A CENTENARIAN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VII, Issue 3, 17 January 1891, Page 2

A CENTENARIAN.

H I.KI. is at the Hotham Benevolent Asylum, -A. S * n Australia, Mrs Susan Brandon. She was AYjJr I horn at Farley, in Kent, England, on August 12, 1788, and is consequently more than 102 years of age. She has been an in- ~ 111 ate of the institution mentioned for over 26 years and was admitted on the recommendation of Mr E. P. Sturt, P. M. Notwithstanding her great age she is in possession of all her faculties ; has a wonderfully retentive memory, not only of facts, but also of names and dates, and her eyesight is still sufficiently good to enable her to do needle-work without the aid of glasses, which, however, she has to wear when reading. To show how excellent is her work, and how industrious is the old lady—they say she is never idle—it need only be mentioned that not very long ago a quantity of her workmanship was sold at a bazaar and realised £2O. Unfortunately she is very deaf.

She has lived through the lives of four English sovereigns and hundreds of European potentates; through successive wars that have devastated the world with horrors. She lias witnessed changes and vast strides in arts and sciences and improvements of the people such as could never be conceived when she was born. Of the great French war she has a vivid recollection ; one of her brothers fought at Waterloo, another was on board the Victory when Nelson fell ; while her only son lost his life in the Crimean trenches ; during our struggle with Russia in that most inhospitable climate; her only daughter died in New York ; her husband was killed while digging for gold in Austialia years and years ago. To her knowledge she has no living relative in the world. In an interview the old lady said as follows : • I was born in Kent in 1788, on August 12th. My father was a farmer and hop grower, and I stayed at home till I had got to be a young woman. Then I went into the service of the Earl of Pembroke in Wiltshire, and stayed with that family for several years. Married Oh, yes, of course, I got married. My husband was killed nigh on 40 years ago gold-digging, here in Australia at Fryer’s Creek. He was down on his back picking above him for the gold when the earth fell in on him. I was in Melbourne then. I never saw him again after that, for they buried him up there. We had been married a long time, for I was only 26 years old when the wedding took place at Chiist Chnrch, in the Blackfriars-road, London. Bless you, people didn’t get married in a day, >rs they do now. Yon had to have your name stuck up on the church doors, and I have known gals that wouldn't have that at no price, and kept single for ever so long before they’d do it. ‘ My husband was a cabinet maker, and we lived in London for many years. We only had two children—a gal and a boy. My son was an engineer and plumber, and went to the Crimea when the war broke out. He was killed bv the Russians at Alma—no; I don't think it was at the battle of Alnia, but some of the trenches be was engineering fell in when the Russians attacked it, and he died in that way. I was out in Australia years before then, though. My daughter died in New York, and left three children, but they are all dead, and I am quite alone in the world now. ‘ We emigrated out to Australia in 1841. I was 53 years old then. We did not come out to Australia first, though

we intended to, but somehow took the wrong ship, or there was some mistake—at all events, the ship went to New Zealand. Nelson was just being settled, and they put us all ashore at Port Nelson. It was a very pretty place, and my husband built a very pretty one-roomed cottage. I don’t know how much it cost exactly, but I know the chimney cost £l4. There was nothing but bush about there at that time, and there was not a house on the island when we went there, and the only people were innaway sailors. We came out with my sister and her husband, and we all thought we were coming to Melbourne. My sister’s husband was a sawyer, so that Nelson was a good place for him, as there was plenty of timber. My son we had left in London, where he served his apprenticeship and was doing for himself. They all had to serve seven years in those days. That’s the same one that afterwards went and got killed at the Crimea. ‘We stopped in New Zealand three years. Oh dear! them Maoris were a worry to us ! They wouldn't keep out of the place, and used to pick everything over—put their hands in the butter and everything. One day my sister was so angry with them that she got up with a plate and smashed it over a Maori’s head, and it tell all round him in small pieces. You never see a man so scared. He got quite excited, and said he would bring his fighting chief. They were strange times. The bank was in a tent, tire cash-box was sunk in the ground at night time, and the head manager used to sleep bver it for safety. But that was some time after we landed. ‘Yes; I remember the Wairau massacre. It was all about the land. The surveyors went out to survey the land and stuck pegs in it. The Maoris pulled these up and burnt them ; and they tied the surveyors with flax, and put them on the other side of the river, telling them not to come back. But Mr Thompson, the magistrate, who had just got his commission from England, wanted to show them what he could do. So he brought a lot of constables—special constables, you call them—down to frighten the natives; but they were nearly all shot down instead —only one of them got away. He had been in the army, and was called “Walking Dick.” He escaped, and brought the news to the township. It was this way. As these constables were landing—they had crossed the river where the surveyors had been put back—the natives stood elose by the water. One of the white men’s guns went off, either on purpose or by accident. At all events, it shot the principal chief’s wife dead. The white men wanted to argue it; but the Maoris would not hear reason. The officer in command walked to them with a white handkerchief in his hand, as a flag of truce ; but, poor people, they did not understand what it meant. And so they shot all the whites but onedown—l think it was thirtysix in all. They were all thrown into one big grave, and were so hacked and cut about that they couldn’t be recognised afterwaids. No, they couldn’t recognise the magistrate, Mr Thompson, who was the worst chopped about of all. It was a terrible shock to all of us, and we got very frightened about it.’