A report has arrived from London informing us that at the start of the year a meeting was held, expressing the need to recall me back to England and appoint a new Governor here in my place.
I gather that reports received in London portray me as a vile tyrant, part Herod, part Tamurlaine, part Nero, with naught but contempt for the rule of law and decency.
It seems that I spend much of my time reclining on a divan whilst eunuchs fan me with ostrich feathers and slave girls cater to my merest whim.
No less than Durward Kingston is to be thanked for this nonsense. I understood that the little sneak had been sent back to England on some flimsy pretext in order that Light and the Surveying Party could be rid of the nuisance he provided.
Instead, it appears that he was tasked by none other than Fisher to spread rumours and calumny about me, no doubt aided by letters from Gouger, Morphett and Brown.
I hear that he is shortly to return to our shores where he will, I do not doubt, be made to feel as welcome as a rat turd in a cheesewright's .
I have surprised even myself with the equanimity with which I have received this report. At first I was disappointed and even angry, but on reflection I have experienced a degree of relief.
When they brought me the news of the Magee hanging, and described the man dangling at the end of a rope while thousands looked on as he tried to save himself, while the life was being choked out of him, my first thought was "Well, I know how he felt." The last eighteen months have been, truth to tell, most trying and if I am to be called home then perhaps I am well out of it.
I have surprised even myself with the equanimity with which I have received this report. At first I was disappointed and even angry, but on reflection I have experienced a degree of relief.
When they brought me the news of the Magee hanging, and described the man dangling at the end of a rope while thousands looked on as he tried to save himself, while the life was being choked out of him, my first thought was "Well, I know how he felt." The last eighteen months have been, truth to tell, most trying and if I am to be called home then perhaps I am well out of it.
I note that it is reported that I have been in dispute with "the respectable Colonists of South Australia", a charge I reject entirely. I have been in dispute with Fisher and his party, none of whom are in the least respectable or even respected.
And, as if to prove how little respected he is, Mr Fisher has found himself back in court as Complainant in a Lawsuit for a Libel: Fisher v Thomas and Stevenson. Much innocent pleasure has been had about the town as the details and the proceedings of the case have been circulated.
The question on everyone's lips is simple. "When will Fisher realise that by repeatedly going to court to defend himself against allegations of sharp dealing, he is only bringing closer the point when people begin meditating upon the relationship between fire and smoke and the possibility of one without the other, and start to surmise that perhaps Mr Fisher is, after all, really a sharp dealer?"
Or, as Mrs Hindmarsh said, with admirable clarity, "He keeps going to the courts because people are throwing mud. He punishes the people, but the mud still sticks."
Part of the fun, of course, is to witness the performance of Charles Mann, appearing for Mr Fisher. Mann has given it his all, chewing the scenery as he portrays Fisher as a moral family man, sacrificing all for the good of the Colony. The weight of the responsibility he carries, the awesome decisions he must make every day. And he yet still manages to be at home to dandle one or other of his children on his knee (presumably on a roster basis) and sing them a lullaby with a suitable Christian moral every night.
All through this overwrought farrago, Fisher has sat trying to give every appearance of piety, but also to appear terribly let down and disappointed. The result has been that he has achieved the look of an early Christian Martyr, who has just read the programme and realised that he is not to receive Star billing, but instead is Second Act before Interval, meaning that he will be eaten, not by the big names he was hoping for, but by a third-rate, provincial troupe of touring lions.
The whole case has been brought about because some months ago The Register published letters from a person signing themselves "A COLONIST". These letters outlined clearly, and in words all the Colony could understand, exactly what a mountebank Mr Fisher was in his business dealings.
Fisher, despite frantic efforts, was unable to ascertain with certainty who "A COLONIST" was, which meant that (a) he was unable to take legal action against his accuser and (b) that he was left with the suspicion that, since "A COLONIST", who was against him, could have been anyone, then perhaps everyone was against him. Uneasy fiddle the fingers that fiddle ledger books.
Since Fisher was unable to have his legal revenge on The Register over A COLONIST's
More fun has been had by all, of course, as the proceedings of the case have required the complete litany of Mr Fisher's dealings in the Colony as recorded in The Register to be read out in court. And so we have all been reminded of his selling of the barrels of salt pork, his cheats with the imported bullocks, his Timor ponies, his pauper
And all the while, however much this stung, poor old Fisher had to sit and keep giving his best impression of a Saint. At one point, I am assured by one in the court, steam was seen rushing out of his ears, giving him the look of a sanctimonious tea kettle.
Of course, Stevenson has been found guilty, but I fancy that if Jickling imposes a too hefty penalty upon him there will be plenty in town who will gladly throw a few pounds into a hat to assist him as thanks for the entertainment he has provided.
At the start of the week I took possession of two of my Country Sections of land. Numbers 353 and 476.
Section 353 is a triangular piece of ground to the immediate North West of the township with frontages to both the river and to the main Port Road. Section 476 also sits on the river, but to the East of the town.
Already I have been approached by a party offering me £800 for 353, which seems a reasonable return on the £73 I laid out for it. I believe I shall ask for £1250 and see where we land up.
Poor Walter Bromley has died. His body was found by the river where it appears he had gone to collect drinking water for the day.
As kind and Christian a man as ever we had and a true friend to the Aboriginal population, I suspect he will not be the first to have his heart broken trying to reconcile black and white in this Colony.
On a brighter note this has appeared in the Register:
THEATRE ROYAL, ADELAIDE.
Leader of the Orchestra, Mr. LEE.
Scenery by Mr. LANGCAKE.
Properties by Messrs MARSHALL & RADFORD
The Public is respectfully informed that a small, unique, and commodious Theatre has been fitted up above the Adelaide Tavern, Franklin-street, the audience part of which comprises nine dress boxes and a comfortable pit, and will open on Monday Evening, May 28th.
The evening's entertainment will commence with the national anthem of God Save the Queen! by the whole company.
An Opening Address, written by a gentleman expressly for the occasion, delivered by Mr. Bonnar in the character of a Strolling Manager.
After which will be presented the admired play called
or ,
T H E M O U N T A I N E E R S,
Love and Madness.
Comic Song—Mr. Bailes .
"The British Oak' — Mr. Bonnar.
Song, "Logie O'Buchan"— Mr. Elphinstone.
The whole will conclude with the laughable farce of
T H E L A N C E R S.
Doors open at half-past six—Curtain to rise exactly at seven.
Boxes, 5s. Pit, 2s.
Tickets and places for the Boxes may be taken at the Theatre every day from ten till twelve, and from one to three o'clock; of Mr. Portbury, Hindley-street; and at Messrs. Coltman and Co's Stores, Hindley-street, where plans of the Boxes may be seen.
Tickets for the Pit may be had at the Theatre; at Messrs. Coltman and Co's Stores; at Mr. Portbury's , Hindley-street; at Mr. Fordham's, Franklin -street; at Mr. Rainsford's , baker, back of Forbes-square; at Mr. Lines', opposite Hindley-street; and at Mr. Paris's, North Adelaide.
And, it need hardly be said, Mrs Hindmarsh and my daughters are already planning what clothing they will be wearing.
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