A Colonial Reformer, Vol. 1 (of 3)Boldrewood, Rolf
History
A Colonial Reformer, Vol. 1 (of 3)
Boldrewood, Rolf
Australia -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Ernest. ‘I have a great fancy for a cattle
run; and I must say, I think Jack is right about the sheep. They are
a great deal too much trouble, especially with shepherds. I came away
from England to lead a quiet life in the wilderness, to have a little
leisure and time to think, and not to be hurried from one engagement to
another like a Liverpool cotton broker or a stock exchange speculator.’
‘I don’t say there isn’t money made by sheep,’ remarked Mr. Hasbene,
’but cattle, to my mind, have always been the most gentlemanly stock.
A man does his work; it’s sharp sometimes; but then he has it over.
He knows what he’s about, and hasn’t to be always “hurried up” like a
Yankee dry goods clerk. I wouldn’t change lives with Jedwood for all
the world. I live like a gentleman in my small quiet way, but I’ll be
hanged if he does.’
‘Quite right, Mr. Hasbene,’ said Ernest. ’The characteristics of “the
gentle life,” in my estimation, are occasional strenuous, useful, and
dignified exertion, seconded by unquestioned leisure, more or less
embellished by letters with the aid of the arts and sciences. All this
keenness to amass money, land, flocks, and herds, is merely the trading
instinct pushed to excess, whether the owner lives in a street, in a
city, or a hut on a plain. However, we must be off. Good-bye.‘ Away
they went at the rapid pace so dear to unthinking youth, all heedless
of the capital of human as of equine bone and sinew, secure of a vast
endowment to their credit in the future, good for endless drafts and
extravagant cheques, while the grizzled senior rode back to his lonely
lodge to contest, as best might be, with three months’ loneliness,
three months’ absence of human face, of human speech, laughter, or
tears. It was not a gay life, certainly, but such as it was, he had
lived and outlived twenty odd years of it. In all human probability—he
was failing now—he would remain there until he died. So best—where
else should he go? Geoffrey Hasbene had once possessed money, friends,
a good station, a fair position. But indifferent luck, combined with
an easy, careless, liberal disposition, had caused his property to
drift away from him. For a time he had suffered some of the evils of
neglect and of poverty. Then this prospect of employment was offered
and thankfully accepted, and for many years he had been exercising for
another the qualities of vigilance and economy that, in the long past
years, would have gathered and secured a fortune for himself.
The season wore on. The mild Australian winter, far different from the
stern season that Mr. Neuchamp had associated with that name, changed
almost imperceptibly into glowing spring—into burning summer.
The ordinary work of the station advanced. Men came and went; were
hired, verbally; retained, paid off, and so on, with an undeviating
regularity that savoured of machinery.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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