The Devil And The Governor

A Dramatic Sketch.

Scene—An Office. Governor discovered seated at a writing-table.
Devil advances.

Governor (aside)—What fellow is this whose footsteps rude
On my private hours thus dares intrude,
When doors are closed, and the desolate blast
In the outward midnight is bellowing past?
I hear the sentinel’s step below—
How the deuce he got in, I should like to know.
’Tis an ill-looking hound—that aspect hard
With the sorrow of sin is deeply scarred;
And the records of evil passion streak
With their infinite lines that iron cheek—
I’m really afraid for help to cry.
For I shrink from the scowl of his glaring eye;
And feel in his presence a sense of awe.
Like a felon caught in the clutch of law,—
Would I could summon my slaves together,—
Where’s Riddell and Parker?—where’s Merewether?
Yet he rather looks like a gentleman, too—
I’ll speak to him first—what else can I do?
His manners may please, though his look’s severe;—
(Aloud) My honest fellow, what brings you here?
Devil—Ha, ha! my old boy! how soft and mild!
Why, you talk in the tone of a well-bred child.
Cheer up, cheer up; dismiss alarm,
My time is not come to do you harm.
We’ve been friends too long to be quarrelling now,
I doubt not my face is strange, but still
You’ve borne me in deeds the best good will.
Come, come, cheer up, don’t look so blue,—
I’m a Governor, George, as well as you.
Governor—The devil you are!
Devil—………The devil I am.
’Tis an ugly name in one’s mouth to cram;
But ah! you sly dog! you guessed it well—
I govern the vast domains of Hell.
Why start at the word? since, by the same token,
’Tis not the first time you’ve heard it spoken.
Governor—Dark prince of the deep! what want you here—
Since mortals with you must meet in fear?
Devil—I’ve come, my dear soul, for an hour or two,
On passing events to chat with you;
To render you thanks for the mischief you’re brewing
For the state you oppress and the land you’re undoing;
And also to offer—excuse my freedom—
A few words of advice where you seem to need ’em.
Governor—As for your praise, it might not flatter,—
So let it pass, as it don’t much matter,—
Sit down. and I hope you’ve taken tea—
The hour for that meal being past with me;
I’d offer you grog, but I sadly fear
My cupboard is locked, and the key’s not here.
My servants to roost, I believe, are fled,
My aide-de-camp’s out, and my sec. in bed—
Yet, now, I reflect, I can find you some—
’Tis a bottle of best imported rum,
Just out of a batch that was seized in town—
Oh, dear! how I miss that Hutchinson Brown;
The keenest fellow in my nation
Is he, for snuffing an information
With the pounce of a cat, the eye of an eagle,
And a nose for a job, that would honour a beagle;
As for me, I don’t drink it, ’twas brought as a sample,—
But do not be guided by my example,—
You can suck from a bottle, as I suppose;
Hold it up well, and take care of your nose.
Devil—Pooh, pooh! such stuff mere child’s sport is,
I now drink nothing but “aqua fortis;”
How long I may do so remains a question
For I’m told it exceedingly hurts digestion;
And such is the general spread of sobriety,
They’ve got up in Hell a Temperance Society:
Now, I make it a rule—though much trouble it brings—
To patronise all those sorts of things,
A sober sinner is not the less
A sinner for want of drunkenness;
And they wrong me who say that I’m fond of riot,—
I like those crimes best that are done in quiet.
Governor—You talk rather boldly.
Devil—………Well, I’m wrong
To trench on your prejudice, if it’s strong.
You pardon I heartily beg,—but stay,
I’ve wandered from much I meant to say.
Governor—Your advice, your advice,—’twere a shame to lose it,
Though I need not take it unless I choose it.
Devil—I grant you the praise you’ve fairly won
By the deeds you do and the deeds you’ve done;
I know that no causes corrupt the mind
Like the chains by which tyrants have crushed mankind,
That the blighting touch of a despot’s rod
Kills in man’s spirit the breath of God.
That the purpose he bade you race fulfil
Is not for the meek slave’s fettered will;
That the cherishing light of the holy skies
Falls barren and vain upon servile eyes,
That the weeds of evil will thrive there best,
Where the far shoots of nature are clipped and dressed,
Yes, under those climes where the poisonous brood
Of error is nursed by servitude,—
Where souls are bowed by the weight they bear,
There their moral sky looks dark, and their air
Is thick with the filth that bondage breeds,
I scatter my foul and fertile seeds;
Where most I am bent on man’s undoing,
The tyrant assists my work of ruin;
In New South Wales, as I plainly see,
You’re carving out plentiful jobs for me.
But forgive me for hinting your zeal is such
That I’m only afraid you’ll do too much.
I know this well. To subject mankind
You must tickle before you attempt to bind;
Nor lay on his shoulders the yoke, until
Through his habits you’ve first enslaved his will.
You’re too violent far,—you rush too madly
At your favourite ends, and spoil them sadly.
Already, I warn you, your system totters—
They’re a nest of hornets these rascally Squatters,
Especially when you would grasp their cash—
Excuse me, George, but I think you’re rash.
Governor—Rash! d—m it, rash!
Devil—………Don’t fly in passion,
In the higher circles ’tis not the fashion;
And swearing besides, you must allow,
Is neither polite nor useful now.
Governor—Would you have me forgo the rights of the Crown,
To be laughed at all over this factious town?
I’ll teach these Squatters to pay their rent,
And don’t care one rush for their discontent;
They’ve abused me in print, they’ve made orations,
They’ve their papers and Pastoral Associations;
To England they’ve sent their vile petitions—
They’ve gone to the length of caricaturing—
But I’ll show them the evil is past their curing.
Devil—Come, come, be cool, or your aim you’ll miss,
Your temper’s too hot for work like this;
This people, I say, will submit the more readily
If you’ve only the wit to grind them steadily.
You’ve a snug little tyranny under your thumb—
But manage it well, or down ’twill come.
’Twere a pity to peril this rich possession
By a foolish rashness or indiscretion;
Wentworth and Windeyer are troublesome chaps,
And the Council’s a thorn in your side, perhaps;
But let them grumble and growl their fill,
You know very well their power is nil.
Look at the schedules by which, ’tis clear,
You handle a monstrous sum each year;
Look at the patronage thrown in your gift
To give any fawning friend a lift.
Didn’t you find a berth for Therry?
What were his merits? Vast? Oh! very—
When a fellow like that can be made a Judge,
They may prate of their freedom, but I say “fudge.”
Look at the power you have to draw
On Stephen and Co., when you want a new law.
Look at the lands that are unlocated,
Where your droits of the Crown are so nicely created,
Then calmly proceed, and with prudence act;
“In the middle lies safety”—that’s a fact—
Subdue by degrees, and slowly oppress,
Or, I tell you, you’ll get yourself into a mess
While people petition, they’ll find it “a sell,”
But don’t push them too hard, they might rebel.
Governor—Rebel! ha, ha! you’re surely in joke;
Rebellion here—a mere puff of smoke.
What would the people of England say?
“A rebellion! how queer! in Botany Bay!”
Pick-pockets, swindlers, thieves, and fobbers,
Cut-throats and burglars, and highway-robbers—
A mob that escaped the gallows at home—
’Tis worse than “the servile wars of Rome!”
A handful of troops would put them down,
And the higher classes would join the Crown.
Devil—It might be so; but just mark, my friend—
Who come to be losers in the end?
No doubt there’d be fun well worth enjoying—
Burning and plundering, and destroying;
Fighting for towns not worth disputing—
Skirmishing, robbing, and rifle-shooting
From bushes and trees, and rocks for barriers,—
Murdering of post-boys, and plundering of carriers,
Storming of camps by midnight entries,
Driving off horses, and popping off sentries—
Seizures of stock for purposes royal,
Pressing of men to make them loyal.
Some heroes might fall in that petty strife,
Whom bondage had taught a contempt of life,—
Some patriots leading in civil storms,
Might dangle on gibbets their martyr forms;
Or exiled afar, to return no more,
Might bury their bones on a foreign shore,—
Proscribed by the tyrants they dared to brave,
And mocked by the people they fought to save;
But not in vain would they bear or bleed,
This land would have gained what most they need.
John Bull from his drowsy indifference waking,
Would give some of you despots a terrible shaking;
You’d be robbed of your berth and your reputation,
For causing your masters so much vexation—
And the people your chairs so closely bind,
A tardy justice would ask and find.
Take my advice, I offer it cheap—
Why, as I live, the man’s asleep!
George, George, your manners much want reforming,
But I’ll give your nose a bit of a warming.
(Tweaks his nose and vanishes.)
Governor (waking up)—Was this but a dream? or was it real?
There’s a pain in my nose, by no means ideal.
There might be some truth in what he told me—
This place seems getting too hot to hold me.
I can’t remain for ever, ’tis true,
But I’ll leave my successor something to do;
If I can’t turn the Squatters out of their stations,
I can ruin the scoundrels by proclamations:
So I’ll write out a draft for one this minute—
And if it don’t sting them, the devil’s in it.