Robbery Under Arms, Rolf Boldrewood [pdf e book reader txt] 📗

of it, not to be able to read. Writing isn’t wanted so much, though. It’s handy enough of course. But just to think what dreadful dull times of it people must have that never can take a book or a newspaper in their hands to pass away an hour, or find out what’s going on in the world, or even round about where they live.

Work fills up a lot of the time with people like us, but men and women can’t always be working. It they’re ever so stanch, at the collar there’s a gall sometimes, or a bout of sickness, or a holiday, when they’re drove back upon themselves, and what in the world are they to do? They can’t always find people to talk to, and men like father⁠—and there’s more like him⁠—ain’t particular fond of talking at the best of times.

A day comes when they’re tired out with working, and lonely and miserable, or dead beat and at odds with everything. All that, whether it’s man or woman, makes ’em wild for a change⁠—a change of any kind, it don’t matter I what⁠—and drink gives it to ’em. They do drink of course, ten times more than if they had their minds fed up, full and plenty, and I don’t wonder at it, nor no man that knows I what men and women really are. I There’s a lot talked and written in the papers and books nowadays about educating the people, the whole people, all kinds and sorts, learning ’em to read and write, and cipher, and other things as well, and leaving the parents and the priests to teach ’em religion. Some people think the religion ought to come first and the reading and writing afterwards. I don’t hold with anything of the sort.

Men and women that can read and search about and think for themselves are more likely to get some sort of religion that’ll keep ’em out of harm’s way, at any rate, than those that’s had their religion drilled into them, and know nothing else. It’s best to have both. I know that. But keeping a child from learning to read and write is like putting out his eyes for fear he might want to walk about and take the wrong road, and be dashed to bits down a drop. A man that has his eyes may go wrong⁠—he often does⁠—like our lot, but a blind man must go wrong, you’d think, or else must have someone to lead him about, a dog or a child, all his life. If it comes to the gaols, you’ll find a lot more in them that can’t read than of what’s called educated people that’s gone wrong. If it’s nothing else, people that’s had a bit of teaching knows very well that it don’t pay to go on the cross. It hurts them more than the others when they are punished, and it shows ’em fifty ways to one of passing their lives in something like the way God meant ’em to be passed.

Well, that’s sermon enough for once; but a cove that’s shut up like me gets think⁠—think⁠—thinking about matters here and there, till he gets chock full of notions on one point or other, and out it must come. So now you’ve had mine; and I wish⁠—don’t I wish it⁠—couldn’t I die cheerful and steady⁠—if I’d only acted up to half or a quarter of ’em.

There was a lot of papers, and some letters too; as much as gave us all a morning’s work to do to open and read half of ’em. Father had a lot, as usual, from all kinds of chaps on the cross, some about horses and cattle, some with a line or two putting him up to where the police was hunting for us, and letting us know about a trap or two that had been set.

There was a tremendous blow up about Hagan and his lot, of course. The papers were full of letters, asking if the country was to be delivered over to assassins and highwaymen, and advising the citizens to roll themselves up into vigilance committees, and execute a little of that justice themselves which the Government was too weak and inefficient to administer. Of course there was a bit of a fuss made for a while, and then everything went on the same as before.

As for the police themselves⁠—the regular force⁠—they knew that officers and men had been doing their level best for months and months past, and that they couldn’t have worked a stroke harder, or ridden a yard further if the reward had been ten thousand pounds a man instead of one. Night and day, Sundays and Saturdays, hot or cold, wet or dry, they were always at it, and many a man got that which made an old man of him before his time, if it didn’t cook him altogether before the year was out. Of course they did their best to ferret out the way Hagan and his mates had been killed, but they didn’t altogether feel pleased with any of these outsiders who went in for the reward, and tried to take their own work out of their hands. So when they got it hot, like Hagan’s party did, the police thought it might act as a warning to the public generally to mind their own business, and not cut in to do work that they weren’t paid for.

As for the diggers, they were the great army in occupation of all New South Wales and Port Phillip just then. They didn’t trouble their heads much about it after a week. As long as the claims paid well, a few men killed more or less made no great difference. It was the business of the Government of the country to straighten that kind of thing. As long as diggers were let alone and nobody tried to take their gold from them, they didn’t so much care about a few stores