For the Term of His Natural Life

by Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke

  Bathurst, February 11th, 1846.

  In turning over the pages of my journal, to note the good fortune thathas just happened to me, I am struck by the utter desolation of my lifefor the last seven years.

  Can it be possible that I, James North, the college-hero, the poet, theprizeman, the Heaven knows what else, have been content to live on atthis dreary spot--an animal, eating and drinking, for tomorrow I die?Yet it has been so. My world, that world of which I once dreamt so much,has been--here. My fame--which was to reach the ends of the earth--haspenetrated to the neighbouring stations. I am considered a "goodpreacher" by my sheep-feeding friends. It is kind of them.

  Yet, on the eve of leaving it, I confess that this solitary life has notbeen without its charms. I have had my books and my thoughts--thoughat times the latter were but grim companions. I have striven with myfamiliar sin, and have not always been worsted. Melancholy reflection."Not always!" "But yet" is as a gaoler to bring forth some monstrousmalefactor. I vowed, however, that I would not cheat myself in thisdiary of mine, and I will not. No evasions, no glossings over of my ownsins. This journal is my confessor, and I bare my heart to it.

  It is curious the pleasure I feel in setting down here in black andwhite these agonies and secret cravings of which I dare not speak. It isfor the same reason, I suppose, that murderers make confession todogs and cats, that people with something "on their mind" are given tothinking aloud, that the queen of Midas must needs whisper to the sedgesthe secret of her husband's infirmity. Outwardly I am a man of God,pious and grave and softly spoken. Inwardly--what? The mean, cowardly,weak sinner that this book knows me...Imp! I could tear you inpieces!...One of these days I will. In the meantime, I will keep youunder lock and key, and you shall hug my secrets close. No, old friend,with whom I have communed so long, forgive me, forgive me. You are to meinstead of wife or priest.

  I tell to your cold blue pages--how much was it I bought you for inParramatta, rascal?--these stories, longings, remorses, which I wouldfain tell to human ear could I find a human being as discreet as thou.It has been said that a man dare not write all his thoughts and deeds;the words would blister the paper. Yet your sheets are smooth enough,you fat rogue! Our neighbours of Rome know human nature. A man mustconfess. One reads of wretches who have carried secrets in their bosomsfor years, and blurted them forth at last. I, shut up here withoutcompanionship, without sympathy, without letters, cannot lock up mysoul, and feed on my own thoughts. They will out, and so I whisper themto thee.

  What art thou, thou tremendous power Who dost inhabit us without ourleave, And art, within ourselves, another self, A master self that lovesto domineer?

  What? Conscience? That is a word to frighten children. The conscience ofeach man is of his own making. My friend the shark-toothed cannibal whomStaples brought in his whaler to Sydney would have found his consciencereproach him sorely did he refuse to partake of the feasts made sacredby the customs of his ancestors. A spark of divinity? The divinity that,according to received doctrine; sits apart, enthroned amid sweet music,and leaves poor humanity to earn its condemnation as it may? I'll havenone of that--though I preach it. One must soothe the vulgar sensesof the people. Priesthood has its "pious frauds". The Master spoke inparables. Wit? The wit that sees how ill-balanced are our actions andour aspirations? The devilish wit born of our own brain, that sneers atus for our own failings? Perhaps madness? More likely, for there are fewmen who are not mad one hour of the waking twelve. If differing fromthe judgment of the majority of mankind in regard to familiar things bemadness, I suppose I am mad--or too wise. The speculation draws near tohair-splitting. James North, recall your early recklessness, your ruin,and your redemption; bring your mind back to earth. Circumstances havemade you what you are, and will shape your destiny for you without yourinterference. That's comfortably settled!

  Now supposing--to take another canter on my night-mare--that man isthe slave of circumstances (a doctrine which I am inclined to believe,though unwilling to confess); what circumstance can have brought aboutthe sudden awakening of the powers that be to James North's fitness forduty?

  HOBART TOWN, Jan. 12th.

  "DEAR NORTH,--I have much pleasure in informing you that you can beappointed Protestant chaplain at Norfolk Island, if you like. It seemsthat they did not get on well with the last man, and when my advice wasasked, I at once recommended you for the office. The pay is small, butyou have a house and so on. It is certainly better than Bathurst, andindeed is considered rather a prize in the clerical lottery.

  "There is to be an investigation into affairs down there. Poor oldPratt--who went down, as you know, at the earnest solicitation of theGovernment--seems to have become absurdly lenient with the prisoners,and it is reported that the island is in a frightful state. Sir Eardleyis looking out for some disciplinarian to take the place in hand.

  "In the meantime, the chaplaincy is vacant, and I thought of you."

  I must consider this seeming good fortune further.

  February 19th.--I accept. There is work to be done among those unhappymen that may be my purgation. The authorities shall hear me yet--thoughinquiry was stifled at Port Arthur. By the way, a Pharaoh had arisenwho knows not Joseph. It is evident that the meddlesome parson, whocomplained of men being flogged to death, is forgotten, as the men are!How many ghosts must haunt the dismal loneliness of that prison shore!Poor Burgess is gone the way of all flesh. I wonder if his spiritrevisits the scenes of its violences? I have written "poor" Burgess.

  It is strange how we pity a man gone out of this life. Enmity isextinguished when one can but remember injuries. If a man had injuredme, the fact of his living at all would be sufficient grounds for me tohate him; if I had injured him, I should hate him still more. Is thatthe reason I hate myself at times--my greatest enemy, and one whom Ihave injured beyond forgiveness? There are offences against one's ownnature that are not to be forgiven. Isn't it Tacitus who says "thehatred of those most nearly related is most inveterate"? But--I amtaking flight again.

  February 27th, 11.30 p.m.--Nine Creeks Station. I do like to be accuratein names, dates, etc. Accuracy is a virtue. To exercise it, then.Station ninety miles from Bathurst. I should say about 4,000 head ofcattle. Luxury without refinement. Plenty to eat, drink, and read.Hostess's name--Carr. She is a well-preserved creature, aboutthirty-four years of age, and a clever woman--not in a poetical sense,but in the widest worldly acceptation of the term. At the same time, Ishould be sorry to be her husband. Women have no business with a brainlike hers--that is, if they wish to be women and not sexual monsters.Mrs. Carr is not a lady, though she might have been one. I don't thinkshe is a good woman either. It is possible, indeed, that she has knownthe factory before now. There is a mystery about her, for I was informedthat she was a Mrs. Purfoy, the widow of a whaling captain, and hadmarried one of her assigned servants, who had deserted her five yearsago, as soon as he obtained his freedom. A word or two at dinner set methinking. She had received some English papers, and, accounting for herpre-occupied manner, grimly said, "I think I have news of my husband."I should not like to be in Carr's shoes if she has news of him! I don'tthink she would suffer indignity calmly. After all, what business is itof mine? I was beguiled into taking more wine at dinner than I needed.Confessor, do you hear me? But I will not allow myself to be carriedaway. You grin, you fat Familiar! So may I, but I shall be eaten withremorse tomorrow.

  March 3rd.--A place called Jerrilang, where I have a head and heartache."One that hath let go himself from the hold and stay of reason, and liesopen to the mercy of all temptations."

  March 20th.--Sydney. At Captain Frere's.--Seventeen days since I haveopened you, beloved and detested companion of mine. I have more thanhalf a mind to never open you again! To read you is to recall to myselfall I would most willingly forget; yet not to read you would be toforget all that which I should for my sins remember.

  The last week has made a new man of me. I am no longer morose,despairing, and bitter, but genial, and on good terms with
fortune. Itis strange that accident should have induced me to stay a week under thesame roof with that vision of brightness which has haunted me so long.A meeting in the street, an introduction, an invitation--the thing isdone.

  The circumstances which form our fortunes are certainly curious things.I had thought never again to meet the bright young face to which Ifelt so strange an attraction--and lo! here it is smiling on me daily.Captain Frere should be a happy man. Yet there is a skeleton in thishouse also. That young wife, by nature so lovable and so mirthful, oughtnot to have the sadness on her face that twice to-day has clouded it.He seems a passionate and boorish creature, this wonderful convictdisciplinarian. His convicts--poor devils--are doubtless disciplinedenough. Charming little Sylvia, with your quaint wit and weird beauty,he is not good enough for you--and yet it was a love match.

  March 21st.--I have read family prayers every night since I have beenhere--my black coat and white tie gave me the natural pre-eminence insuch matters--and I feel guilty every time I read. I wonder what thelittle lady of the devotional eyes would say if she knew that I am amiserable hypocrite, preaching that which I do not practise, exhortingothers to believe those marvels which I do not believe? I am a cowardnot to throw off the saintly mask, and appear as a Freethinker. Yet, amI a coward? I urge upon myself that it is for the glory of God I holdmy peace. The scandal of a priest turned infidel would do more harmthan the reign of reason would do good. Imagine this trustful woman forinstance--she would suffer anguish at the thoughts of such a sin, thoughanother were the sinner. "If anyone offend one of these little ones itwere better for him that a millstone be hanged about his neck andthat he be cast into the sea." Yet truth is truth, and should bespoken--should it not, malignant monitor, who remindest me how often Ifail to speak it? Surely among all his army of black-coats our worthyBishop must have some men like me, who cannot bring their reason tobelieve in things contrary to the experience of mankind and the laws ofnature.

  March 22nd.--This unromantic Captain Frere had had some romanticincidents in his life, and he is fond of dilating upon them. It seemsthat in early life he expected to have been left a large fortune by anuncle who had quarrelled with his heir. But the uncle dies on the dayfixed for the altering of the will, the son disappears, and is thoughtto be drowned. The widow, however, steadfastly refuses to believe inany report of the young man's death, and having a life-interest in theproperty, holds it against all comers. My poor host in consequence comesout here on his pay, and, three years ago, just as he is hoping that thedeath of his aunt may give him opportunity to enforce a claim as nextof kin to some portion of the property, the long-lost son returns,is recognized by his mother and the trustees, and installed in dueheirship! The other romantic story is connected with Frere's marriage.He told me after dinner to-night how his wife had been wrecked when achild, and how he had saved her life, and defended her from the rudehands of an escaped convict--one of the monsters our monstrous systembreeds. "That was how we fell in love," said he, tossing off his winecomplacently.

  "An auspicious opportunity," said I. To which he nodded. He is notoverburdened with brains, I fancy. Let me see if I can set down someaccount of this lovely place and its people.

  A long low white house, surrounded by a blooming garden. Wide windowsopening on a lawn. The ever glorious, ever changing sea beneath. It isevening. I am talking with Mrs. Frere, of theories of social reform,of picture galleries, of sunsets, and new books. There comes a soundof wheels on the gravel. It is the magistrate returned from hisconvict-discipline. We hear him come briskly up the steps, but we go ontalking. (I fancy there was a time when the lady would have run tomeet him.) He enters, coldly kisses his wife, and disturbs at once thecurrent of our thoughts. "It has been hot to-day. What, still no letterfrom head-quarters, Mr. North! I saw Mrs. Golightly in town, Sylvia, andshe asked for you. There is to be a ball at Government House. We mustgo." Then he departs, and is heard in the distance indistinctly cursingbecause the water is not hot enough, or because Dawkins, his convictservant, has not brushed his trousers sufficiently. We resume our chat,but he returns all hungry, and bluff, and whisker-brushed. "Dinner.Ha-ha! I'm ready for it. North, take Mrs. Frere." By and by it is,"North, some sherry? Sylvia, the soup is spoilt again. Did you go outto-day? No?" His eyebrows contract here, and I know he says inwardly,"Reading some trashy novel, I suppose." However, he grins, andobligingly relates how the police have captured Cockatoo Bill, the notedbushranger.

  After dinner the disciplinarian and I converse--of dogs and horses,gamecocks, convicts, and moving accidents by flood and field. I rememberold college feats, and strive to keep pace with him in the relation ofathletics. What hypocrites we are!--for all the time I am longing toget to the drawing-room, and finish my criticism of the new poet, Mr.Tennyson, to Mrs. Frere. Frere does not read Tennyson--nor anybody else.Adjourned to the drawing-room, we chat--Mrs. Frere and I--until supper.(He eats supper.) She is a charming companion, and when I talk mybest--I can talk, you must admit, O Familiar--her face lightens upwith an interest I rarely see upon it at other times. I feel cooled andsoothed by this companionship. The quiet refinement of this house, afterbullocks and Bathurst, is like the shadow of a great rock in a wearyland.

  Mrs. Frere is about five-and-twenty. She is rather beneath the middleheight, with a slight, girlish figure. This girlish appearance isenhanced by the fact that she has bright fair hair and blue eyes. Uponconversation with her, however, one sees that her face has lost much ofthe delicate plumpness which it probably owned in youth. She has had onechild, born only to die. Her cheeks are thin, and her eyes have a tingeof sadness, which speak of physical pain or mental grief. This thinnessof face makes the eyes appear larger and the brow broader than theyreally are. Her hands are white and painfully thin. They must have beenplump and pretty once. Her lips are red with perpetual fever.

  Captain Frere seems to have absorbed all his wife's vitality. (Whoquotes the story of Lucius Claudius Hermippus, who lived to a great ageby being constantly breathed on by young girls? I suppose Burton--whoquotes everything.) In proportion as she has lost her vigour and youth,he has gained strength and heartiness. Though he is at least forty yearsof age, he does not look more than thirty. His face is ruddy, his eyesbright, his voice firm and ringing. He must be a man of considerablestrength and--I should say--of more than ordinary animal courage andanimal appetite. There is not a nerve in his body which does not twanglike a piano wire. In appearance, he is tall, broad, and bluff, withred whiskers and reddish hair slightly touched with grey. His manneris loud, coarse, and imperious; his talk of dogs, horses, and convicts.What a strangely-mated pair!

  March 30th.--A letter from Van Diemen's Land. "There is a row in thepantry," said Frere, with his accustomed slang. It seems that theComptroller-General of Convicts has appointed a Mr. Pounce to go downand make a report on the state of Norfolk Island. I am to go downwith him, and shall receive instructions to that effect from theComptroller-General. I have informed Frere of this, and he has writtento Pounce to come and stay on his way down. There has been nothing butconvict discipline talked since. Frere is great upon this point, andwearies me with his explanations of convict tricks and wickedness. Heis celebrated for his knowledge of such matters. Detestable wisdom! Hisservants hate him, but they obey him without a murmur. I have observedthat habitual criminals--like all savage beasts--cower before theman who has once mastered them. I should not be surprised if the VanDiemen's Land Government selected Frere as their "disciplinarian". Ihope they won't and yet I hope they will.

  April 4th.--Nothing worth recording until to-day. Eating, drinking, andsleeping. Despite my forty-seven years, I begin to feel almost like theJames North who fought the bargee and took the gold medal. What a drinkwater is! The fons Bandusiae splendidior vitreo was better than all theMassic, Master Horace! I doubt if your celebrated liquor, bottled whenManlius was consul, could compare with it.

  But to my notable facts. I have found out to-night two things whichsurprise me. One is that the convict who attem
pted the life of Mrs.Frere is none other than the unhappy man whom my fatal weakness causedto be flogged at Port Arthur, and whose face comes before me to reproachme even now. The other that Mrs. Carr is an old acquaintance of Frere's.The latter piece of information I obtained in a curious way. One night,while Mrs. Frere was not there, we were talking of clever women. Ibroached my theory, that strong intellect in women went far to destroytheir womanly nature.

  "Desire in man," said I, "should be Volition in women: Reason,Intuition; Reverence, Devotion; Passion, Love. The woman should strikea lower key-note, but a sharper sound. Man has vigour of reason,woman quickness of feeling. The woman who possesses masculine force ofintellect is abnormal." He did not half comprehend me, I could see, buthe agreed with the broad view of the case. "I only knew one woman whowas really 'strong-minded', as they call it," he said, "and she was aregular bad one."

  "It does not follow that she should be bad," said I. "This one was,though--stock, lock, and barrel. But as sharp as a needle, sir, and asimmovable as a rock. A fine woman, too." I saw by the expression of theman's face that he owned ugly memories, and pressed him further. "She'sup country somewhere," he said. "Married her assigned servant, I wastold, a fellow named Carr. I haven't seen her for years, and don't knowwhat she may be like now, but in the days when I knew her she was justwhat you describe." (Let it be noted that I had described nothing.) "Shecame out in the ship with me as maid to my wife's mother."

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I had met her, but I don'tknow what induced me to be silent. There are passages in the lives ofmen of Captain Frere's complexion, which don't bear descanting on.I expect there have been in this case, for he changed the subjectabruptly, as his wife came in. Is it possible that these twocreatures--the notable disciplinarian and the wife of the assignedservant--could have been more than friends in youth? Quite possible.He is the sort of man for gross amours. (A pretty way I am abusing myhost!) And the supple woman with the dark eyes would have been just thecreature to enthral him. Perhaps some such story as this may account inpart for Mrs. Frere's sad looks. Why do I speculate on such things?I seem to do violence to myself and to insult her by writing suchsuspicions. If I was a Flagellant now, I would don hairshirt and upflail. "For this sort cometh not out but by prayer and fasting."

  April 7th.--Mr. Pounce has arrived--full of the importance of hismission. He walks with the air of a minister of state on the eve of avacant garter, hoping, wondering, fearing, and dignified even in hisdubitancy. I am as flippant as a school-girl concerning this fatuousofficial, and yet--Heaven knows--I feel deeply enough the importance ofthe task he has before him. One relieves one's brain by these whirlingsof one's mental limbs. I remember that a prisoner at Hobart Town,twice condemned and twice reprieved, jumped and shouted with frenziedvehemence when he heard his sentence of death was finally pronounced. Hetold me, if he had not so shouted, he believed he would have gone mad.

  April 10th.--We had a state dinner last night. The conversation wasabout nothing in the world but convicts. I never saw Mrs. Frere to lessadvantage. Silent, distraite, and sad. She told me after dinner thatshe disliked the very name of "convict" from early associations. "I havelived among them all my life," she said, "but that does not make it thebetter for me. I have terrible fancies at times, Mr. North, that seemhalf-memories. I dread to be brought in contact with prisoners again. Iam sure that some evil awaits me at their hands."

  I laughed, of course, but it would not do. She holds to her own opinion,and looks at me with horror in her eyes. This terror in her face isperplexing.

  "You are nervous," I said. "You want rest."

  "I am nervous," she replied, with that candour of voice and manner Ihave before remarked in her, "and I have presentiments of evil."

  We sat silent for a while, and then she suddenly turned her largeeyes on me, and said calmly, "Mr. North, what death shall I die?" Thequestion was an echo of my own thoughts--I have some foolish (?) fanciesas to physiognomy--and it made me start. What death, indeed? What sortof death would one meet with widely-opened eyes, parted lips, andbrows bent as though to rally fast-flying courage? Not a peaceful deathsurely. I brought my black coat to my aid. "My dear lady, you must notthink of such things. Death is but a sleep, you know. Why anticipate anightmare?"

  She sighed, slowly awaking as though from some momentary trance.Checking herself on the verge of tears, she rallied, turned theconversation, and finding an excuse for going to the piano, dashed intoa waltz. This unnatural gaiety ended, I fancy, in an hysterical fit. Iheard her husband afterwards recommending sal volatile. He is thesort of man who would recommend sal volatile to the Pythoness if sheconsulted him.

  April 26th.--All has been arranged, and we start to-morrow. Mr. Pounceis in a condition of painful dignity. He seems afraid to move lestmotion should thaw his official ice. Having found out that I am the"chaplain", he has refrained from familiarity. My self-love is wounded,but my patience relieved. Query: Would not the majority of mankindrather be bored by people in authority than not noticed by them? JamesNorth declines to answer for his part. I have made my farewells to myfriends, and on looking back on the pleasant hours I have spent, feltsaddened. It is not likely that I shall have many such pleasant hours.I feel like a vagabond who, having been allowed to sit by a cheerfulfireside for a while, is turned out into the wet and windy streets, andfinds them colder than ever. What were the lines I wrote in her album?

  "As some poor tavern-haunter drenched in wine With staggering footstepsthrough the streets returning, Seeing through blinding rain a beaconshine From household lamp in happy window burning,--

  "Pauses an instant at the reddened pane To gaze on that sweet scene oflove and duty, Then turns into the wild wet night again, Lest his sadpresence mar its homely beauty."

  Yes, those were the lines. With more of truth in them than she expected;and yet what business have I sentimentalizing. My socius thinks "what apuling fool this North is!"

  So, that's over! Now for Norfolk Island and my purgation.

  CHAPTER II. THE LOST HEIR.