Of my wife I can say little. It is said that amongst adherents of the Roman Church it is not uncommon for them to secretly wear a shirt of haircloth against the skin as a mortification for wrong doings and a penance. I feel that I am doing something similar with Mrs Hindmarsh. I am laying up treasure in Heaven.
She spends much of her time here at the Vice Regal Palace. I try not to take her out too often for fear of frightening small children and horses, but she accompanies me to Sunday Services each week and follows along when my official duties require me to attend some function where I cut a ribbon, or tell some colonist what an asset he is or grease the wheels of civilised society generally.
Speaking of which, up until recently Charlie Howard has been boring for God and Country beneath the sail that I still suspect he acquired by foul means. However, with the winter months coming in he decided that religion en pleine air was quite impractical and so he has moved services into the new, albeit temporary, Court House that Old Gilles stumped up the cash for. (Two bottles of gin and the man grants wishes like the genie of the lamp in some inebriate pantomime)
To be fair, we have repaid O.G.'s investment by naming the Courthouse the Gilles Building and the laneway outside, Gilles Arcade.
So this morning we all trotted over to the courthouse to hear one of Charlie Howard's finest. Ninety fruity minutes on Hebrews 6:1-6:
Therefore leaving the principles of the doctrine of Christ, let us go on unto perfection; not laying again the foundation of repentance from dead works, and of faith toward God, of the doctrine of baptisms, and of laying on of hands, and of resurrection of the dead, and of eternal judgment. And this will we do, if God permit. For it is impossible for those who were once enlightened, and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and were made partakers of the Holy Ghost, and have tasted the good word of God, and the powers of the world to come, if they shall fall away, to renew them again unto repentance; seeing they crucify to themselves the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open shame.
Or, at least, it would have been ninety minutes of vintage Howard, except that at the seventy-five minute mark, just as Charlie, his countenance ablaze with prophetic fire, turned into the home stretch, I leaned back to check my watch and be buggered! if the vice regal wooden bench, graced by the arses of His Excellency, the Governor; his good lady wife; and his three daughters didn't tilt over backwards, falling to the floor with a crash that woke most of the congregation and sent me and my family bum over bosom.
Of course all but two in the room thought it hilarious. The exceptions were, naturally, Mrs Hindmarsh, who felt that she had been made "an undignified object of derision" (although, in truth, I think that she was more upset at the thought that the colonists of Adelaide might have seen that her drawers were patched) And the other was the Reverend Howard who, sad to say, had his train of thought interrupted just as he was coming to a particularly knotty question regarding "the powers of the world to come".
He never really regained his form and, as a result, even though he carried on manfully for a further twenty minutes, the congregation could only manage a doze and not really attain the deep, restful slumber granted by Howard in peak condition and at the height of his powers
John, my son, treats me with all the disdain and lack of patrial respect natural to a son aged seventeen. I am, it seems, out of touch with all that is new and have no understanding of what seventeen year old boys really want. Actually, I have a pretty damned good idea of what it is that seventeen year old boys want and I can assure him that he'll be having none of it!
My daughters are just as silly as ever, but it appears that this has not stopped them from becoming the darlings of the colony. They suddenly find themselves the sinecure of all men's eyes and the object of all men's desires. They, of course, believe that this has something to do with their own natural vivacity, youthful vitality and beauteous charms. It is, perhaps, cruel to disabuse them of these vapid notions, but the truth is that it appears that any number of young men aspiring to greater things are willing to ignore: their tedious talk of trashy novels; their mooning over the dream-like characteristics of Herr Liszt and Herr Schumann; their inane giggling; their plain looks; and their obsession with horses; and still declare themselves as my daughter's suitors if it means having access to and perhaps even influence with me. The girls, naturally, have declared me a beast for saying so and their mother has, inevitably, sided with them. So, once again, if we had a dog house, I would be in it.
On Wednesday last I arrived home to discover Sammy Stephens sitting in my kitchen. It appears the he did, indeed, tell dour David McLaren, the Scotch Baptist his risible anecdote regarding Adam and Eve and the cucumber and, as a result it has been suggested that he head to Encounter Bay to inspect the Company's whaling station there. It is typical of Sam's lack of practical thought that he traveled from Kingscote to Encounter Bay via Adelaide, just so he could share a bottle of Indian Whiskey with "his dear friend, the Governor".
Sam Stephens, of course, is a riot on legs, but we shared a pleasant evening together before I sent him on his way.
I had a visit from Gouger who told me that the Commissioners in London saw fit to include a Library of one hundred and seventeen books for us all here in the Colony. He had a catalogue of the page turners with him. "A Report of the Commissioners of Sierra Leone". "An Account of the Millbank Penitentiary". Every one a cracking read. Just the ticket to boost morale.
In London these books were packed into a metal trunk (I suspect they had 120, but could only manage to jam in 117. I hope the three left out were not something people would actually want to read.) and loaded aboard The Tam O'Shanter before it left Plymouth for the Colony.
Ah, yes, The Tam O'Shanter. Captained by that prize arse Whiteman Freeman who won his Captain's papers at a coconut shy and managed to run aground on a sandbar in the Port River.
Gouger isn't sure quite what happened, as there are different reports. Some say that the trunk of books was loaded into a dingy, but unsecured and Freeman and his crew of clowns watched it slide off the boat and into the water as they brought it ashore. Other reports, the which I find more credible, say that they tried to float it ashore. Think on that for a moment. They tried to float a metal trunk ashore.
Still, whatever happened, the consequence was that The State Library of South Australia ended up at the bottom of the Port River.
Oh, they fished it out and drained out the water, but it's taken poor old Gouger this long, what with one thing and another, to get the books dry and back to a presentable condition.
And now he wants to know where he can put them.
I restrained myself from the obvious riposte, but honestly: having seen the list of books in the trunk I cannot help but feel that the bottom of the Port River is as good a place as any. Still, I suppose we will have to find somewhere for them, but at the moment they are sitting in the corner of my bedroom.
Honestly - State Library: the tin trunk next to the commode. State Archives: third drawer down on the left side of my desk. If someone suggests a State Forestry I can see my vegetable garden going.
The mad poisoner asked if there were any cook books in the trunk. "Not that it matters," she said, "as cooking like mine don't come from no cook books."
Indeed.
He never really regained his form and, as a result, even though he carried on manfully for a further twenty minutes, the congregation could only manage a doze and not really attain the deep, restful slumber granted by Howard in peak condition and at the height of his powers
John, my son, treats me with all the disdain and lack of patrial respect natural to a son aged seventeen. I am, it seems, out of touch with all that is new and have no understanding of what seventeen year old boys really want. Actually, I have a pretty damned good idea of what it is that seventeen year old boys want and I can assure him that he'll be having none of it!
My daughters are just as silly as ever, but it appears that this has not stopped them from becoming the darlings of the colony. They suddenly find themselves the sinecure of all men's eyes and the object of all men's desires. They, of course, believe that this has something to do with their own natural vivacity, youthful vitality and beauteous charms. It is, perhaps, cruel to disabuse them of these vapid notions, but the truth is that it appears that any number of young men aspiring to greater things are willing to ignore: their tedious talk of trashy novels; their mooning over the dream-like characteristics of Herr Liszt and Herr Schumann; their inane giggling; their plain looks; and their obsession with horses; and still declare themselves as my daughter's suitors if it means having access to and perhaps even influence with me. The girls, naturally, have declared me a beast for saying so and their mother has, inevitably, sided with them. So, once again, if we had a dog house, I would be in it.
On Wednesday last I arrived home to discover Sammy Stephens sitting in my kitchen. It appears the he did, indeed, tell dour David McLaren, the Scotch Baptist his risible anecdote regarding Adam and Eve and the cucumber and, as a result it has been suggested that he head to Encounter Bay to inspect the Company's whaling station there. It is typical of Sam's lack of practical thought that he traveled from Kingscote to Encounter Bay via Adelaide, just so he could share a bottle of Indian Whiskey with "his dear friend, the Governor".
Sam Stephens, of course, is a riot on legs, but we shared a pleasant evening together before I sent him on his way.
I had a visit from Gouger who told me that the Commissioners in London saw fit to include a Library of one hundred and seventeen books for us all here in the Colony. He had a catalogue of the page turners with him. "A Report of the Commissioners of Sierra Leone". "An Account of the Millbank Penitentiary". Every one a cracking read. Just the ticket to boost morale.
In London these books were packed into a metal trunk (I suspect they had 120, but could only manage to jam in 117. I hope the three left out were not something people would actually want to read.) and loaded aboard The Tam O'Shanter before it left Plymouth for the Colony.
Ah, yes, The Tam O'Shanter. Captained by that prize arse Whiteman Freeman who won his Captain's papers at a coconut shy and managed to run aground on a sandbar in the Port River.
Gouger isn't sure quite what happened, as there are different reports. Some say that the trunk of books was loaded into a dingy, but unsecured and Freeman and his crew of clowns watched it slide off the boat and into the water as they brought it ashore. Other reports, the which I find more credible, say that they tried to float it ashore. Think on that for a moment. They tried to float a metal trunk ashore.
Still, whatever happened, the consequence was that The State Library of South Australia ended up at the bottom of the Port River.
Oh, they fished it out and drained out the water, but it's taken poor old Gouger this long, what with one thing and another, to get the books dry and back to a presentable condition.
And now he wants to know where he can put them.
I restrained myself from the obvious riposte, but honestly: having seen the list of books in the trunk I cannot help but feel that the bottom of the Port River is as good a place as any. Still, I suppose we will have to find somewhere for them, but at the moment they are sitting in the corner of my bedroom.
Honestly - State Library: the tin trunk next to the commode. State Archives: third drawer down on the left side of my desk. If someone suggests a State Forestry I can see my vegetable garden going.
The mad poisoner asked if there were any cook books in the trunk. "Not that it matters," she said, "as cooking like mine don't come from no cook books."
Indeed.
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