ACROSS THE WALNUTS AND THE WINE. In after dinner talk. 1871.

The Sydney Morning Herald, Thursday, 29 June 1871

ACROSS THE WALNUTS AND THE WINE.

In after-dinner talk.  

               “Across the walnuts and the wine.”—Tennyson.

  

Among the smaller phenomena produced by the late gigantic war is to be seen that confusion of politics which our national anthem invokes against the Queen’s enemies. When the conflict began, since France was governed by an emperor, and Prussia was supposed to have constitutional tendencies, Liberals were inclined to take the latter side (independently of the immediate cause of quarrel, about which there were naturally two opinions), and our Conservatives the former. But now that the situation is reversed, and we have (at the time we write, at least) a republic in France and an emperor in Germany, our after-dinner politicians are sorely put to it.

 “Consistency may be the virtue of fools,” but the “eating of words” is distasteful even to the wisest. Thus, even Professor Puffington now ceases to be positive and is obliged to content himself with being plausible, while men of no opinions, and professional jokers, such as Mr. Caradog, who have never committed themselves to either side, are masters of the position. The “telegrams to our Augusta”—now more august than ever—have become a painful subject to him, and he is mercilessly twitted about the “moderation” of her William.  

In vain he explains his favorite’s altered conduct by the intoxication of victory, and falls back upon the poets: “You must understand, my friends, that

‘To play at the game when moves are Death,

Makes a man draw too short a breath.’”  

“In other words,” replies Thunderbombs the Major (thus the late Colonel speaks of “the breath of Germany’s nostrils”), “he does not know on which side his tail hangs!”  

“And where does that admirable quotation come from?” inquires Pinson Grey.  

It is evident that he does not mean the Colonel’s, and the Professor is only too happy to elude his foes by satisfying our divine’s curiosity. He repeats the whole of that wondrous poem, never so significant as now, while we listen with rapt looks and seem to hear the very

“Sound of the drums grow less and less,

Walking, like circles cast off from distress to see,

Stench steady the ranks of men,

Wheel and fall in and wheel again,

Softly as circles drawn with pen.”  

The battle is fought before our eyes, more visibly than ever painter drew it, from the very first, when

“A gaze there was of doubt and fear,

And the jest that died in the jester’s ear,

And preparation visible to see

Of all-accepting mortality—

Tranquil necessity gracing force,

And the trumpets danced with the stirring horse,

And lovely voices here and there,

Called to war through the gentle air.”  

Then suddenly, with its voice of doom,

“Spoke the cannon ’twixt fire and foam,

Making wider the dreadful room.”  

“I have read Homer,” says Pinson Grey in an ecstasy, “but this is the first time I have had a battle brought home to me!”  

“A great university scholar like yourself,” observes the Professor (now himself again), “should surely be more careful in his eulogies. Is it possible, then, you can regret not having made acquaintance with a poet of your own land, who has not even age to recommend him? Pooh!”  

“Death for death! The storm begins,

Hush! The drums in a torrent of dins,

Crush the muskets, task the war-words,

Shoes grow red in a thousand fords.

Now for the first and the cartridge bite,

Faint to the palate and stinging to sight,

Muskets are pointed, they scarce know where—

No matter! Murder is cluttering there.

‘Keep the line, boys, close up, close up!’

Death feeds him, and his food is his cup.

No time to be breather of thoughtful breath—

This the giver and taker of death till death.

See where comes the horse-tempest again,

A visible earthquake, bloody of mane!

Foes are upon us with edges of pain,

Crashing their spears and twice slaying the slain.

‘Victory, victory!’ Anathema’s plan—

Cannibal patience has done what it can,

Carved and been carved, drunk the drinker’s doing,

And now there is one that hath won the crown.

One pale visage stands lord of the land,

His to trumpet’s blow, street with his trumpet’s sway,

‘There is none to stir him, nay’—except,”  

“His trumpets,” interpolates Caradog. We should have frowned him down, but the Professor adds good-naturedly, “They and his horse!”  

“They and his horse, and bear him away,

They and his feet with a tired, proud flow,

Tattered escapers and women of woe.

Open, ye cities! Hats off! Hold breath to see

The man who has been with Death,

To see the man who determines right

By the virtue perplexing, virtue of might.

Sudden before him have ceased the drums,

And lo! at the edge of empire he comes.”  

“By Jove!” exclaims the Colonel (meaning “By Mars!”), in a burst of literary enthusiasm, “I should like to know the name of the fellow who wrote that!”  

“Why, it’s Hunt, of course,” said Mr. Bitter Aloes, savage with long-enforced silence. “Don’t you remember that Radical fellow with the white hat who made such a fuss at the time of the Reform Bill?”  

But the Professor took pains to correct that mischievous remark and to introduce the Colonel to a knowledge of the gentle Leigh, by far the most unappreciated poet that ever wrote English verse.  

“Why, there is not a picture by Weavermans that breathes the breath of battle half so naturally,” cried the Colonel. “I saw two or three of them in the Exhibition of the Old Masters yesterday.”  

“Quite true,” echoed Housewife, “but what a glorious Exhibition it was! This is the second year that our great folks have lent the contents of their galleries, while they say there are materials equally good for half a dozen such displays. And yet we are told that the English do not love art!”  

“Nay, rather, they love it not wisely, but too well,” observed the Professor. “They care for the name more than the thing itself, for the reputation more than for the merit. Can anything be more ridiculous than this outcry about the doubtful Turner? If it is as good as a Turner, what does it matter though it be by Jones or Robinson?”  

“Oh, by Bismarck!” interrupted Mr. Caradog, “who will not be an Old Master, they say, even though he’s Church Low-aim!”  

“It’s a question of the silver,” observed Mr. Macpherson, disregarding the miserable joker. “A Turner is worth muckle, and a Robinson not a bawbee.”  

“But why,” argued the Professor, “supposing they are equally good? That is just what I complain of in your art public. There is no reason in their admiration, but only prejudice and idolatrous devotion to great names. A bad picture by an Old Master is held in far higher estimation than a good one by a new hand. Why on earth—say on earth, for I hope it does not happen elsewhere—should such things be? It is only judges of art, as they call themselves, who are so blindly led. Nobody admires Count Robert of Paris because it was written by Sir Walter Scott, but because Sir Joshua Reynolds, forsooth, has perpetrated the portrait of a postboy pulling on his gaiters, he calls it a Colonel, and it’s No. 160 in the catalogue—let no dog bark, or venture to go ‘ow!’ Rubbish! Now, there are a score of similar monstrosities in that Exhibition—a very beautiful one, as a whole, I own—and yet because they are old, I am not to say they are ugly.”  

“I hope, my dear Professor,” said Mrs. Housewife slyly, “that you will always be restrained by this consideration when speaking of me.”  

“My dear madam,” and here he bowed, “there are some women to whom age only adds new beauties, as though the finger of Heaven, which is always beckoning to them, had touched and transfigured them. There are many such transferred to canvas in the Exhibition of which I speak. On the other hand, there are some old women hung up there who ought to be signs! There’s a street sketch, for instance, by no less a person than Peter Paul Rubens, called ‘The Rape of the Sabines,’ the figures of which are very mature. Lord Macaulay said of it that, if the ladies (none of whom can weigh less than seventeen stone) were like the portraits, two things astonished him in the historical transaction: first, that any man should desire to carry them off, and secondly, that any man should be found strong enough to do it. Again, there’s a picture by Giorgione, No. 227, which is really deserving of the highest credit, both for its prophetic inspiration and its good morals; it obviously prefigures a modern Refreshment Saloon, where the young ladies are waiting at the counters to serve the public with drink and viands, while, at the same time, it deprecates all meretricious attraction by representing those damsels as ill-favored as possible.”  

“Plain, though colored,” assented Mr. Caradog. “But if you want to see what malice a painter is capable of towards the nobler sex, contemplate the portrait of Peach Speare, No. 21, and with about that number of eggs to his knee breeches. It is by far the most humorous picture of the whole lot. Next to that (for time) is the ‘History of Yu-grain,’ by Filippino Lippi, doubtless priceless from its antiquity, but which would, even as a modern work, have had its value as an illustration to a comic periodical. In the ‘Angels Hovering in the Air,’ No. 273, by Botticelli, there are also fine strokes of humor. One has heard of an angel in the house, but three angels on the roof of a house have certainly not been heard of since the year 1471, when the great work in question was painted. There are also two angels by Il Moretto (Nos. 293 and 295), both evidently taking ‘sensation headers,’ whose attitude should be studied by all muscular Christians.”  

“My dear Caradog,” expostulated Mr. Bitter Aloes, “art, or at least high art, is too sacred a subject to be made a jest of. Everybody but yourself is conscious of the impropriety of doing so. I was standing opposite that dead-brown picture, No. 274, and observed to a friend that it looked as though it were sepia. ‘Sir,’ observed a bystander with grave face, who had just referred to his catalogue, ‘you have judged rightly; it is The Triumph of Scipio.’ I bowed my acknowledgments.”  

“Well, well, you may make fun of anything,” observed Housewife, “but an hour in that exhibition, rightly spent, is worth weeks of ordinary life. To see Arundel Mill by Constable is, for instance, to be transported into the country and anticipate the summer; to watch the waves of Fallsdacl is to be at the seaside; while, if human nature attracts you rather than landscape, you may behold youth made eternal by the brush of Gainsborough in that portrait (No. 108) of his nephew, Edward Gardiner, in my opinion the tenderest and most graceful that was ever drawn, and which puts the contrast, even the famous Blue Boy, in the cold shade. If you have anything cynical to say about that, Aloes” (for that gentleman was already parting his thin lips), “I had rather not hear it. Come, let us go upstairs.”  

“Why, one would really think he had loaned the picture and wanted to sell it,” muttered Aloes, as we adjourned to the drawing-room.  

Here we found my godson—for the housewives are not so unwise as to bring their boy to dessert, to the hurt of his own health and the interruption of their guests’ conversation—and the Professor and he at once foregathered as usual.  

“Now, Tom,” said he, “I’ve got a couple of riddles for you.”  

“New ones?” inquired the artless child, “or like that ‘Jack and Jill’ one?”  

“This is a boy that will be eaten by lions!” ejaculated the Professor. “I’ll write a storybook and make you the wicked character of it, young sir, I will! How dare you? ‘If they be not old, then what matters it how old they be,’ as Master Suckling (another boy who was too clever by half) expresses it. I don’t know whether they are new or not, but so far as I know, they have never been put in print. The first is a pretty one:

‘Divide a hundred and fifty by nought, at two-thirds of ten, so ends my riddle.’”  

“Why, if you divide anything by nought, it makes it nothing,” growled Mr. Bitter Aloes.  

“Does it?” rejoined the Professor. “Zach Macaulay’s schoolboy (only he was musical and not mathematical) would have been ashamed for such a display of ignorance. Young Tom will learn someday, Aloes, unless you make your way, that infinity is not nothing. C is fifty, is it not, and L is a hundred; divide them by nought, and we get COL. Add two-thirds of ten, and then we have COLENSO. That’s my riddle—COLENSO.”  

“The second is a little sum in arithmetic, so it is useless for Aloes to attempt it:

‘Two clerks are offered an addition to their salaries; one has a rise of five pounds every year, and the other of ten pounds every two years. Which of them has the better bargain, Master Tom, and by how much?’”  

—Chambers’s Journal

Life in the old days Pennant Hills Sydney . 1892-1950.

Evening News, Sydney, NSW (20 December 1892)

Parramatta Police Court

At the Parramatta Police Court on Monday, Gustavus Stenburg, for obscene language, was fined 20s, or seven days. Charles Aiken, for furious riding, was fined 10s, with 12s 6d costs. A. E. Astridge, a lad, for trespassing on the orchard property of Edward Clay, was fined 5s, with 5s 6d costs, or three days.

The Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate, Parramatta, NSW (9 January 1897)

GLENHAVEN

New Year Social — A social was held here on New Year's Night. There were about 30 present, and dancing was kept up till daybreak on the 2nd. Mr. Randle supplied the music, and Mr. C. Aiken was M.C. During an interval, a sumptuous mixture of soda biscuits, tea, and coffee, apples, and apricots was served and was at least a novel repast if not a satisfying one.

The Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate, Parramatta, NSW (23 October 1897)

PENNANT HILLS

Mr. Martin has commenced a contract for 450 yards of white metal to be laid on the Pennant Hills Road near Mr. Edwards' property.

Mrs. George Maher trod on a black snake on Wednesday morning in the orchard and narrowly escaped being bitten by the reptile, which was promptly killed by Mr. Robert Maher.

Mr. Tunks is supervising a contract for 6,000 sleepers, which are being obtained in the bush near Mr. Purchase's property, to the order of the Railway Commissioners.

Aiken's Lane has been the scene of frequent social parties lately. The residents there have a continual knack of 'surprising' one another.

The Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate, Parramatta, NSW (30 October 1897)

PENNANT HILLS

More social parties at Aiken's Lane. The most recent was on Friday night last week; there were three such events. Orchard life does not grow monotonous down that way.

The only progress made so far towards providing a goods siding at Pennant Hills has been to stock the soil to form the road to it.

Mr. E. J. Black went through to Camperdown sale yards on Tuesday with another string of horses from the North.

Apricots will be very light at Pennant Hills this year. "A good job," remarked one grower, "because we'll get a better price for what fruit there is, and have no rubbish to handle." There are many, however, who would be more content with last year's glut over again.

The Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate, Parramatta, NSW (9 October 1909)

HOLIDAY MAKING

A merry party, including Messrs. D. D. Henderson, F. Linsly, T. Quirk, Aiken, and J. Scarborough, went on Saturday for a trip to Tuggerah. The weather interfered considerably with projected fishing operations, but it is needless to say that the outing was a very enjoyable one for all that.

The Rev. A. E. J. and Mrs. Ross went off on Monday to Narrabeen for two or three days. In their absence, the rector's roses, watered by recent rains, are looking lovely.

The Farmer and Settler, Sydney, NSW (9 January 1914)

THE CARRINGTON APPLE

History and Description of a Popular Dessert Fruit

By Herbert J. Rumsey

From just before Christmas to the middle of January, the Carrington apple has first place in N.S.W. markets for dessert purposes, unless (and here is the rub) the fruit merchants who supply the country trade have—as they have had for the last two years—a stock of American apples left on hand, which they must unload.

A few years ago, decent Carringtons would sell at fifteen to twenty shillings per case about Christmas time, while extra choice would easily fetch twelve shillings or more per half case. Even small stuff would pay well to pick and market. Today, however, the best Carringtons are quoted at seven to eight shillings; medium, three to four shillings per gin case, and small apples are unsaleable.

There are, unfortunately, too many small ones this year, as there has not been an inch of rain where the Carrington grows since the blossom came out. I have seen fine ripe stuff that had not sufficient rain to wash the spray mark off the fruit.

The Carrington is a purely local variety, suited only to the climate of Central Cumberland, where it originated. 'Smith's Soft Seedling,' as it was originally named, grew by the side of a creek down in 'Dixie,' as the Carlingford folk call it. Dixie Lane leads off the Pennant Hills Road at Carlingford, nearly opposite, but a little to the northward of, the wireless tower. The history of this lane itself is almost as old as the country, for in 1804 the Frenchman, Peron, spoke of driving over it in his carriage. It leads across to the side of Castle Hill. About a mile down the road, the land becomes poor and sandy, but right here is the home of the Carrington; the old orchard still has trees nearly forty years old, while parts of it have been replanted lately with more Carringtons. The original tree is there yet; or, rather, root suckers from it. Fruitgrowers who know the history of the tree say that the root suckers always make the

best trees, though they are a bit slower in coming into bearing. With the top wood, there has always been a tendency to sport. The old orchard shows three distinct types that appear to become persistent yet vary very considerably. First, there is the Red Carrington, showing a green fruit, which gradually assumes a beautiful red cheek, and sometime before it ripens, this color covers the whole fruit. This is one of the most solid colored of all apples. It is the variety that has always been selected by careful orchardists and nurserymen, and its productivity is always ensured by root growths. While it is a soft apple, it is harder and packs better than the other types.

The second type is the light streaked, a light green apple turning waxy yellow as it ripens, with striped shadings of pink and red, particularly on the sunny side. This apple is so soft when ripe that it will bruise with the finger while picking. The variety appears to be more acid than the others.

The third type is the red streaked, a very handsome apple, nearly as finely colored as the Red Carrington, but showing streaks of deeper red extending from stem to blossom through the self-coloring. In addition to these three distinct features of color, there seems to be a variation of shape. The true Red Carrington, as reproduced from the roots, is a flat-shaped apple with an occasional tendency to pyriform, while the other types have a varying tendency to a greater dimension from stem to blossom.

The Carrington has been and still is a money-making apple for coastal growers near city markets.

It is generally believed that this apple is better unpruned, but in my opinion, that is an error. In many seasons, the present one, for example, it would mean fewer apples, but it would be fewer unsaleable apples and more money-makers. I am inclined to think that pruning after the fruit has set, and thinning it out, would be the best treatment.

The Carrington is a very precocious bearer, especially on its own root, and there is certainly no reason why it should be worked on anything else, as it makes about the best stock that can be found; it is resistant to the American blight or woolly aphis, and a good rooter.

There is one habit common to every variety of Carrington: they all bear twins and triplets—apples with two, three, or even more blossom ends, to one stem.

The Carrington's season is such a short one that in the districts where it is the only apple grown, there is not much codling moth, as there is nothing to hatch but in the second brood.

There is another habit almost peculiar to this tree. In a wet autumn, it flowers and matures a second crop of apples, and I have seen this second crop grow to saleable size without apparently having any bad effect upon the spring crop in the following season. In one instance, at least, that I know of, a third crop was set in a mild winter, but the fruit only grew to about one and a half inches in diameter.

The sporting habit, mentioned with regard to the Carrington, though not common, is not unknown in the apple family, as the following example shows: In a history of Romsey Abbey, written about 1650, it is stated that on the top of the 'tower,' amongst the refuse and ruins, an apple tree grew which bore fruit of two distinct kinds, one colored a bright red, the other yellow-striped, and the fruits of this tree were sold in the town for one penny each as curiosities.

I have written this history and description of the Carrington apple with a view to assist in the good work of our pomological committee, and should esteem it a favor if any readers who can add to the facts, or amend them in any way, will communicate with me. There are several apples that originated in this locality that should have their history written, and would if those who are acquainted with the facts relating to them could be induced to communicate their knowledge to the editor of the Farmer and Settler.

The Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate, Parramatta, NSW (14 November 1923)

NORTHERN BOUNDARY SETTLEMENT

The pleasant hillside along which the road to Carlingford now climbs was the scene of one of the first efforts at settlement in the newly-formed Colony of New South Wales.

The grants at this point lay on the most northerly fringe of settlement, hence the name Northern Boundary. The grants to the pioneer settlers—Simon Burn, John Brown, Wm. Moulds, and Wm. Parr—date from 17th August 1791.

The following persons also settled here in the years that followed: Joseph Carver, 19th March 1792; John Rowe, 1st April 1792; Wm. Whiting, 12th May 1792; George Barrington, November 1792; David Spencer, 50 acres, 28th October 1793; Thos. Arndell, 70 acres, 1st April 1794; Francis Oakes, 50 acres, 30th June 1823; Samuel Barsby, 30 acres, 1st March 1793; John Randall; John Martin.

It is not difficult to locate the grants at this centre of settlement. The Pennant Hills Road intersects the majority of them. Parr's grant faces Belmore Street; if Webb Street were continued northerly, it would run close to the western boundary.

Belmore Street also forms the southern boundary of Burn's grant, and the northern end of Macarthur Street lies on its western end. Moulds' grant faces Belmore Street, and if Butler Street were continued northerly, it would form the western boundary.

The Sutherland Estate occupies a portion of Brown's grant, while the north-eastern corner of Belmore Park is close to its western boundary. Bellevue Street forms its southern boundary. The land to the north of Belmore Park, and bounded on the west by Iron Street, was first occupied by Wm. Bradbury, concerning whom more will be said anon.

Although the grants are dated August 1791, it is probable that the settlers were in occupation somewhat earlier. For our earliest knowledge of the first settlers at Northern Boundary, we are indebted to Capt. Tench's work. Tench, who visited the farms in December 1791, makes the following remarks (pp. 149, 150):

"Visited the settlements to the northward of the rivulet. The nearest of them lies about a mile direct north of Mr. Clarke's house. Here are only the undermentioned five settlers: Thos. Brown, wife, and child, 60 acres; Wm. Bradbury, 30 acres; Wm. Moulds, 30 acres (these three work together); Simon Burn, and wife, hosier, 50 acres; -- Parr, and wife, merchant's clerk, 50 acres.

These settlers are placed on the same footing in every respect, which concerns their tenure and assistance to be granted, as those on Prospect Hill. Near them is water. Parr and Burn are men of great industry. They have both good houses, which they hired people to build for them. Parr told me that he had expended thirteen guineas on his land, which, nevertheless, he does not seem pleased with.

Of the three poor fellows who work in partnership, one (Bradbury) is run away. This man had been allowed to settle on a belief, from his own assurance, that his term of transportation was expired; but it was afterwards discovered that he was cast for life. Hereupon he grew desperate and declared he would rather perish at once than remain a convict. He disappeared a week ago and has never since been heard of.

Were I compelled to settle in New South Wales, I should fix my residence here, both from the appearance of the soil, and its proximity to Rose Hill. A corporal and two privates are encamped here to guard this settlement, as at Prospect."

On the same day, Tench visited the farm of Surgeon Arndell, who had already commenced operations at Northern Boundary, although the deed of grant did not issue until 1794.

His record states:

"Proceeded to the farm of Mr. Arndell, one of the assistant surgeons. This gentleman has six acres in cultivation as follows: rather more than four in maize, one in wheat, the remainder in oats and barley. The wheat looks tolerably good, rather thin, but of a good height, and the ear well filled. His farming servant guesses the produce will be twelve bushels, and I do not think he overrates it. The maize he guesses at thirty bushels, which, from appearances, it may yield, but not more; the oats and barley are not contemptible; this ground has been turned up but once, the aspect of it is nearly south, on a declivity of the river or arm of the sea, on which Rose Hill stands. It was cleared of wood about nine months ago, and sown this year for the first time."

After the defection of Bradbury, already referred to, it would appear that his co-workers, Brown and Moulds, abandoned their grants. Brown obtained a grant at Prospect, but the writer has lost trace of Moulds. Burn was murdered in October 1793, and Parr was the only one of the five who remained for any length of time, although he also had abandoned his farm before 1800. Burn's grant became the property of Mr. Wm. Sherwin, who later surrendered it, and Mr. Francis Oakes then obtained it.

Whiting, Carver, Rowe, and, at a later date, Francis Oakes, were successors to Bradbury, Brown, Moulds, and Burn, respectively. Carver's farm later passed into the hands of a man named A. McDonald. The history of these men is lost in obscurity.

In Marsden and Arndell’s report on the state of the settlements in 1798, they state that the only original settler left at Northern Boundary was John Martin. This man was not one of the original five, but John Randall and himself settled soon afterwards. May Villa School stands on Martin's grant, while Randall's grant lies west of it.

The history of Thos. Arndell and George Barrington, two of the early settlers at Northern Boundary, is fairly complete, as they were both well-known men.

The Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate, Parramatta, NSW (20 September 1939)

"NIGHTMARE" ROAD

"It is a nightmare to all who use it," was the description of Aiken's Road, West Pennant Hills, given by Mrs. R. B. Kenway.

"Many were the tales of hairbreadth escapes, owing to its dangerous points," she declared, adding that there were "four blind corners," and that she "trusted something would be done quickly."

The shire engineer will report.

"YOU'LL KILL HIM !" Aiken's Lane and Bruce's Pain When Charlie Held the Candle - 1926..

The Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate Parramatta, NSW

Tuesday 23 November 1926

"YOU'LL KILL HIM!"

Aiken's Lane and Bruce's Pain

When Charlie Held the Candle 

 

This is the story of the man who held the candle.  

The story, of course, contained references to other things—vivid references to punched noses, scratched faces, and torn clothes. But the feature all the time was the man who held the candle.  

Standing out conspicuously in the recital of gory combat and female hysterics was the man who held the candle.  

He modestly disclaimed the feat of having laid a weighty woman low with one punch on the nose, and he refused to accept the credit for having done his best to throttle the fallen woman's husband. But nothing would induce him to relinquish his claim that he was the man who held the candle.  

The story was told at the Parramatta Police Court on Wednesday, and eventually the Magistrate fined the man who held the candle.  

The man who claims to have thus distinguished himself by holding the candle was Charles Aiken, a gentleman of dusky hue who wrests a living from the soil at West Pennant Hills. He lives in Aiken's Lane, which does not necessarily mean that the lane belongs to him. As a matter of fact, it doesn't. Aiken has a son named Charles. He also has a nephew named Bruce Evans. And Bruce has a wife. There are various other branches of the family tree, but the litigants in this case were confined to the persons already mentioned.  

Charles the elder was alleged to have assaulted Ivy Evans, and the two Charlies were proceeded against on a charge of having assaulted Bruce Evans. Bruce Evans, in turn, was alleged to have assaulted both Charlies, a charge of insulting words also being preferred against him.  

Mr. S. P. Kemp appeared for the Evanses, while Mr. Ronald Walker was there to watch the interests of the Aikens.  

All the punching and things in that category were supposed to have been done on the night of October 29. The insulting words were said to have assailed the Aiken ear on the following day. All the allegations were denied in toto.  

The preliminaries over, the battle began.  

The trouble really started at Roseville, where Evans and his cousin Charlie were boarding with a Mrs. Evanoff. Charlie was working for his cousin.  

A week before the night on which the elder Charlie held the candle, young Charlie left his cousin's employ and also the boarding house. The respective reasons advanced for this dual severance were slightly at variance.  

According to Evans, Mrs. Evanoff had suggested to him that Charlie had taken the liberty of rifling the children's money box. This revelation prompted him to sack Charlie on the spot. Charlie expressed his disapproval of this decision by picking up a beer bottle to throw at his late employer, from which act of doubtful devotion he was restrained by Mr. Evanoff. (Lest there be some who might think that Charlie was about to throw away good beer, it must be mentioned that the bottle contained only sand.) Anyhow, that's what happened, according to Evans.  

But Charlie told a different story altogether. He said that his cousin had paid him only £1 a week, in addition to his board. And when he ventured to ask for an increase in his wages, his cousin offered him a very unsatisfactory substitute in the form of a hiding. He actually swung a blow at his employee, but Charlie adroitly ducked, after which he "jobbed" the man from whom he wanted more wages. Then Mr. Evanoff came out and stopped the war. That's how it happened, according to Charlie, who emphatically denied that his cousin had paid him £4/13/6 a week, out of which he paid his own board.  

Anyhow, Charlie returned to his father. And a little later, Evans returned to his wife. The two families live in close proximity.  

Evans was homeward bound per horse and cart—two horses, to be precise—when the trouble occurred on the night that Aiken held the candle.  

According to his story, when Evans was passing the Aiken domicile, Charlie and his son rushed out to him. The son grabbed the reins, while the father made himself useful by pulling Evans out of the cart. The father then intimated to Evans that they had "got him" and would proceed forthwith to "do for him." The ground struck Evans on the head, but he still kept hold of the reins. The father grabbed Evans by the throat, while the son struck his late employer several times on the face. Meanwhile, the horse was "rearing up," as though to show his disapproval of this delay when home was in sight. This "rearing" process resulted in one of the shafts getting cracked.  

Then Mrs. Evans and her little girl came on the scene. Mrs. Evans insisted they let her husband get up, as they were killing him. But Charlie the elder quelled this interruption by knocking her down with a punch on the nose. But she rose again and pulled the older Charlie off her husband, while the little girl played her part by screaming at the top of her voice. The two Aikens ran off, and Mrs. Evans assisted her husband into the cart.  

Such was the story of Evans.  

He added that he had a fractured foot at the time and could hardly walk. "My flannel was saturated in blood," he said. "As a result of all this, I had to have leave off work for a week."  

In the course of a lengthy cross-examination, Evans denied practically everything Mr. Walker suggested. His Uncle Bill, he said, came along in his pyjamas when it was all over.  

Ivy Evans corroborated her husband's story. About 9:30 p.m., she said, she recognized the rattle of her husband's cart coming along the road. Then she heard other sounds, which told her that something was happening near Aiken's place. "I only had my slippers on," she said, "and I went down just as I was."  

A little side light was introduced while Rose Franklin, of Mount Street, Wentworthville, was in the box. This young lady had been keeping company with young Charlie. When she saw him on the Monday before the disturbance, she said, he was bad-tempered. "Wait till I get hold of that Bruce, the black ----," he said to her.  

Miss Franklin stated also that Mrs. Evans's face was swollen and bruised after the disturbance.  

Mr. Walker rose at once and suggested to this girl that she was on bad terms with young Aiken. She admitted the soft impeachment.  

Mr. Kemp: "Mr. Walker was anxious to show that you're on bad terms with young Aiken. Why are you on bad terms with him?"

"Because on the Thursday night he went and knocked me out." (Laughter.)  

Katherine Mary Evanoff corroborated the story of Evans as to what occurred between young Aiken and himself at the boarding house.  

Mr. Kemp tendered medical evidence of Evans's injuries.  

Then came the version of the Aikens. Young Charlie was the first among them to promise that he'd tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. His version of what occurred at the boarding house has already been recorded. Now for his story of what occurred on the eventful Friday night when his father held the candle.  

He was sitting in the front room. He had to go out that night and was cleaning his teeth by way of preparation. Then he heard his cousin coming along the road, singing at the top of his voice. When his cousin was opposite the house, he called out, "Come out here now, you black ----, and I'll fight you."  

Young Charlie told old Charlie, and old Charlie went out to the kitchen and got the candle. With this illumination, he ventured out onto the road. He told Bruce to go home, and Bruce stayed where he was. Then Bruce and young Charlie started to fight.  

Having started to fight, they continued to fight. And the only spectator at first was old Charlie with the candle, which illuminated the scene of combat.  

Then Evans picked up a stone to throw at his young opponent, but his aim was so bad that it struck old Charlie on the nose. And, of course, away went the candle.  

Next morning, when Evans and his wife were passing the Aiken domicile, Evans called young Charlie a bushranger and invited him to have a few more rounds.  

That afternoon, Evans drove up with his cousin Ernie. Young Charlie was at the window, putting on his tie. Ernie started to divest himself of his collar and tie. Bruce was so angry that he came to the fence, gritting his teeth. The upshot of it all was that Bruce picked up a stone to throw at old Charlie, who was saved from sudden death by his brother Bill.  

Such was the version of young Charlie.  

There seemed to be some little doubt as to whether Bruce had really gritted his teeth, for Mr. Kemp drew attention to the fact that the alleged "gritter" had no teeth at all on the upper jaw.  

Cross-examined by Mr. Kemp, young Charlie denied having taken the money out of the children's box.  

Mr. Kemp: "Will you deny knocking that young lady out?"

"I had to do it. I'd have got my brains stabbed out."

"Your brains? Where are they?"

"She had a knife."

"You knocked her out?"

"No; I knocked her down."  

"Is it not a fact that you, on the same day, blackened the eye of the little boy Evans?"

"No."  

Questioned as to what happened to his father when the stone hit him, young Charlie declared that his father's eye came out. He qualified this, however, by saying that the eye never came out at all.  

The elder Charlie then stepped into the witness box.  

The first intimation he had that anything was wrong, he said, was when he heard someone call out, "Come here, you ----." So out he went with the candle. The rays of the candle enabled him to discern that Bruce was "under the influence." Bruce said that young Charlie was a bushranger, and young Charlie said he wasn't a bushranger, after which they set about to settle the question with Nature's weapons. After they had had a "ding-dong go," old Charlie stopped the fight and told his son to go inside. Just at that moment, the stone hit him, and he lost the candle.  

The blow from the stone caused his face to bleed so much that the flow of blood didn't stop until one o'clock.  

The elder Charlie's version of what happened on the Saturday afternoon coincided with that of his son.  

He said that the stone that hit him and made him lose the candle was twice as big as his fist and was thrown from a distance of about two yards.  

Mr. Kemp walked up to the witness and wanted to see the marks this stone had caused. Old Charlie said they were there, but Mr. Kemp couldn't see them.  

Mr. Kemp: "How long do you say these two were fighting?"

"Oh, they had a few rounds."

"How long?"

"I don't know how long. I didn't have my watch; I had the candle." (Laughter.)  

"What kind of a night was it?"

"Well, it must have been a calm night because the candle never went out till I got hit with the stone." (Laughter.)  

"Who broke that shaft?"

"Look here, that shaft was cracked when I sold him the cart." (Laughter.)  

"Will you swear that you never attacked Evans?"

"I never touched him. I had the candle." (Laughter.)  

"And you say he picked up a stone again on the Saturday afternoon. What sort of stone was it?"

"Oh, a beaut." (Laughter.)

"I brought it in to show you."  

The elder Charlie's wife was next to offer testimony. She carried into the witness box a brown paper parcel, which she laid on the end of the bench.  

Her evidence supported that of her husband and her son. She went straight to the point by telling the magistrate how she had seen her husband get the candle. (Laughter.)  

"My husband held the candle," she said, "while the other two fought."  

She added that the stone hit her husband "right in the eye."  

Mr. Kemp: "Suppose it happened like this: You were all sitting there peacefully, you heard a voice outside, 'Come outside you ----,' and young Charlie said, 'Dad, I am called.'" (Laughter.)  

Then Mr. Kemp got his metaphors slightly mixed up and started to talk about Bruce Walker instead of Bruce Evans.  

Mr. Kemp: "What clothes did Evans have on?"

"He had working clothes."

"What were they?"

"He had his trousers on."

"We'll take that for granted. What else?" (The witness described his attire.)  

Mrs. Aiken said that the disturbances lasted from twenty to thirty minutes.  

Mr. Kemp: "What did your husband want the candle for?"

"He took the candle out to order Evans home." (Laughter.)

"My husband didn't know whether Evans was going to hit him or not, and he took the candle out so that he could see him." (Laughter.)  

Mr. Kemp then requested the witness to untie the parcel, which she had said contained the stone that Evans had attempted to throw on the Saturday afternoon. She did so and revealed a huge piece of rock.  

Mr. Kemp (in amazement): "Have you been prospecting, madam?" (Laughter.)  

The witness, however, declared that this was the stone her husband would have stopped had it not been for brother Bill. The stone that hit him the night before, she said, was slightly smaller.  

Then William Aiken spoke his piece. He was in bed, it seems, when the trouble started on the Friday night, which accounts for his appearance on the scene in pyjamas.  

"Evans and young Charlie were having a fight when I got there," he said.  

Mr. Walker: "Who else was there?"

"Old Charlie was there."

"What was he doing?"

"He was holding the candle." (Laughter.)  

"Evans," said William, "flung a big stone and hit old Charlie—and away went the candle." (Laughter.) "The stone hit him on the side of the face, and the blood teemed out of him."  

Mr. Walker: "When Mrs. Evans came on the scene, did old Charlie touch her?"

"No—he didn't want to touch anyone. He'd just been hit with the stone." (Laughter.)  

William also told how he had saved his brother from the huge stone on the Saturday afternoon.  

Mr. Kemp: "Will you swear this is the stone?"

"Yes."

"Who picked it up?"

"Your wife?"

"I haven't got a wife."  

"Did you say anything when this man got hit with the stone?"

"I said, 'Go home, Bruce.'" (Laughter.)  

"Did the man who got hit say anything?"

"All he said—well, what could he say?"  

"Did the stone knock him down?"

"No; but he lost the candle." (Laughter.)  

George Wilson and a witness named Gibson, who live in the vicinity, gave evidence of hearing Evans use threatening language on the Friday night.  

The magistrate, apparently, was not unduly impressed with the story about the big stone. Nor was he altogether convinced that old Charlie had held the candle.  

The elder Charlie was fined £2, with £1/9/- costs, on the charge of having assaulted Ivy Evans. And the two Charlies were each fined £2, with £1/7/- costs, on the charge of having assaulted Bruce Evans.  

The charges against Evans were dismissed.  

Thus it happened that the elder Charlie lost the case as well as the candle.