We walk to the centre of the town past road gangs who yell at us in the usual way. In the barracks we find first a constable and then a solid young police magistrate in his navy blue coat who was just sitting to his luncheon. So we stand together in the yard and we all think how the Factory is behind and the magistrate is in front of us – he has come out to see us with a gravy catching square of good linen in his hand. So the system is here too. This fellow is the system in Goulburn and though he cannot be more than thirty two years he has that same air of being in command since ancient times.
He has us now follow him to his table and we stand by it – the little woman Carty holding her daughter tight to stop her wandering about the room and maybe upsetting a cruet and ruining her mother’s record as a fresh minted citizen of New South Wales. The big magistrate starts eating bits of mutton – he is delicate in manner and does not stuff his mouth – and at the same time asks: Do you have any complaints about your treatment during your journey?
