To be serious: Timothy Hayes, our chairman at the monster meeting,
aristocratically dressed among us, had like the rest his plump body
literally bloated with lice from the lock-up. Poor Manning was the worst.
Myself, I was plagued with that disgusting vermin, all through those
ignominious four months in gaol.
It were odious to say many, many other things.
Chapter LXXII.
Is There A Mortal Eye That Never Wept?
On Sunday afternoon, we witnessed a solemn scene, which must be recorded
with a tear wherever this book may find a reader.
The sun was far towards the west. All had felt severely the heat of the
day. The red-coats themselves, that were of the watch, felt their ardour
flagging. Of twelve prisoners, some gazed as in 'a fix,' and were
stationary; others, 'acursing,' swept up and down the prison; the rest,
cast down, desponding, doing violence to themselves, to dam their flooded
eyes. I was among the broken-hearted.
Mrs. Hayes, who in the days of her youth must have made many young Irish
hearts ache 'for something,' had brought now a bundle of clean clothing,
and a stock of provisions, to make her husband's journey to Melbourne as
comfortable as possible. There she was, holding her baby sucking at her
breast; her eyes full on her husband, which spoke that she passionately
loved him. Six children, neatly dressed, and the image of their father,
were around. Timothy Hayes forced himself to appear as cheerful as his
honourable heart and proud mind would allow. He pressed his little
daughter, who wanted to climb his shoulder; he pronounced his blessing
on the younger of his sons. The eldest (twelve years old) was kissing
his father's left hand, bathing it all the while with such big tears,
that dropped down so one by one, and so after the other!
Good boy, your sorrows have begun soon enough for your sensible heart!
Strengthen it by time with Christian courage, or else you will smother it
with grief, long before your hair has turned grey! There are too many
troubles to go through in this world. Take courage; there is a God,
and therefore learn by heart the Psalm, 'Beatus vir qui timet Dominum.'
My head has still the red hair of my youth, and yet I am a living witness
of many truths in that Psalm; meditate, therefore, especially on the last
verse, ending 'Desiderium peccatorum peribit.'
Had I in younger years cultivated painting, I feel satisfied that I could
produce now such a tableau as to match any of my countryman, Raffaelle;
so much an all-wise Providence has been pleased, perhaps for the trial of
my heart, to endow me with a cast of mind that, on similar occasions as
the solemn one above, whenever my electric fluid is called into action,
it is actually a daguerreotype.
