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books were consulted, and each man—a mere arithmetical figure—was marked off. At first those alone were chosen who had been convicted for offences exhibiting the minimum of criminal instinct, and those who had served a probation in English prisons, and were distinguished for conduct. But when Western Australians began to ask for the more numerous shipment of convicts, an indiscriminate selection was made; in one or two instances discrimination was used to choose the experts in ruffianism.

After the draft was made, times were set apart for the removal of the men to the convict ship. By regulation each man could bid farewell to his family or friends; he must have but a given time for these partings. Then the ship with its heterogeneous band of colonial settlers slowly moved away from the English shore. All the men—sometimes two and three hundred—were caged in the hold of the vessel. Pensioners, or guards of regular soldiers, watched over them. Necessarily no discipline was more tense. A few free men kept in check the spontaneous passion of hundreds of sometimes desperate felons. The voyage out was trying to all concerned; what with heat, crowding, pollution, inactivity, irksome sameness, compulsory companionship with the worst grades of crime, all eagerly wished for the end of the voyage. The old time unhealthiness was obviated as far as possible. Periods of exercise, and as much liberty as was commensurate with safety, were allowed; the men were marched in squads along the decks. Hygienic rules learnt from experience were established. During the many years that transportation to Western Australia was carried on no deadly maladies attacked convict ships. A different story is told of Botany Bay. Within the first eight years one-tenth of the convicts died on the passage. From three ships 200 sick were landed; 281 persons had died on board. Cases of mutinous insubordination were almost unknown on the voyage to this colony.

A Committee appointed by Her Majesty, in 1862, discovered that transportation to Western Australia was not sufficiently dreaded by returned convicts or by criminal classes generally. Numbers of them—those not sunk to the bottom of the abyss of crime—even looked forward to transportation. Here, after undergoing their sentences, they had opportunities for recovering a lost estate. In England the characters of discharged convicts were sempiternally branded; they were exposed to insuperable disadvantages in the strong competition for employment. A few masters out of charity and a wholesome humanity engaged them, concealing their past from their fellow workmen. But such men were as difficult to find as the lost traveller on the illimitable wilderness of Central Australia. The conditions in Western Australia were different.

When the prison at Fremantle was reached the convict began his journey along the gradations of a system which at least recommended the eye of the mind to look towards the beacon of hope—a timid enough light on his dark path. He now entered a sort of brotherhood—a brotherhood or democracy, like most others, containing grades of ability; where there were men who, by strong will and dynamic power, attracted and compelled the regard and subservience of others. The brotherhood of this system was grotesque; it comprised abnormalities of humanity. Congregated at one time on a few acres of Western Australian soil were the myriad-headed hydras of crime, resting in peace and quiet. The system was a leveller of classes. Sleeping under the same roof in adjoining cells, with the selfsame class of furniture and coverings, were the son of an earl, minister, conspirator, journalist, commercial magnate, profligate, clerk, tailor, shoemaker, murderer, garrotter, thief, forger, sharper, sensualist, lunatic, footpad, alley sneak—those who prey upon their fellows in high places, and those who lurk on the dark outskirts of humanity. They were not all criminals at heart. Some were driven by adventitious circumstances to the committal of deeds which they themselves held in horror. One man was attested to have been innocent of the crime for which he was convicted. His name was cleared when, as an old and broken man, life was no longer of value to him.

As the guard handed over the Convict to the Western Australian officials his past was handed over with him. The name of each man with the crime or crimes of which he was found guilty was given. He was awarded a new arithmetical number, and an account was opened in a monumental slab-like ledger—the book of the convict's life. On the debit side were placed his name, a guide to his crime, his sentence and a description of his physique. Before going into the country districts on road parties, or being engaged in erecting public buildings out of Fremantle, he must serve an apprenticeship. In the Establishment, or "College" as it was invariably facetiously termed, he was instructed in the rules and regulations of the convict system. If at any time he committed some reprehensible act he was punished, and a further entry was made on the debit side of his account.

Convicts lived in the Establishment by system; their day was divided into so many parts; their comings-in and goings-out were as regular as the appearance of the apostles on the Strasburg clock. In the summer months, from November 1 to February 1, a bell tolled out at 5 o'clock. The prisoners rose, folded their beds, and tidied their cells. At 5.30 the bell tolled out again. All the cell doors were instantly opened, and each man stood waiting in the corridor. One instant this passage showed hardly a sign of life; the next if was thick with men. Under the eyes of warders they trailed down the iron staircases leading from their particular landing in the prison pit, hundreds of drearily attired men one after another. In the prison yard they fell into lines, from left to right, like so many soldiers; the warders were the officers. They might have been mutes for all the sound that was heard; each man stood shoulder to shoulder, with back erect and hands at the side. All that were healthy must then proceed to work; the malingerer was severely punished. At the quick loud order of the superintending warder they marched with regular tread to the particular work set apart for them. In the radiant light of the morning they constituted a picture instinctive of solemnity and pathos. Some of their features were like unto those of ordinary men, some were essentially of criminal cast. Their bodies were all clothed in those dreary garments, branded over with the bold "broad arrow." Perhaps one squad contained men whose legs were tied with heavy chains, ankle to ankle. Then, mixed with the sound of the dull, heavy tread over the macadamised road; came the painful clank and jangle of the chain gang. The early morning breeze often wafted this distressing noise to the homes of Fremantle residents, and woke them from a pleasant sleep.

At 7.25 the order was given, the men fell in and marched back to the prison for breakfast. Each stood with his back to the door of his cell and waited till the food was brought to him. He received his allowance, eat it in a few minutes, polished the utensils, placed them in an allotted place (everything had a systematic place), and was ready for the summoning to religious service. All then marched into the chapel and prostrated themselves, after which they returned again to their cells. At 8.30 the bell sounded, and again they fell in, and again they marched out to work. At noon they returned to dinner; at 2 p.m. they marched out to work; and at 5.50 they finally returned to the gaol yard. There they were carefully examined by the warders to see that no dangerous or proscribed articles were