University of Virginia Library

At Waratah one Christmastide
Were sitting by the hall-fire side,
With fire unlit, a company
Gathered for the festivity.
'Twas Christmas-eve, and they were at
A station beyond Ballaarat,
Out on the plains. The paddocks were
Well cleared of timber, scrub and burr,
And English-grassed, the house no hut
Built of bark slabs or boarded cot
But such a mansion as you see
In passing by the Werribee,
Stone built, with gardens well laid out
In gay beds, planted all about
With choice exotic shrubs and trees
And all that could subserve or please
A wool-king with a broad freehold
All round his home, and flocks untold
On his huge runs on Queensland downs,
And, though far off from seaport towns,
With every luxury, now brought
From home, for wife and children bought.

Most noticeable of them all
Around the fireside in the hall
Was this prince of the squatterhood,
Who, standing in his stockings, stood
Six feet and inches almost three,
Strong, and of hand and speech so free,
And still as active as a lad,
Though sixty years and hardships had
Grizzled his hair and beard with grey;
A hero who had fought his way,
From pittance left him by his sire
(As younger brother of the squire),
To wealth immense by years of toil,
Exiled from whites, and in turmoil
With hostile blacks, out on a run
Far west, beneath a Queensland sun,
He who had once been known at Court
And in the Clubs as “Cupid” Forte.

No trace of ceremoniousness
Retained he now, though none the less
Was he a graceful well-bred host;
But he was hearty in accost,
And giving the Australian grip
And good up-country fellowship
As bushmen. Few books had he read,
But good ones, and he truly said
That he had mastered their contents.
He'd sat in early parliaments,
And by his fellows been esteemed,
Though no great speaker, for he seemed
To do his best for everyone,
And always used a courteous tone;
And when such crises came about
As made men fear to speak, spoke out
With simple sense, what others thought
But how to best dissemble sought.
Close to her husband sat his wife,
Some years his junior in life,
And with her hair scarce changed a whit
Since they were wed. Yet shades would flit
Across her bright plaits 'neath the sun,
And grey hairs 'mid the gold were none.
E'en yet one noted that she bore
The same slim figure as of yore.
And marked a majesty of gait
Which had been grace at twenty-eight
(The year her lord had crossed the foam
To fetch her to his Austral home),
And that her charms were scarce impaired.

All of her children had been spared,
And now were round her;—Margaret,
The youngest, well-grown, but not yet
Out of the shy and modest awe
That urges childhood to withdraw
Or hang its head in company.
Dark-haired, with clear dark cheeks was she,
And had beneath her brow such eyes
As chained onlookers with surprise,
So weirdly blue, and spiritual,
And fathomless, were they withal.

The eldest, Will, was huge of limb
As was his Father, so like him
That, had he worn a bearded chin,
And had his grizzled hair, no twin
Could have been closer. He had pulled
In the great boat race, but had mulled
His “little-go” (for he was bred
At Cambridge), and could with his head
Only remember points of sheep
And racehorse pedigrees, and keep
Note of his thousand kindly friends,
And scraps of business odds and ends.
In college days he was not wild,
But merely boisterous. No child
More simple, or more innocent
Of sin, and guile, and blandishment.
College had not unfitted him
For station life, but it would seem
Had given him fresh interest,
And added, as it were, a zest,
As if for real work his will
Had a great vacuum to fill.

He rode with fearless skill, and shot
Like a backwoodsman, and feared not
Into a swamp neck-deep to wade
When he a mob of ducks waylaid,
Or crawl on belly through a sedge
Hissing with snakes, to reach its edge.
He was as kind as he was brave,
And with less pleasure took than gave;
And, though he loved society
And sports, he'd bid them all good-bye,
And work for months upon the runs
In Queensland, not like squatters' sons,
As rich as he was, often do,
But like a bushman staunch and true.
He was beloved alike by men
And women: once within his ken
You could but love his simple soul.

As far from him as pole from pole
Was Phil (though upright, yet so far
From the pure heart which like a star
Shone through his brother's life), sunk down,
As men of best intents must own
They have, by striking out too deep,
And, being then obliged to keep
Head above water, clutching at
Means they'd have shrunk from but for that.
In person, rather short than tall,
With the blue eyes that marked them all,
And handsomer than Will, and more
Like what his Father'd been of yore.
He dressed much like an Englishman
Of well-bred fashion, spick and span,
In gloves and hats, and with his coats
Well cut but not extreme, his boots
The best that could be bought. He'd go
To Melbourne oft as a wool show
Or sale of stud sheep gave excuse,
Stay at the Club a month, and use
The hundred opportunities
Showered by fashion's votaries
Upon him (soon as they should chance
To hear that he'd arrived), to dance
And tennis. When he went, he stayed
Beyond good resolutions made
Ere starting; but still, conscience moved
Him thus far, that, though much he loved
Club life and town, he would not go
Without excuse of sale or show.

Will was the eldest, next came Phil,
And then Elizabeth, called Lil,
Partly to chime with “Phil” and “Will,”
Partly from the Australian hate
For homely names, like Jane and Kate,
Mary and Sarah. They delight
To verge upon the opposite,
With Rubys, Hildas, Violets,
Gladyses, Idas, and Jeannettes,
Lorraines, and Pearls, and Isobels,
And Harolds, Kenneths, Lionels.
They'd had a fight that very day,
Ere dinner had been cleared away,
Over this much-vexed theme of names,
The English urging ancient claims
For Mary and its congeners,
The colonists preferring theirs
As nicer and more musical.
And then, some one proposed that all
In order should declare their own.
And first came the Professor's, John,
And then Miss Forte's, her name was Lil,
And therefore was on their part still
Said one side, but Elizabeth
The other. Next was Lachlan Smith,
A brisk young ‘wig’ from Temple Court,
Ready to cut his mother short,
And argue with her on his birth,
Or any other thing on earth,
Or out of it. Next him was Maud,
Maud Morrison, whom men applaud
As one of Melbourne's belles; next her,
Will Forte; and next a character—
A widow, exquisitely dressed
(And not in widow's weeds), confessed
A sorceress, although she lacked
The charms of person which attract
The passer-by: her Christian name
Was Ida. She the gentle flame
Had lit, 'twas rumoured, in the breast
Of the ex-minister addressed
As Chesterfield (a man with grace
Of action and a pleasing face,
Who sat on Mrs Forte's right hand),
So exquisite was he, and bland
In manner, letter, speech, and smile,
But yet upright and without guile,
Liked upon both sides of the House,
For no attack on him could rouse
His tongue to personalities
Levelled against their enemies
By M.P.'s in Assemblies new;
A prepossessing man to view.
One liked to meet his figure slim
The more, the more one knew of him.
Some wag, with envy half-concealed,
Had christened him “The Chesterfield
Of Melbourne,” and the soubriquet
Had gradually made its way
Into the press, society,
And lastly his own family.
The widow sat upon the right
Of Mr Forte, and opposite
Miss Ridley, the girls' governess
(They were grown up, but kept her less
As teacher than companion), fair,
With smoothly plaited flaxen hair;
A vicar's daughter from the north,
Of a poor race of ancient birth.
Next her was Phil, and next to him,
Full woman, therefore not too slim,
But with a form of slender grace,
And with bright health writ on her face
In rosy cheeks and clear brown skin,
With grey eyes, classic nose and chin,
And curly hair, cut short behind,
Was Kit, a medley, both refined
And fast in instinct, delicate
In taste, but proof to bear her fate
In sports and hardships masculine,
Proud, and with courage leonine,
Full of wit and good fellowship,
And with the curved lines of her lip,
As prone to melt in laughter, born
Of pure fun, as to curl in scorn;
Di. Vernon's rival in the chase,
Queen of the men's hearts in the place
And miles around, but far from love
And wooing as the moon above,
The chaste, cold planet. She would rove
With horse or gun, the whole day long,
A month with the same lover, strong
In her robust celibacy,
Brimming with grace, her voice and eye
Full of bright mirth and happiness:
But if her frankness made him press
The claims of love, a soft firm voice,
Half laugh, half anger, gave him choice
Of instant change or banishment.
As far as maiden may, she went
As man meets man, and her delight
Was so contagious that one might
Mistake the light of smile and glance
For sign of more significance.

Dressed for the field, she wore a tweed
Made jacket-fashion, short-skirted,
Revealing all a slim arched foot
Laced in a natty shooting boot,
Replaced at early morn and night
By low-heeled pump of leather bright.

Full dressed she wore no jewellery,
And went in for simplicity,
With rich plain stuffs, good work and fit.

Her father's station much of it
Joined Mr Forte's, and rumour said
That Phil, if he'd his way, would wed
His handsome neighbour. A contrast
Was Lil, whose girlhood stood aghast
At Kit's rough sports and manner based
On manly canons of good taste,
Though she rode gracefully and well,
Played tennis fairly, and could tell
Of triumphs too. She was petite,
With slender waist, and pretty feet
In dainty Paris shoes, and dressed
In stuffs and fashions daintiest.
Her clear skin was of the warm hue
That marks the south, and o'er it grew
In wavy clusters the fair hair
Of Gothic ancestry; a pair
Of liquid eyes spoke gentleness,
A heart most kindly to distress,
Most tender when besieged by love,
And true to home though it might rove.
Gracefully danced she, lightly swayed,
And tastefully the keys she played,
Whether for Lied of Mendelssohn
Or new waltz she was called upon.
She'd a smooth voice but did not sing,
Most prudently considering
That one more poor executante
Could not be called a social want.

She'd not, her lovers must confess,
The noble, queenly loveliness
And rosy health that Kit could boast,
But the soft charms which we accost
Sooner and guard more tenderly,
The suppliant hand, the wistful eye,
The pleading voice, the tender mien;
Nor had she the robust and keen
Brain of the other, but her mind
Was healthy and enough refined
To glean some joy from books and art,
And the æsthetic tastes which part
The cultured from the common herd.

On Kit's left sat, without a word,
But with a shrewd wink in his eye,
Which shewed that, opportunity
Requiring, he his views could state,
If not with fluency, with weight,
A stalwart man, with crisp bleached beard
And sunburnt face, with both hands seared
By scars and stains, and legs much bowed,
As if he far and often rode:
His name was Albert Hall, his seat
Was next to blue-eyed Margaret:
Beyond was Chesterfield, who said
That he was Launcelot: at the head
Sat Helen, handsome Mrs Forte,
Her lord was Charlie. In the sport
Which followed, parties differed not
On Lachlan, Ida, Launcelot,
Albert and Maud, but each side sought
To reckon Helen and Margaret,
These since in Scottish homes they'd met
Helens and Maggies everywhere,
And those because the names were fair
And fanciful. Debate ran high
Between the rivals as to why
One chose names in so high a strain,
And one so simple and so plain.
None could convince and none would yield,
So they referred to Chesterfield,
Who appositely answered thus:

“If you reflect, it's obvious
Why Cobhams, who have lived in Kent
For centuries, should be content,
Age after age, to call a son
By the ancestral name of John.
But why my sire, who did not know
His own grandfather, should do so,
He failed to see, and therefore chose,
As I have reason to suppose,
What doubtless he esteemed to be
The name of names, and christened me
After his favourite Launcelot.

And so both sides can urge somewhat,
You with the humble name of John
Remembering that you're the son
Of twenty in succession,
Traced with all due minutiæ
Upon a parchment pedigree,
While I, named after Arthur's knight,
Call to my mind the legends bright
About him, caring nought because
I don't know who my grandsire was.”

His answer met with much applause,
But not with Lachlan Smith's—the jest,
At himself aimed by Launcelot, pressed
Harder on him, being the son
Of storekeepers at Flemington,
And striving to conceal his birth,
By all the Lachlans of the earth
Being claimed as his affinities.
Nor did it altogether please
Maud, though she could evince at once,
By claiming all the Morrisons
As kinsfolk, that his satire sly
Did not in her own case apply.

But Smith was one who well deserved
All his success. He never swerved
From his high purpose, and his rise
Was due entirely to his wise
Exertions and abilities.
A state-school boy, he had obtained
Grammar school scholarships, then gained
A college bursary and high
Distinctions as each year went by
While at the University.
Called to the Bar then, he had made
His way by hard work undismayed.
Too shallow and self-satisfied,
Like many self-raised men untried
With educations of a zone
More cultivated than their own,
He was, but, all things said and done,
Praiseworthy. Contrast could be none
Greater than was between this one
And Cobham, the Oxonian,
In every sense a gentleman,
Man of the world and scholar, tall,
Of lithe build, and symmetrical,
With well-shaped head well set upon
Square shoulders, clean shaved face whereon
Was no hair save the black moustache,
With eyes that seemed to cloud or flash
With ev'ry thought. His hair was grey,
And had been silvered many a day,
Though he was still young and no care
Or grief had fallen to his share.
He had a certain easy grace
In each expression of his face
And motion of his body, voice
Alluring, power to rejoice
In diverse objects marvellous.
Science, the beauties various
Of Nature, Art, Society
(The pleasure-seeking and the high),
And sports of active exercise,
Fair women and grand enterprise,
All had their charms for him: he'd come
To his professorship from home,
And Chesterfield had taken him
To set him in the social swim,
And these last hospitalities
Were due to his good offices,
And he had come himself to make
The week go well for Cobham's sake.

'Twas Christmas-eve, and they sat round
Th' hearth filled with wattlebloom still found
On stray trees, and with Christmas-Bush
From New South Wales, and Bottle-Brush,
And snowy spikes of bayonet grass,
And treefern fronds and Sassafras.

After dessert on summer nights,
Those who stayed in to have the lights
For work or reading used the hall,
Being the coolest room of all,
Tiled, and with many openings
And passages to rooms and wings;
But most went out, the men to smoke
In the Verandah, women folk
To hear the words of wisdom come
From them in intervals of fume.

However, being Christmas eve
They all were in the hall, to give
The night its due, with raisins snapped
Out of the burning brandy, capped
With dance and bumper of champagne.
But first they talked in idle strain,
And lounged about as people do
An after dinner hour or two,
And sat down, one by one, around
Where in the winter warmth was found,
And all with empty hands, save one
Who skimmed through the Decameron.
“What's the book, Chesterfield?” cried Will.
“Boccaccio,” he said. Then Lil,
“Who or what was Boccaccio?”
Whom the Professor answered, “Know
That some five hundred years ago
To northern Italy there came
A deadly pestilence, the same
As England christened the Black Death,
And to escape its mortal breath
From Florence fled three noblemen,
And seven ladies fair. The ten
Beguiled the tedium of their stay
By choosing from themselves each day
A king or queen of sports; each told
Each day a story new or old
Worth telling, till ten days were o'er,
And then to Florence turned once more.”
“Famous,” cried Lil, “why should not we
Have a Decameron? But you see,”
She added, “There are fourteen here
And eight days: that would interfere
With having kings and queens: and I
And Madge—why, half the family
Could not tell tales.” Said Chesterfield,
To whom they for advice appealed,
“We could not—all of you must own—
Well stomach a Decameron,
But I have a proposal . . .” Each
Cried “Listen,” while he made his speech.
He said, “To tell ten tales a day
Would take our time too much away,
And half of us would be too shy
Their skill in telling tales to try,
And some might fail: so I suggest
That the professor should be pressed
To be the spokesman every night,
And we draw lots to have the right
To choose the subject—none choose twice.”
And all agreed to his advice.
And as for dance or snapdragon
Or toasts 'twas early yet, some one
Begged that he should begin at once,
And drew to see who for the nonce
Should be the King or Queen. It fell
To Mrs Forte, who bade him tell
Of fair wife loving husband well.
Then he, “It seems that my consent
Has been presumed: but while content
To do your will, I claim your grace
Where'er my tale exhibits trace
Of inconsistency in work,
Being extempore. The Turk,
Or rather Arab, by your leave
My subject of to-night shall give.