Saturday 21 July 2018

Sunday, 22nd April, 1838

At the invitation of Bill Shephard, I went along this week to the "Adelaide Tavern", a new venture of Shephard's in Franklin Street. He has a hotel, accommodation and the intention to house a Theatre in the building. 

Sadly, I was not impressed. I realise that it is but early days for him, but his claim to "comfort on any scale" can only be credible if the scale runs from Zero to Three. Anything higher is quite out of the question. And his beef a-la-mode gives indication that "la mode" is "sec, dur et non comestible". He claims it is for "the convenience of strangers", which may well be true, as you certainly wouldn't want to subject friends to it.

He is currently casting around for theatrical types to appear in what he describes as a "glittering gala" of an opening night for his Theatre. Well, I wish him luck, but cannot help but think that the artistic resources of the Province might well be stretched to provide enough Thespian capacity to glitter even slightly.

But my strongest concern is his claim to be fitting the thing out in the style of theatres in Paris. I find this very worrying.


From the Gazette and Register 28/4/1838


 Shephard's claim that the theatre will be of the utmost respectability seems at odds with the French influence he claims to be following. The moral lassitude of the French theatres (and, indeed, of French society generally) is a by-word amongst those who practice regular habits and I need hardly sully these pages with a description of the outrages against rectitude associated with them, but suffice it to say that as a home for all that is loose, fast and free from nether garments, the Minor Theatres of Paris are hard to beat. So I'm told.

Well, we will wait and see.

Magee and Morgan have both had their day in court and both have been found guilty of "Shooting with Intent to Kill" whilst one "George Smith", alias "George Scroggins", an associate of theirs, has been apprehended and found guilty of Highway Robbery.

I had been unaware of the case of Scroggins and on first hearing I could not help but think that to change ones name from something as serviceable as "George Smith" to "Scroggins" showed no great judgement or intelligence. Also, to attempt "highway robbery" in a colony devoid of highways can only lead to a life filled with frustration. 

So Scroggins seems, at best, a frustrated simpleton. And since Morgan has already suffered four nights of terror on a Fleurieu Hillside and since neither he nor Morgan actually fired the pistol at Sammy Smart, I have determined to commute their death sentences to transportation. They were, it appears, convicts from Van Diemens Land, so it seems fitting to send them back there and let them be Hobart's problem.

After all, Franklin sent us Milner Stephen, so it seems only fair that we give them something in return.

Magee, however, I can find no extenuation for. The Court has passed a sentence of death and I fear that death it must be. He certainly intended to kill Sam Smart and even though his aim was bad, he fired the pistol with that intent. The Law must be seen to be done.

Also in court was one John Wadcot. And what was Johnny Wadcot, Marine of this Province, in court, being found guilty for?

A fortnight ago young Johnny was duty guard here at Government House. He decided, against all reason and sanity, to help himself to a cup of the coffee that the mad Widow always has brewing on the fire. 

The Widow's method of coffee making is to take a large pot, tip in about three pounds of ground coffee, add water and then place the pot on the hob to boil. After two or three days, when the muck has reduced to a sort of slow bubbling sludge she empties the pot and starts the whole process again. Anyone fool enough to try the foul brew finds themselves with palpitations and a good two days without sleep ahead of them. We have all learned to avoid the horrors of that black concoction. 

Wadcot, however, had not. He sliced himself off a dollop of the coffee, added milk and then took a mouthful. So disgusted was he that he spat it out and spilled the rest of the brew onto his shirt, where the black goo stained it and actually began eating away the material.

And thus he was caught stealing a shirt from Coltman's Stores and found himself up before the jury on a charge. 

I have told Jickling I will administer the punishment. I believe perhaps two cups of the Widow's coffee will be both punitive and reformative. 

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