One always sees a few in the men's hut at shearing6 time, owning no higher aspirations7 than the ordinary station hand, living the rough life of the bush-labourer, relishing8 coarse tobacco and the coarser jests when the day's work is done, hardly distinguishable in dress, tone, and manner from their ruder comrades. Like them, alas9! too prone10 to end each term's unrelieved labour by an aimless, ruinous drinking-bout.
It is not that the daily toil11, the plain fare, and rude companionship would be in any sense degrading, were they used as means to an end. Did the cadet resolve to save all but the cash absolutely required for clothing and other needs, a small capital might easily be acquired, with reasonable credit in proportion, for which a profitable outlet12 is always to be found. And a knowledge of the rougher side of Australian life is always valuable wherever his lot might be cast.
289The real social deterioration13 accrues14 when the well-born or well-educated man becomes fatally contented15 with his humble16 surroundings; when hope has faded out, when ambition is dead, when repeated trials have landed him in deeper failure; when the conviction is only too well founded that for him no higher position is attainable17 in this world. Nay18, that even if attained19, he is no longer fitted to occupy it.
Persons imperfectly acquainted with our social system may say, 'Oh, once a gentleman, always a gentleman!' and so on. From whatever rude environment, he will come forth20 true to his training, and assume his earlier habitudes as easily as the well-fitting garments which his altered circumstances render necessary.
It is not so, unfortunately. Granted that the exceptional individual emerges from the wreck21 of his youthful aspirations safe and uninjured, more numerous are they tenfold who reach the shore bleeding and disabled, never to be again but the simulacra of their former selves—hopeless of ever attaining22 the fair heaven-crowned heights, so near, so tempting23 of ascent24 in boyhood; heedless but of the lower pains and pleasures to which they have all unresistingly yielded their future lives.
Much of course depends on the mental fibre of the youngster. If happily constituted, he may defy the most inauspicious surroundings to alter his habits of thought or change his settled purpose in life. One boy, at the roughest station in the 'back blocks,' will save his money and do his work in a cheerfully observant spirit; he will utilise the spare time, of which he has so large a supply, in reading and improving his mind; he will find out all he can about the working of the station, with a view to future operations when he is promoted to partnership25 or management. To this he resolutely26 looks forward. He preserves the manners and the principles which he brought from home untarnished; an easy enough matter, since even in the farthest wilds, among the roughest working men in Australia, a true gentleman's mien27 and tone are always held in respect, which no man loses save by his own act.
Say that he has a few years of hard work and privation, he is sure to rise in life, and eventually, by dint28 of perseverance29 and attention to detail, to become the owner of or 290partner in a station. His character for steadiness, efficiency, and industry becomes known from one end of the district to the other. And if those with whom he is temporarily connected do not advance him, be sure that some neighbouring proprietor30 in need of an active lieutenant31 will not lose the opportunity.
The young man of less robust32 self-denial takes station life after a very different fashion. His fixed33 idea has been from the first that galloping34 about on horseback, smoking, shooting, and drinking are the recognised pastoral industries by which fortunes in Australia are made. He does not bother his head about the science of sheep-breeding, or the management of that capricious but profitable animal the merino. He forgets messages. He overrides35 the station horses. He smokes diligently36, talks familiarly and plays cards with the men, from whom he learns to swear profanely37 and acquires no useful knowledge—on the contrary, much that is evil. On his visits to the village or post-town he learns to drink spirits, and thus lays the foundation of a dangerous habit, which, if not checked, may destroy his after-life. At the end of his two years' experience he is regarded as about on a level with the ordinary rouseabout—hardly as good, certainly no better. On making up his mind to leave for other employment, he is told that he is heartily38 welcome to please himself.
Occasionally the unsuccessful gentleman, emigrant39 or colonial, is not distinctly to blame for his fall in social position. He has adopted a bush life, trusting vaguely40 to be able to get on in one of the numerous ways of which he has heard tell. He tries hard at first for situations suited to his former position in life, finding, however, that no one is in pressing need of an inexperienced youth not brought up to work. Still, if strong and willing, he can earn ordinary wages as a station hand. He learns how to manage the routine work nearly as well as his comrades in the men's hut, and by degrees, not being mentally persistent41, he adopts the tone and manner of the men who are his companions—not at once, and not altogether, but after a year or two—to a much greater extent than any one would think possible. In a work of fiction some kindly42 squatter43 would free the poor fellow from his rough, or let us say uneducated comrades, but in real life no one would risk the experiment. He may 291have been deceived before. He would argue that though the waif might be a gentleman by birth, it must have been his own fault in some way that he was in his present position—most likely drank, gambled, or had done something shady; and this would be true in nine cases out of ten. If he introduced Mr. Waif to his family, or took him into his house if a bachelor, he might, of course, behave well for a time, but one fine day, unable to withstand the temptation of an open sideboard, would be found dead drunk or madly intoxicated44 on his employer's return.
Gradually the unsuccessful one, after a year or two of nomadic45 life, tramping it from one end of a colony to another, begins to abandon the punctilious46 habits of his early life. His speech shows signs of degeneration. He talks of people indifferently as 'coves47' or 'cards'; causerie with him is 'pitching'; he refrains with difficulty from expletives, and so on. His reading has not been kept up, though, had he cared, it might have been. He is scented48 unpleasantly with coarse tobacco, occasionally, alas! with the too frequent 'nip' of alcohol. If he by any chance re-enters civilised life, he shows in a dozen ways that he is no longer in touch with it. He makes things uncomfortable for his friends or companions, and is thoroughly49 convinced that he is out of place himself.
A youngster of this type came to a squatter's station one evening, carrying his 'swag' like any other tramp. The owner knew that he was or had been a gentleman, but apologised, as he had guests, for not asking him into the house. He was too dirty to be quite exact, and neither in raiment nor in other matters was he then fitted for the society of ladies. So he had his supper and bed in the men's hut, smoked his pipe over the fire with the man-cook, and turned in, quite contented with his accommodation.
Sometimes, if fairly industrious50 and steady, the ex-tramp makes his way to a managership, or even a share in a station, where he recovers a portion of his earlier form. But he is apt to be rough and careless to the end, which his English friends attribute to the necessarily deteriorating51 influences of colonial life.
Perhaps the saddest sight of all is the broken-down 'swell52' of maturer years, carrying his 'swag' along the road, sometimes 292a solitary53 'traveller'—a name that has its own significance in Australia—sometimes in company with other 'sundowners.' He is free of the guild54 now, unluckily. They neither resent his companionship, nor feel flattered by it; in no way do they alter their mode of speech or action in consequence. It is known that he has 'seen better days,' as the phrase runs. If so, it is nobody's business but his own. A certain amount of reticence55 characterises Australian bushmen, which is not noticeable among their British comrades. The nomadic habit, and the goldfields' experience—for nearly every able-bodied man in Australia has graduated there—may be held accountable for this trait. Travel is the true civiliser, and in many respects supplies the place of the higher education, teaching reserve, undemonstrativeness, and the patient endurance of privations and dangers which cannot be evaded56.
So, though it is generally believed that Jack57 Somers or Bill Brown was a gentleman (nothing, alas! will ever make or keep him one again), he is treated by the master who employs him, and the station hands or farm labourers who work with him, exactly as the others—neither better nor worse. Generally a smart, intelligent worker, whether a shearer58, rouseabout, boundary rider, road hand, what not, during the often protracted59 periods when he is compulsorily60 sober. This is secured by giving him no money (the more obvious necessaries can be procured61 from the station store), until his term of work be completed or his contract finished. Then he gets his cheque, and short work he makes of it. For the nearest bush public-house is to him a barrier fixed and impassable, while there is a pound in his purse.
After all, Australia is perhaps the best country for the fallen swell. A reasonable share of honest work is always open to him, which, from the custom of the country, is not held to be degrading, as it would be in Europe. He could not work in the field in Britain, tend sheep, drive a team, break stones. All these things he can do in Australia with but temporary loss of prestige or social rank. He would find it next to impossible to gain a living in the old country in any form of day labour. Were he even to succeed in doing so, he would be gazed and wondered at by the whole country-side. A man of good family requested me to officially certify62 his identity 293for the security of his people at home, who were remitting63 money to his credit. Roughly dressed was he—had evidently been 'on the wallaby' recently. After telling me his name and birth, he must have thought I looked doubtful, for he said, 'I am the man I say; I'm not the Claimant.' That great personage was then supplying England and Australia with food for conversation. A book lay near me with a Latin quotation64 on the frontispiece. This I slightly indicated; he at once took the hint and translated it correctly.
'What have you been doing lately?' I inquired. His hands, roughened and gnarled, with no make-believe manual labour, assured me that he had been pretty continuously at work of some sort.
'Well, station work mostly,' he returned answer. 'My last job was cooking for a survey camp.'
'Was it for this that you graduated at Trinity College, Dublin?' was my unspoken thought. That he drank hard between times, poor fellow, was apparent to my experienced eye. He received his money duly, which was, of course, 'blued' like all previous remittances65. I exchanged letters with the friends who had written after him. I advised, if they were really anxious for his return, that he should be placed on board ship, but no money given to him till safe on blue water. What historiettes of lapsed66 gentlefolk in the colonies might be written! The Honourable67 Blank Blank, long past even the middle passage of station work, who loafs about country towns, taking work as ostler, or even 'boots' at the hotels, ready to drink with any rough, and feebly subsisting68 upon the reflection of former greatness, until he becomes too useless for even such a position, is locked up for repeated drunkenness, and finally dies in a gutter69.
The 'cranky' long-bearded shepherd vegetates70 on a back-block station, amid desert regions now becoming traditionary, where wire fences are all unknown, or by dingoes rendered ineffectual.
A row of books adorns71 his solitary hut, a weekly paper, perhaps his sponge and ivory-backed brushes, curious-appearing souvenirs of old days. He talks pleasantly enough to the rare-appearing stranger, who is also a gentleman. The British tourist, if a new arrival, rides off with pity in his heart, possibly with some idea of aiding the hermit72 to return to his 294friends in England. If a colonist73, he knows better; knows that the old man has his half-yearly or annual 'break-out'; that he can no more inhabit the same dwelling74 as ardent75 spirits without utter debasement than fly; that such will be his life, without change or amendment76, until he ends it in a Benevolent77 Asylum78, or, more probably, is found dead in his hut. Then from his papers it will be discovered that 'Old Jack' or 'Jindabyne Joe' was, once upon a time, Lieutenant Harry79 Willoughby Howard of the—th Fusiliers, one of the smartest subalterns in that distinguished80 and tolerably fast regiment81. What brought him here? How fared he so ill in Australia, where blue blood always counts for something, the Radical82 press notwithstanding? Heigho! These and other questions may be answered some day, or they may never be. The nearest magistrate83 holds an inquiry84, sitting on a bench outside of the lonely hut on the sandhill. The overseer counts out his flock to a fresh hand, and the ex-Fusilier, younger brother of one of the magnates of Blankshire, is carted into the head station and decently buried, with the collie dog as chief mourner, his grief being real and unaffected, and his lamentations for the next few days touchingly85 audible.
Having a favourite horse to put in harness in the early goldfield days, I betook me to an establishment in Melbourne where a brake was kept. Of course I mounted the box to watch and perhaps assist in the interesting performance. When the brakesman got up—a good-looking middle-aged86 man with grey whiskers—if he was not a gentleman, and an ex-swell at that, I had never seen one. From his cravat87 to his well-polished boots—a neat foot, too—from his hat to his accurate dogskin gloves, he was 'good form.' He might have walked straight out of one of Whyte Melville's novels.
His 'hands,' in stable language, were perfection, and as he and the brake-horse between them, with practised adroitness88, conducted the drag and my Zohrab, a slashing89 grey son of Donald Caird, out of the yard and up Lonsdale Street, I felt a measureless pity for the dear old man, who, doubtless failing to score at Bendigo or Sandhurst, had come down to this for a livelihood90. Charmed with his conversation and manners, I am afraid I prolonged the lesson unduly91, for when we returned my aristocratic friend was urgently required to 295school other young ones at a guinea per lesson. The proprietor, a vulgar person, expressed his disapproval92 in language unfit for publication. I remonstrated93 hotly, but the dependent emigré said no word. I departed sadly, and never saw him more. Melbourne was full of such derelicts in 'the fifties.'
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1
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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accrues
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| v.增加( accrue的第三人称单数 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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overrides
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| 越控( override的第三人称单数 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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49
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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50
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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deteriorating
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
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52
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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shearer
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| n.剪羊毛的人；剪切机 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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compulsorily
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| 强迫地，强制地 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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remitting
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的现在分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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vegetates
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的第三人称单数 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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adroitness
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slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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