LETTER TWENTY-EIGHT.
Sydney,
My Dear Sister,
Your letter dated 6th June, 1841, came to hand this day, making the fourth I have received from you, with one from Mr. R. Varney. I must also have received the greater part of the newspapers, though I cannot state how many. This will make the tenth or eleventh letter to you, with one each to Mr. J. Varney and Mr. W. Hornblower, and the best part of a hundred newspapers. I write this on ship-board, or I would state the exact number, having an account at home. I need not tell you how I am distressed to hear of dear father suffering so much from bad health, and of all of you being still unfortunate in that way. I hope, however, that all are now safely restored to that greatest of earthly blessings, and my sorrow is somewhat decreased by learning our beloved mother is so much better than I dared to allow myself to hope. I am happy to inform you that I and my Clarinda and our Clarinda Sally are all in the enjoyment of excellent health. Our little light-hearted 'Ninna,' as we call her, runs about and chatters at a fine rate. And what do you think her home-sick mother has taught her? Sometimes when I go home, she runs to me with: "Father, take us in a big ship to see grandfathers and aunties in England, do, father! "In a parcel which I sent home last June I enclosed a small lock of her hair. I will, perhaps, send you her portrait in a future one. You tell me Tom is reading Cunningham's 'New South Wales;' I am glad to hear it. Cunningham, I believe, gives an excellent account of the colony, but I never read him myself. I hope Tom is getting on in his education, particularly in arithmetic, which will be the chief thing he will have to depend upon in his future life—for a respectable position in society. I am heartily glad to hear that Mr. J. Varney is getting on so well in business. My prayers will be for his prosperity, for I believe him an excellent man. and must continue in this belief which makes me happy, though he may deem me worthless. Give my love to him—should you see him—also to his father. Tell Mr. R. Varney that his daughter is comfortable, and as happy as a virtuous woman in her situation can be. Tell him it is time any enmity he may feel towards me should cease, though in some measure he may have had cause for it. The fact of our being separated to the opposite extreme of the earth should, I think, help to make us friends. I do not believe my follies in earlier life were so great as my misfortunes. I entered the world with as little experience and as many difficulties as ever young man had for his portion. I did not succeed; what wonder! My native land seemed too unfriendly for me to live in—I loved it—you know how well I loved my country; yet I tore myself away to seek for 'leave to toil' in a foreign land. I had to encounter a new kind of suffering, but not a worse, though sufficiently ample to punish me for my former errors.
I am now more happily situated, but there is much bitterness at best in the lot of an exile. And Clarinda and I have little to ameliorate the exile's lot; we have neither wealth nor friends, and the very means of comfort afforded us is in itself a source of discomfort, for it separates us, who have none other for the weary heart to lean upon. Still we have much to be thankful for, and I trust we are truly thankful. And, God willing, the time shall come when all who know us at Birmingham shall acknowledge that we are honourable. In the meantime let us be content. Accept for yourself, my dearest sister, my grateful acknowledgments for all your past kindness. You have been to me a sister, affectionate with the watchful affection of a mother. I cannot remember a moment of life when you did not smile upon me with gentleness and love. It was you who did nurse me in my earliest sickness, and you whose voice of comfort came last to me in my native land. When affliction smote my mother in earlier years you caught the maternal glow of her love, and supplied her place. You taught me first to pray, and my best prayers shall be offered up for you. And I have other sisters; may God be most kind to them! Give my love to my brothers. If we never meet again may their years be many and their share of happiness large. That they may go down to the grave in honour and peace will ever be his prayer who is far away.
I thank you sincerely for the sweet words of consolation and advice which you send me over the wide, wide sea. You also have my thanks for the news you send me about old Brummagen. You have a poet and a poetess, have you? You do not seem to be aware that the greatest poetical personage of Birmingham is now living with us at the Antipodes. The late Miss Twamley, now Mrs. Meredith, is a resident in Australia. And what do you think of my setting up poet? I am positively preparing for the press a volume of verses; have already subscribers for 100 copies, including some of the greatest names in New South Wales, as by-and-y you will see. Among your news you tell me that you have a nunnery in Birmingham. Why, I declare the old place is getting quite romantic! You must take care of Maria and Eliza, lest they take the veil. I should not like to see them nuns. But, joking apart, do not be alarmed at a convent of sisters of mercy. They will not (think as you please) hurt Protestantism. You must let me know how the Chartists are getting on, and if you should see anything in the papers respecting William Lovett, who was imprisoned with John Collins in Warwick gaol, be pleased to send me the paper containing it. I am very desirous to know as much as I can about him. He appears to me to be one of the best men in England. I must now endeavour to collect you a little news—colonial news.
The commercial state of Sydney is at the present time^ and has been for the last twelve months, as gloomy as can well be conceived. The market is overstocked with almost every commodity. Most kinds of British goods may be purchased here as cheap as, or cheaper than, in England. Failures to enormous amounts occur continually. There is scarcely a mercantile house in Sydney which a man could say with safety was solvent a year ago, which is not now undermined by these repeated crashes of bankruptcy. At present we have also too much labour in Sydney, great numbers of workmen, mechanics, and labourers, 'old hands in the colony'—unemployed. The new-comers fare worse, of course—that is, those who stay in the town. In the interior there is still employment. Wages are much lower than they were a few months ago. You will feel surprised that in this state of things there should be such a cry raised in the colony for increased immigration, not only from Great Britain and the continent of Europe, but from India and China. The fact is, the parties who are foremost in the endeavour to inundate us with workers look only to the depreciation of labour as the sure result. They have been accustomed to having the convict's toil for nothing, and they cannot bring their minds to paying for that of the free man. Hence they would fain have the poor coolie from India, bound to them for a number of years—a slave in everything but in name. You will be kind enough to excuse my rambling and blundering manner of writing. I have much to say but have not time to think about it just now. I propose writing you descriptions of my walks about the town, and of different characters I meet with here, as I think this kind of minute description of what comes under my own observation will interest you more than any general account of the country which I am able to give you. There is a man now passing before my eyes well worth describing.
Imagine yourself standing by me on the deck of a small schooner lying in Sydney harbour. There is a miserable-looking old man paddling an old canoe from the Sydney side to the opposite shore. The face is unshorn, and his beard and hair are as white as snow. As his vessel glides over the sunny waters he casts his haggard countenance towards the bright blue sky above, and you hear him speaking vehemently in a jargon between French and English. Listen! You now hear him fiercely cursing God Almighty, and calling upon the devil. For twenty years past that white-headed and impious maniac has led the same life, cursing God every day as you hear him now. He is well-known to sailors frequenting Port Jackson by the name of 'French Peter.' In early life he was an officer of the French army, but having committed a murder at home he fled and sought refuge in Australia. Many years ago, when he first arrived, he became possessed of some property That patch of land by the water-side, which you now see occupied by Mr. West, was then his. That land, at the present time, is worth £10,000. He, growing a reckless drunkard, sold it for 16s. and a bottle of rum! For the last twenty years he has had no home, living in a hole in a rock on the north shore. Some days he brings over to Sydney a few oysters, and selling them buys bread. The iguanas have been known to steal his bread in the night, when in the morning he would come back to Sydney for more, declaring that the devil came when it was dark, and took away his bread. Whenever you see ' French Peter' he is cursing God, and raving about the devil.
I will write to yon again at no distant period. By this time you must have received three or four other letters from me, to which I shall soon begin to expect answers. It is now the fruit season in Sydney. The market is well supplied. Peaches from one penny to sixpence per dozen, which are the commonest kind of fruit here.
Clarinda send her love to you all, to which is added that of
Your affectionate brother,
P.S.—I saw Mr. Badham, of Birmingham, about three weeks ago, when he informed me that he had purchased the ship Renown, and intended to go home in her as soon as he could procure a cargo, his business in Sydney being nearly all settled.
Note.—My father never appears to have carried out his intention of sending home 'descriptions of my walks about the town, and of different characters I meet here,' which is a great pity. How interesting those descriptions would be now! It must be clearly understood that I have altered nothing in these letters, and I have omitted very little—good or bad, still they show what Henry Parkes was at twenty-seven.—A. T. P.