The Book of the Bush Part 11

I met Santley after thirty years, sitting on a bench in front of the "Travellers' Rest" at Alberton, in Gippsland. He had a wrinkled old face, and did not recognise my beautiful countenance until he heard my name. He had half-a-dozen little boys and girls around him--his grandchildren, I believe--and was as happy as a king teaching them to sing hymns. I don't think Santley had grown rich, but he always carried a fortune about with him wherever he went, viz., a kind heart and a cheerful disposition. n.o.body could ever think of quarrelling with Santlay any more than with George Coppin, or with that benevolent bandmaster, Herr Plock. He told me that he was now related to the highest family in the world, his daughter having married the Chinese giant, whose brothers and sisters were all of the race of Anak.

My mate, Philip, was so successful with his little school in the tent that he was promoted to another at the Rocky Waterholes, and then he went to the township at Lake Nyalong. Philip had never travelled as far as Lake Nyalong, but Picaninny Jack told him that he had once been there, and that it was a beautiful country. He tried to find it at another time, but got bushed on the wrong side of the lake; now he believed there was a regular track that way if Philip could only find it. The settlers and other inhabitants ought to be well off; if not, it was their own fault, for they had the best land in the whole of Australia.

Philip felt sure that he would find at least one friend at Nyalong-- viz., Mr. Barton, whom he had harboured in his tent at Bendigo, and had sheltered from the pursuit of the three bloodthirsty convicts.

Some people might be too proud to look forward to the friendship of a flagellator, but in those days we could not pick and choose our chums; Barton might not be clubable, but he might be useful, and the social ladder requires a first step.

Thanks to such men as Dan and Bez, in Melbourne, and to other enterprising builders in various places, habitable dwellings of wood, brick, and bluestone began to be used, instead of the handy but uncomfortable tent, and, at the Rocky Waterholes, Philip had for some time been lodging in a weatherboard house with the respectable Mrs.

Martin. Before going to look for Nyalong he introduced his successor to her, and also to the scholars. Her name was Miss Edgeworth.

The first virtue of a good master is gravity, and Philip had begun at the beginning. He was now graver even than usual while he briefly addressed his youthful auditors.

"My dear children," he said, "I am going away, and have to leave you in the care of this young lady, Miss Edgeworth. I am sure you will find her to be a better teacher than myself, because she has been trained in the schools of the great city of Dublin, and I, unfortunately, had no training at all; she is highly educated, and will be, I doubt not, a perfect blessing to the rising generation of the Rocky Waterholes. I hope you will be diligent, obedient, and respectful to her. Good-bye, and G.o.d bless you all."

These words were spoken in the tone of a judge pa.s.sing sentence of death on a criminal, and Miss Edgeworth was in doubt whether it would be becoming under the circ.u.mstances to laugh or to cry, so she made no speech in reply. She said afterwards to Mrs. Martin, "Mr. Philip must have been a most severe master; I can see sternness on his brow." Moreover, she was secretly aware that she did not deserve his compliments, and that her learning was limited, especially in arithmetic; she had often to blame the figures for not adding up correctly. For this reason she had a horror of examinations, and every time the inspector came round she was in a state of mortal fear. His name was Bonwick. He was a little man, but he was so learned that the teachers looked forward to his visits with awe. A happy idea came into Miss Edgeworth's mind. She was, it is true, not very learned, nor was she perfect in the practice of the twelve virtues, but she had some instinctive knowledge of the weakness of the male man. Mr. Bonwick was an author, a learned author who had written books--among others a school treatise on geography. Miss Edgeworth bought two copies of this work, and took care to place them on her table in the school every morning with the name of the author in full view. On his next visit Mr. Bonwick's searching eyes soon detected the presence of his little treatise, and he took it up with a pleased smile. This was Miss Edgeworth's opportunity; she said, in her opinion, the work was a must excellent one, and extremely well adapted for the use of schools.

The inspector was more than satisfied; a young lady of so much judgment and discrimination was a peerless teacher, and Miss Edgeworth's work was henceforward beyond all question.

There were no coaches running to Nyalong, and, as Philip's poverty did not permit him to purchase a horse, and he had scruples about stealing one, he packed up his swag and set out on foot. It may be mentioned as bearing on nothing in particular that, after Philip had taken leave of Miss Edgeworth, she stood at a window, flattened her little nose against one of the panes, and watched him trudging away as long as he was in sight. Then she said to Mrs. Martin:

"Ain't it a pity that so respectable a young man should be tramping through the bush like a pedlar with a pack?"

"No, indeed, miss, not a bit of it," replied Mrs. Martin; "nearly every man in the country has had to travel with his swag one time or another. We are all used to it; and it ain't no use of your looking after him that way, for most likely you'll never see him again." But she did.

About two miles from the Waterholes Philip overtook another swagman, a man of middle age, who was going to Nyalong to look for work. He had tried the diggings, and left them for want of luck, and Philip, having himself been an unlucky digger, had a fellow feeling for the stranger. He was an old soldier named Summers.

"I am three and fifty years old," he said, "and I 'listed when I was twenty. I was in all the wars in India for nineteen years, and never was. .h.i.t but once, and that was on the top of my head. Look here," he took off his hat and pointed to a ridge made by the track of a bullet, "if I had been an inch taller I shouldn't be here now. And maybe it would have been all the better. I have been too long at the fighting to learn another trade now. When I 'listed I was told my pay would be a shilling a day and everything found. A shilling a day is seven shillings a week, and I thought I should live like a fighting c.o.c.k, plenty to eat and a shilling a day for drink or sport.

But I found out the difference when it was too late. They kept a strict account against every man; it was full of what they called deductions, and we had to pay for so many things out of that shilling that sometimes for months together I hadn't the price of a pint o'

threepenny with a trop o' porter through it."

"What was the biggest battle you ever were in?" enquired Philip.

"Well, I had some close shaves, but the worst was when we took a stockade from the Burmans. My regiment was the 47th, and one company of ours, sixty-five, rank and file, and two companies from other regiments were ordered to attack it. Our officers were all shot down before we reached the stockade, but we got in, and went at the Burmans with the bayonet. But such a crowd came at us from the rear of the stockade that we had to go out again, and we ran down the hill. Our ranks were broken, and we had no time to rally before a lot of hors.e.m.e.n were among us. My bayonet was broken, and I had nothing but my empty musket to fight with. I warded off the sabre cuts with it right and left, so, dodging among the horses, and I was not once wounded. It was all over in a hot minute or two, but, when the supports came up, and we were afterwards mustered, only five men of our company answered the roll-call. Of course I was one of them, and the barrel of my musket was notched like a saw by all the strokes I had parried with it." The last time Philip saw Summers he was hammering bluestone by the roadside. The pomp and circ.u.mstance of glorious war had left him in hisold age little better than a beggar.

Philip found Nyalong without much trouble, and renewed the acquaintance begun at Bendigo with Mr. Barton and the other diggers.

To all appearance his promotion was not worth much; he might as well have stayed at the Waterholes. Mr. McCarthy acted as school director --an honorary office--and he showed Philip the school. He said:

"It is not of much account, I must acknowledge; we were short of funds, and had to put it up cheap. Most of the wall, you see, is only half a brick thick, and, during the sudden gusts that come across the lake, the north side bulges inward a good deal; so, when you hear the wind coming you had better send the children outside until the gale is over. That is what Mr. Foy, the last teacher did.

And, I must tell you also this school has gone to the dogs; there are some very bad boys here--the Boyles and the Blakes. When they saw Mr. Foy was going to use his cane on them they would dart out of the school, the master after them. Then there was a regular steeplechase across the paddocks, and every boy and girl came outside to watch it, screaming and yelling. It was great fun, but it was not school-teaching. I am afraid you will never manage the Boyles and the Blakes. Mr. McLaggan, the minister, once found six of them sitting at the foot of a gum tree, drinking a bottle of rum. He spoke to them, told them that they were young reprobates, and were going straight to h.e.l.l. Hugh Boyle held out the bottle, and said, 'Here, Mr. McLaggan, wouldn't you like a nip yourself?' The minister was on horseback, and always carried a whip with a heavy lash, and it was a beautiful sight the way he laid the lash on those Boyles and Blakes. I really think you had better turn them out of the school, Mr. Philip, or else they will turn you out."

Mr. Philip's lips closed with a snap. He said, "It is my duty to educate them; turning them out of school is not education. We will see what can be done."

As everyone knows, the twelve virtues of a good master are Gravity, Silence, Humility, Prudence, Wisdom, Patience, Discretion, Meekness, Zeal, Vigilance, Piety, and Generosity. I don't suppose any teacher was ever quite perfect in the practice of them, but a sincere endeavour is often useful. On reflection, Philip thought it best to add two other virtues to the catalogue--viz., Firmness, and a Strap of Sole-Leather.

There was a full attendance of scholars the first morning, and when all the names had been entered on the roll, Philip observed that the Boyles and the Blakes were all there; they were expecting some new kind of fun with the new master. In order that the fun might be inside the school and not all over the paddocks, Philip placed his chair near the door, and locked it. Then education began; the scholars were all repeating their lessons, talking to one another aloud and quarrelling.

"Please, sir, Josh Blake's a-pinching me." "Please, sir, Hugh Boyle is a-scroodgin." "Please, sir, Nancy Toomey is making faces at me."

It was a pandemonium of little devils, to be changed, if possible, into little angels. The master rose from the chair, put up one hand, and said: "Silence!"

Every eye was on him, every tongue was silent, and every ear was listening, "Joseph Blake and Hugh Boyle, come this way." They did so.

"No one here is to shout or talk, or read in a loud voice. If any of you want to speak to me you must hold up your hand, so. When I nod you can come to me. If you don't do everything I tell you, you will be slapped on the hand, or somewhere else, with this strap."

He held it up to view. It was eighteen inches long, three inches broad, heavy, and pliant. The sight of it made Tommy Traddles and many other little boys and girls good all at once; but Joseph and Hugh went back to their seats grinning at one another. Mr. Foy had often talked that way, but it always came to nothing.

Hugh was the hero of the school, or rather the leading villain. In about two minutes he called out, "Please, sir, Josh Blake is a-shoving me with his elbow."

"Hugh Boyle, come this way." He came.

"Now, Hugh, I told you that there must be no speaking or reading aloud. Of course you forgot what I said; you should have put up your hand."

In the course of the day Hugh received two slaps, then three, then four. He began to fear the strap as well as to feel it. That was the beginning of wisdom.

Nancy Toomey was naughty, and was sent into a corner. She was sulky and rebellious when told to return to her seat. She said, in the hearing of Tommy Traddles, "The master is a carroty-headed crawler."

It is as well to remark that Philip's hair was red; a man with red hair is apt to be of a hasty temper, and, as a matter of fact, I had seen Philip's fist fly out very rapidly on several occasions before he began to practise the twelve virtues.

Tommy put up his hand, and, at a nod, went up to the master.

"Well, Tommy, what is the matter?"

"Please, sir, Nancy Toomey has been calling you a carroty-headed crawler."

Tommy's eyebrows were raised, his eyes and mouth wide open. Philip looked over his head at Nancy, whose face was on fire. He slowly repeated:

"Nancy Toomey has been calling me a carroty-headed crawler, has she?"

"Yes, sir. That's what she called you. I heard her."

"Well, Tommy, go to your seat like a good boy. Nancy won't call names any more."

In a little more than a week perfect discipline and good order prevailed in the school.

A BUSH HERMIT.

It is not good for man to be alone, but Philip became a hermit. Half a mile from the school and the main road there was an empty slab hut roofed with shingles. It was on the top of a long sloping hill, which afforded a beautiful view over the lake and the distant hills.

Half an acre of garden ground was fenced in with the hut, and it was part of the farm of a man from Hampshire, England, who lived with his wife near the main road. A man from Hampshire is an Englishman, and should speak English; but, when Philip tried to make a bargain about the hut, he could not understand the Hampshire language, and the farmer's wife had to interpret. And that farmer lived to the age of eighty years, and never learned to speak English. He was not a fool by any means; knew all about farming; worked twelve or fourteen hours a day all the year round, having never heard of the eight hours system; but he talked, and prayed, and swore all his life in the Hampshire dialect. Whenever he spoke to the neighbours a look of pain and misery came over them. Sometimes he went to meetings, and made a speech, but he was told to go and fetch a Chinaman to interpret.

Philip entered into possession of the hut. It had two rooms, and the furniture did not cost much. At Adams' store he bought a camp oven, an earthenware stew-pot, a milk pan, a billy, two pannikins, two spoons, a whittle, and a fork. The extra pannikin and spoon were for the use of visitors, for Philip's idea was that a hermit, if not holy, should be at least hospitable. With an axe and saw he made his own furniture--viz., two hardwood stools, one of which would seat two men; for a table he sawed off the b.u.t.t end of a messmate, rolled it inside the hut, and nailed on the top of it a piece of a pine packing case. His bedstead was a frame of saplings, with strong canvas nailed over it, and his mattress was a sheet of stringy bark, which soon curled up at the sides and fitted him like a coffin. His pillow was a linen bag filled with spare shirts and socks, and under it he placed his revolver, in case he might want it for unwelcome visitors.

Patrick Duggan's wife did the laundry work, and refused to take payment in cash. But she made a curious bargain about it. A priest visited Nyalong only once a month; he lived fifty miles away; when Mrs. Duggan was in her last sickness he might be unable to administer to her the rites of the church. So her bargain was, that in case the priest should be absent, the schoolmaster, as next best man, was to read prayers over her grave. Philip thought there was something strange, perhaps simoniacal, about the bargain. Twice Mrs. Duggan, thinking she was on the point of death, sent a messenger to remind him of his duty; and when at last she did die, he was present at the funeral, and read the prayers for the dead over her grave.

Avarice is a vice so base that I never heard of any man who would confess that he had ever been guilty of it. Philip was my best friend, and I was always loath to think unkindly of him, but at this time I really think he began to be rather penurious--not avaricious, certainly not. But he was not a hermit of the holiest kind. He began to save money and acquire stock. He had not been long on the hill before he owned a horse, two dogs, a cat, a native bear, a magpie, and a parrot, and he paid nothing for any of them except the horse. One day he met Mr. McCarthy talking to Bob Atkins, a station hand, who had a horse to sell--a filly, rising three.

McCarthy was a good judge of horses, and after inspecting the filly, he said: "She will just suit you, Mr. Philip, you ought to buy her."

So the bargain was made; the price was ten pounds, Bob giving in the saddle, bridle, a pair of hobbles, and a tether rope. He was proud of his deal.

Two years afterwards, when Philip was riding through the bush, Bob rode up alongside, and after a while said: