Sunday, 17th June, 1838

And, as usual, I write that all will be well and immediately, all Hell breaks loose.

"That should be that," I said, after helping Harding with his mail. "A job well done."

Except, of course, that was not that. Indeed, that was very far from that.

We arrived back in Adelaide late on the evening of Saturday last and made our way to Government House. After a warm, comfortable night in our own beds, the next morning I had Strangways draft a letter to Tom Gilbert, the Post Master General, explaining what had happened with the mail so that he could know and understand the circumstances that led to his precious mail bags being opened and resealed. This, I thought, would keep him happy.

And did it? Did it buggery.

Within minutes he was at my door, telling me that he could choose to do nothing other than protest in the strongest terms. As it happened he could have chosen to not make a mountain out of a mole hill and I told him so, but this only seemed to annoy him further. I sent him on his way, telling him not to be impertinent.

Of course, before you could say "Knife in the back", Fisher got involved, huffing and puffing about "the sanctity of the mails" and "the trust of the people". Since then there has been a public meeting and much throwing about of harsh words, all of them making me out to be some combination of sneak thief and tyrant.

The public meeting, called, with admirable bravery, through an anonymous handbill that appeared about the town, though really at the behest of Fisher, was held last Wednesday at the Tavern, where, no doubt, Fisher stood everyone rounds of drinks to get them well soaked and pliable. Indeed, I am told that the attendance at the meeting was sparse and quickly became sparser once the grog ran out. 

David McLaren took the chair with his usual Hibernian gloom, ensuring an evening of hi-jinks and hilarity. Fisher tore up the place, making a speech of such drama that people were moved. Many moved outside and more were moved to laughter.

It seems that the seal of the Royal Mail is sacred and inviolate and yours truly, like the low cad and bounder that I am, broke that seal, apparently in search of pound notes and food parcels.

What Mr Fisher seems unable (or, more likely, unwilling) to understand is that (1) I opened the mail bags reluctantly and at the insistence of Captain Harding that these were exceptional circumstances (2) As the Queen's representative here in the Province I am invested, by law, with the right to open the mail (3) The opening of the bags was conducted by and witnessed by duly appointed Government officials (4) Tom Gilbert has stated that the official tally of letters and papers received at his office corresponded exactly with the memorandum made at the time by the Advocate General. So no harm was done.  

No, the only injury was to Tom Gilbert's sense of self importance and this was, it seems, enough for Fisher to construct a case against me with all the force of a castle in the clouds.

Such nonsense!

What was not nonsense was Stevenson showing me a handbill that had been printed by his underlings while he was travelling with me to Encounter Bay. Material of a seditionary and revolutionary nature!  

Fifty copies of a handbill promoting, the Equality of Man, Women's Rights, the Equality of the Coloured Races and (most shockingly) Free Love Between the Sexes. Naturally, this sort of thing cannot be encouraged and, indeed, must be stamped out before it leads to some unfortunate social upheaval such as that which occurred only recently in Cornwall at Tolpuddle.

The handbill purports to be written by "The Sons of Lee" who are, I am informed, none other than Mary's group of shady artistic youths who meet at Lee's Coffee House. I have spoken to Mary and she tells me that the thing was written by "Endymion", the Gothic looking young man who lurks about the Coffee House.

The thing starts with a few paragraphs concerning "passing judgement on Society" that read like bilgewater to me, but which Mary assures me are "Too deep for an old man to understand".  

It then makes demands of the extra-ordinary nature previously outlined.

I have informed Mary that it is not possible for a child living in Government House to be seen to align herself with ideas of a revolutionary nature and she is to cease her visits to Lee's Coffee House, which has earned me the title of "World's Worst Father" and resulted in me being told that "Only Mr Stephen understands me!"

That outburst led me to a conversation with Milner Stephen, in which I suggested, none too subtly, that it would ill become the occupant of the one of the Chief Legal Offices in the Colony to be associated with a group of youths aiming at Social Reform of an extreme and morally dubious nature. I also suggested that it would be looked on askance if it was thought that he had inculcated such ideas into the mind of an innocent girl for whatever purpose. He was quick to assure me that "whatever purpose" was far from his mind and not to be considered.

I have ordered Stevenson to burn the copies of the handbill and give young Endymion his money back. (I stumped up the few shillings Stevenson was out by) And as for young Endymion I shall do nothing. First, because he is a young man with silly ideas. Second, because I blame his parents more than him. And third, because if I have him dragged before the court on a charge of sedition I may find Mary being dragged in as well and that will not do.

With luck, we need never speak of this again and no-one need ever know of this.

Saturday, 9th June, 1838

Friday, 8th June, 1838

At about ten o'clock this morning the Pelorus,  with our little party on board, sailed into Nepean Bay, where we were met with an 18 gun salute from what I later learned was the Lord Hobart, anchored in the bay.

The Lord Hobart, need I add, was the ship Mr Fisher sent off to Timor on his infamous Pony Shopping expedition and I have to say that, with the wind blowing in the right direction, it was still  possible to get a faint whiff of a mixture of equestrian manure and failure.

We went ashore to be met by William Giles, chief officer of the Company, who told us that he would conduct us over their "extensive establishment".

Alas, he seemed to have confused "extensive" for "spread far and wide", seeing some relationship between the importance of the place and the distance between the hovels it comprised. What a place! Good Lord Almighty! I have seen outdoor privies with more advantageous aspects, dust heaps with more charm. The canvas, reeds and sticks that form the majority of the houses mean that Adelaide seems positively palatial by comparison. There was a constant smell of smoke in the air, which, I was told, was caused by the Germans, smoking meat. I am not one to question the customs of others, but surely tobacco would be less odorous?

We duly inspected the delights of the place, seeing the harbour facilities - which consisted of a dinghy; the fishery - made up of two men, with a pole to share between them; and the burgeoning agricultural industry - which as far as I could see was a mulberry tree that seemed not long for this world and three rows of swede turnips.

What I was not shown, but heard about later, was the extensive industry in spirits and liquors. I was reliably informed that it is not only possible, it is unavoidable to find establishments in the town selling a varied range of gins, brandies and rums by the gallon at prices even the credulous find hard to believe - what I believe in Trade to be called "popular prices". And if the prices aren't popular then the grog certainly is. Why buy one gallon when you can afford three? I think it fair to suggest that at those prices, the quality of the spirits might not be of the premium variety you would encounter in the best London Clubs. Indeed, I think it fair to suggest that the chief difference between the gin, the rum and the brandy is the label on the barrel. Still, the palates of Kingscote know a good thing when they taste it. Or at least a cheap one. There are four hundred people living in Kingscote and I imagine that for much of the time three hundred and eighty of them are full up to dolly's wax with the stuff.

McLaren once told me that in being appointed as Company Manager he dreamed that he was being sent to a small and happy religious community to further the cause of the Redeemer. Well, if dreams were horses, then beggars would ride. The Devil finds work for idle hands. He has quite the workforce at Kingscote.

I was asked to choose the site of the new Customs House - a fruitless task, I would have thought, as the only importers on the island are bringing in the swill and have no intention of troubling the exciseman. At any rate, I waved my hand in the general direction of an empty space and Giles said "Very wise choice, your Excellency" and it appears that I have pleased everyone.

I also made one or two suggestions as to how they could reposition their landing place more advantageously and how they might construct a landing pier and it seems that my wisdom was the wonder of the age. One of the joys of dealing with old fashioned, pious Christian folk is that they have such respect for the Crown and its representatives. They hung on my every word as if it was Holy Writ. (A pity Fisher doesn't believe in something other than himself!)

In the afternoon we were received for dinner by Mr and Mrs Giles at what we were informed was their mansion. Well, bless him, if I can have a "Vice-Regal Palace" I suppose he can have a "mansion". They both looked about the same.  

What with Mrs Hindmarsh and I, Milner Stephen, Stevenson, Captain Harding and several officers from the Pelorus, along with sundry company officials, we were quite the party to descend upon the Giles family and their resources. When we arrived, we found Mr and Mrs Giles with what we thought were their four children. However, during the rest of the afternoon Giles kept producing further children the way a conjurer produces flags of all nations from his sleeve until finally, we guests were completely outnumbered. It appears he has at least a dozen children, the youngest having been born on the voyage out from England to Kangaroo Island. He hinted that he would "like to have more", a statement to which I did not catch Mrs Giles's reaction, but I cannot help but feel that he might wish to take up a hobby instead, perhaps learning to play the mandolin, or keep bees, to occupy his time, his hands and his energy.

Dinner was remarkable chiefly for the way that so much had been done and so many fed with so little. Giles remarked that they were often reminded of the Saviour's miracle of the loaves and fishes. Mrs Hindmarsh replied, toying with the unnamed meat on her plate and the boiled swede that accompanied it, that she had often wondered if the Apostles collected baskets of left over food afterwards because there were people in that multitude who didn't like fish. 

"If our Lord could turn water into wine," she said, pushing her plate away, " surely He could have turned just one of the fish into a chicken."

At this, Milner Stephen tried to amuse us by throwing a napkin over his arm and giving us his impersonation of St Peter moving amongst the crowd, asking as he went "Chicken or fish?" Unfortunately, such irreverence did not sit well with the pious Giles family and I quickly shut down the man's foolish hilarity. 

Shortly after we begged our leave, ostensibly on account of the tides, but actually because the Giles troop of children seemed set to test our endurance by entertaining us in song and recitation. I find it a useful social rule that when a child is sighted, recorder in hand, then it is time to leave.

We were back on board by seven, the Pelorus sailors rather prettily having lit our way by providing a guard of honour with rush lights from the ship.

We were soon under way, the plan being to return to Encounter Bay this evening to load goods to be taken to Adelaide, before returning to the capital tomorrow.

We had no sooner set sail than Captain Harding came to me begging a favour. 

While in Kingscote there had been bags of mail placed on board, to be taken to Adelaide and placed in the loving hands of Tom Gilbert, our Post Master. Captain Harding suspected that in those mail bags were dispatches from his Commodore, Captain Bethune of H.M.S. Conway and could the bags be opened so that he might get his hands on them?

Charles Ramsay Drinkwater-Bethune - known behind his back as "The Old Buffoon" - is one of those officers who has risen to prominence without ever seeing a shot fired in anger. When my brother officers gather to tell stories of exploits and brave deeds about the best he can manage is his claim to having served on board the Northumberland when it took Bonaparte to St Helena. Imagine the dangers!

Bonaparte being enigmatically Gallic while British Officers shrink in fear

At any rate, I explained to Harding that the Royal Mails are, after all, the Royal Mails and only to be opened by the duly appointed officer. To which Harding begged me to consider the fact, that he had been sixteen months without laying eyes on Bethune (nothing to complain about there, I would have thought); that he had been seeking the Conway in the different Australian Ports; that he had been given contradictory information as to which of the Ports of Sydney or Hobart Town she was then lying; and that the crew of H. M. S. Pelorus, on short provisions already, needed him to know with certainty to which Port he had to speedily proceed.

In short, he would not be quiet and I could barely get a word in. In order to shut the man up I got Milner Stephen in - Milner Stephen being the only man dense enough to allow me to proceed without demur. Then, in Stevenson's presence as a witness, I proclaimed Milner Stephen Post Master General and directed him to open the mail bags. This he did and imagine the look on poor Harding's little face when there were no dispatches to be found.

There were, however, dispatches from London for me, a letter from Hobart for Milner Stephen and two newspapers for Stevenson. Poor Harding, looking like the child who got a lump of coal for Christmas, was just leaving the cabin when Stevenson looked up from his newspaper and casually announced that the Conway was in Hobart Town according to the Shipping Intelligence in the Hobart Courier. At the news Harding was about as pleased as Punch. I will not go so far as to say he clapped his hands with delight, but I had the impression it was a near run thing.

We wrote a declaration of the letters we had taken out, put it into the bag, sealed it back up and that should be that. It's always a good thing, I feel, to help someone else, especially if there can be little cost to oneself. A job well done.

Thursday, 7th June, 1838

I write, this evening, on board the Pelorus, an 18 gun brig-sloop of the Cruizer class, Captain Harding at the helm.

H.M.S Pelorus

Tomorrow we travel on board to Kingscote in order to inspect that ill rumoured location.

We have spent the past two days riding to the Murray River and back, in order to inspect the possibilities of the land along the South Coast. 

Mrs Hindmarsh, I need scarcely say, is enamoured of the countryside and rates it, if not quite so highly as Boston Bay, then certainly higher than Adelaide and spent the two days fulsomely expressing her regrets over Colonel Light's lack of sense in siting the Capital where he did.

The country is certainly very pretty, although formed as it is as a thin strip of plain backed by a range of steep hills that would prove insurmountable to horse drawn carts, the only reliable communication between Adelaide and any township established on the South Coast would be by ship and therein lies the problem.

The current anchorage at Rosetta Head is, as Johnny learnt through hard experience, not worth a damn. The anchorage at the private whaling station in what Captain Crozier named "Victor Harbor", seems protected, but I am not convinced. Everything else we saw seemed either too small, too shallow or too rough to be of much use as a working port. And everywhere in between has the Southern Ocean thundering in and making much of the coast impossible.

My wife was in  raptures yesterday evening and this morning when we were at the Murray River lakes, opposite Johnny's island. "There's your port!" she pronounced, emphatically.

 For a moment I did not quite understand what she meant, but as she explained further I came to see the details of her plan. All that was needed was to land goods at Sydney Cove, bring them overland to a convenient point on the river and then sail them down the river to a township on the lakes, where they could be finally delivered.

When I pointed out that, as a solution to bringing goods up from Port Adelaide or Glenelg, bringing them halfway across the continent seemed impractical at best, I was told that I lacked "imagination" and "resolve". When I spoke of the costs involved I was accused of being a "penny pinching, miserly, niggard" which seemed harsh.

Imagination I may indeed lack, but I am not so incapable that I cannot imagine the response to such a plan back in London.

Tomorrow we set out for Kingscote, land of failed Mullberry groves, poxed sealers and Lutherans. No doubt we will have experiences to remember.   

Tuesday, 5th June, 1838

Up at first light this morning to find that it was still raining. 

After breakfast, inspected the area around Rapid Bay. There is a broad flat beach with a stream heading down from the hills. These are steep and hem in the flat land, such that there is probably room here for, at best, a small town. However, I believe that the place could be a reasonable port for a larger township situated on the land above the hills face. Still, having seen the location I do not share the enthusiasm Light seems to show for the place.   

At mid morning there came the sound of horses and credit where credit is due, Stevenson's whalers appeared in our midst. In fact, the rich, satisfying aroma of sweaty, unwashed men whose clothes were stiff with whale fat arrived amongst us first and the whalers followed some ten minutes later.

What a bunch! All of them filthy, dressed in near rags and all of them of an idea that four of your own teeth count as adequate to be going on with. Several of them eyed Mrs Hindmarsh with "a lean and hungry look", one of them telling me "You're a lucky man, Sir, having a fine strapping woman such as her to do for you". I was appalled, as was Mrs Hindmarsh, though perhaps for different reasons. It occurred to me that if the man stood too close he might do for me as well, such was the stench.

The Whalers having arrived, Lipson took his leave and set sail back to Port Adelaide, leaving us to the tender mercies of these cetacean gentlemen. They loaded our equipment and Mrs Hindmarsh onto the cart - "All your baggage, sir!" said one of them, thankfully out of earshot of my wife - and the rest of us rode some of the sorriest nags I have ever laid eyes on.

We set off, following the whalers as best we could as they rode on ahead with little thought for us. We managed to keep them in sight most often and when we could not, we just followed our noses.

And such rain! As steady and as copious as a donkey pissing, I have not seen rain like it since I was in Java. Of course we were soon soaked to the skin and even Mrs Hindmarsh, sitting on the cart with her umbrella firmly gripped above her head, was soon wet through.

The whalers were not so badly affected. I suspect that the layers of grease and tallow that had penetrated their pores over the years left them with similar water resistant properties to ducks. Their clothes, certainly, seemed to repel water in the same way that the whalers repelled us.

We spent much  of the day heading to Encounter Bay. The distance was not great, but the country was very hilly, with deep gullies and sudden obstacles. We kept to the ridges as best we could and worked our way across to the South Coast, where we had an easy and picturesque ride along cliff tops into Encounter Bay, reaching it by evening. 

The country seems rich and fertile, but it strikes me that unless a large flat plain or plateau can be found, then it is probably useless for further development of population, such are the ravines that are across the land. 

The whaling camp had set aside a couple of huts, especially for our use, telling us that they had been "cleaned out for us just this morning". Exactly what they had been cleaned out of and what understanding the whalers had of "clean" is a moot point. As we settled down for the night I suspected that the answers might be (1) something so deeply piscatorial that Isaak Walton himself might be set back on his heels (2) close enough is good enough.

Mrs Hindmarsh is taking her chances with her camp stretcher again, but, I gather, did spend some time before retiring making clear: her feelings about the rain; the whalers; and the splinters in the seat of the cart. I spent time nodding sympathetically, though at what exactly I am unsure, as I was barely listening. 

Monday, 4th June, 1838

I am sitting, in the rain, on the beach at Rapid Bay, in a tent that barely promises to provide any degree of shelter. Despite Stevenson's assurances, we were not met by whalers with horses or indeed, whalers without horses. We arrived just before sunset and while it was light, hope remained and we stood around in the rain, waiting on the beach until darkness fell. At that time we set up the tents and then sat around in the rain instead.

Stevenson's continuing assurances that the whalers will certainly be here at first light tomorrow sound increasingly hollow, but despite all he maintains a sublime and blissful confidence that come the dawn we shall hear, see and probably smell, whalers in our midst.

This is simply the icing on the cake of a most curious day. It began with Mrs Hindmarsh shilly shallying as usual. Despite having said that we would meet Captain Lipson and his ketch at Glenelg at nine in the morning, her preparations for our excursion stretched out so long that we eventually boarded the boat at nearly a half past the hour of ten, and did not get underway until eleven.

The result was that we had barely reached the mouth of the Onkaparinga River before the party declared that it was time for luncheon. Milner Stephen, who had suffered from mal de mer from almost the moment we hauled up the anchor, did not, I fancy, feel at all peckish, but the rest of the party drew up on the beach for a selection of Lucrezia Harvey's cold delights.

Whilst we were wondering what we should do with the large portion we had failed to stomach a group of natives appeared at the top of the dunes behind the beach. Suddenly one gave a great cry and began to run toward us. Stevenson and Milner Stephen seemed to think that their end had come, while Mrs Hindmarsh, with admirable fortitude, armed herself with a parasol. I, however, had noticed that the man was not shouting in anger, but was, in fact, laughing. 

He stopped directly in front of me and addressed me with a great grin on his face. It was then that I saw that he had a cord slung across his shoulder and that the cord included strips of blue woollen blanket. I realised that this must be one of the men who had come to our camp at the Paddy Will Linger Lagoon in January last year, when Stuart and Alford went hunting for lost horses and that, clearly, he had recognised me.

I shook him by the hand and he showed me the blanket strips that he had used to make the cord. I can take a hint as well as the next man and led him down to the boat, where I had another blanket stowed. I gave it to him and he seemed as pleased as Punch, heading back into the sand hills with it, no doubt to show it to his fellows.

Shortly after this encounter we made to head on our way, leaving the remains of Widow Harvey's lunch for the gulls, several of whom were eyeing it doubtfully. Just as we were about to launch the boat there was a shout and three natives appeared and gave us a dozen fish, clearly in return for the blanket.

As I have said we arrived at Rapid Bay just on sunset and so have had little opportunity to inspect the site. We were expecting to find whalers and an established campsite, but of course were disappointed. If the whalers disappointed us, the Native's gift of fish did not and we ate with much satisfaction after Lipson built us a fire. 

I then had the rare experience of watching Mrs Hindmarsh attempting to get into a camp stretcher to sleep for the night. She displayed a level of apprehension, awkwardness and incomprehension at her situation such that she gave an impression of nothing other than a sheep called upon to perform on a tightrope. She is currently lying stock still upon the thing, convinced that the slightest movement will either see her tumble out of the thing or have it collapse beneath her.

As yet I have managed to not laugh or even snigger, but it is a near run thing and the slightest slip will, I feel sure, bring the most terrible consequences. Mrs Hindmarsh has already made mention of the blanket I gave to the Onkaparinga man and has made it clear that I gave away my blanket and not hers.

Well, for the cost of a blanket I feel I have done something to advance the good relations between the natives and ourselves. The friendliness with which we were met seems to me to be a vindication of my thoughts on those we have found here already.

I am surrounded by people keen to attempt "to deal with the Native Problem". It is my opinion that if we spent a bit less time treating them as "a problem to be solved" and rather more time treating them as fellows and neighbours we might all achieve something. But I fear my view is the minority one and, if I am recalled to London, that minority will drop from "One Vote" to "None at all".

And I cannot help think, having seen some of the problem solvers, that the solution may not be an equitable one.   

Sunday, 3rd June, 1838

So, tomorrow I leave Adelaide behind me.

Not, I should add, because I am heading back to London, although that happy release seems to draw ever closer, but because I am bound on an excursion to Encounter Bay and Kingscote. It seems a fine idea to leave the cares of the town behind me and travel on a Vice-Regal inspection of the outlying areas of the Province.

In complete honesty the thing is a holiday, but if I can pass it off as "the burden of office" then all well and good.

The plan is to go by boat to Rapid Bay, to inspect Light's suggested site for a future township; then overland to Encounter Bay (Stevenson, who is organising this jaunt, assures me that we will be met at Rapid Bay by a party from the Whaling Station with horses. I cannot help but feel that relying on whalers amounts to being ruled by the heart and not the head. But Stevenson, in an act of faith that might give pause to a medieval Saint, assures me "all will be well".) and finally by ship to Kingscote, before returning to Adelaide.

This delightful itinerary is marred only by those who have announced they will accompany me. Stevenson and Strangways I do not object to. Stevenson can be good company and even Strangways is harmless enough. But Milner Stephen has announced he will be coming along, as if I do not get enough of him already. And Milner Stephens is like "Gentleman's Relish" - a little goes a long way. To complete my delight, Mrs Hindmarsh has decided to grace me with her presence and let the girls take their chances at home with Widow Harvey.  Fortunately, my sister Anne will also be home with them, so at least there will be one person of irreproachable character and good sense to attend to them.

People are very keen for me to see the harbours at Nepean Bay and Encounter Bay, telling me much of their excellence and quality. They forget two things: (1) That whatever the quality of Nepean Bay it is attached to the drunken orgy that is Kingscote and hence will be chiefly used for the importation of spiritous liquors. Is this entirely desirable? (2) Encounter Bay may or may not be a fine harbour. What is certain is that it is the harbour where my only son and heir and scion of the Hindmarshes nearly drowned in a shipwreck and hence might not be one I look upon in an entirely unbiased fashion. Still, I shall endeavour to maintain an open mind.

Monday's theatrical performance exceeded my expectations, but only in as far as it was even worse than I thought it would be. I am by no means a follower of Thespis and have never worn the tragic buskin nor the comic sock, yet even I understand that the first undertaking of the actor is to commit the words of the play to memory. It seems that this was not entirely understood by the actors the other night. It is also my understanding that there is a person behind the scenery with a copy of the play whose task it is to remind the actors of any forgotten words. It seems that such an officer was not present, leaving the actors to stand about giggling and toying with their fans and fob watches whenever memory came up blank, as it frequently did.

I might also have expected songs labelled as "comic" to contain at least a smile. They did not. 

The corps de ballet, who, it seems, represented Mountain Sylphs, were a lumpen lot who could have caused an avalanche as they thundered about the stage. 

The only positives that I could see were that many of the actors did not know how to project their voices, which meant that for much of the evening one could sit in blissful silence. And the forty year old actor who played the heroic young lover had the good taste to wear a bow tie, which matched his bow legs.

Mrs Hindmarsh declared the performance "a triumph" and "worthy of the London stage", (which suggests that standards in London must have slipped mightily) and has said that she cannot wait to see their next performance. With any luck that recall to London will come before then.

My daughter's Drawing Lessons continue apace. She has certainly taken to Lee's Coffee Shop, where artists gather. I was sent by Mrs Hindmarsh this week to Lee's to collect her in the carriage, as Milner Stephen, her ostensible chaperon, was unable to deliver her to the house due to pressing business. It appears that I embarrassed her by entering the place and "showing her up" in front of her friends. "What would they think of her? The people she associated with?" she said, as though I was some street urchin or pickpocket dragging her back to some den of vice.

I pointed out that not every girl in the colony has the Queen's Representative wait on them in the Vice Regal carriage, but I was told, not for the first time, that "You just don't understand!" Indeed not.

One young man I did notice while I was in the shop, though I did not catch his name, was a languid youth of a sickly pallor that contrasted with his jet black hair and his black clothes. He sat glowering at all and sundry and especially me. He said not one word save a muttered "Later...." as Mary and I left.

I asked Mary about him and it seems that he goes by the name of "Endymion", having recently declared that he would no longer answer to the name his parents gave him, which is, I suspect, something mundane like "Fred Jones" or "Berty Smith".

Mary assures me that Endymion (or Berty) is "a deep thinker" and has "terrific ideas". If I am any judge of young men of twenty summers I think I can guess pretty closely what those "terrific ideas" might be, especially where unchaperoned young girls might be involved. Deep thinker, my arse!