Books with title History of the Australian bushrangers

“No penny dreadful in any language could exaggerate some of the actual horrors described by the author ... from all these figures upon whom Mr. Boxall throws the limelight, no single one stands out with so glaring a ferocity as Ned Kelly, an almost Homeric personality, who was the very last of the bushrangers.” -T. P.'s Weekly The Story of The Australian Bushrangers (1908), by George E. Boxall (1875 – 1927) presents us with the history of bushranging, commencing with the great outbreak inaugurated by Frank Gardiner in 1861 up to the death of Ned Kelly, the last of the bushrangers, in 1880. About 300 persons altogether were implicated during these twenty years, and the story points out that this brigandage was evolved from the convict system established as the basis of the earlier settlements, more particularly in Victoria, New South Wales, and Van Diemen's Land. The book is full of exciting episodes, and is not without interest. Marcus Clarke's and Rolf Boldrewood's novels have done a deal towards giving us at least a nodding acquaintance with the highwaymen of Australia, but Mr. Boxall's encyclopaedic book is the first to traverse the whole history of the 'movement' in a comprehensive way. We find in it a complete record of the exploits of not only the more notorious bushrangers, such as Jackey Jackey, 'the gentleman bushranger,' and Ned Kelly, the last of these very young criminals (most of them came to a bad end before they were thirty), but details, culled from newspapers and other sources, concerning the more obscure 'operators' who never achieved more than local renown. Mr. Boxall is able, too, to supply the atmosphere without which such a book might easily be colourless and jejune. Bushrangers always made a point, these daring fellows, of bestriding the best horse flesh the colony could produce, for often enough their lives depended upon the fleetness of their steeds. Naturally they preferred racehorses when they were able to steal them. The most callous and brutal of the New South Wales bushrangers was John Lynch, who was transported from Cavan, Ireland, in 1831. He worked in a road gang in the neighbourhood of Sydney, being afterwards in the employment of a Mr. Barton as an 'assigned servant' on his farm, near Berrima. He ' bolted' into the bush, as many ex-convicts had done before him, and entered upon a career of the most extraordinary and relentless crime. Some of the subjects of Mr. Boxall's history were inordinately cruel, so that it is no wonder the country-side went in abject fear of them. Whitehead's gang, who ranged in Van Diemen's Land, captured a halfwitted fellow named John Hopkins, whom they accused of trying to betray them. By way of punishment a pair of bullock-hide moccassins were fitted on his feet, and in them were placed a number of great red ants, 'bull-dog' or 'soldier ants,' as they are called. They are an inch and a quarter long, sting as severely as a bee or a hornet, and never let go what they take hold of, continuing to sting until removed. It does not justify such cruelty, though it helps to explain it, to say that the convicts, who for the most part recruited the ranks of the bushrangers, were treated in confinement with shameless cruelty. Men, artiste in the use of the cat-o'-nine-tails, were employed to flog them, and this they did until the backs of their victims were one huge festering sore, in which the blue-fly would sometimes lay its eggs. There are hundreds of pages of interesting reading in this volume concerning these 'gentlemen of the road,' if that is the term to use of a country where roads were far from abounding. In especial much diversion lurks in the careers of Frank Gardiner, Ben Hall, and Thunderbolt, as also in that of 'Captain Moonlite,' who began life as a lay reader in the Established Church!

In this story of the bushrangers I do not pretend to have included the names of all those who have at various times been called bushrangers in A ustralia. That, as will be seen from what I have said in the earlier chapters, would be not merely impossible but useless. I believe, however, that I have collected some particulars about all those who succeeded in winning even a local notoriety, and I have also endeavoured to supply such personal characteristics of the leaders in the movement as may throw some light on the causes which induced them to take to the bush. My principal object, however, has been to make the picture as complete as possible, so that the magnitude of the social evil which the Australians set themselves to cure may be realised ;and it is generally believed in Australia that this cure has been so complete that bushranging will never again become epidemic. The story is a terrible one. Some of the incidents related are no doubt revolting, but it is necessary that even these should be told to show how civilised man may be degraded by unjust and oppressive laws. We are all creatures of the educational influences to which we are subjected in our youth, and therefore it is unfair to blame the earlier bushrangers; because they were the products of the civilisation of their day, and were not themselves responsible. But sensational as the story is, its tendency is rather to depress than to exhilarate the reader, for the story is a sad one, in that it shows a deplorable waste of what under happier conditions might have been useful lives.(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)About the Publisher Forgotten Books is a publisher of historical writings, such as: Philosophy, Classics, Science, Religion, History, Folklore and Mythology.Forgotten Books' Classic Reprint Series utilizes the latest technology to regenerate facsimiles of hist

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CHRISTMAS DAY in the Australian bush! Not the sort of Christmas Day we dwellers in bonnie Scotland or merry England are accustomed to. The sun is blazing down in remorseless strength upon the parched ground, where the few trees about the station cast so slight a shadow. Past the foot of the straggling garden the little creek dances and ripples on its way to the river, half a mile away, and, as far as eye can reach, stretch the blue distances of bush in long, monotonous undulation. “Wish he’d come,” says Ruby. “The pudding will be quite cold.” On such a day as this it does not seem of paramount importance whether the pudding be hot or cold. In fact, Christmas Day though it be, it would be rather a relief to have a cold pudding than otherwise. Ruby’s anxious little face testifies that such is not her opinion. She has come out to the verandah, and, shading her eyes with her hand from the white glare of the sun, gazes now this way, now that. The pudding lies heavily upon her heart. “Ruby!” comes a rather querulous voice from the room beyond the shady blue blinds. The little girl gives one last long glance in every direction, then lets the shading hand drop, and passes through the open doorway of the pretty cottage which is Ruby’s home. “Isn’t he coming, Ruby?” The yellow-haired woman lying on the sofa is Ruby’s step-mother. The roses of the once pretty pink cheeks have paled to white, and there are fretful little lines about the corners of the mouth, and a discontented expression in the big blue eyes; but with it all Mrs. Thorne has pretensions to beauty still. “He’s not in sight yet, mamma,” returns Ruby, wrinkling up her brow. She calls Mrs. Thorne “mamma,” for the fair-faced unaffectionate woman is the only mother the child has ever known. Ruby was only a baby when her own mother died, and “mamma in heaven” is a far less real personage to her little daughter than “mamma” on earth. “It’s very tiresome.” The lady’s tone is peevish, and she fans herself languidly with a large fan lying by her side. “I can’t conceive what makes your father so irregular at mealtimes. Do bring me something cool to drink, Ruby, like a good child. This heat is intolerable.” The “station” is built in a quadrangle, and across one corner of this quadrangle Ruby has to go ere she reaches the kitchen. If it is hot in the living room, it is ten times hotter here, where Jenny, a stout, buxom Scotchwoman of forty or thereabouts, who for love of her mistress has braved the loneliness of bush life, is busy amidst her pots and pans getting ready the Christmas dinner.

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This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work was reproduced from the original artifact, and remains as true to the original work as possible. Therefore, you will see the original copyright references, library stamps (as most of these works have been housed in our most important libraries around the world), and other notations in the work. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.