortescue. He will pass it through his Department, and then it will, in the usual official course, reach Mr. Secretary Sandwith; he will send it to the Commissioners.”
“Oh! And what then?”
“Well, the Commissioners will have it read and entered in their minutes, and then, unless they choose to send it to the Privy Council, they will return it to us in the usual course.”
“As—?”
“From Mr. Secretary Sandwith to Mr. Fortescue, from Mr. Fortescue to Mr. Paget, from Mr. Paget to Mr. White, from Mr. White to me.”
“And what would you do with it?”
“I should hand it to the Chief,” said Mr. Jenks.
“And what would become of it then?”
Mr. Jenks admired his boot gloomily, and said at last—
“’Pon my life, Marrowfat, I don’t know. The Chief is rather absent, and—between ourselves—when once a document gets into his hands, ’gad, there is no telling what he may do with it!”
“Sir,” said I, in a rage, “I wish you good morning.”
“Good morning, my dear Marrowfat,” said Mr. Jenks, with perfect affability; “anything we can do for you, you know, d’lighted I’m sure.”
I did not pause to ask what would become of my letter in the alternative of the Commission choosing to hand it to the Privy Council, but left the office. Outside were some thirty or forty of the cloud of witnesses. “Ha, ha!” they laughed, “here is Mr. Tallowfat. He can tell us all about it. Where is the Commission, Tallowfat; we’ve been all over London looking for it.”
“Gentlemen,” said I, “it may be in the moon for all I know of it. If I don’t go home and go to bed I shall be a subject for Bedlam.”
I waited in London ten months, and, hearing nothing of the Commission, returned to Melbourne. King Billy had cut the Gordian Knot by dying, and as, according to the custom of his race, he was buried dressed, he took my 53rd and last pair of breeches with him to his long home. The Commission is still sitting, I suppose, for we hear the most flourishing accounts from the Agent-General of the wonderful progress they are making with the collection “of the vast mass of interesting evidence, which I shall have the honour to transmit to you in the usual official course.” But if ever I “write to the Department” again, I’m—
“Bravo!” cried Falx and Marston, simultaneously. “My dear Tallowfat, that is the best story told yet.”
“It is,” I assented. “Tityrus, you have developed your resources. Let us drink your health.”
The ceremony was performed, and Marston began to look uneasily about him for his hat.
“I suppose, then, we shall not see each other until after Christmas,” said Falx.
“I suppose not. Where do you go?”
“I am going to dinner,” said Falx. “I always amalgamate my meals during the last month of the year, and dine perpetually.”
“Falx is a man of fashion,” said Marston. “He goes into Society. You know what Society is in Victoria?”
“What is it?” asked Falx, with some beat.
“A collection of the lower organisms. Four shopkeepers of mixed sexes, a travelling creature who is cutting his brains, and some Falx or another.”
“The drawing-room from Rocke, and the wine from Gilbey,” said Falx, good-humouredly. “Well, be it so; it is the best that can be got.”
“I like a good dinner,” said Tallowfat, simply.
“So do I,” returned Marston. “You know the proverb: ‘God sends meat, and the devil sends cooks.’ There are no cooks in Australia. There are mammifers who roast and boil things, but no cooks.”
“Australia is one of the suburbs of the Universe,” said Falx, “and we do not get the best things in the suburbs; moreover, indigestion is, at least, a proof that one has eaten. ‘Me doceat livor mecum habuisse meam.’”
“Well,” said Marston, “you are right to snatch the moment. Perhaps your friends may not be always able to give dinners, or willing to ask you to them. As one of my minor poets—you know I am editing the Poetae Minores Britannici—says:—”
|
Love is so strange with wane and change, His mood is subtle as the air; Through long, vague years of joy and tears You never looked so fair. I never knew your eyes more blue, Your voice flow with so sweet a tone, Full of my bliss, I know this is The happiest day we’ve known. To-morrow, then, we’ll find again These rocks between the sea and sky, To-morrow will prove happier still? Nay, love, to-day, good-bye. We’ll let love rest thus at his best, We will not dare to tempt delight, I’ll kiss your brow, and we’ll part now, Dear love—good-bye, good-nigh |
“So,” cried Falx, contracting his orbital muscle upon the rim of his eyeglass, “you would have me leave the table so soon as I have discovered that I can get something to eat!”
“No;” said I, “he would only have you leave while you were still hungry. But if you begin upon the immortal themes of Love and Dinner, you will talk till Domesday.”
“True,” said Marston; “let us be off. I have to catch the coach to my cabbage-garden in the morning.”
“I will set to work to put your stories into shape,” said I.
“I tell you what it is,” said Tityrus; “suppose you all come and spend your Christmas at Old Man Plains. Falx will have had enough Society, and Marston enough Cabbage, by that time.”
“Not a bad idea,” said I.
“He wants to get four more stories out of us!” said Falx.
“And why not?” said Tallowfat. “A house that is only four stories high is not a Tower of Babel!”
“That sounds as if it ought to be a joke,” said Marston. “Well, Four Stories High is a capital title, and if we can go four stories higher, I don’t see why we shouldn’t. Come, shall we accept the invitation for Christmas?”
“I think that we had better wait a little,” said I, “and see what the Public say to it.”
“A prudent scribbler!” cried Falx. “Well, I will hold myself in readiness for a favourable report. Farewell?”
“And I!—and I!” cried Tallowfat and Marston. “Good-night, and do not dream of story-telling.”
“Dream!” said I. “I have proofs to correct. The printer’s imp may be here at any moment. I have no time for dreaming.” The garden gate clicked for answer, and I was alone.
I sat down in my arm-chair, and, snuffing the candles—I detest pulled towards me the bundle of notes which contained the gist of my friends’ contributions to my forthcoming venture.
The house was strangely silent—its mistress was sitting up with a sick neighbour—and I prepared for a quiet two hours’ work. Just as I dipped the pen into the ink, there came from out the recesses of the house a plaintive wail. I knew the sound at once, and it translated itself into three words pregnant with meaning for all fathers. The plaintive cry said, as plainly as a whisper in the ear—
“Tommy is awake.”
I took up one of the candles, and proceeded to verify my apprehensions.
Yes, my son and heir was sitting erect in his bed, calmly surveying such portion of the universe as was visible, and howling at intervals.
The moment he saw me he stopped crying, embellished his general nakedness by taking a foot in each hand, and smiled patronisingly.
“Go to sleep, old boy,” I remarked, encouragingly. “Bye-bye, don’t you know?” Tommy shut one eye.
“Ain’t seepy, tell I a tory!” said Tommy. There is a legend to the effect that there is a Temper in our family, and I knew better than to rashly provoke my offspring.
“Will Tommy be very good and go to sleep if Papa tells him nice story?” I inquired.
“Don’t know!” says Tommy, with a combination of frankness and promise rare in one so young.
I wrapped the boy in a blanket, and took him to the study. What should I tell him? Should I practice on him like Moliere did on his housekeeper, and read him some of the forthcoming Christmas book? He wanted to go to sleep, and—but no, Miss Pauline Christoval and poor Fanny Robinson were not fit companions for little boys, and I doubted if he would understand Montezuma or King Billy. I took him on my knee, and began to improvise.
Once upon a time, when pigs were swine, and turkeys built their nests in old men’s beards, there lived a family of sparrows.
The Papa Sparrow was a gentleman of parts, and had the reputation of being a bit of a rake; but Mrs. Sparrow—poor soul!—was only a good motherly little bird, who looked after the house, and was wrapped up in her children. Mr. Sparrow was well connected, and had a cousin in the Household at Buckingham Palace; while his wife was a mere nobody, and had been hatched in a citizen’s garden at Peckham Rye. His aristocratic friends at the clubs could not make out how it was that Mr. Sparrow threw himself away upon such a silly creature; but Mr. Sparrow winked his bright little eye and dropped hints of a tree root full of worms to which his wife was sole heiress, and then his friends were satisfied of course, for sparrows are quite as wise, in their own way, as human beings are, you know.
So they were married, and Mr. Sparrow disappeared from his favourite corner on the roof of the Rag and Famish, and went away to enjoy his worms. But after some little time he came back again, looking rather ruffled in mind and feathers, and it was reported that the worm speculation had not turned out as well as was expected. However, Mr. Sparrow never said so—bless your heart, he was much too proud for that—and held his head as high as ever. A fat old Cockatoo, however, who had bachelor chambers in the Albany, said that the cousin in Buckingham Palace had told him that Mr. Sparrow was living over a livery stable in great poverty, and that he was only able to appear abroad because Mrs. Sparrow—“a good little body, ’pon honour,” the cousin said—was such an excellent manager.
Of course they had a large family—poor folks always have—and when Mr. Sparrow would come home from his afternoon’s stroll in Pall Mall, and see all their little beaks gaping for food, his heart sank into his varnished boots, I can tell you. He got quite moody did this poor little fellow, and used to think about suicide in the horse trough, and other dreadful things.
“The country is overcrowded, my love!” he used to say; and Mrs. Sparrow, who thought her husband the cleverest man on earth, would sigh, and say,
“She supposed it was if he said so.”
Now in a milliner’s window hard by lived a Parrot—a great green fellow with a red top-knot—who was a retired Port Admiral, and who had the reputation of being a shrewd man of the world, chiefly, I think, because he used to swear terribly. He was not a communicative bird, but everybody knew that though he did not say much, he thought a great deal, and that is of more importance.
To this parrot Mr. Sparrow applied for advice, and that Ancient Mariner, after turning himself upside down and drawing several corks, in order to show his loyalty, put his beak between the brass wires, and said, “Emigrate!”
“By Jove,” said Mr. Sparrow, “just the thing!” and went home by a short cut to tell his wife. Says she, “What of the children?” Says he, “Take them with us, my dear, of course!”
But when he looked round and saw the ten gaping beaks, his heart went into his boots again.
This conversation was overheard by the eldest of the family, a pretty little Cock-sparrow who was the image of his father.
“I hope not,” said he, for he was quite a man, and had already vowed eternal love for the pet Canary of the livery stable-keeper’s daughter.
But the notion had taken firm hold of Mr. Sparrow’s mind, and he liked it more and more. But how about the children? He asked the Parrot, but the Parrot was suffering from indigestion owing to sugar, and putting on his Quarter Deck manner, swore so dreadfully when he was spoken to that Mr. Sparrow flew away in a fright.
He flew right into the back yard, where the Little Boy kept his rabbits. “How am I to take the children?” said he to the Buck rabbit, and told him the whole story.
“Children!” cried Mr. Buck. “Why, look at Mrs. Doe! Children indeed—that is just what they want!”
And then he laid his ears back, and nipping a piece out of a cabbage leaf, said, “Assisted emigration of course. Try the Acclimatisation Society!”
So after a little trouble the passage was taken, and the Sparrows went on board. Mrs. Sparrow cried a good deal, and Mr. Sparrow sulked, for I am sorry to say that his genteel friends gave him a parting supper under the Haymarket Collonade, and he was brought home at six the next morning by the milkman, very rumpled and with several feathers out of his tail. But they all got safely away, and on the whole were not sorry to go—all except the naughty little Cock-sparrow before mentioned, who said that he was sure it was a “horrible colony, and that London was the only place for a gentleman to live in.”
Now when they got to Melbourne it was blowing a hot wind, and the dust was whirling down the streets in big, red clouds. The Horses didn’t mind it so much, but the prize Leicester Rams put their tongues out and panted; the little Cock-sparrow pecked at his wires, and said he was confident that he shouldn’t live a month in such a climate.
But his reflections were put an end to by a sailor, who took the cage containing the Sparrow family and whipped it over the side, before they even had time to say good-bye to the one fowl that had escaped the curry-pot.
They went to the Society’s Gardens, and were soon comfortable enough—all except the little Cock-sparrow, who said that he hated the place, and wished he was at home again.
There were many strange creatures in the Gardens. There was a Kangaroo, with melancholy eyes and long legs, who leapt twenty feet at a spring. There was a Black Swan, with a yellow bill and a red rim to his eye, who gave himself airs because one of his ancestors had been mentioned in the Classics. There was a queer animal with a duck’s bill and a rat’s body, whose life was a burden to him, because he couldn’t determine whether he was a beast or a bird. There were white Cockatoos with yellow crests, who spoke a foreign language, and said that they knew nothing about the green Parrot at home, unless he came from the Sydney side. There were Hares and Rabbits, and even Axis Deer. There was a Llama—with long hair, like a walking she-oak tree, and there were several Laughing Jackasses, who called themselves Philosophers, and laughed at everything. Some people said it was because they were so clever, and others, because they could do nothing else. I don’t pretend to say why it was myself,—I only know that they laughed.
But our little Cock-sparrow turned up his beak at all his companions, and said they were people of no family, and had never been to London.
The Kangaroo hopped up with that sudden obtrusiveness which belongs to naturally timid people, and said, “How do you do my little brown bird?”
“Brown yourself!” said the Cock-sparrow. “I am a Londoner, and have lived in good society, I can tell you. Put that in your pouch, my long-legged friend!” Whereat the Kangaroo hopped off again, and talked to the Black Swan.
The Axis Deer passed the time of day, and said that it was warm. “Warm!” said the little Cock-sparrow—“warm do you call it? It was much hotter in London.” Nevertheless he was gasping for breath all the time.
“And what do you think of the colony?” said the Lyre-bird, spreading his tail out best side foremost.
“Oh, so-so,” said the little Cock-sparrow. “It is not half as big as London though!” At which the Laughing Jackass burst into such a roar that the Keeper, who was smoking his pipe at the door, began to laugh too, though he could not tell what he was laughing at for the life of him.
All this time poor Mrs. Sparrow was silently weeping in a corner of the cage, for two of her children had died on the way out, and being only a poor woman and a good manager, she felt the loss of them. But the little Cock-sparrow never went to comfort her. He was too much wrapped up in his own thoughts. “Never mind,” he said to himself, “wait till I get out into the world!”
The next day the Keeper came and put the Sparrow family into a cage, and sent them up to Ballarat by rail, for the farmers round about wanted Sparrows to kill the grubs, which were destroying their crops. So, when they got to Ballarat, they were taken outside the town and set free. Oh, how nice it was! A lovely summer’s evening, with the sun going down behind the big purple hills, and the air cool and balmy.
“Here is a big worm!” cried Mr. Sparrow. “And another, and another!” So they all had supper, and when they had done, Mrs. Sparrow put up her head, and said,
“Tweet, tweet!” which is the Sparrow for grace, you know.
Then Mr. Sparrow found out a triangular hole in a stable roof, and flew in among the sweet clean straw. A lovely nest! And his family all followed him; and, as he put his head under his little weary wing, he said,
“How—glad—I—am—that—we—have—em-migra—.” And then he went fast asleep. But the discontented little Cock-sparrow remained behind, and cried,
“What is the use of a vulgar stable? I have been used to live in a town. This is a horrible colony.” And then he flew away. “I will go into the world and seek my fortune,” said he.
The first place he came to was an Engine Shed—a thrashing engine, I mean—and he went in and slept upon some oil-rags. But before daylight a boy came to light a fire, and tried to catch him with his cap; but the Sparrow was too quick for him, and got away.
“Now, isn’t this a horrible colony!” said the Cock-sparrow.
The next night he came to a Bush Tavern, where two men were drinking, and as he sat on the iron ring of the verandah post, he heard one say to the other.
“I say, Jem, I’ll bet you drinks that I knock that bird over.”
“Done!” says the other.
And before our little Sparrow could fly away, a big quartz pebble came whizzing past his head, and the men burst into a roar of laughter.
“That wouldn’t have happened in London!” said the Cock-sparrow.
By-and-bye he came to a Corn Field—for instead of going back to Ballarat he was flying further up the country—and he got down among the stalks for a night’s rest, but just as he was dropping off, a big black snake glided by, and startled him.
“I hate snakes,” said the Cock-sparrow; “they have none in London.” And he flew off again in disgust.
The next night he came to a Fruit Garden, and made a luxurious supper.
“Come,” he said, “the fruit is not bad anyway!”
But in the morning out came the owner with a big blunderbuss, and says he, “Small birds again!” Bang! bang!
But he had been sitting up late the night before, and his hand shook, so he missed; and the Cock-sparrow flew away, only singed.
“What a terrible colony this is!” says the Cock-sparrow. So he got quite discontented, and wished himself home again.
“I could do some good at home,” said he to himself. “London is a place where they appreciate talent. There is no opening for a bird of my abilities here. I do not so much mind the hot winds, or the rough living, but it is the gross ignorance of the inhabitants I object to! Fire at me indeed! I wonder what they would say to that in London.”
He told this to a Toad, who lived under a stone in a Squatter’s garden, and the Toad said,
“Ah, you are young. You will know better one of these days. I thought so myself when I was a child.”
“Why, were you born in London?” asked the Sparrow.
“No,” said the Toad. “I was born in a British copper mine, about two thousand years before London was thought of.”
“Oh, what a story!” cried the Cock-sparrow; “why, London is as old as the World!”
And the Toad said nothing, because he was ugly and poor, and accustomed to be contradicted. There was a Hen in the Squatter’s family, and when the Sparrow told her his grievance, she began to cluck in the most angry manner. “Tut-tut-tut,” said she. “You miserable little Cock-sparrow, go and do some good in the world. Don’t twitter to me, don’t! Can you lay eggs?”
“No,” said the Sparrow.
“Tut-tut. Then what’s the good of you I should like to know! Master Chickabiddy, if you don’t come out of that kitchen directly minute, I’ll peck your poll for you!” And she went off in high dudgeon.
“Oh, dear, dear,” said the Sparrow, “what shall I do to be useful?” So he went on, and on, and on, until he met a Mole.
“Please, Mr. Mole,” said he, with his little heart sinking nearly as low as his father’s did when the beaks used to gape, “tell me what I must do to be useful.”
“Dig,” said the Mole. “Everybody who is worth anything digs!”
“But I can’t dig,” said the Cock-sparrow. “I wasn’t made for it!” But the Mole didn’t hear him, for he was already six inches below the surface. Then he went on, and on, and on, until he met a Sheep-dog.
“Please, good Mr. Sheep-dog,” said he, “tell me what I must do to be useful.”
“Drive sheep,” said the Sheep-dog. “Everybody who is worth anything drives sheep!”
“But I can’t bark,” said the Cock-sparrow.
“Hoot, mon,” said the Sheep-dog—he was of Scotch extraction—“that’s no affair of mine,” and went away. Then he went on, and on, and on, until he met a Magpie.
“Please, Mr. Magpie,” said he, “tell me what I must do to be useful.”
“Can’t you steal?” asked the Magpie, with his knowing head on one side.
“I don’t know,” said the Cock-sparrow. “I never tried.”
“Oh, you’re a fool!” said the Magpie, and flew away in a hurry, for he was a member of Parliament, and had some “proper representations” to make.
So the poor little Cock-sparrow sat down on a stone by the road-side and began to cry.
“I am a fool, I suppose,” said he, “and that is it. I can do nothing but eat and drink, and cry ‘Tweet—tweet.’ Oh, dear, why was I ever hatched?”
Now, close to the roadside was a little cabin, made of wood, with a brick chimney, and in this cabin lived an Old Woman and her son. The son used to be away all day sinking a shaft—for the cabin was on the outskirts of a gold-field, and in some of the great red mounds, that rose up among the dusty gum saplings, much gold had been found in days gone by.
But the diggings were half deserted now, for the Quartz Reefs which had broken out some five miles off had attracted all the people, and only those who were very poor, like the Old Woman and her son, lived on the spot. They had built the hut in the good times, and had fenced in a little piece of ground with a wattle fence, thinking that the rush was going to last, but the tide of fortune had rolled back again, and left them stranded on the shore. The Old Woman said that she would stay in the old hut until she died; and her son, who was a good, stupid fellow, and loved his mother, said that he would stop with her. So all day the son went away, in his short-sleeved flannel shirt, and his moleskin trousers all stained red with earth, to the big mound, with the windlass standing up clear against the fierce blue sky, and every night he came back with as many gold grains as would pay the bill at the store.
The floor was of earth, the door was half off its bullock-hide hinge, there was a hole in the roof, and the Old Woman lay upon a stretcher, in the inner of the two rooms, dying.
The day was very hot, and the air seemed to simmer. The goats had all crept under the dusty gum saplings, and a hobbled horse hard by kept clanking his fetters, as he stamped to get rid of the flies. From a break in the purple line of hills, seen from the hut window, a thin column of white smoke rose up—a bush fire,—and no sound broke the stillness save the buzzing of the blow-flies and the occasional crack of the whip over the shoulders of the whim horse down in the hollow.
All of a sudden the little Cock-sparrow hopped up on one of the broken palings that surrounded the desolate place, and said “Tweet, tweet! Tweet, tweet!”
The Old Woman had been lying in a sort of stupor, looking at the sordid Australian landscape, and waving from time to time her withered hand before her face to keep the flies off. At the faint sound, she raised her head.
“Tweet—tweet!”
What was it? Did she dream?
“Tweet—tweet!”
She had not heard that sound for years; not since she was a merry young girl at service in the house of the merchant at Peckham Rye, where John wooed and won her.
“Tweet—tweet!”
She began to think of her childhood, in the old Kentish Farm, when the harvest moon rose, full orbed, over the apple blossoms, and the sparrows twittered in the orchard.
“Tweet—tweet?” How pleasant it used to be in those times when she was young, and rosy, and light-hearted! How well she remembered parting at the garden gate, with the coach waiting down the road, and her mother’s white apron! She herself wore a print dress with lilac spots, and a straw hat with cherry-coloured ribbons.
“Tweet—tweet!”
Ah, but her courting days! The snug back kitchen in the prim merchant’s house, with the cuckoo clock tick-tick-ticking from the snowy wall, and John, the carpenter, sitting on the edge of his shiny wooden chair, and looking sheepishly at her as she worked. Then the wedding dress, and the ring, and the clasped bible that her good mistress gave her. She remembered that the clergyman had an iron-mould spot on his surplice, and that it would catch her eye, do what she might.
“Tweet—tweet!”
The little home in the big city, with herself sitting working and rocking the home-made cradle, and John coming home to supper from the warehouse, long, long before they thought of emigrating. Ah! happy days of youth, gone never to return! She could see it all; the little by-street, the narrow lattice, with the box of mignonette, and the—
“Tweet—tweet!”
She raised herself, and turned her fast glazing eyes to the window. There it was! A little brown bird, perched, half-timidly, half-boldly on the wooden ledge, with his head on one side, and chirruping, “Tweet—tweet!” A miscrable, dusty, acclimatised, discontented—London Sparrow! A smile of strange sweetness passed over her withered lips, and then the eyes closed, and the weary head fell back on the pillow.
“A London Sparrow!”
When the son came home, his old mother was dead; and as he came near the body, a bird flew away from the window sill, crying, “Tweet—tweet!”
It went up, and up, and up, until one could see it no longer; for it had done its appointed task, and had gone to join the soul of the Old Woman. But this is only a story.
“Very pretty indeed, my dear,” said a voice at the door. “But your audience is fast asleep.”
“Thank goodness, my love,” said I. “Take him to bed. If all my stories bring such healthy rest to all my audiences, I shall be quite happy.”