Chapter Eleven.
Abraham Oliphant.
“And so you’re my nephew Hubert,” said a tall, middle-aged gentleman, who had come on board as soon as the Sabrina reached the port, and was now shaking Hubert warmly by the hand. “A hearty welcome to South Australia. Ah, I see; this is Mr Oldfield. My brother wrote to me about you. You’re heartily welcome too, my young friend, for so I suppose I may call you. Well, you’ve come at a warm time of the year, and I hope we shall be able to give you a warm reception. And how did you leave your dear father, Hubert? You’re very like him; the sight of your face brings back old times to me. And how are your brothers and sister? All well? That’s right. Thank God for it. And now just put a few things together while I speak to the captain. I’ll see that your baggage is cleared and sent up all right after you. My dog-cart’s waiting, and will take your friend and yourself and what things you may want for a few days.”
The speaker’s manner was that of a man of good birth and education, with the peculiar tone of independence which characterises the old colonist. Hubert and Frank both felt at their ease with him at once.
It was arranged that Jacob Poole should remain with Captain Merryweather for a few days, and should then join his new master in Adelaide. After a very hearty leave-taking with the captain, the young men and Mr Abraham Oliphant were soon on shore.
There was no railway from the port to the city in those days, but travellers were conveyed by coaches and port-carts, unless they were driven in some friend’s carriage or other vehicle. Driving tandem was much the fashion, and it was in this way that Hubert and Frank were making their first journey inland.
“Now, my dear Hubert, and Mr Oldfield, jump in there; give me your bags; now we’re all right;” and away they started.
The first mile or two of their journey was not particularly inviting. They passed through Albert Town, and through a flat country along a very dusty road, trees being few and far between. A mile farther on and they saw a group of natives coming towards them with at least half-a-dozen ragged looking dogs at their heels. The men were lounging along in a lordly sort of way, entirely at their ease; one old fellow, with a grizzly white beard and hair, leaning all his weight on the shoulders of a poor woman, whom he was using as a walking-stick. The other women were all heavily-laden, some with wood, and others with burdens of various sorts, their lords and masters condescending to carry nothing but a couple of light wooden spears, a waddy, or native club, and a boomerang.
“Poor creatures!” exclaimed Hubert; “what miserable specimens of humanity; indeed, they hardly look human at all.”
“Ah,” said his uncle, “there are some who are only too glad to declare that these poor creatures are only brutes, that they have no souls. I’ve heard a man say he’d as soon shoot a native as a dingo; that is, a wild dog.”
“But you don’t think so, dear uncle?”
“Think so! no indeed. Their intellects are sharp enough in some things. Yes; it is very easy to take from them their lands, their kangaroo, and their emu, and then talk about their having no souls, just to excuse ourselves from doing anything for them in return. Why, those very men who will talk the most disparagingly of them, do not hesitate to make use of them; ay, and trust them too. They will employ them as shepherds, and even as mounted policemen. But let us stop a moment, and hear what they have to say.”
He drew up, and the natives stopped also, grinning from ear to ear. They were very dark, a dusky olive colour; the older ones were hideously ugly, and yet it was impossible not to be taken with the excessive good humour of their laughing faces.
“What name you?” cried the foremost to Mr Oliphant.
“Abraham,” was the reply.
“Ah, very good Abraham,” rejoined the native; “you give me copper, me call you gentleman.”
“Them you piccaninnies?” asked one of the women, pointing to Hubert and Frank.
“No,” said Mr Oliphant; “there—there are some coppers for you; you must do me some work for them when you come to my sit-down.”
“Gammon,” cried the black addressed; “me plenty lazy.”
“A sensible fellow,” cried Frank laughing, as they drove on; “he knows how to look after his own interests, clearly enough; surely such as these cannot be past teaching.”
“No indeed,” said the other; “we teach them evil fast enough; they learn our vices besides their own. You may be sure they drink when they can. Ah, that curse of drunkenness! Did you think you had run away from it when you left England? Happy for you, Hubert, that you’re an abstainer; and I suppose, Mr Oldfield, that you are one too.”
“Not a pledged one,” said Frank, colouring deeply, “but one in practice, I hope, nevertheless.”
“Well, I tell you honestly that you’ll find neither beer, wine, or spirits in my house. To everything else you are both heartily welcome.—Ah, that’s not so pleasant,” he exclaimed suddenly.
“Is there anything amiss?” asked Hubert.
“Oh, nothing serious!” was the reply; “only a little disagreeable; but we may perhaps escape it. We’ll pull up for a moment. There; just look on a few hundred yards.”
Ahead of them some little distance, in the centre of the road, a whirling current of air was making the dust revolve in a rapidly enlarging circle. As this circle widened it increased in substance, till at last it became a furious earth-spout, gathering sticks and leaves, and even larger things, into its vortex, and rising higher and higher in the air till it became a vast black moving column, making a strange rustling noise as it approached. Then it left the direct road, and rushed along near them, rising higher and higher in the air, and becoming less and less dense, till its base completely disappeared, and the column spent itself in a fine streak of sand some hundred feet or more above their heads.
“A pleasant escape,” said Mr Oliphant; “we shouldn’t have gained either in good looks or comfort if we had got into the thick of it.”
“I should think not indeed,” said Frank. “Do people often get into these whirlwinds, or earth-spouts, or whatever they should be called?”
“Sometimes they do,” said the other, “and then the results are anything but agreeable. I have seen men go into them white—white jacket, white waistcoat, white trousers, white hat, and come out one universal brown—brown jacket, waistcoat, trousers, hat, eyebrows, whiskers, all brown.”
“Anything but pleasant indeed,” said Hubert. “But do they ever do serious mischief?”
“Not very serious, as far as I know,” replied his uncle. “Once I knew of a pastry-cook’s man who was caught in one of these whirlwinds; he had a tray of tarts on his head, and the wind caught the tray, and whirled it off, tarts and all. But here we are at the ‘Half-way house;’ people commonly can’t go many miles here without the drink. They fancy that, because we live in a country which is very hot in summer, we want more to drink; but it’s just the reverse. Drink very little of anything in the specially hot days, and you’ll not feel the want of it.”
And now, after a further drive of three or four miles, the outskirts of the city of Adelaide were nearly reached, and the distant hills became more plainly visible.
“We shall cross the river by the ford at the back of the jail,” said Mr Oliphant, “for there’s very little water in the river now.”
“And is this the river Torrens?” asked Hubert, with a slight tone of incredulity in his voice.
“You may well ask,” replied his uncle, laughing. “Torrens is certainly an unfortunate name, for it leads a stranger naturally to look for a deep and impetuous stream. Some gentleman from Melbourne, when he first saw it, was highly incensed and disgusted, and exclaimed, ‘Is this crack in the earth your river Torrens?’”
“But I suppose,” inquired Frank, “it is not always as shallow as now?”
“No indeed,” said the other; “I’ve seen it many a time a real Torrens. When it comes rushing down, swollen by numberless little streams from the hills, it will carry almost everything before it. Bridges, and strong ones too, it has swept away, and you may judge both of its violence and of the height to which it rises at such times, when I tell you that, when a flood has subsided, you may sometimes look up and see a dead horse sticking in the fork of a tree which had for a time been nearly under water. And I’ve often thought that the drink is like this stream; people will scarce credit at first that it can do so much mischief—it’s only a little drop, or a glass or two, but the drop becomes a stream, and the glass a mighty river, and down goes all before it, money, home, love, character, peace, everything. But see, that’s the jail on our left now. If there were more total abstainers, we shouldn’t want such a costly building, nor so many policemen, as we do now. Here, as in the old country, the drink is at the bottom of nine-tenths of the crime. And now we’re just coming up to the top of Hindley Street. Look down it; it’s a busy street; you can see right away through Rundle Street, which is a continuation of it, to the Park Lands beyond. Now, just take a fact about the drinking habits of this colony. You’ll suppose, of course, that this street wants lighting at night. Well; how is this done? We have no gas as yet; no doubt we shall have it by-and-by. Well, then, look along each side of the street, and you’ll see ordinary lamps projecting from houses at tolerably regular intervals. These houses are all public-houses. Every publican is bound by law to keep a lamp burning outside his house every dark night; and these lamps light the street very creditably. I use the word ‘creditably’ simply in reference to the lighting; doesn’t that speak volumes?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hubert; “I fear it tells of abundant crime and misery.”
“It does. But we mustn’t dwell on the dark side now, for I want this to be a bright day for us all. You see we’ve some nice shops in Hindley Street.”
“Yes,” said Frank; “but what a remarkable variety of style in the houses; there are no two of them, scarcely, alike in size, shape, or height. They remind me rather of a class of boys in our dame school at home, where big and little boys, tidy and ragged, stand side by side in one long row.”
“You are rather severe upon us,” said Mr Oliphant laughing; “but we are gradually improving; there is, however, plenty of room yet for improvement, I allow.”
And now they turned into King William Street, and drew up at the front of a large store.
“This is my business place,” said the merchant; “but I shall not ask you to look at it now; we must be off again immediately for my country residence among the hills. Here, James, give the horses a little water; now then, let us start again.”
A few minutes more and they were rapidly crossing the Park Lands.
“These are gum trees, I suppose?” asked Hubert.
“Yes, they are,” said his uncle; “but not worth much, either for timber, ornament, or shade. You wouldn’t get much relief from the heat under the poor shadow of their tassel-like foliage.”
“What a very strange noise!” exclaimed Frank; “it seems as if a number of stocking-looms were at work in the air.”
“See now,” said Mr Oliphant, “the force of habit. I’m so used to the sound, that I was utterly unconscious of it. It is made by the cicada, an insect very common in this country. And now, where do you suppose we’re coming to? This little village or township before us is Norwood, and then comes Kensington. I’ve no doubt it will strike you as one of the oddest things in this colony, till you get used to it, though, of course, it isn’t peculiar to this colony, how places are made close neighbours here, which are very widely separated in the old country, from which they are borrowed.”
“But why not retain the native names?” asked Hubert.
“Ah, why not, indeed? What can be more musical in sound than Yatala, Aldinga, Kooringa, Onkaparinga. But then, we could not always find native names enough; and, besides this, the Englishman likes to keep the old country before him, by giving his place some dear familiar name that sounds like home.”
In about another half hour they reached their destination among the hills.
“The Rocks,” as Mr Abraham Oliphant’s place was called, was situated on a hill-side, high above the valley, but on a moderate slope. A stout post-and-rail fence surrounded the estate, and one of a more compact nature enclosed the more private grounds. The house was large, and covered a considerable surface, as there were no rooms above the basement floor. The front windows commanded a magnificent view of the city of Adelaide, with its surrounding lands, suburbs, and neighbouring villages, and of the sea in the extreme distance. At the back was a remarkable group of rocks, from which the estate took its name; these leaned on the hill-side, and were encased in a setting of wild shrubs and creeping plants of extraordinary beauty. A stream of purest spring water perpetually flowed through a wide cleft in these rocks, and afforded a deliciously cool supply, which never failed in the hottest summer. The house was surrounded by a wide verandah, which, like the building itself, was roofed with shingles, and up the posts and along the edge of which there climbed a profusion of the multiflora rose. The garden sloped away from the house, and contained an abundance of both flowers and fruits. There was the aloe, and more than one kind of cactus, growing freely in the open air, with many other plants which would need the hothouse or greenhouse in a colder climate. Fig-trees, vines, standard peach, and nectarine trees were in great abundance, while a fence of the sharp Kangaroo Island acacia effectually kept all inquisitive cattle at a respectful distance. The inside of the house was tastefully but not unduly furnished, ancient and modern articles being ranged side by side in happy fraternity; for a thorough colonist suits his own taste, and is tolerably independent of fashion.
“Welcome once more to Australia!” exclaimed Mr Oliphant to his young companions; “and more especially welcome to ‘the Rocks.’ Come in: here, let me introduce you to my eldest daughter and youngest son—Jane and Thomas, here’s your cousin Hubert; and here’s his friend, Mr Frank Oldfield; you must give them a hearty welcome.”
All parties were soon at their ease together. A sumptuous dinner-tea was soon spread on the table of the dining-room—the windows of which apartment commanded a view, across the valley, of the city and distant sea.
Mr Oliphant was a widower, with two daughters and four sons. Jane had taken her mother’s place; the two eldest sons were married, and settled in other parts of the colony; the third son lived with his younger sister at a sheep-station about twenty-five miles up the country; the youngest son, Thomas, a boy about fifteen years old, was still at home, and rode in daily to the collegiate school, returning in the evening.
“You’ll meet your other cousins before long, I hope,” said his uncle to Hubert. “They know, of course, that you are coming; and when I send them word that you are actually come, we shall have them riding in at an early day. I suppose you’re used to riding yourself? Ah, that’s right; then you’re pretty independent. Horseflesh is cheap enough here, but it isn’t always of the choicest quality; however, I can furnish you with what you’ll want in that way. All your cousins ride, of course, by a sort of colonial instinct. An Australian and his horse almost grow together like a centaur.”
“And do you ride much, Cousin Jane?” asked Hubert.
“Oh, never mind the ‘cousin;’ you must drop it at once,” said Mr Oliphant. “It’s Jane, and you’re Hubert. But I beg Jane’s pardon for smothering her answer.”
“Oh yes, Hubert,” replied his cousin; “I ride, as a matter of course; we should never get over much ground, especially in the hot weather, if we walked as much as people seem to do in England. But I have not yet heard how you left my dear aunt and uncle. Seeing you seems half like seeing them; I’ve heard so much of them.”
“I suppose you hardly venture out kangaroo-hunting, Miss Oliphant?” asked Frank.
“I have done so once or twice in the north,” she replied; “but the kangaroo is not fond of so many white faces near his haunts, so he has retired from these parts altogether.”
“And you find you can all stand total abstinence here?” asked Hubert of his uncle.
“Stand it!” exclaimed Mr Oliphant; “I should think so. Why, my dear nephew, it don’t need standing; it’s the drink I couldn’t stand. You should see the whole lot of us when we meet at one of our great family gatherings. Well, it’s not quite the thing perhaps for a father to say—and yet I fancy it’s not very far from the truth—that you’ll not see a stouter, a better grown—Jane, shall I say handsomer?—I certainly may say a healthier, family anywhere; and not one of us is indebted to any alcoholic stimulant for our good looks.”
“You have always, then, been an abstainer since you came to the colony?” asked Frank.
“No, I have not; more’s the pity,” was the reply; “but only one or two of my children remember the day when I first became an abstainer. From the oldest to the youngest they have been brought up without fermented stimulants, and abhor the very sight of them.”
“And might I ask,” inquired Frank, “what led to the change in your case, if the question is not an intrusive one?”
“Oh, by all means; I’ve nothing to conceal in the matter,” said Mr Oliphant; “the story is a very simple one. But come, you must make a good tea; listening is often as hungry work as talking. Well, the circumstances were just these: when I was left a widower, more than fourteen years ago, Jane was about twelve years old and Thomas only six months; I was then a moderate drinker, as it is called—that is to say, I never got drunk; but I’m sure if any one had asked me to define ‘moderation,’ I should have been sorely puzzled to do so; and I am quite certain that I often exceeded the bounds of moderation, not in the eyes of my fellow-creatures, but in the eyes of my Creator—ay, and in my own eyes too, for I often felt heated and excited by what I drank, so as to wish that I had taken a glass or two less,—yet all this time I never overstepped the bounds, so as to lose my self-control. At this time I kept a capital cellar—I mean a cellar largely stocked with choice wines and spirits. I did not live then at ‘the Rocks,’ but in a house on the skirts of the city. You may be sure that I needed a good nurse to look after so many growing children who had just lost their dear mother, and I was happy enough to light upon a treasure of a woman—she was clean, civil, active, faithful, honest, forbearing, and full of love to the children; in a word, all that I could desire her to be. She took an immense deal of care off my hands, and I could have trusted her with everything I had. Months passed by, and I began to give large dinner-parties—for I was rather famous for my wines. Besides this, I was always having friends dropping in, happy to take a glass. All went on well—so it seemed—till one afternoon a maid came running into my sitting-room and cried out, ‘Oh, sir, nurse is so very ill; what must we do?’ I hurried up-stairs. There was the poor woman, sure enough, in a very miserable state. I couldn’t make it out at all.
“‘Send for a doctor at once!’ I cried. In a little while the doctor came. I waited most anxiously for his report. At last he came down, and the door was closed on us.
“‘Well, doctor,’ I cried, in great anxiety; ‘nothing very serious, I hope? I can ill afford to lose such a faithful creature.’
“I saw a curious smile on his face, which rather nettled me, as I thought it very ill-timed. At last he fairly burst out into a laugh, and exclaimed, ‘There’s nothing the matter with the woman, only she’s drunk.’
“‘Drunk!’ I exclaimed with horror; ‘impossible!’
“‘Ay, but it’s both possible and true too,’ said the doctor; ‘she’ll be all right, you’ll see, in a few hours.’
“And so she was. I then spoke out plainly and kindly to her. Oh, I shall never forget her misery and shame. She made no attempt to deny her fault, or even excuse it; she was heart-broken; she said she must go at once. I urged her to stay, and to turn over a new leaf. I promised to overlook what had passed, and told her that she might soon regain her former place in my esteem and confidence. But I could not keep her; she could not bear to remain, much as she loved the children; she must go elsewhere and hide her disgrace.
“‘But how came you to contract such a habit?’ said I. And then she told me that she began by finishing what was left in the glasses of my friends and myself after dinner; then, as I never locked up the cellaret—the thirst becoming stronger and stronger—she helped herself from the bottles, till at last she had become a confirmed drunkard. I pitied her deeply, as you may well understand; and would have kept her on, but nothing would induce her to stay. However, I had learned a lesson, and had made up my mind: I was determined that thenceforward no one should ever sow the first seeds of drunkenness in my house, or have any countenance in drinking from my example. The very morning the unhappy woman left, I made a vigorous onslaught on the drink.
“‘Fetch up the cellar!’ I cried; and the cellar was forthwith fetched up. Beer barrels, wine bottles and spirit-bottles, dozens of pale ale and bitter beer, were soon dragged into light.
“‘Now, fetch me the kitchen-poker!’ I shouted; it was brought me, and I commenced such a smashing as I should think has never been witnessed before, nor is likely to be witnessed again. Right and left, and all round me, the yard was flooded with malt liquors, spirits and wines. Then I knocked out the bungs of the casks, and joined their contents to the flood. You may suppose there was some little staring at all this, but it mattered nothing to me. I was resolved that what had ruined my poor nurse should never ruin any one else at my cost, or in my house; so from that day to this no alcoholic stimulant has passed my lips; nor been given by me to man, woman, or child; nor, please God, ever shall be.—Now, my dear young friends, you have had the history of what first led me to become a total abstainer.”
There was a silence for several minutes, which was at last broken by Hubert’s asking,—
“And what became of the unhappy woman, dear uncle?”
“Ah! don’t ask me. She went from bad to worse while she remained in the colony. For so it commonly is with drunkards, but most of all with female drunkards. I’ve known—and I thank God for it—many a reformed male drunkard; but when women take decidedly to drinking, it is very rare indeed to see them cured—at least, that has been my experience. I got poor nurse away with a friend of mine who was going in a temperance ship to England, hoping that the habit might be broken off during the voyage. But, alas! she broke out again soon after reaching home, and died at last a miserable death in a workhouse. But I see you look rather fagged, Mr Oldfield. Shall we take a turn in the garden before it gets dark, and then perhaps you’ll like a little music?”
And now we must leave Abraham Oliphant and Australia for a while, and return to Langhurst, and some of the earlier characters of our story.