Squatters Past and Present
Yesterday afternoon, when reading the remarks of our latest critic, Mr. Anthony Trollope, upon Australian life and manners, I received almost simultaneously a letter from my old friend, Robin Ruff, of the Murrumbidgee, and a visit from my young acquaintance, Dudley Smooth (nephew to Lord Lytton's friend), of "Scott's Hotel." Both were squatters, both about equally wealthy, both good fellows in their way, both occupied nearly the same position in society, both were alike--and yet how widely different!
Robin Ruff, writing in a shaky hand, with honest independence of
spelling, and hearty contempt for necessary doubling of consonants, sent
a message to his grandson, and would I see Wether and Weaners' people
about "them yowes." Robin Ruff is an old man. He is nearer seventy than
sixty I should say; but he is as erect as a dart, and can ride a long
day's journey, or do a hard day's work, with many a younger man. He is
six feet high, his hands are knotted and brown--mottled with sun, and
hardened with labour. His shoulders are broad, his head well set on, his
eye confident. His head is white, and his beard is white also, save that
brown patch round the mouth that looks as if snuff had been spilt on it. In appearance he is not elegant. His coat is too big for him, and his hat is not of the fashionable mould. His boots are clumsy, and have thick soles, which creak as he walks. He carries a big oak stick, and wears a big silver watch. He looks very fierce indeed, and not at all a "lady's man;" but people who know him well like him, and little children run to him at first sight.
Robin Ruff came to this colony in 1836, the year before Mr. Latrobe was
made Superintendent. He had been squatting in Sydney before that, but
hearing much of the "new colony," came over to better his fortunes. Old
Ruff--long since put away comfortably in the kirkyard--had kept a little
shop in a little Scotch town, and had saved a bit of money, but Robin, adventurous lad, wearied of the big grey hills and the quiet old straggling street, and sowing, and reaping, determined to seek his fortune. The old father advised, and the old mother wept beneath her horn spectacles, but Robin would go. Wise bodies at market assembled, predicted "nae guid" of the lad--(he rebuilt the market-hall the other day, with good Aberdeen granite)--and it was generally prophesied that he would bring his parents' grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
For the first ten years of his Australian struggles he seemed likely
enough to fulfil the worst of their prophecies. It was a hard fight, and
little to get for it. But by steadiness and industry he got a little
money together at last. The marvellous virtue that lies in sheer hard
work brought him through after ten years, and made him independent. Arrived in the Port Phillip wilderness, up the country he went. Land was to be had easily enough in those days, and being his own bullock-driver and stockrider, and shepherd, and farmer and cook, Robin Ruff soon made a home for himself. He began to be looked upon as a "warm" man. Jolly boys carousing in Melbourne town, at the foundation of Prince's Bridge, spoke of Ruft's luck and cursed their own in genial fashion. By-and-by the great crash came. Sheep and cattle were worth nothing, and Ruff's luck seemed gone. But it turned again. He had bought land with his saved money, and when the "diggings broke out" (like an eruption, one would think), had recovered his losses.