in a pair of silk shoes. If I were to live in the Bush, give me a wife as a companion who can ride well, leap over a ditch, walk beside me when I go forth, gun in hand, for a shot at the kangaroos. But I dare not go on with the list of a Bush husband's requisites. This change, however, serves, for various reasons, to quicken my desire of return. Ten years have now elapsed, and I have already obtained a much larger fortune than I had calculated to make. Sorely to Guy's honest grief, I therefore wound up our affairs, and dissolved partnership; for he had decided to pass his life in the colony – and, with his pretty wife, who has grown very fond of him, I don't wonder at it. Guy takes my share of the station and stock off my hands; and, all accounts squared between us, I bid farewell to the Bush. Despite all the motives that drew my heart homeward, it was not without participation in the sorrow of my old companions, that I took leave of those I might never see again on this side the grave. The meanest man in my employ had grown a friend; and when those hard hands grasped mine, and from many a breast that once had waged fierce war with the world came the soft blessing to the Homeward-bound – with a tender thought for the Old England, that had been but a harsh step-mother to them – I felt a choking sensation, which I suspect is little known to the friendships of Mayfair and St James's. I was forced to get off, with a few broken words, when I had meant to part with a long speech: perhaps the broken words pleased the audience better. Spurring away, I gained a little eminence and looked back. There, were the poor faithful fellows gathered in a ring, watching me – their hats off – their hands shading their eyes from the sun. And Guy had thrown himself on the ground, and I heard his loud sobs distinctly. His wife was leaning over his shoulder, trying to soothe: forgive him, fair helpmate, you will be all in the world to him – to-morrow! And the blue-eyed sister, where was she? Had she no tears for the rough friend who laughed at the silk shoes, and taught her how to hold the reins, and never fear that the old pony would run away with her? What matter? – if the tears were shed, they were hidden tears. No shame in them, fair Ellen – since then, thou hast wept happy tears over thy first-born – those tears have long ago washed away all bitterness in the innocent memories of a girl's first fancy.
CHAPTER C
Imagine my wonder – Uncle Jack has just been with me, and – but hear the dialogue.
Uncle Jack. – So you are positively going back to that smoky, fusty, old England, just when you are on your high road to a plumb. A plumb, sir, at least! They all say there is not a more rising young man in the colony. I think Bullion would take you into partnership. What are you in such a hurry for?
Pisistratus. – To see my father, and mother, and Uncle Roland, and – (was about to name some one else, but stops.)
You see, my dear uncle, I came out solely with the idea of repairing my father's losses, in that unfortunate speculation of The Capitalist.
Uncle Jack (coughs and ejaculates) – That villain Peck!
Pisistratus. – And to have a few thousands to invest in poor Roland's acres. The object is achieved: why should I stay?
Uncle Jack. – A few paltry thousands, when in twenty years more, at the farthest, you would wallow in gold!
Pisistratus. – A man learns in the Bush how happy life can be with plenty of employment, and very little money. I shall practise that lesson in England.
Uncle Jack. – Your mind's made up?
Pisistratus. – And my place in the chip taken.
Uncle Jack. – Then there's no more to be said. (Hums, haws, and examines his nails – filbert nails, not a speck on them.) Then suddenly, and jerking up his head. "That 'Capitalist!' it has been on my conscience, nephew, ever since; and, somehow or other, since I have abandoned the cause of my fellow-creatures, I think I have cared more for my relations."
Pisistratus, (smiling, as he remembers his father's shrewd predictions thereon.) – Naturally, my dear uncle: any child who has thrown a stone into a pond knows that a circle disappears as it widens.
Uncle Jack. – Very true – I shall make a note of that, applicable to my next speech, in defence of what they call the "land monopoly." Thank you – stone – circle! (Jots down notes in his pocket-book.) But, to return to the point: I am well off now – I have neither wife nor child; and I feel that I ought to bear my share in your father's loss: it was our joint speculation. And your father, good dear Austin, paid my debts into the bargain. And how cheering the punch was that night, when your mother wanted to scold poor Jack! And the £300 Austin lent me when I left him: nephew, that was the remaking of me – the acorn of the oak I have transplanted. So here they are, (added Uncle Jack with a heroical effort – and he extracted from the pocket-book, bills for a sum between three and four thousand pounds.) There, it is done – and I shall sleep better for it! (With that Uncle Jack got up, and bolted out of the room.)
Ought I to take the money? Why, I think yes! – it is but fair. Jack must be really rich, and can well spare the money; besides, if he wants it again, I know my father will let him have it. And, indeed, Jack caused the loss of the whole sum lost on The Capitalist, &c.; and this is not quite the half of what my father paid away. But is it not fine in Uncle Jack! Well, my father was quite right in his milder estimate of Jack's scalene conformation, and it is hard to judge of a man when he is needy and down in the world. When one grafts one's ideas on one's neighbour's money, they are certainly not so grand as when they spring from one's own.
Uncle Jack, (popping his head into the room.) – And you see, you can double that money if you will just leave it in my hands for a couple of years, – you have no notion what I shall make of the Tibbet's Wheal! Did I tell you? – the German was quite right, – I have been offered already seven times the sum which I gave for the land. But I am now looking out for a Company: let me put you down for shares to the amount at least of those trumpery bills. Cent per cent, – I guarantee cent per cent! (And Uncle Jack stretches out those famous smooth hands of his, with a tremulous motion of the ten eloquent fingers.)
Pisistratus. – Ah, my dear uncle, if you repent —
Uncle Jack. – Repent! when I offer you cent per cent, on my personal guarantee!
Pisistratus, (carefully putting the bills into his breast coat-pocket.) Then, if you don't repent, my dear uncle, allow me to shake you by the hand, and say that I will not consent to lessen my esteem and admiration for the high principle which prompts this restitution, by confounding it with trading associations of loans, interests, and copper mines. And, you see, since this sum is paid to my father, I have no right to invest it without his permission.
Uncle Jack, (with emotion.) – "Esteem, admiration, high principle!" – these are pleasant words, from you, nephew. – (Then shaking his head and smiling.) You sly dog! you are quite right: get the bills cashed at once. And hark ye, sir, just keep out of my way, will you? – and don't let me coax you out of a farthing! (Uncle Jack slams the door, and rushes out. Pisistratus draws the bills warily from his pocket, half-suspecting they must already have turned into withered leaves, like fairy money; slowly convinces himself that the bills are good bills, and by lively gestures testifies his delight and astonishment.) Scene Changes.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY – CHATEAUBRIAND'S MEMOIRS.3
Autobiography, when skilfully and judiciously done, is one of the most delightful species of composition of which literature can boast. There is a strong desire in every intelligent and well-informed mind to be made acquainted with the private thoughts, and secret motives of action, of those who have filled the world with their renown. We long to learn their early history, to be made acquainted with their first aspirations – to learn how they became so great as they afterwards turned out. Perhaps literature has sustained no greater loss than that of the memoirs which Hannibal wrote of his life and campaigns. From the few fragments of his sayings which Roman admiration or terror has preserved, his reach of thought and statesmanlike sagacity would appear to have been equal to his military talents. Cæsar's Commentaries have always been admired; but there is some doubts whether they really were written by the dictator; and, supposing they were, they