The Chronicles of Early Melbourne/Volume 2/Appendix
APPENDIX.
INCIDENTS OCCURRING DURING THE PREPARATION OF "THE CHRONICLES."
SYNOPSIS:— Early Inspirations. —Dream-land Resolutions. —Personal Likes and Dislikes. —Reasons for a Nom-de-plume. —Conflicting Opinions of Critics. —Gratuitous "Story-tellers." —Hunting for a Gaol. —Rival Quasi-Authors. —Interviews with Mr. J. B. Were. —The Terminus within Sight. —De Mortuis Nil Nisi Justum. —Warning and Threatening Letters. —Sir John O'Shanassy's Prophecy. -Another Threatening Letter. —The Author's Life in Danger. —Rehearsal of an Unrecorded Intrigue. —"Garryowen" Fabled. —Origin of Nom-de-plume. —Lyrics and "Lie-rics." —National Panegyric.
AS a befitting sequel to the lengthened series of sketches recently concluded, it occurs to me that I could not do better than string together as an appendix several amusing incidents which occurred whilst I was engaged in their compilation, facts as droll and laughable as any of the hoary-headed events it was my duty to record.
Starting from the period when the coast of Gippsland was first descried from a discovery ship, the tree-bole or trunk of these Chronicles was to be constructed of the incidents occurring up to 1840, when Civil Government seemed to be firmly established, and Public Departments, Religious Communities, and Charitable and other Institutions began to take root and germinate. Each of those, as it showed itself, was to be treated as if a branch of the tree, until it either died off or stretched over the boundary line of 1851, when the province of Port Phillip ceased, and the colony of Victoria was created. After I had made a rough draft of my plan, started with the specifications, and commenced taking out the quantities, it slowly dawned upon my mind that I had undertaken a work of a much more pretentious, difficult, and lengthened nature than I had imagined; and for some days I had a strong notion of what in legal phraseology is termed "returning my brief." Though for thirteen years a general utility hand on the Herald, my strong points were sub-editing and miscellaneous news-mongering. I never credited myself with an aptitude for continuous writing, and I entertained considerable doubts as to my capacity to tackle such a job as my mind's eye glanced over, assuming the work to be turned out in a manner commensurate with its undoubted importance. In a condition of extreme mental disquietude I remained for some days, when one night I sat up late, and after two or three hours' anxious pondering over the vexed question whether to retreat or advance, I retired to bed, and was almost instantaneously a captive in the arms of Somnus. Towards morning, however, when the more reliable dreams are popularly supposed to be inspired, Morpheus must have appeared on the scene, for an apparition gazed upon me from above, in which I recognized the bust of the once well-known Father Geoghegan, pioneer priest of Port Phillip—the Soggarth Aroon of its early Catholicity. It seemed a life-like photograph of the man as I first beheld him in July, 1841, standing at the door of his cottage, on the St. Francis Church Reserve, Lonsdale Street. As I was about to speak the lips of the mysterious visitant moved, and the following words were impressively enunciated:— "My dear old friend, you have been requested, and you have promised to perform, a certain work. You are wavering about doing so. If not done by you, no one else can efficiently do it. The history of Early Melbourne should not remain unwritten. Be sure you do not leave it undone. Farewell." I was about to offer some reply, when the kindly and thoughtful face receded a little, the vision vanished, and I awoke with a start. In the course of the morning, whilst I was looking through an old note-book, I was struck by the remarkable coincidence that the day (15th May) corresponded exactly with the date of Father Geohegan's arrival here in 1839. In a moment my mind was made up, and though, as a rule, no believer in the supposed realities of dreamland, I resolved that my promise should be redeemed to the best of my ability. I forthwith set to work with zest, and in three years I not only hunted up all the materials, but finished the work, which largely expanded as I proceeded. How I accomplished this result is a marvel, for I never permitted it to interfere in any degree with my ordinary avocations, and 11 p.m. rarely, if ever, found me with pen in hand. But it was a labour of love, and I went into it with enthusiasm and thoroughness of purpose. Mind and matter would have occasionally curious tiffs, but the grosser element was always conquered. Often of an evening, after writing a little, a cigar would draw me off from my recreation, and after the "blowing of the cloud" a disinclination to return to the inkstand would creep through me, and I would say, "I shall write no more to-night." But the resolve would be brief, for in less than a quarter of an hour I would feel a muscular twitching starting from my elbow, and slowly reticulating downward, until it culminated in a veritable fit of 'cacoethes scribendi', and so irresistible that I could only rid myself of it, as merchants deal with a bad debt—by writing it off. An esteemed medical friend to whom I mentioned those (to me) unaccountable circumstances, assured me that it was simply the unconscious action of the brain upon the nervous system.
Some years ago there lived in Melbourne four individuals reputedly recognized authorities in all matters pertaining to the early history of not only the metropolis, but of Australia generally. They were Messrs. H. F. Gurner, G. W. Rusden, John J. Shillinglaw, and David Blair. Gurner and Blair had already attracted attention in the world of Chronicles; Rusden had his since well-knowm History in an advanced state, and Shillinglaw had on the stocks the Life of Flinders. This quartette, through some whim or other, I would not consult. Gurner and I were acquainted from an early period, but somehow or other I never took kindly to him. With Rusden I was in constant official intercourse for more than twenty years, with scarcely the interchange of one unpleasant word, and though for him I always entertained a strong liking (which I hope shall never be diminished), outside the Parliament House we were almost strangers to each other, and for this and other reasons needless to mention I did not feel disposed to take him into my confidence. Of Shillinglaw I did not personally know much; and though Blair and I were on sociably talkative terms when he sat in the Legislative Assembly, friendly relations between us were strained for years through some cause of which I have not the faintest conception. By the time my sketches made their public entrée, Gurner had ceased to exist, and soon after Rusden left the colony, so any opportunity I might have of ascertaining their opinions as to how I acquitted myself was lost. Shillinglaw was the first to frankly and manfully accept my Chronicles as a sort of text book on the questions of which they treated. He conferred on them the marked distinction of preservation as they appeared, had them bound and filed in his office for reference, and, to his and my extreme regret, I have learned that some unscrupulous, though genteel rascal, had the audacity one day, when the Shillinglaw eye was not in its normal state of wide-awakeness, to abstract one of the volumes, and leave the "Jack" set in a state of incompleteness.
For some time I was undecided whether I should issue the result of my endeavours under my own name, or adopt a nom-de-plume, and personally it did not weigh with me which course I pursued, for I was certain of one thing, viz., that no unpleasant consequences would arise, for it was my fixed resolve that I should do justice to the 'dead as well as to the living. Under all the circumstances existent, the conclusion was forced on me that an assumed authorship would leave me more unfettered in dealing with a few special incidents; but it was purposely arranged that the identity of the writer was to be a very "open secret," the anonymity more apparent than real, the consequence being that without any breaches of confidence the secret was permitted to leak out, and the writer's name soon became generally known. An advantage of much importance was the consequence, for it led to direct personal and epistolary communications containing suggestions and information of no small value. In the course of The Chronicles the almost transparent mask of impersonality was removed, and the writer revealed in propria persona, the same unpretentious and unbearded personage who has been a citizen of Melbourne for the last fifty years. After I had a few chapters off my hands, when the publication was commenced in the Herald, searching, writing, and printing went on in harmony. I was much gratified at finding my humble effort was most favourably received by the public generally, and in a short time I had most encouraging and complimentary assurances from quarters least expected. One journalistic friend (now dead) was most gushing in his anticipation of what I should do, before a line was in print. With the first chapter he expressed much pleasure, with the second he was delighted; but when I asked him what he thought of No. 3, he mildly shook his head, and replied with a gentle sigh, "Ah, my friend, it is growing rather flat." I laughingly rejoined, " Well A——————, if it be as you say, it cannot be helped; but of one thing I mAy assure you, there is such a long, galloping excursion before me, so many hills to be ascended, rivers to be forded, creeks to be swam, scrub to be penetrated, and ravines to be got through, that a now and then flat race canter will be a refreshing variation." In the afternoon of the same day, meeting a lady friend of considerable literary taste and discrimination, who was mistress of the "open secret" of the authorship, she congratulated m e on the incipient success I had attained, and on asking her what she thought of No. 3, the reply was, "Nothing could be much better; why, in the reading it seems to move like a train." This showed me how widely judges may differ.
As weeks rattled on I became the subject of that modern newspaper nuisance known as "interviewing," not by persons desirous of squeezing opinions out of me, but using me for personal purposes in the way of either chronicling themselves, or accepting as facts the most preposterous fictions that could be invented. Take the following as samples:— A seedy-looking grey-bearded Israelite called one day, and exhibited something like the half of a broken scissors, declared that with it he had shaved William Buckley, the historical "wild white man," and that this was the first "barber-ous" operation in the settlement. In reply to a question, he stated in a tone of egotistical triumph, that he had crossed Bass' Straits with Fawkner, an announcement which at once put him out of court with me, for Buckley was first,not only shaved, but shorn by the Batman party settled at Indented Head, to whom Buckley gave himself up on dissolving partnership with the Aborigines, after a thirty years' sojourn in the wilderness.
One morning I was accosted by an individual I had not previously known, who declared he well knew me. He was desirous of detailing some particulars of early snakes. He assured me without a smile that on a certain Sunday morning he was "rushed" by two of these reptiles and had to run for half-a-mile, when the snakes, "bested" by his fleetness, had to give up the hunt. It is a well ascertained fact that the Australian snakes never follow; if you bar their progress they will dash at you; if you tread upon one it will turn and bite, or if you unknowingly feel one. you may pay dearly for it; but aggression upon man constitutes no article of the snake's creed.
Another "story-teller" favoured me with a still more incredible achievement. He positively asserted, and was prepared to make a statutory declaration, that in October, 1839, he, with three or four families, had established himself in a temporary settlement near the present township of Whittlesea; that late one evening a girl was pounced upon by an "old man kangaroo," and carried off towards the Plenty Ranges. A pursuit party was at once improvised, and, after an eventful night's chase, the girl was found in a state of exhaustion, but with no more serious injuries than a few flesh wounds from tree-branches or scrub. This I noted as before, but never dreamed of printing it until now.
Another "story" was on account of the first execution by hanging in Port Phillip, which, according to the narrator, came off in December, 1840, immediately before Christmas. A woman had poisoned her husband, a cooper, residing in Little Bourke Street, for which she was hanged in William Street, near the now Victoria Market. She was conveyed to her doom on a dray drawn by four bullocks. The gallows was the limb of a wattle tree; the hangman a drunken convict, well-known as "Big Mick," who so bungled his work that when the culprit was turned off", the rope broke and she fell half neck-broken on the grass, whereupon "Mick," fearful of a flogging for his unhandy work, threw himself upon the writhing body and performed an act of strangulation. Beyond the existence of "Big Mick," (a notoriety of the town for ten years after), there was not an atom of truth in this yarn. It could not have been, for until 1841 there was no Court of Law in Melbourne possessed of a capital jurisdiction. The first execution did not happen until the 20th January, 1842, when two blackfellows were hanged for the murder of two sailors at Western Port.
I experienced much difficulty in fixing the precise locus of a certain old gaol. A veteran, who seldom failed me in emergencies when appealed to, reluctantly confessed that he knew of no such prison as the one wanted, adding with a chuckle, "a very good reason, too; for there never was one, as the first regular gaol was the brick building used as such in Collins Street West, near Spencer Street." My reply was to this effect, "The West Collins Street Gaol to which you refer was the third and not the first of Melbourne's 'Bridewells.' The first was a large wattle and daub hut thrown together on the Government block (the area contained between King, Spencer, Bourke, and Collins Streets), and burned down one night in 1838 by some black prisoners. The other was not occupied until January, 1840."
A know-nothing shake of the head only was the tongueless response of the Oracle, never before dumb to me. "Well," I continued, "As you are regularly stumped, and can do nothing, I must and will have a gaol for 1839, even if obliged to erect one."
Under the mingled influence of irritation and good humour, he exclaimed, "You must have a gaol, must you, though there was never such a one as you suppose? Well, then, build one, make it either a cabin or a palace if you like. Build it as big as the General Post Office, or the Parliament House. There is only myself in Melbourne that could, with any degree of authority, venture to contradict; and I promise, so help me ———— that whatever kind of a structure you may raise in print, I'll never say 'nay' to what you do."
As my history would be blurred by the awkward hiatus of no '39 gaol, I went to work to make one. Amongst some rare old documents lent me by Mr. Robert Russell, was copy of a receipt for a month's rent, given by John Batman, for the use of a brick building utilized as a gaol. The difficulty now was where was this tenement situated? In looking over a plan of Melbourne with the allotments disposed of at the primitive land auctions, with the names of the original purchasers, and the prices noted, I found that included in other Batman speculations were the half-acre lots from Collins to Flinders Streets, including the frontage to "William Street. This proved a step in the right direction; and finally, through the instrumentality of Mr. Thomas Halfpenny, corroborated in a slight degree by some early recollections of Mr. G. A. Mouritz, the Harbor Trust Secretary, little doubt was left that the missing '39 gaol was a two-storey stable-like building, rearward of where the Sydney Hotel has for many years stood, in William Street. In due time a true and correct description of the supposed apocryphal fastness appeared in type before the world, and the morning after, my first visitor was the individual first referred to, who warmly congratulated me on my success as a prison architect, and declared, that having read my lucubration, the whole thing was just as fresh in his mind as yesterday. It had completely dropped out of his memory. Nothing could possibly be more correct than my account of the place, even to the wide slits in the boarded ceiling, through which the lady captives, lodged in the upper storey, used to amuse themselves by making not very fragrant offerings to the "lords of creation" immured beneath them.[1]
I was much perplexed in fixing the situs of the first theatre in Bourke Street, known as the "Pavilion," and it was through the agency of a son of the late Richard Capper, the veteran actor, that I procured a rough sketch showing that the so-called " Temple of the Drama" was situated in the centre of the area now jointly occupied by Cole's Book Arcade and Hosie's Pie Mart. In the course of my inquiries a gentleman most positively assured me that this theatre was placed on the land now burdened by the General Post Office. My informant ought certainly be a tolerably sure authority on the point, for he was the leader of a band of the hot-blooded, overfilled larrikins of the age, who sallied forth one night from the Melbourne Club, and in the midst of an entertainment, attempted to capsize the structure. Still, to his chagrin, I disbelieved him, for at the time we spoke of, the Bourke and Elizabeth Streets reserve was tenanted by a small brick edifice, which for several years was devoted to Her Majesty's service in delivering and despatching letters and newspapers. The facts above narrated clearly prove how defective the best of memories may prove betimes.
Nothing could well be more amusing than the speculations as to the identity of "Garryowen," after The Chronicles commenced their appearance, and statements were made in my presence which required much facial control to avoid self-betrayal on my part. At least half-a-dozen times I heard their merits and demerits openly discussed, the subjects of commendation and censure, and twice in my hearing two pretenders severally declared that it was all their doing, and evidently considered themselves a species of public benefactor. I laughed mentally, never signifying the slightest dissent. One worthy in West Melbourne, and another at Prahran, in frequent references to the subject, invariably adopted the phrase "My Chronicles;" whilst a third in Carlton, when complimented as the writer, nodded forth a "Silence gives consent" acquiescence, heaved his shoulders, sniggered, rubbed his hands, and bleated forth "Do you think they are very good?" But the strangest case of all was a bonâ fide hallucination, where a poor demented old fellow really fancied himself "Garryowen," and whenever an instalment appeared in the Herald he went about reciting its contents. Arriving in Melbourne early in the "forties," a person of some education, he kept a private school for some time, then passed on to a mercantile desk, with a call to the "bar" as a licensed victualler in 1853, and thence dabbling in land and gold speculations was, in course of time stranded, having the moderately good luck of saving from the wreck a humble competence for life. The "Garryowen" craze seemed to be simply a mild and harmless monomania, for in all other respects he was rational as the average of humanity. He was personally known to me, and when I heard of some of his sayings and doings, I thought I should humour the joke, for whilst the self-delusion might gratify him, it could do me no possible harm. In a few months I was one day favoured with a communication from him, in which he proclaimed himself to be "Garryowen," and expressed a hope that I would grant him an interview. He assured me that he was the author of The Chronicles of Early Melbourne, and I would render him material aid in the arduous business he had on hand. Preserving my gravity, I at once dropped into his views, and it was arranged that he could see me whenever he liked, and I would assist him to any extent I conveniently could. This farce was continued for years. Now and then he would call upon me, and showing me marked passages, of my own handiwork, would ask my opinion. When in all sincerity I could do nothing else than praise, he would get so intensely excited as to dance like a Merry Andrew round the room. He would also interrogate me about the old times, with which he was very familiar. I never wilfully misled him, because from the tenor of his conversations he had sense enough to detect imposition. And so matters proceeded between us until the day after the publication of the last of The Chronicles when I was honoured with a visit, and he eagerly inquired what I thought of the wind up. My response was, of course, highly eulogistic, whereat the poor fellow's old eyes watered. I had then some thought of writing the present narrative, and I suggested to him that he should do it as a suitable finale to his magnum opus. I explained briefly what I fancied should be its general scope, whereat he clapped his hands gleefully, and with an ejaculation of "I understand—I'll do it—I'll do it!" fled from the room, and I have not seen him since.
Two or three of my funniest reminiscences sprang from conferences held with Mr. J. B. Were. He and I, though known to each other, had little or no personal intercourse until the publication of The Chronicles was well started, when I was much gratified by hearing that such a shrewd old colonist had mentioned to a friend that he felt deeply interested in them, and eulogized the style in which they were worked out. This I regarded as a special test of their value.
In the chapter intituled "The Supreme Court and the Minor Tribunals,"[2] appeared a truthful narrative of the "eccentricities" of our firs tResident Judge, the Honourable John Walpole Willis, with whom Mr. Were was more than once at loggerheads. One day, during the currency of the early part of the sketch, I was favoured with a note from Mr. Were, expressing a strong desire to see me, and asking for an appointment. I accordingly called at his office, was at once shown into his presence, and met with a flattering friendly reception. Mr. Were complimented me upon what I was doing, enlarged upon its importance, and tendered all the aid at his command in the way of verbal and documentary information, for which I felt duly grateful. Suddenly, however, in the course of our conversation he broke into an exclamation of "But, Mr. F——————, I see you have me hard and fast in gaol under a committal for contempt by that infernal old scoundrel Judge Willis. You must know how I afterwards got the upper hand of him, and was released with flying colours. I hope, therefore, as you have put me in you will bring me out in a becoming manner. Won't you?" For the moment I was non-plussed, and looked mystified into Mr. Were's face. I could not even guess at his meaning. Some days previously the particulars of the Supreme Court shindy appeared, in which Mr. Were figured in the hands of the Sheriff collaring him away to "chokey," in obedience to the Judge's mandate; but a day or two after, Mr. Were's release by order of Judge Jeffcott, the successor of Willis, was circumstantially circulated in type. It occurred to me that Mr. Were must have in some way or other missed this sub-section of the running sketch, and that he fancied himself still (figuratively) incarcerated, until it was my pleasure to enlarge him. I saw at a glance that I had him somewhat under my thumb, and as he was an imaginary "gaol-bird," I meant to keep him under bolt and bars as long as I could, the more effectually to make him useful to my purpose. On several subsequent occasions of meeting, Were would remark with a smile, "You haven't taken me out of gaol yet," or "When are you going to set me at liberty?" I believe that until he died he was under the impression that I had him still in the Willis limbo.
On another occasion there was quite an enjoyable encounter between us. I was about to write of the "Twelve Apostles," and only two of the "Saints" remained then on earth, from which both have been since removed by death—viz., Mr. J. B. Were, of Melbourne, and Mr. J. M . Woolley, of Adelaide. One day I called upon Mr. Were to obtain some information on the subject. He turned sharply round upon me, stared half aghast, and wholly surprised, and said, "Why, man, surely you have no notion of disinterring that miserable, forgotten affair? If you do, you will bring trouble on your head, for as no one except myself can give you any reliable particulars, and that I am not disposed to do, your version will be a distorted one, and as there are children and grandchildren of the 'Apostles' now alive and prospering in the colony, you will offend them, and they would be down upon you with a vengeance. Take a friend's advice, therefore, and wash your hands of the thing altogether."
I quietly answered, "Mr. Were, I am writing the The Chronicles of Early Melbourne, which would not be complete without a reference to such an episode, so be the consequences what they may, the 'Apostles' shall most unquestionably grace a niche in my portrait gallery."
Then, rejoined he, "Well, of course, as you will not profit by my warning, perhaps you will not object to answer me one question. From what sources have you drawn your information about them?" "Certainly not," said I. "The materials to be employed in the Apostolic Notice were procured from some Melbourne newspapers of 1842-3, from Mr. W. F. A. Rucker, the Arch-Priest of the sanctified circle, from Mr. William Highett, Manager of the Union Bank at the period of the negotiations, and from Mr. D. C. M'Arthur, Manager of the Bank of Australasia."
This intimation caused Mr. Were to considerably collapse, and he calmly replied, "Well, I'll tell you what had better be done. I shall supply you in the course of a week with as fairly written and full a notice of the 'Twelve Apostles' as I possibly can, and one that I think it will be quite safe for you to print."
A thought struck me that, by the sudden change of front, a bait was adroitly laid for me, so, with something of a gushing thanksgiving, went my way, and in the course of three or four days I received from under Mr. Were's hand an account of the transaction, written with a tolerable degree of fairness; but tinctured with an ex parte animus, not perhaps unreasonable, under the circumstances. It was so phrased that the writer evidently intended and thought that I would adopt it as my own. But in this he miscalculated, for I attached it as an appendix to my own sketch, accounting for its appearance by stating that it had been found amongst the papers of one of the "Apostles," and placed at my service. After its appearance in print, on coming across Mr. Were, he smilingly replied, "Well, I read your sketch of the 'Twelve Apostles,' and nothing could be fairer or better done. You will permit me, however, to add, Mr. F——————, that though you are generally supposed to be a very near-sighted individual, I apprehend that when you are on the look-out, it would take a rather sharp-eyed fellow to get at the blind side of you."
The next time I saw Mr. Were was our last meeting in this world, and it was caused by the receipt of the following communication:—
Wellington, 1st May, 1885.
Brighton Beach.
Dear Mr. Finn,—
I have been under the doctor's care for the last six months, suffering from an attack of jaundice, and have become very emaciated with wasting and loss of appetite. I am ordered to Riverina for change of climate, and I leave on Monday morning. If you can see me this evening, or at any time to-morrow, I am gathering some papers which I desire to hand you, and to have the pleasure of a short conversation with you. The terminus is within sight, and a very short distance from my house.
Yours faithfully,
J. B. Were.
Edmund Finn, Esq.,
Parliament House, Melbourne.
After reading the foregoing I handed it to a friend sitting by me, remarking that the "terminus" mentioned therein was intended as a way-mark to point to my intended destination; but a something seemed to foreshadow it as the terminus of the writer's long and not unnotable terrestrial career. It might, had I been conscious of it, have been taken as the indicator of another terminus, then approaching, but unseen, viz., the end of my own official existence, for on the same morning I, for the first time, felt a defect of vision, which so increased during the ensuing two months as to leave me no alternative than to sever my connexion with a branch of Her Majesty's service, in which I had been engaged for nearly thirty years.
In compliance with his desires, I visited Mr. Were that afternoon, and noticed such a striking change in his appearance and manner as to leave but little doubt that if not absolutely in sight, the "terminus" was not far off. He commissioned me to offer, in his name, to the Public Library Museum, a life-size picture of himself, and a quaintly-capped Consular stick, a presentation made to him some years previously. He also deposited in my hands some rare and valuable documents, in print and manuscript, relating to an age now past, and a few of the early Melbourne Directories. Shaking hands with Mr. Were, w e parted with mutual good wishes; but I never saw his face again.
The Hon. Roger Therry was the third Resident Judge at Port Phillip. After a short tenure he returned to Sydney, and remained Judge Therry there for several years. On his retirement, as an agreeable variation for his judicial mind, he amused himself by writing the Chronicles of Early Sydney; but stirred up the foul and stagnant waters of by-gone convictism so much that his book was voluntarily suppressed soon after its publication. This is a rock of which I have purposely steered clear. In Melbourne there was a goodly admixture of the dregs of Cockatoo Island and Port Macquarie absorbed in the primary population, and had I liked I could have done a little in the Therry style. But though at work in the rôle of a "fossicker," I spurned that of a social vidangeur. I would never willingly hurt the feelings of survivors who, by a life of honest toil, purged themselves of the dross of any wrong-doing legally expiated by others. A considerable tract of my wanderings lay as if through a large cemetery, and along this gruesome journey I trod lightly over the graves of departed friends and foes alike. De mortuis nil nisi bonum is an adage which the impartial writer cannot always adopt, and I preferred to substitute De mortuis nil nisi justum. So strictly did I act up to this, that only on three occasions was my verdict challenged, thrice only was I positively contradicted by persons by no means as conversant with the facts disputed as I was, and in each of the instances I amply vindicated my first assertions.
When the chapter on "Remarkable Trials" began its appearance, a small scare was caused in certain self-accusing quarters; and the Editor of the Herald received a letter from one of the alarmists begging of him to discontinue the publication, to "stay the hand of Garryowen," or terrible consequences might result. The communication was forwarded for my perusal, and my reply was such as to remove all apprehension that I would wantonly abuse the trust I had assumed. The Editor, however, very properly took the precaution to tear off the guaranteeing namee confidentially given; yet I was well acquainted with the correspondent's handwriting, and consequently his identity. The reason for his attempted embargo was that more than thirty years previously he was the occupant of a small squatting station, and one day in a quarrel with a shepherd, a pistol he held went off, slightly wounding his antagonist. For this he was indicted at the Criminal Sessions, where I was present, and reported the case for the Herald, and so thoroughly did the prosecution break down that myself and two fellow-reporters, in anticipation, noted a verdict of acquittal. The Judge's charge to the Jury plainly pointed to the same result, yet the twelve wiseacres found the accused guilty, whereupon the Judge, to emphatically mark his sense of the issue, sentenced the prisoner to a fine of sixpence, with imprisonment until such sum was paid. This was a case which I never thought of noticing. The sixpence was, of course, immediately forthcoming, and the marksman, whose firearm was accidentally discharged in the tussle, went his way rejoicing. He was then residing in a Melbourne suburb, in "the sere and yellow leaf," and when he perused my notice he knew for the first time that the absence of his case from the string of "Remarkable Trials," was not owing to his blustrous, threatening letter, but to m y sense of what was worth recording, and what was not.
Another case, not in some respects dissimilar, was tried in Melbourne some forty years ago. A well-to-do colonist was accused of having forged and uttered the name of his brother-in-law to a bill of exchange with intent to defraud, &c., but there was no evidence forthcoming as to the counterfeit signature, and the charge fell through. For my omission of this I was warmly thanked by surviving relatives, though deserving nothing of the sort. The fact was that in both instances no bill ought to have been filed; but "Old Jemmy" Croke, the Crown Prosecutor, though at all times fairly conscientious, was occasionally wanting in the useful faculty of discretion.
The late Sir John O'Shanassy took a keen interest in m y scribblings. Arrived here in 1839, and always a shrewd observer of men and manners, no one was more conversant with the shoals and shallows, the rocks, reefs, and quicksands through which I had to steer. But he estimated the dangers of the trip as much more risky than I did, for I held myself to be cool and cautious at the helm in all weathers; and with my long local experience to act both as chart and compass, and my journalistic knowledge as a self-acting buoy, to warn me at all points of danger, I never doubted my capacity to weather the storm, and return to port with the ensign of success fluttering from the mast-head. After I had sailed out of harbour without any mishap, O'Shanassy seemed really delighted with the exit; but when I met in open sea the cluster of islets, on each of which one of the primitive churches of Melbourne—figuratively speaking—was erected, proclaiming themselves as so many "salvation lighthouses," he grew nervous at the intricacy of the sailing, and warned me to keep a sharp look out for danger signals. Subsequently, up to his death, he gave me an occasional warning, but I entertained not the slightest apprehension on my own account. At length he resigned the unthanked office of Mentor in disgust, with a semi-prophetic intimation that, before the last of my sketches saw the light of publicity, I should see myself on the inside of a gaol, for it was humanly impossible for me to escape entanglement in the meshes of the law. Need I say now that Sir John's well-meant prognostications remain unrealized?
But though I contrived to elude the gaoler, I was not so fortunate in escaping threatened violence in two instances, though in both it eventuated in a brutum fulmen. The first explosion was something of a surprise, and wrapped up in the subjoined epistle:—
Melbourne, 14th January, 1885.
Edmund Finn, Esq.,— Sir,— I have heard (but it is well for you the report is not corroborated by ocular demonstration) that you have referred to my father in your Chronicles of Early Melbourne. If you have done so, and you intend to publish your Chronicles in book form, I warn you to omit his name from the latter; otherwise you may have reason to regret not having taken this warning. If my father's Colonial career should ever be referred to, I want it done by an honest, fearless, truthful, out-spoken manly historian. Without seeming to criticise your performance, I may remark that I believe Mr. John O'Shanassy was right when, according to your own account, he informed you that you could not honestly and conscientiously perform your work without giving mortal offence to individuals, and subjecting yourself and your publishers to countless criminal libel prosecutions and civil actions. The few of your published papers which I have read confirm me in that opinion. Your Chronicles, excuse me for being plain spoken, appear to me to be made up of a lot of wishy-washy inane trash, which, while on the one hand it gives no offence, on the other is not worth perusal. In steering clear of libel prosecutions and civil actions you omit all the metaphorical wheat of Melbourne history, and retain only the metaphorical chaff. For example, so far as I have heard, you have said nothing in your Chronicles of that swindler ——————; of the Catholics of Melbourne having petitioned Pope Pius the Ninth for his removal from the diocese; of his having swindled the creditors of St. Patrick's College out of their just claims; of his having swindled Father ——————'s estate, and Father ——————'s estate, and my father's estate; of his having swindled Father —————— out of two and half years' salary; of his having committed felony by obtaining from Mr. —————— through me, three hundred pounds under false pretences; of his —————— especially his cast off ——————, who afterwards lived with that fellow for about four years, &c., &c., and so of a hundred other matters. Your Chronicles, before they are worthy of perusal, must contain some of the pith and point, the ideas, the facts, of Melbourne history. The deficiency (from the supplying of which you unmanfully, cowardly, shrink), and which renders your work worthless, I intend to supply at an early date in a book on this colony.—Yours obediently,
——————
The name of the writer of this uncalled-for effusion is, for his own sake, suppressed, and I have also taken the liberty of subjecting it to a process of emasculation by the insertion of certain blanks for the names of individuals. It will give some idea of the reason why I have incurred his wrath, when I declare that the only reference made to his father in my Chronicles was, when I introduced him as an old and trusted public officer, describing him as a "good, worthy man, much and widely respected in his day."
Threat No. 2, though much more minatory and to the point, was as amusing as unpremeditated. One evening in October, 1885, thousands of Herald readers were entertained by the perusal of a romantically tragic narrative of a summer house, a lady, the shooting of an apple-stealer, and the retreat of a disappointed, though unwounded, lover. The next day in Bourke Street, meeting an old friend, who had been a "wild oats" sower in his youth, clapping me on the shoulder he declared that for years past he had not read anything half so good as my sketch headed "Crossing the Garden Wall." "From what I heard of it when it occurred," he continued, "it is a most accurate account of what happened. But why the deuce didn't you put in So-and-so's (the runaway's) name?"
"Surely," responded I, "You wouldn't have me do such a mean thing, considering the supremely edifying and sanctified life he is now leading. Suppose it was your own case, hww would you like to be pilloried, in the present improved condition of social immorality."
He reddened in the face, puffed out his cheeks and vehemently exclaimed, "Me! do you mean? How dare you even imagine that I could be in any way mixed up with such a disgraceful imbroglio. My name has been always, 'like Cæsar's wife, above suspicion,' and if you have anything to tell of me, out with it by all means, for I give you my full permission to proclaim it to the world."
I quietly smiled, and thus said:— "Exactly this time, forty years, when George Coppin was performing in Smith's Queen Street Theatre, a ludicrous melée happened one night at a small cottage temple of Aspasia, perched near the play-house. The dramatis personæ in the domestic farce consisted of the 'lady of the mansion,' a Government official some way advanced in years, and a much younger man, bearing precisely the three names you own to-day. Now, have a little patience with me. A verbal altercation was got up between the men, which rapidly advanced to a scuffle, in which the old man was half strangled by the gallantry of his more active opponent, when, just in time to avert a Coroner's inquest, the damsel, decidedly the most manly of the trio, armed herself with a sweeping-brush, and with genuine Amazonian pluck, tackled the young fellow from behind, and so 'polled' him with the brush, that he dropped as if shot to the ground. Medical treatment was promptly improvised, and the prostrate hero slowly succeeded in recovering his senses through the combined influence of brandy, vinegar, hot water and salt, internally and externally applied, and with a flannelled head-piece he left the field of battle a wiser, and as was hoped, a better man."
"And do you mean to print that stuff in the Chronicles?" hoarsely whispered he, and an answer in the affirmative was given.
"Let me put one question to you," said he. "Do you know, sir, that I am a grandfather?" "I don't care," replied I, "If you were even a great grandfather. As it cannot concern you there is no need for such excitement."
"Look you here," hissed he through his gnashing teeth, "So sure as I am a living man, should you give effect to your stated intention, and publish the facts just mentioned, the morning after its appearance I will pounce upon you at your office, and kill you on the spot. The Parliament House will be no sanctuary for you, for no matter what the consequences—even were I to swing for it—I'll murder you as sure as my name is what it is. Be warned, therefore, for your life depends on how you act."
"Shut up your bounce," I retorted in a pretended scoffing tone. "I care no more about your insane threats than I do of that," (snapping my fingers). "On this evening week (D.V.) the Queen Street fracas will appear in the Herald; and at eleven next morning, should you so wish 'We shall meet again at Philippi.' So until then
'Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well.'"
I had not the slightest intention of doing what I had jocularly intimated. My threat was simply to reduce his "tall talk," but I learned that he had passed through a harrowing ordeal during the suspense week, for he believed I meant to gibbet him, and we rarely have a talk without reference to the terrible "rise" I took out of him.
The Nomenclative Origin of "Garryowen."
The pseudonym of "Garryowen," the curiosity as to its derivation and meaning, and the phases of mispronunciation through which it was squeezed, were sources of intense amusement to me. Irishmen, as a rule, were equal to both difficulties, but in English, Scotch, Welsh, and other European mouths the unoffending tri-syllable fared roughly. From "Garryowen" it was twisted into "Grioune," "Girone," "Groan," "Gron," "Groin" and "Grun," at all of which I laughed; but when a most particular friend once, in Collins Street, sang out, "Well, Grin, my boy, how long are we to be without seeing the end of your Sketches?" the best thing I could do was to "grin" and bear it. Included in my friendly circle is a worthy Frenchman, who had acquired a taste for English literature. He read my Chronicles as they appeared, and felt an interest in them which I appreciated much, as emanating from an "enlightened foreigner." But the term "Garryowen" he could not master, and it underwent several grotesque lacerations in his efforts to articulate it. In its course of transformations it became "Garringyong," "Grayiyong," "Carry-on," until finally it was "Carrion' on his tongue. I promised that I would explain it to his satisfaction, and, so as to keep my word, I worked up the following little fable. With a serio-comic face I told him that my ancestry in the male line sprang from an unit of the hardy Border Frenchmen once located on a spur of the Pyrenees, not far from where the famed river, the Garonne, rushes along en route to the Atlantic. In the course of time one of them found his way to Ireland amongst the Norman invaders, and having secured a large confiscated estate on the banks of the Shannon, and, what was better, a winsome Irish wife, and by becoming "more Irish than the Irish themselves," contributed towards the coinage of the historic adage, ipsis Hibernis Hiberniores. The territory so acquired he named "Garonne," as a memento of his birthplace, and in the course of time the term got to be so softened by the contact of centuries with Celtic tongues, that it was imperceptibly modulated into "Garryowen," which could be simply regarded as the Hibernicised nomenclature of the French river. Ergo, as a Franco-Irishman by descent, and proud of my mixed extraction, I held the designation in such high esteem that I brought it with me from the Emerald Isle, resolved to do all in my power to transplant it in the country of my adoption. Such was the Why and Wherefore of "Garryowen." Monsieur, though in many respects as canny as the proverbial Scotchman, was unconsciously trapped, and thenceforth he was as well pleased with both title and story as one could possibly be. The term was no longer "carrion" to his palate, and he succeeded in mastering its orthodox pronunciation as well as the most undiluted Mononian in Victoria could do. This revelation would remain unmade had not my worthy friend returned to La belle France, and is not likely to revisit the Antipodes.
But to wind up these Chronicles without recounting the real origin of "Garryowen" might by some be deemed an unpardonable omission, and I therefore append a précis of the circumstances attending its birth and adoption as one of the National airs of Ireland:— Once on a time, and a very good time it was, to use the phraseology of ancient story-tellers, Limerick, the historic capital of Munster, had amongst its surroundings a picturesque suburb, in which abode an old fellow named Owen, who possessed some taste as an horticulturist, and founded a species of tea-garden, which soon grew into a favourite place of recreation on Sundays and holidays; for, supplementary to the flowers and the tea, a certain kind of home-made fluid, which never paid any excise duty, and was known as potheen (pot whisky), was surreptitiously introduced; so that with junketings, dancing, fiddling, bagpiping, and tippling, the proprietor succeeded in rendering his limited dominion such a pleasure-ground as made it a popular rendezvous for the light-hearted and fun-loving folk of both sexes so characteristic of the Limerick of the period. It was called "Garryowen"—Anglice—Owen's Garden— add after old Owe n was gathered to his fathers, the "garden" in process of years began to degenerate, and ultimately yielded to other and later sources of attraction. But there was something so unaccountably fascinating in the name that Limerick could not permit it to be obliterated, and so it got transferred to the street or suburb, which in course of time grew rather loose and boisterous in its habits; but "Garryowen" remains to this day, and will so for ever.
Gerald Griffin did something to perpetuate the name by writing of "Garryowen" as the birthplace of the never-to-be-forgotten Colleen Bawn, the heroine of his beautiful novel, "The Collegians." What was often a very rowdy quarter in reality owes its immortality to the singular fact that a miserable "larrikin" doggerel, misnamed a comic song, has been written, under the style and title of "Garryowen," to one of those thrilling Irish airs, so many of which had been wandering wordless for centuries through the musical traditions of the Irish people, until Moore and other bards of "green Erin of the streams" came to the rescue, and wedded some of them to melodies which will adorn the English language as long as it lives. The air is as old as the hills, and it was only in the middle of the last century that it was provided with an accompaniment—as grotesque and incompatible a union as if a blue-blooded spiritualized maiden were to be married to a rough, drinking, rowdy rake-hell. Though the so-called lyric (lie-ric) may be pronounced as virtually defunct, the tune is still alive, and will remain so. It was adopted as one of the standard favourites with military bands in the Old Country, was played on every modern battlefield whereIrishmen have helped to conquer, and has acquired a popularity simply indestructible.
From my childhood "Garryowen," as one of the most electrifying of the winged warblers of Irish minstrelsy, fluttered around me. It is the name of one of the most cherished of Hibernian musical airs, as old as the Milesians, and as popular as the famous trifolium ripens—
"The chosen leaf
Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's Native Shamrock !"
As I advanced in life, year by year, I heard it tuned thousands of times—played by military and amateur bands; and piped, fiddled, whistled, and danced to, publicly and privately, at all sorts of reunions, from a wedding to a "pattern," from a hurling match to a faction fight. When I emigrated, a schoolboy, to this country, I brought it with me as a cheap but treasured souvenir of the land I had left and still love; for that I am an Irishman, not only by birth but to the heart's core is a pride and pleasure for me at all opportune times to avow. I believe the grand Old Country of my nativity to be the dearest and brightest spot on all the great earth's surface; that it is, in the language of a once distinguished North-Irelander (Dr. Drennan), "the Emerald of Europe," and
"In the ring of the world the most precious stone—"
"is inaccessible to reason and irreclaimable by experience," the consequence being generations of misgovernment and injustice. The gem, however, may recover its pristine lustre, not by crude and hastily compounded political nostrums, but by a well-considered, equitably-devised system of genuine Home Rule, preserving the Imperial connection, rigidly protecting or compensating vested rights, and framed in the interests of all classes—a legislative guarantee for the welfare of the country North and South; not a mere Local Government Act, but a Magna Charta—to be used as a lever wherewith to raise Ireland to a position to which she would be in every way equal, when the inevitable finale would be "peace and prosperity."
I was not long a Port Phillipian ere I was affected by a penchant for dabbling in newspaper writing, and, as a singular matter of fact, my first contribution was a letter to the Herald in 1844, signed "Garryowen," and this was the first time the word saw itself in print in the colony. At the Grand Separation Festivity, the first fancy ball in the colony, in 1850, in concert with a dear, but now dead, Colleen Bawn, I assumed the character of " Garryowen." On several occasions since I adopted other sobriquets in journalistic amusements, but there was a time-hallowed charm surrounding the Limerick word that I was unable to dispel, and consequently a few years ago I made up my mind that when anonymously writing it should be my future literary trade-mark. I have kept my word, and it would be a singular repetition of History were the term to become so interwoven with the traditions and babyhood of the Premier City of the Southern Cross, as to be quoted by future generations, when the writer as an individual and an "Old Colonist" shall be utterly forgotten.