Station Amusements | Page 6

distant lands in
ignorance of what hunger; or thirst, or grinding poverty means.
Hitherto the want of places of worship, and schools for the children,
have been a sad drawback to the material advantages of colonization at
the Antipodes; but these blessings are increasing every day, and the
need of them creates the supply.
The great mistake made in England, next to that of sending out
worthless idle paupers, who have never done a hand's turn for
themselves here, and are still less likely to do it elsewhere, is for
parents and guardians to ship off to New Zealand young men who have
received the up-bringing and education of gentlemen, without a shilling

in their pockets, under the vague idea that something will turn up for
them in a new place. There is nothing which can turn up, for the
machinery of civilization is reduced to the most primitive scale in these
countries; and I have known 500 pounds per annum regarded as a
monstrous salary to be drawn by a hard-worked official of some twenty
years standing and great experience in the colony. From this we may
judge of the chances of remunerative employment for a raw unfledged
youth, with a smattering of classical learning. At first they simply
"loaf" (as it is called there) on their acquaintances and friends. At the
end of six months their clothes are beginning to look shabby; they feel
they ought to do something, and they make day by day the terrible
discovery that there is nothing for them to do in their own rank of life.
Many a poor clergyman's son, sooner than return to the home which
has been so pinched to furnish forth his passage money and outfit, takes
a shepherd's billet, though he generally makes a very bad shepherd for
the first year or two; or drives bullocks, or perhaps wanders vaguely
over the country, looking for work, and getting food and lodging
indeed, for inhospitality is unknown, but no pay. Sometimes they go to
the diggings, only to find that money is as necessary there as anywhere,
and that they are not fitted to dig in wet holes for eight or ten hours a
day. Often these poor young men go home again, and it is the best thing
they can do, for at least they have gained some knowledge of life, on its
dark as well as its brighter side. But still oftener, alas, they go
hopelessly to the bad, degenerating into billiard markers, piano players
at dancing saloons, cattle drivers, and their friends probably lose sight
of them.
Once I was riding with my husband up a lovely gulley, when we heard
the crack of a stockwhip, sounding strangely through the deep eternal
silence of a New Zealand valley, and a turn of the track showed us a
heavy, timber-laden bullock-waggon labouring slowly along. At the
head of the long team sauntered the driver, in the usual
rough-and-ready costume, with his soft plush hat pulled low over his
face, and pulling vigorously at a clay pipe. In spite of all the outer
surroundings, something in the man's walk and dejected attitude struck
my imagination, and I made some remark to my companion. The sound
of my voice reached the bullock-driver's ears; he looked up, and on
seeing a lady, took his pipe out of his mouth, his hat off his head, and

forcing his beasts a little aside, stood at their head to let us pass. I
smiled and nodded, receiving in return a perfect and profound bow, and
the most melancholy glance I have ever seen in human eyes. "Good
gracious, F---," I cried, when we had passed, "who is that man?" "That
is Sir So-and-So's third son," he replied: "they sent him out here
without a shilling, five years ago, and that is what he has come to: a
working man, living with working men. He looks heart-broken, poor
fellow, doesn't he?" I, acting upon impulse, as any woman would have
done, turning back and rode up to him, finding it very difficult to frame
my pity and sympathy in coherent words. "No thank you, ma'am," was
all the answer I could get, in the most refined, gentlemanly tone of
voice: "I'm very well as I am. I should only have the struggle all over
again if I made any change now. It is the truest kindness to leave me
alone." He would not even shake hands with me; so I rode back;
discomfited, to hear from F--- that he had made many attempts to
befriend him, but without success. "In fact," concluded F---, with some
embarrassment, "he drinks dreadfully, poor fellow. Of course that is the
secret of all his wretchedness, but I believe despair drove him to it in
the first instance."
I have