In 1824, Andrew Bent sacked the government-hired censor and established the Hobart Town Gazette as Australia's first independent newspaper. What followed was years of government attempts to silence the free press ...
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The Perfect Form of Horses
They say to write like you’re dead, but I would not be happy if my mother found out I’d slept with a prostitute – whether I was dead or not.
I would not want my wife to know either, but there is something sad about the child trapped in each of us that makes my mother’s disapproval worse.
My wife would file for divorce on the grounds of adultery – that is God’s law – but no court could make amends for my mother’s broken heart.
That is the saddest thing about sin. It is not the pain of hell, nor the eternal separation from God. It is the sickly dawn of reality on our mothers’ minds that we are less than the pure infants they raised.
I think the adage should be: Write as if you’re dead, and everyone else with an opinion that matters is dead also.
You might say: What do other opinions matter, if you’re dead? Your mother cannot chastise you or look sorrowfully into your formerly innocent eyes with the small pupils of regret. You may not wish to write lewd things in this life, but close to eternity, write whatever you like. It won’t matter when you’re dead.
But she’s my MOTHER. I know one cannot be roused from death like sleep, “ipso facto” no consequences. But there are consequences. We just don’t experience them if all our lamps are put out.
Consequences are no less potent if we leave them to be inherited by others. If you wish to tell me all our living deeds are denuded by death, then why be decent at all? We are decent to insure against the fact that sooner or later we’ll be dead, and we won’t be around to listen to all those left behind talk about us. We won’t be able to defend, fabricate or concoct. We certainly won’t be able to agree with them.
There are many in this colony who consider wealth the measure of a man. They are misguided. Edward Lord, the richest man in this colony (who is not presently “in this colony”), believes that after his death, his riches may either accompany him to the future state or chant his honours in the present one. He is wrong on both accounts. The commons, and even some aristocrats, go on about what a S—CK he is now, and he’ll be spoken of with more colourful language when he is dead. Who wants that? Who wants all their life’s achievements pot bound by the ceramic nonchalance of the coming generation?
This is not to say a man cannot be decent and sleep with a prostitute. It is not to say a woman cannot be a prostitute and be decent all at the same time. But there are standards and there are degrees. I think you and I can agree that a fellow who pays for sex has got a little deficiency in some department (present company included); and a woman who is a prostitute probably didn’t turn down the hand of Hobart’s most eligible bachelor to work a corner on Liverpool-street.
At any rate, back to my mother. If she wasn’t around, and neither was my wife, or anyone else who I would rather maintain an unblemished reputation in front of, then I’d be a completely different writer.
I could write about my mother and fill broadsheets with nasty opinions about the relatives I liked the least. I could make confessions about myself, and it wouldn’t matter. If every one of the opinions that fetters me was buried, I would be set free. It would be as though they had all departed to some mortal place, and I was the one truly dead.
I’ve been in this colony two years now, a struggling Irish poet since the beginning. When I first came out I thought this island might be like the casket of a new death, the pardon to write whatever I like however I like, and overleap the judgement of life’s condition. But I fooled myself.
I may be Roman catholic, sir, but today this blank page is my confessional. That makes you, dear Mr Bent, my priest.
I would consider your publishing house my church and the issue of your type my religion, if you would but take me in as your editor. I am a writer and stenographer and student of the classics. I am an unholy man who can only show the cobwebs of his soul in a private letter, but I hope you understand my offer of service and presentation of trust in admitting these things. I hope it proves to you that I am committed to journalism, and to the fundamental value of the truth.
I am less of a man than I would like to be, because I cannot yet publish these things under my true name, printed in the light of day and sold on the street for two pound and twelve. Even if all my relations were deceased, even then I wonder whether I would have the courage. But that is a matter for tomorrow. Until then, I would like to work for you, Mr Bent, as I have asked in previous letters.
I have asked my sister-in-law, Rebecca Reibey, to recommend me to your wife, Mary Bent. I believe Mary was her servant for a few years until the old governor pardoned her. I understand they remain friends. If you consult with your good wife, who is talked about in Hobart-town as a woman well-read, she will agree that your current editor, Mr Emmett –appointed by the government to censor your paper – is a charlatan.
Please consider all of the above a rich statement of my case. I hope you take up my humble proposition.
Yours in letters,
Evan Henry Thomas
In residence at the Cat and Fiddle
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