* Flour.
"O'er steaming valley, lagoon, and marsh
Where the Sun strikes down 'till, phew!
The very eels in the water feels
A foretaste of a stew.
"I hungered long 'till my wasting form
Was a hideous sight to view;
But fit on a settler's fence to sit
To scare the cockatoo.
"My hair grew rank, and my eyeballs sank
'Till—wasted, withered, and thin—
The ends and points of my jarring joints
Stuck out through my parched up skin.
"Shrunk limb and thew, 'till at length I grew
As thin as a gum-tree rail;
At the horrid sight of my hideous plight
Each settler's face turned pale:
"And as I travelled the mulga scrubs,
And forced a passage through
I scared the soul of the native black
A gathering his 'nardoo.'
"On snake or lizard I'd fain have fed,
But piteous was my plight,
And the whole of the brute creation fled
In horror at the sight.
"Scrub turkeys, emus, I appall;
Their eggs I longed to poach,
But theycollared their eggs, their nests and all,
And fled at my approach!
111m
"And the possums 'streaked' it up the trees,
And frightened the young gallârs,
And all the hairs on the native-bears
Stood stiff as iron bars!"
The shepherd came from his low roof-tree
And gazed at the shrunken wight;
He gave him welcome courteously,
And jested at his plight.
He led the traveller 'neath his roof,
And gazed in his wan, worn face,
Where want was writ, and he bid him sit
On an empty 'three-star' case.
And a smile of evil import played
On the face of ancient Bill
As some of the damper down he laid,
And bid him take his fill.
With mute thanksgiving in his breast
The food the stranger tore;
Piece after piece he closely pressed
Down on the piece before.
And then—his heart fresh buoyed with hope—
Essayed to mount his steed,
But the horse shut flat as an opera-hat
With the weight of his master's feed;
And horse and man sunk through the sod
Some sixty feet or less!
No crust, I swear, of the Earth could bear
The weight of the gruesome mess!
113m
Then the shepherd grinned with a grizzly grin
As he notched his stick again;
The night passed by and the sun rose high
And glared on the salt-bush plain.
Two "gins" set forth in a bark canoe
To traverse the gloomy lake,
And he bid them take enough for two,
For lunch, of the deadly cake.
114m
Enough for two! 'twas enough I ween
To settle the hash of four,
For the barque o'er-flowed with the crushing load—
They sank to rise no more.
And ever his fiendish lust for blood—
His thirst for vengeance grows;
In sport he threw a crumb or two
To the hawks and carrion crows;
And as they helpless, fluttering lay,
His eldrich laughter rings;
One crumb to bear through the lambent air
Was past the power of wings.
Beside his door he sat 'till noon
When a bullock-team came by;
The echoes 'round with the whips resound,
And the drivers' cheery cry.
Upon the dray a piece he threw
No bigger than your hand,
Of the cursed thing, 'twas enough to bring
The bullocks to a stand.
And, though they bend their sinewy necks
'Till red with their crimson gore,
And fiercely strain yoke, pole, and chain
With savage, muttering roar,
The wheels sank down to the axle-tree—
Through the hard baked clay they tore,
And a single jot from out that spot
They shifted never more.
Then the shepherd called to the drivers, "Ho!
My frugal meal partake."
And, though they ate but a crumb or two
Of the fell, unholy cake,
Down, down they sank on the scorching track,
Immovable and prone,
Andsteel blue ants crawled up their pants
And ate them to the bone!
For days by his lonely hut sat Bill,
The hut to the lakelet nigh,
And he wrought his dark revengeful will
On each traveller that came by.
And he eats nor drinks meat, bread, nor gruel,
Nor washes, nor combs, nor shaves,
But he yelled, and he danced a wild pas seul
O'er each of his victims' graves.
117m
Three weeks passed by, but his end was nigh—
His day was near its close,
For rumour whispered his horrid deeds,
And in arms the settlers rose.
They came, hinds, shepherds, and shearers too,
And squatters of high degree;
His hands they tied, and his case they tried
'Neath the shade of a blue gum tree.
They sentence passed, and they gripped him fast,
Though to tear their flesh he tried;
His teeth he ground, but his limbs they bound
With thongs of a wild bull's hide.
They laid him down on a "bull-dog's" nest,
For the bull-dog ants to sting;
On his withered chest they pile the rest
Of the damnèd cursèd thing.
They gather round and they stir the ground
'Till the insects swarm again,
And the echoes wake by the gloomy lake
With his cry of rage and pain.
O'er his writhing form the insects swarm—
O'er arm, o'er foot, and leg;
The damper pressed on his heaving chest,
And he couldn't move a peg.
'Till eve he lay in the scorching heat,
And the rays of the blinding sun,
Then the black-ants came and they soon complete
What the bull-dogs have begun.
119m
'Tis o'er at last, and his spirit passed
With a yell of fiendish hate,
And down by the shore of that black lagoon,
Where his victims met their fate—
Where the "bunyip" glides, and the inky tides
Lip, lap on the gloomy shore,
And the loathsome snake of the swamp abides,
He wanders ever more.
And when the shadows of darkness fall
(As hinds and stock-men tell)
The plains around with his howls resound,
And his fierce, blood-curdling yell.
The kangaroos come forth at night
To feed o'er his lonely grave,
And above his bones with disma' tones
The dingos shriek and rave.
And when drovers camp with a wild-mob there
They shiver with affright,
And quake with dread if they hear his tread
In the gloom of the ebon night!
Ifeel that any reader who has been long-suffering enough to accompany me thus far must be craving earnestly for a change of some sort, even though it but take the form of an oasis of indifferent prose in a monotonous Sahara of verse; I want it myself, and I know that the reader must yearn for it, even as the bushman who has sojourned long among the flesh-pots of remote sheep and cattle stations yearneth after the pumpkins and cabbages of the Mongolian market gardener. I am, therefore, going to write about social evils; not because I think I can say anything particularly original or striking about them, but because I must have a subject, and I know the craving of the Colonial mind after practical ones. I commence diffidently, however; not on account of the barrenness of the theme—oh! dear no—it is its very fruitfulness which baffles me; its magnitude that appals me; its comprehensiveness which gets over me; and my inability to deal with it in such limited space which "knocks me into a cocked-hat".
Even as I write, things which may be legitimately called social evils rise up before me in spectral array, like Banquo's issue, in sufficient numbers to stretch not only to the "crack of doom,"—wherever that mysterious fissure may be—but a considerable distance beyond it.
Unfortunately, too, each one, like the progeny of that philoprogenitive Scotchman, "bears a glass which shows me many more," until I am as much flabbergasted as Macbeth himself, and am compelled to take a glass of something myself to soothe my disordered nerves.
If every one were permitted to give his notion of what constitutes a social evil my difficulties would be still more augmented, and the schedule swelled considerably. I know men who would put their wives down in the list as a matter of course; and others, fathers of families, who would include children. Few married men would omit mothers-in-law; most domestics would include work and masters and mistresses; and hardly anybody would exclude tax-gatherers. Fortunately, however, these well-meaning, but mistaken reformers, will have to take back seats on the present occasion, and leave me to touch on a few, at least, of what are legitimate and undeniable social evils.
Look at them, as they drag their mis-shapen forms past us in hideous review! Adulteration of food, political dishonesty, "larrikinism," barbarism on the part of the police, lemonade and gingerbeerism in the stalls of theatres, peppermintlozengism in the dress circle, flunkeyism, itinerant preacherism in the parks—what a subject this last is, by the way, and how beautifully mixed up one's faith becomes after listening to half a dozen park preachers, of different denominations, in succession! After hearing the different views propounded by these self-constituted apostles, an intelligent islander from the Pacific would receive the impression that the white man worshipped about seventy or eighty different and distinct gods (a theological complication with which his simple mind would be unable to grapple), and he would probably retire to enjoy the society of his graven image with an increased respect for that bit of carving, and any half-formed inclinations to dissent from the religion of his forefathers quenched for ever.
I have neither space, ability, nor desire to tackle such stupendous subjects as political dishonesty or adulteration. They are so firmly grafted on our social system that nothing short of a literary torpedo could affect them in the slightest degree, but Idofeel equal to crushing the boy who sells oranges and lemonade in the pit—who when, in imagination, I am on the "blasted heath" enjoying the society of the weird sisters, or at a Slave Auction in the Southern States, sympathising with the sufferings of the Octoroon, ruthlessly drags me back to nineteenth century common places with his thrice damnable war- cry of "applesorangeslemonadeanabill!" a string of syllables which are in themselves death to romance, and annihilation to sentiment, irrespective of the tone and key in which they are uttered. If for one happy moment I have forgotten that Hamlet is in very truth "a king of shreds and patches," or that Ophelia is a complicated combination of rouge, paste, springs, padding, and pectoral improvers, I maintain that it is playing it particularly rough on me if I am to be recalled to a remembrance of all this by the bloodcurdling shibboleth of these soulless fruit merchants. Can lemonade compensate me for the destruction of the airy castles I have been building? Can ginger-beer steep my senses again in the elysium of romance and sentiment from which they have been thus ruthlessly awakened? Or can an ocean of orange-juice wash away or obliterate the disagreeable consciousness that I am a clerk in a Government office, or a reporter on the staff of a weekly paper, and am neither Claud Melnotte nor "a person of consequence in the 13th century?"—unhesitatingly no! And if, in addition, there be wafted towards me a whiff or two of a highly-flavoured peppermint lozenge from some antique female—on whose head be shame! and on whose false front rest eternal obliquy—my cup of sorrow is full, my enjoyment of the drama is destroyed, the Recording angel has a lively time of it for an hour or so registering execrations, and I am plunged in an abyss of melancholy from which the arm of a Hennessy (the one that holds the battle axe) or a Kinahan can alone rescue me. And here, reader, I must conclude, for your patience is in all probability exhausted, and my washerwoman has called: she is a social evil of the most malignant type.
Little grains of rhubarb,
Spatula'd with skill,
Make the mighty bolus
And the little pill.
Little pence and half-pence,
Hoarded up by stealth,
Make the mighty total
Of the miser's wealth
Little trips to Randwick,
Taking six to three,
Make the out-at-elbows
Seedy swells we see.
Little sprees on oysters,
Bottled stout and ale,
Lead but to the cloisters
Of the gloomy gaol.
Little tracts and tractlets,
Scattered here and there,
Lead the sinner's footsteps
To the house of prayer.
Little bits of paper,
Headed I.O.U.,
Ever draw the Christian
Closer to the Jew.
Little chords and octaves,
Little flats and sharps,
Make the tunes the angels
Play on golden harps.
Little bouts with broom-sticks,
Carving forks and knives,
Make the stirring drama
Of our married lives.
Little flakes of soap-suds,
Glenfield starch, and blue,
Make the saint's white shirt-fronts
And the sinner's too.
Little tiny insects,
Smaller than a flea,
Make the coral inlands
In the southern sea.
Little social falsehoods,
Such as "Not at home,"
Lead to realms of darkness
Where the wicked roam.
Likewise little cuss words
Such as "blast," and "blow,"
Quite as much as wuss words
Fill the place below.
129m
At four one afternoon;
I saw a stately peeler there,
He softly hummed a tune.
The sun-rays lit his buttons bright;
He stalked with stately stride;
It was a fair and goodly sight—
The peeler in his pride
And padded was his manly breast,
Such kingly mien had he,
And such a chest, I thought how blest
That peeler's lot must be.
I noted well his martial air,
And settled that of course
He was the idol of the fair,
The angel of the Force.
No cook or house-maid could resist,
I felt, by any chance,
That dark moustache with cork-screw twist,
That marrow-searching glance.
And o'er each little news-boy's head
He towered like a mast;
His voice, to match that stately tread,
Should shame a trumpet-blast!
I pondered on the matter much
And thought I'd like to be
Escorted to the "dock" by such
A demi-god as he.
I gazed upon his form entranced—
He never noticed me,
For visions through his fancy danced
Of mutton cold for tea.
He knew he hadn't long to stand
'Till—Mary's labours o'er—
She'd lead him gently by the hand
Inside the kitchen door.
Ensconced in some snug vantage-coign
At ease he'd stretch each limb,
And feast on cutlet and sirloin,
Purloined for love of him.
132m
I leant against a scaffold-beam—
I must have had a nap
I think, because I had a dream—
I dreamt I was a 'trap'!
I thought I had allegiance sworn
And that there was forme
The regulation tile that's worn
By every trap you see;
The coat and thingumbobs as well,
What joy could equal this?
No Gillott's patent pens could tell
My wild ecstatic bliss!
I thought they portioned out my beat—
A foot I'm sure I grew,
And as I walked up Hunter Street
I felt a match for two.
I felt my bosom throb behind
My coat of azure blue,
And trembled for the peace of mind
Of every girl I knew.
I saw myself in future fights
The populace enthrall,
While brightly blaze the city lights
I cry "come one, come all!"
To grab their leader see me try
(Though rent my lovely coat)
The light of battle in my eye,
My hand upon his throat!
The truncheon used with practised skill
Requites him for his sin,
In such a hand as mine it will
Abraise his rebel skin.
I thought of each bush-ranging chap,
And for a moment sighed
That I was not a mounted trap
Through tea-tree scrub to ride.
But soon the notion I dismiss,
For I can plainly see
That such a line of life as this
Much harder lines would be.
Beneath a bushel in the bush
My shining light to hide,
I felt would be a gross misuse
Of Sydney's hope and pride.
My look alone would petrify
A breaker of the peace,
And where I turned my searching eye
Dishonesty would cease.
Police reports my name should state,
Each deed of mine should be
A deed for traps to emulate,
And try to be like me.
My blushing honours should be worn
With unobtrusive grace,
And energy and zeal adorn
My calm heroic face.
My beat was not in nasty slums
Where vulgar rowdies meet;
But see! the conquering hero comes—
The pride of George's Street!
I thought he'd be a hardy boy
Who'd shout in accents coarse
"Who stole the mutton-pie, ahoy!"
Now I was in the force.
Or should a cabby ere presume
To overcharge a fare,
My eagle glance it would consume
That cabby then and there.
Now mercy light on yonder boy
Who blows the sportive pea!
His visage lit with fiendish joy—
For he'll get none from me.
Some power save him from my care,
Preserve him from my clutch,
Or mutilated past repair
He 'll have to use a crutch.
His form, though supple as an eel,
His mother wouldn't know
Again if I'd a chance to deal
One stiffening truncheon blow!
No more his little idle hands
Will scatter orange peel
When fast enclosed in iron bands,
Or brightly polished steel.
I'd marked a nice secluded seat,
'Twas somewhere in the park,
Where I could slumber long and sweet
As soon as it got dark.
I spotted out each servant gal
I'd let make love to me,
The houses where I'd take a "spell,"
And call and have my tea.
I took the bearings of the doors,
And windows front and back
Where I, unseen, by vulgar boors,
Could go and have a "snack."
Fond, foolish women, at my feet
In yearning worship fell,
And one, she was uncommon sweet,
Her name I'll never tell.
I thought I'd never lived 'till now,
Or that I'd lived in vain;
It was a hardish rub, I vow,
That I should wake again.
Fulfilment of a nobler plan
Ambition couldn't crave—
I was a trap!—each common man
Seemed born to be my slave!
But stay—whose hand is on me now?
Who dares to clutch my cape?
What light is this, and who art thou,
Thou shadowy, ghastly shape?
A fearful light is shed around,
I quake and dare not stir—
A voice! and husky is its sound—
It says,—"'Ullo! you, Sir!"
Before me was the man I'd praised,
And my illusion fled
When his infernal truncheon raised
A blister on my head.
Sometimes at midnight's solemn hour
I dream this dream again,
And, thinking itsherform once more,
The pillow tightly strain;
Or fiercely to the door I spring,
And firmly grip the hasp,
And smile to think I've got again
The truncheon in my grasp.
The beads of sweat they gather fast,
And from my nose they fall,
I wake, and find, alas! alas!
I'm not a trap at all!