A HAPPY CONVICT.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXI, Issue 25, 20 October 1893, Page 21

A HAPPY CONVICT.

% (By G. Duxdebdale in the Austral L'lglit.) It was court day at Palmerston, and there was an unusual amount of bueinefs that mornine. A constable brought in a prisoner, and charged him with bemg a vagrant, — having no lawful visible meant of support. I entered the charge in the cause list, " Police versus John 8m i there, vagrancy," and the a looked at toe vagrant. He was growing aged, was dressed in old clothe?, faded, dirty, and ill-fitting ; be bad not been meunred for them. His face was very dark, and his bair and beard were long and rough showing that he had not been in gaol lately. His eyes wandersd about the conrt io a helpless and vacant manner. Two bji about eight or nine yean old entered tbe court, and, with colonial presumption, sat in the jury box. Tbere were no other spectator*, so I left them there to represent the public They stared at the prisoner, whispered to each other, and smiled. Tbe prisoner could not see anything to laugh at, and frowned at them. Then the magistrate came in, robbing one of his hands over the other, glanced at the prisoner as he passed, and withered him with a look of virtuous severity. He was our Black Wednesday magistrate, and was death on criminals. When be had taken his seat on the bench, I opened the court, and called the first and only case. It was not often we tud a man to sit on, and we sat hiavily on this one. I put on my sternest look, and said " John Smithers," — here the prisoner put one hand to his forehead and stood at " attention"—"you are charged by the police with vagrancy, having no lawful visible means of eapporf . What have you to say to that charge ?" Prisoner — " lam a blacksmith looking for work ; I ain't done nothing your worship,, and I don't want nothing." Magistrate — " But you should do something ;we don't waot idle ragabonds like you wandering aboat the coun 1 ry. You will be sent to gaol for three monthp. " I stood up and reminded the jusfic3 respectfully that there was as yet no evidence against the prisoner, 30, as a matter of form, he condescended to hear the constable, who went into the witness-box and proved his case to the hilt. He hai found tbe man at nightfall sitting under the shelter of some tea-tree sticks before a fire ; asked him what he was doing there ; said hi was camping out ; had come from Melbourne looking fjr work ; w\9 a blacksmith ; took him in charge as a vagrant, and locked him up ; all his property waa the clothes be wore, an old blanket, a tin billy, a clasp knife, a few crusts of bread, an old pipe, and half a fig of tobacco ; could find no money about him. This last fact settled the matter. A man travelling about tbe bush without money is a deep-dyed criminal. I had done it myself and so was able to measure the extent of such wickedness. I never felt really virtuous unless I bad some miDey in my pocket. Magistrate — ''You are sentence! to imprisonment for three months in Melbourne gaol, and mind you don't com? here again." Prisoner — " I ain't done nothing, your worship, and I don t want nothing." Magistrate— " Take him away, constable." Seven years afterwards, a? I was riding horn? about sundown through Tarraville, I observed a solitary swagman sitting befjre a flre, among tbe ruins of an old public house, like Mariua meditating among tbe rnins of Carthage. There waa a crumbling chimney built of bricks not worth carting away— the early bricks in South Gippsland were very bad, and tha mortar had no visible lime in it— the ground waa strewn with brickbats, bDttles, sardiae tins, hoop iron, and other articles, the usual refuse of a bush shaaty. It had been, in tbe early times reeking with crime and debauchery. Men had gone •at of it mad with drinking the poieonous liquor, had stumbled down the steep bank, and had ended their lives and crimes in the black Tarra river below. Here the rising generation had taken their first lessons ia vice from the old hands who made the bouse their favourite resort. Here was planned the murder of Jimmy the Snob by Prettyboy and his mates, whose hut was near the end of the bridge across the river, and for which murder Prettyboy was banged in Melbourne. In the dusk I mistook theswagmm for a stray aboriginal who had survived the destruction of his tribp, but on approaching nearer, I found that he was, or at least ouce had been, a white man. He had gathered a few sticks, which be was breaking and putting on the fire. I did not recognise him, did not think I had ever seen him before, and I rode away. During the next twenty-four hours he had advanced about half-a-mile on his journey, and in the evening was making bis fire in the church paddock, near a small waterbole opposite my house. I could see him from the verandah, and I sent Jim to offer him shelter in an outbuilding. Jim waa one of the two boys who had represented the public in the jury box at the Palmerston court seven years befcr*. H* came bsck, and said the man declined the offer of shelter ; never slept under a roof winter or summer if he could hdp it ; had lived in the open air for twelve yearc, and never stayed a night in any building except for three m>nths, when ha was in Melbourne gaol. He had been arrested by a constable near Palmerston seven years before, although he bad done nothing, and a fool of a beak with a

long grey beard had given him three months, while two poppies of boys were sitting ia the jury box laughing at him. He also gave some paternal advice lo the yontb, which like a great deal of otber p*tern»l advice, was rejected as of no value. Ha said, " Never go to Melbourne, yonng man ; and if you do, never atop ii any boarding bouse, or public. They are full of vermin, brought in by bad character*, mostly Government officers and bank clerki, who have been in Pentridge, Don't you never go near 'em." This advice did not sound very respectful ; however, I overlooked it for the present, as it was not unlikely I might have the advantage of seeing him again in custoiy ; and I sent to bim-aoroM the road some hot tea, bread, batter, and beef. This totalled the heart and loaseiod tbe tongue of the old ew.igm«n. It appear* from his account of himself that be was not much rf a blacksmith. He was ostensibly going about the oolooy looking for work, bat as long as he could gat food for nothing he did not want any work, and he always avoided a blacksmith's shop ; as soon as be found himself near one, be cetsed to be a blacksmith. When asked about his former life, he said a gentleman had once advised bim to write the particulars of it, and had promised him fcalf-a-crown if he would do so. He had written some of them, bnt had never seen tbe gentleman again, so he did not get tbe kalfcrown ; and now he would take sixpence for the copyright of his work. I gave him sixpence, and he drew out a manuscript from an ins de pocket of his coat. It was composed of small sheets of whiteybrown wrapping piper sewn together. He had ruled lines on it, and had written his biography with lead pencil. On looking over it I observed that, although he was deficient in some of the inferior qualifications of a great historian, such as spelling, grammar, and a command of words of seven sylables, yet he bad the true instincts of a faithful chronicler. He had carefully recorded tha names of all the eminent bad men be had met, of the constable who had first arrested him, of the magistrate who had committed him for trial, of the judge who bad sentenced bim, of tbe gaolers and warders who bad kept him in prisoo, of the captain, doctor and officers of the ship which conveyed him to Sydney, of the squatters who bad forced him to work foi them, and of the sconrgers wbo had scourged bim for not working enough. The names of all these celebrated men, together with the wicked deeds for which they were admired, were given in detail, after the true historic method. We all take a great interest in reading every particular relating to the lives of notorious tyrants and great sinners ; we like to know what clothes they wore, and how they Bwore. But the lives of great and good men and women are very uninteresting ; some young ladies even, when travelling by train prefer, as I observe, French novels inspired by Cloacina to the " Lives of the Saints." Some people in the colonies are said to have had no grandfathers ; bnt John Smithers was even more deficient in pedigree, for he had neither father nor mother, aa far as he could recollect. He commenced life as a stable boy and general drudge in England, at a village inn owned and conducted by a widow named Gobbled ick. This widow had a daughter named Jemima. The mischief wrought in this world by women, from Eve to Jemima downwards, is incal culable, and Smithers averred that it was this female, Jemima, who brought on his sorrow, grief, and woe. She was very advanced in worldly science, as young ladies are apt to be when they are educated in the retail liquor trade. When Smithers had been several years at the inn, and Jemima was already in her teens, she thought the world went slowly ; she had no lover, there was nobody coming to marry her, nobody coming to woo. But at length she was determined to find a remedy for this state of things. She had never read the history of the loves of tbe great Catherine of Russia, nor of those of onr own virgin Queen Elizabeth, but by an inborn royal instinct she was impelled to follow their high example, If lovots did not offer their adoration to her charms spontaneously, tbere was at any rate one whose homage she could command. One Sunday afternoon, while her mother wai absent, Bha went to the stable and ordered Smithers to come and take a walk with her, directing him first to polish his shoes end put on his best clothes. She brought out a bottle of scented oil to sweeten him, and told him to rub it well into bis bair, and stroke his head with his hands nntil it was sleek and shiny. She had put on her Sunday dress and best bonnet ; Bbc had four ringlets at each side of her face ; and to crown her charms, had ventured to borrow her mother's gold watch aod chain. Being now a perfect princess in sUteliness and beauty, Bhe took Jack by the arm— she called bim Jack— and made bim march away with her. He was ratber abashed at the new duty imposed upon him, but he had been so well kicked and cuffed all his life that he never thought of disobeying orders. Love fooled the gods, and it gave him little trouble to fool so sorry a pair as Jack and his Jemima. They walked along Perkins' Lane where many of the neighbours were likely to see them, for Jemima waa anxious that all the other girls, her dearest friends, should be filled with spite and envy at her good fortune in having secured a lover.

Woen the happy youth and maid were returning with wandering steps and slow, Jemima saw her mother pass the end of the lane on her way homewards, much sooner than eh« had expected, The

golden hours on angel wings h»d down away too quickly for the lovers. Miss Oobbledick was filled with sudden alarm, and her brief day of glory was clouded. Her mother would be certain to miss the watch, and what was she to do with it ? What with Jack, and what with herself 1 Self-preservation being the first Jaw of nature, Jemima resolved to sacrifice Jack in order to shield herself from her mother's rage. He was not or much account in any reßpect, so she gave him the watch and chain, ttlling him him to keep them safely till s^e asked for them, and to hurry round by the yard gate into the stable. 1 his gave great relief to her conscience, and enabled her to meet her mother with a face of untroubled innocence.

Jack bad not a lively imagination, but during the night he had a clear and blissful vision of his future destiny, the only dieam of fortune hii life was ever blessed with. He was to be the landlord of the hotel, when Mrs Oobbledick had gone to bliss, and Jemima was to be his biide, ani the landlady. But early next morning there was trouble in the house. The watch was mining, and nobody knew anything about it. Jemima helped her motbtr to look for it, but could not find it. A conßtable was sent for, and he questioned everyone without result. last of all, Jack was asked if he knew anything of the missing watch. He was faithful and trne. How conld he betray Jemima, his future partner in life? He said he " had never seen no watch, and didn't know nothjog whatsomever about no watch," and the next instant the constable pulled the watch out of Jack '« pocket.

At bis trial he was asked what he had to say in his defence, and then he told the truth, and said Jemima gave him the watch to keep nn.il she should ask for it. But there is a time for all things, and Jack could never learn the time for telling the truth, or for telling a lie : he was always in the wrong. The judge, in passing sentence. Baid he had aggravated bis crime by endeavouring to implicate an innocent young lady in bis villainy, and gave him ssven ysare. He was taken on board a hulk, where he found two or three bundred other boys imprisoned. On the evening of his arrival a report was circulated among them, that they were all to be sent to another ship which was bound for Botany Bay, and that they would never see England again. They would have to work and sleep in chains ; they wonld be yoked together and whipped like bullocks ; and if they escaped into the bush the blacks would kill and eat them As this dismal tale went round, some of the boy*, who were quite young and small, began to cry, and call for their mothers to come and help them ; and then the others began to scream, and shout and yell. The warders came below and tried to Bilence them, but the more they tried the louder grew the uproar, and it continued for many hours durine the night. b

11 Britons rarely swerve From law however stern, whicb tends their strength to nerve." Discipline must be maintained ; so next morning the poor little beggars were brought up on deck in batches, stripped, triced up, and severely flogged. Jack, and a number of other boys, said they had not cried at all, but the officer in charge thought it was better that a few of the innocent should suffer rather than that one of the guilty should escape, so they were all flogged alike, and soon after they were shipped for New South Wales.

On bis arrival in Sydney, Jack was assigned as a servant to a squatter, and taken into the bush a long way to the west. Toe weather bad been very hot for a long time, all the grass had withered to dust, and the cattle were starving. The first work which he was ordered to do was to climb trees and cut off branches, in order that the cattle might keep themselves alive by eating the leave B and twigs Jack had never been used to handle an axe or tomahawk, co h- found the labour of chopping very hard, He did his best, but that was not good enough for tbs squatter, who took him to a magistrate, and had him floggsd by the official scour ger.

While serving his sentence of seven yearß he was fl^ged four times ; three of the times he said he had " done nothing," and for the fourth flogging he confessed to me that he had •• done something " but he did not say what the " something " was. In those days it seems that "doing nothing" and " doing something " were crimes equally meriting the lash. *

And now after a long life of labour the old convict had achieved independence at last. I don't think I ever met a richer man ;he was richer than the whole family of the Rothschilds ; ho wanted scarcely anything. Food and clothing he obtained for the asking for them and he was not paiticular as to their quality if the quantity was *uffi^ went. Property to him was tomething despicable ; he did not want any, and would not live inside a houst if he had one ; he preferred the outside. Ho was free from family cares-never had father or mother, sister or brother, wife or children. No poor relatives ever claimed his hospitality ; no intimate friends wanted to borrow half•j^crown ; no one ever asked him to buy suburban lote, or to take a-ares m a limited liability company. He was perfectly indifferent to all danger from bushrangers, burglars, pickpockets, or cattle jtealers ; he did not even own a dog, so the dogman never asked him for the dog tax. He never enquired about the state of the market nor bothered himself about the prices of land or cattle, wool, wine or

wheat. Every bank, and brewery, and building aooiety in the world might go into liquidation at once for aught ho cared. He had retired from the Government service, had superannuated himself on a pension of nothing per annum, and to draw it he required no voucher. And yet, notwithstanding all these advantage*, I don't think there are many men who would voluntarily choose his lot. I watched him from the end of my verandah, and began speculating about him . What was he thinking about during his solitary watches in the night, or whil. ne tramped alone through the bush year after year in beat and cold, wind and rain ? Did be ever think of anything— of his past life, or of his future lot ? Did he believe in or hope for a beaten ? or had he any fear of hell and eternal punishment? Surely be bad been punished enough ; in this life be had endured evil things in plenty, and might at least hope for eternal rest in the next.

He was sitting with his back against a gun tree and his feet towards the fire. From time to time he threw a few mow sticks on the emberp, and a fitful blase lit up his dark, weatherbeaten face. Then to my surprise be began to sing, and to sing well. His voice was strong, clear and mellow, and its tone* rose and fell in the silent night air with a pathetic and wonderful sweetness. The burden of bis song was " We may be happy yet. " Oh, smile as thou wert wont to smile, Before a weight of care Had crushed thine heart, and yet awhile Left only sorrow there. We may be happy yet." He sang three stanzas and was silent. Then some one said, " poor old fellow ; I hope he may be happj yet." Next morning he was sitting with his back against the gum tree. Hii fire bad gone out, and be seemed to be late in awaking, and in no harry to resume his journey. But his traveli were finished ; be never awoke. His body was quite cold, and be mnst have died toon after be had sung the last note of his song. He had only sixpence in his pocket— the sixpence I had given him for his biography. The polioe took him in charge once more and put him in his last priton, where he will remain until we shall be all called together by the dread blast of the Archaogel's trumpet on the Judgment Day.