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Chapter ii. Frank an Orphan.

In social or commercial life, how many and momentous are the changes which sometimes take place in the brief space of a few years. Two years are numbered with the past. So are all the scenes and some of the actors just named. The house of long standing and the respected proprietor, who devoted more time to parish and political affairs than to his own, have both ceased to exist. The mortal decease of the one was soon followed by the commercial extinction of the other. The subsequent and closing scene of the drama, in which all worldly accounts were balanced, made it painfully manifest that, in this instance, commerce and politics had not thrived well together. The merchant had been sacrificed to the politician. The fruitful gain arising from commerce had been neglected for the fruitless reputation of the platform, or the worse than fruitless smiles of political courtiers. But all was over. The honest enthusiast who, at his own cost, had given so much valuable time to others could give them no more. His son, Frank, was now an orphan. His loved and loving parents had gone to their final resting place.

Fifteen is rather a critical age for a critical position. At this moment I was at the point of both. A parentless page 7and penniless youth at the age of fifteen. That was my position. It has been, and will again be, the situation of other youths. But the world covers a large space, and I had the world before me. If I had no friend to insure me a good place therein, I had none to prevent me obtaining the best place I could for myself. With this knowledge I was about to start on the journey of life.

As in manhood, so in boyhood—the heart looks for a dwelling place anywhere but in the vicinity where it has lost one. Deep and lasting is the pang that gives birth to this desire for change of scene, or change of occupation. Such a feeling, apart from any other, might have justified me in the refusal of a situation which was kindly tendered for my acceptance by a friend of my late father. But at this moment the heart contained something more than grief that was at war with the interests of its owner. It was pride. For the benefit of my young readers I admit the first of many foolish acts. A false notion of pride caused me to reject the boon my condition stood so much in need of. What? Clerk in an office in my native town, in which my father had been a man of repute—horrible! Then to be recognized in that situation by those who were yet independent of self-support—more horrible still. Or, finally, to be laughed at and discarded by former companions for having nobly accommodated myself to an unavoidable change of fortune—more horrible than all. These and kindred sensations alternately crossed the mind. Like the base seconds or cowardly backers of brave but misguided spirits in some ignoble encounter, they seemed to encourage a proud heart to defend a false position, whatever personal suffering might ensue. Alas! How frequent and severe is the penalty paid by sensitive but mistaken young minds to that subtle monster—pride. In page 8my subsequent travels round the world I beheld some of its effects. In the streets of Melbourne I have seen the well educated son of a bankrupt merchant carrying, in a baker's basket, the daily bread of others in order to obtain his own. In tracing the sad spectacle to its origin, I discovered that the bearer of the basket, rather than carry a small parcel in his native land, had abandoned a lucrative position, as the representative of an old and eminent mercantile house, in order to improve his position at the Antipodes. On the Gold Fields of Victoria, I have seen the son of a poor Baronet working, like an English "navvy," mid-deep in water—because in the mother country the pride of the aristocratic laborer prevented him accepting a subordinate government appointment which had, with difficulty, been obtained through the influence of his father. Farther in the interior of Australia, a picture of a still more distressing tendency arrested my attention. Riding one day over a part of the country in which kangaroos and apossums were more plentiful than the human race, I overtook a team of bullocks on their way to the remote station of a well known squatter. On asking the coarsely clad, unshaved, but youthful bullock driver the nearest way to the point whither I was bound, the young man, after having signalled his cattle to stop, looked intently at his inquisitor, raised both arms in a manner that indicated great surprise, and in a tone of voice that betrayed something between joy and madness, exclaimed:—

"I—can't be mistaken; no, I—"

Here he drew nearer the horse on which I was mounted, and after an earnest survey of the rider, sealed by a slight but expressive motion of the head right and left, he repeated with increased emphasis,

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"No; I can't be mistaken—I'm sure I can't. But you don't know me—no?"

"Indeed, I do not," I replied.

At this moment there confronted my vision a look I have never forgotten and can never forget. A fiery glance from the eye of the most eminent actor that ever lived never made a deeper impression on a spectator than was suddenly produced on the writer by the mute yet eloquent expression on the countenance of the bullock driver. It seemed to open out a volume—not in a word, but in a look That look conveyed to my mind twenty questions at a blush. Who, or what is he? To whom does he belong? From what part of the world did he come? As these and other queries were crossing the imagination they were interrupted by:—

"Yes; I know you well; but you don't wish to know me. You and I are not now—that is I am not what I was. I am the—the same person, but—"

His speech, faltered, and as he turned his head to conceal the tears that damped his cheek, I couldn't, for the life of me, avoid following suit, although satisfied the thing was altogether a mistake. Recovering his self-possession, the young man evidently wished to pass off, unnoticed, the symptoms of a sensitive heart, and in a volume of sound somewhat more bold than clear, he continued,

"When you have passed the next creek turn your horse to the right, and the rider will soon reach the spot he enquired for. Good morning, Sir. In time past I might have said, Frank."

The familiar sound of my own name, coupled with a style of speech superior to that of most bullock drivers, completely electrified me; and as the young man with-page 10drew to proceed with his team of cattle, I muttered a sort of half stifled "aye," or "ho-i," as a signal for him to return. This was answered by a clear and emphatic:—

"No, Sir. I have no wish to intrude my conversation or my company on anyone. Time was when Charles—, the present bullock driver, would have received a different sort of greeting from his old school-fellow."

The name of Charles—, the disfigured student, threw instant light on the subject. A moment, and I was dismounted; another, and the hands and arms of two old school-fellows were like so many pump-handles in rapid motion, while the liquid drops that bore testimony to the sincerity of the operation were as warm, if not so continuous, as any stream that ever flowed from a natural course.

What took place after the somewhat difficult task of personal recognition, or subsequently at the house of the squatter in whose service my friend filled an unenviable situation, may be passed without comment. Although the early history of one who had fallen from a good position to that of bullock driver was soon revealed, the details of that revelation will not be required here. It is enough for the reader to know that the primary cause of the young man's fall was—pride.

To perpetuate, or to redeem such a fall two things, in either case, are required—idleness and intemperance, or perseverance and sobriety. To continue in idleness and intemperance the fallen one may expect nothing but the ultimate and utter destruction both of mind and body. With perseverance and sobriety a young man, although disgraced and humbled by some false step or steps of his own, has every hope of future restoration. It was even so with my young friend the bullock driver. But the mind of that generous hearted young fellow had been so hum-page 11bled by a bitter consciousness of early errors that, of all who knew him, he himself was perhaps the least sanguine of his ever being able to raise himself from the level of what he called his "just deserts." He was too sincere in the conviction of past folly to estimate the real value of that heaven-born secret that creates a desire for an upward course. He was not one of those miserable objects who, under a faithless promise of reformation, obtain assistance from friends and relatives only to sink still lower in the depths of their own degradation. He had fallen, through the silly pride of early conceit, but he still retained the noble pride of self-respect. He had sacrificed his position, not his independence. After an interview in which a few of the bright traits of his character were seen, like specks of precious metal peeping through the mire, and when an old acquaintance, commiserating his position, tendered a little gold for his acceptance, he firmly but feelingly replied, "What have I done to merit this? No. Thank God, I am not yet a beggar or a pauper, and while I have strength to labor, I dare not become the recipient of charity. I thank you, my dear friend, for your kind offer. The Lord will bless you for it, and for your generous sympathy, but I should not myself be blessed in the possession of an unmerited gift."

Enough A summary of what followed may be given in a few words. There ever have been, and ever will be, in all countries and in all ages, people who, sooner or later, discover and appreciate good qualities—whether in a work of art or in a work of nature. Honesty, sobriety, industry, and morality were leading features in the character of the bullock driver. Although his master was not one of the most temperate of men, either in his living or his language, he beheld and admired in his servant virtues of which he page 12was himself deficient. He was, moreover, a rich man, but he was also an uneducated man. He found his servant to be the possessor of riches superior to his own—mental riches. The discovery induced him to regard the owner with respect. He improved his position, admitted him to his confidence, and subsequently gave him a share in his extensive domain. They were now no longer master and servant, squatter and bullock driver, but partners, The death of the former, which took place about two years after the business union, and the subsequent marriage of the latter with the only surviving daughter of his late master, will bring the narrative to a close. It only remains to add that the late bullock driver is, at this present writing, one of the most wealthy landowners in Australia. Yes; there is something else to add. He is now, as master, what he was, as servant,—though humble and kind hearted, yet great in his aspirations and deeds as a man, made greater in the purity of his motives as a Christian. Not a Christian known to the world through outward signs and professions, but one known by the poor and friendless, through the way in which he silently performs the Christian character in a variety of noble actions. He is now a rich man and a good man. I respect him now, but I loved him when he was a bullock driver. He is as worthy of love now as then; but then the nobleness of his character, and that alone, came forth and filled my heart with love; now his riches and his position seem, as it were, to deprive the heart of its early sympathy, and what was once the very essence of love is now changed into profound esteem.

The simple record of these and other realities, as this work proceeds, will need no literary adornment. If the facts are not strong enough to speak for themselves—if, page 13like the oral demonstration of little children, something be required to clear or brighten each subject—simplicity of action, like the natural movements of little children, will, perhaps, supply the deficiency. In describing my own acts, and those of others, I will not, for a moment, presume to say that similar acts will invariably produce the same results. I will give the substance of numerous truthful, some striking, incidents, without drawing on the imagination for external forms and flourishes. Of certain movements, whether giddy or grave, trifling or momentous, foolish or otherwise, the simple issue of each, so far as it has been developed, shall be given. In leaving my readers, especially my young readers, to consider whether the same or similar movements in life may not be attended with corresponding results, I will only express a sincere hope that they may arrive at conclusions not altogether adverse to their own welfare, and to the chief object of the author of the present pages.