ACT V

MR. POLYBLOCK (_discovered walking up and down the library_). Well, I don't know as ever I spent a more miserable month. Dulcie don't take no interest in the things as used to amuse her. I don't know what's come to the gal. If I could see my way at all, and thought this young chap was steady and sensible—likely to get on—I might push him; but—a free selector—a half-section, crawling duffer as won't have grass for a milker nor credit for a bag of flour in another year—No! I couldn't think of it. It's enough to make a man turn agin his own flesh and blood. (_Knocking heard._) Who's that?

MAID. A gentleman wants to see you, sir.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Who is it? That chap as was going to buy the Weejoglag store-cattle, p'raps?

_Enter CECIL EGREMONT, dressed in tweeds._

MR. POLYBLOCK. Oh, it's you, Mr. Eggermont! (_Aside_—How well the feller looks! Holds up his head too! Dashed if he ain't a fine, upstanding, good-looking chap when he's turned out decent! He looked more like a shearer when I seen him last.) Well, sir! what can I do for you? Sheep been trespassing, I suppose?

EGREMONT. No, Mr. Polyblock, such is not the case. Nor will it matter to me in future. I have sold my land.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Sold the s'lection! You don't say so! Who to? who to? Mr. Eggermont, why didn't you come to me, if you wanted to part with it? I'd have given you anything in reason.

EGREMONT. You must pardon me for reminding you, Mr. Polyblock, that your manner was not reassuring at our last interview.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Perhaps not—rather hasty, I know. Mustn't mind an old man; but who's got the s'lection?

EGREMONT. I disposed of it to Mr. Allround in the township, from whom I received a cheque, paying me in full for all improvements and loss of time.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Bonus Allround! Good shot! It's all right—you've sold to _me_ through him—he's my agent. I should have been sold, my word! if any other buyer had come in there. And now what are you a-goin' to do? You're a man of capital now, you know!

EGREMONT. I was fortunate enough to have a moderate legacy left me by an uncle just before I went to Sydney. While there, under advice, I invested eight thousand pounds in a run called Banda Plains, on the Queensland border. They tell me it's a good purchase. There are two thousand cattle, besides horses.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Good purchase, sir! It's the best thing in the market. Banda Plains, with only two thousand head of cattle—it's a gift—a reg'lar gift! Your fortune's made.

EGREMONT. It gratifies me to hear you say so, Mr. Polyblock—most deeply, I assure you. And now, sir, perhaps you will reconsider your rather strongly-expressed refusal to me of your daughter's hand?

DULCIE (_who has opened the door softly and stolen into the room_). Oh, dad, you don't want to break your poor Dulcie's heart! I _do_ love him so!

MR. POLYBLOCK (_clearing his throat and speaking in a parliamentary tone of voice_). Ahem! I am not aware, Mr. President, that there's anything in the Land Act or Regulations against the daughter of a M.L.C. marryin' a squatter—a squatter, you observe, Mr. Eggermont. Had the party been a selector; but I won't dwell on a subject too painful to a parent's feelin's. Take her, my boy! And a better gal, tho' I say it—good, game, and good-lookin'—she's all that and more—never——'

DULCIE (_moving up to EGREMONT and placing her hand on his shoulder_). Never gave advice to a struggling free selector. Is that what you were going to say, daddy? Never mind—he had sense enough to take it. Hadn't you, Cecil dear?

MR. POLYBLOCK. Seems to me he's free selected on a pastoral holding to some purpose, you monkey. Is there any clause about that in the new Land Act, I wonder, as they're makin' such a bother about? Anyway, I'm the happiest lessee in the unsettled districts, now this little matter's settled satisfactory. And tell you what, Dulcie (_GAYTERS comes in here—looks rather blank_), I'll send Gayters out to Banda Plains to take delivery and wire into the bullockin' for a bit. It'll do him good—he's been takin' it too easy lately; and as it happens to be Christmas time, we'll get the transfer business put through by the Rev. Mr. Robinson at the township, and, Cecil, my boy! give us your hand (_puts DULCIE'S into it_). There now, you can take up this additional conditional selection. It won't want improvin', that's one thing. Ha! ha! I'm that full of happiness that I can get a joke out of the Land Act—Rum-ty-idity—fol-de-rol (_dances round the room_).

_CECIL puts his arm round DULCIE; they look tenderly into each other's faces._

CURTAIN FALLS

BUSH HOSPITALITY

In the pioneer period of the pastoral industry, which has since known such phenomenal development and, alas! no less phenomenal declension, the hospitality of the dwellers in the wilderness was proverbially free and unchallenged. But even then there were 'metes and bounds.' Like Colonial society—though apparently 'a free and a fetterless thing'—there were lines of demarcation. These, though unsubstantial and shadowy to superficial observers, were nevertheless discovered by experiment to be strangely hard and fast.

In those Arcadian days the stranger, on arriving at the homestead of a man whom he had never seen, and whose name possibly he had scarcely heard, was warranted by custom, on riding up to the door, in proposing to stay all night. It was the rule of the period. If there was no inn within a dozen miles, it became an unquestioned right.

The owner or manager of the station, if at home, welcomed the stranger with more or less courtesy, according to his disposition, assisting the guest, whom Allah had sent him, to take off his saddle and place it in the verandah of the cottage, to turn out his horse in the paddock, or, in default of that "improvement," to hobble or tether the trusty steed on good pasture.

If the personages referred to were absent, the traveller, unless he happened to be abnormally diffident, informed the cook, hut-keeper, or any station hand whom he might chance to encounter, that he had come to stay all night, turned his horse out, and entering the plainly-furnished abode, made himself as comfortable as circumstances would admit of.

If his host delayed his coming, supper was served. The stranger foraged about among the books and newspapers, and with the aid of tobacco, managed to spend the evening, retiring to rest in the apartment indicated, with perfect cheerfulness and self-possession.

If, as chiefly happened, the hard-worked colonist returned from the quest of lost sheep or strayed cattle before bedtime, he usually expressed himself much gratified by the unexpected companionship, and after a cheery confab about the latest news, politics, prospects (pastoral), and a parting smoke, both retired to the couches where unbroken slumbers were the rule. It was a mutual benefit. The monotonous life of the squatter was cheered by the advent of a fresh face, fresh news and ideas. The weary traveller found frank entertainment for man and beast, company and a guide, possibly, for the morrow's journey.

In these strictly equestrian days (for gentlefolk) no man could carry more than a limited change of apparel in the leather valise strapped to the fore-part of the saddle. Saddlebags were occasionally used, but they were held to be cumbrous. The journeys were rough and protracted. Clean linen has ever been unwillingly dispensed with by the Briton. In that barbaric epoch, Crimean shirts could not be, the quarrel with the Sultan about the mythical keys not having arisen. Paper collars, much more celluloids, were in the future. The only recognised departure from the full-dress white raiment, the 'biled shirt' of the American humorist to come, was the check or 'regatta' shirt.

Now this was a garment of compromise, not disreputably soiled after a couple of days' use. Still its existence as a respectable article of apparel had a limit. When that was reached, the stranger was permitted to levy on the host's wardrobe, if a bachelor, to the extent of one coloured shirt, leaving his own in lieu. This was held to be fair exchange—the alien vestment, when washed, being, if of ordinary texture and age, of equal average value to the one taken; the host doing likewise when on _his_ travels. The chief and perhaps only undesirable result was, that every proprietor on a frequented line of road had a collection of the most varied and cosmopolitan autographs in marking ink, on his shirts, probably ever noticed in one gentleman's wardrobe.

Now this was all very well in the days when Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith were in the free and independent condition of bachelors. They could smoke their pipe unconcernedly with Jackson the cattle-dealer, or Tomkins the working overseer from an out-station, or Binks, who was nobody in particular, or Jinks, who was a cheeky sort of a fellow, but with no harm in him. But all this was changed when Jones or Smith took unto himself a wife. He then desired to have his evenings to himself; and though a gentleman or an agreeable stranger was always welcome, he by no means cared about entertaining half-and-half people, or being bothered with making talk for uncongenial persons all the evening. Yet he did not quite like to send all wayfarers whom he did not know or care about to the 'men's hut.' Some of them doubtless were more at home there, or managed to pass the evening without complaint; still, mistakes were occasionally made. Therefore some kind of intermediate arrangement came to be needed.

When an inn was within a mile or two, the difficulty was removed. No stranger could desire to be entertained at the house of a man he did not know, merely because it was cheaper. If he were mean enough to make the attempt, he received a rebuff—possibly no more than his due. Still, in some instances, the squatter, even if unmarried, dreaded the hotel as the nucleus of a township, and bore the enforced intrusion rather than risk the invasion of his Run.

It became thus one of the unwritten laws of Bushland that, though a bachelor station was fair game, and introductions might be dispensed with, more circumspection must be exercised in the case of the homestead which contained a lady. Even if the hospitality was unrestricted as of yore, the restraint was felt by the more homely of the wayfarers, and a sensible lowering of the average of visitors took place.

And even when there was no such adequate reason, the resident proprietor was occasionally, by nature or on principle, opposed to the indiscriminate entertainment of chance-comers, and cast about for some method of ensuring privacy. The late Mr. Charles Ebden discovered that 'Carlsruhe,' named after a continental reminiscence of travel, was by no means likely to be the 'Charles' Rest' which the name promised. So he made a bold innovation, the fame of which went through the length and breadth of the land: he established a 'visitors' hut.'

There appeared to be no great harm in this—merely a comfortable cottage, wherein the visitor was supplied with an evening meal, bed, and breakfast, all comfortably arranged. His horse would of course be cared for, paddocked, and brought up in the morning. One would fancy this gratuitous entertainment would have been voted sufficient. But the roving pastoralists were dissatisfied. They did not want merely meat and drink—they wanted a welcome: to have speech also with the master of the house. He was suspected of considering himself too good for his surroundings. And so 'Carlsruhe' was gradually avoided—not that the perhaps too fastidious 'Count' Ebden cared a jot.

An amusing _contretemps_ with respect to this novel disposal of guests was that related of the late Sir James Hawthorn. The good old gentleman arrived late one evening at 'Carlsruhe,' naturally concluding that he would receive special consideration. It did not so chance, however, whether from non-recognition—he was not a knight then, but a doctor—or some other cause. Before leaving the visitors' hut in the morning, he left a formal note of thanks for his night's lodging, and enclosed a cheque for a guinea as payment.

But the Colonial Treasurer of the future was equal to the occasion. He made answer by post, in a carefully-worded epistle, acknowledging 'a most extraordinary communication, containing a cheque, for which he was totally unable to conceive any reasonable explanation, and had forwarded to Secretary of the Lunatic Asylum.'

After the changes which turned the homesteads of the larger stations into small villages, the 'big house,' as it came to be called, was no longer expected to accommodate the proprietor, the overseer, and the young gentleman learning Colonial experience, in addition to every wanderer that turned up. The overseer generally had a commodious if, perhaps, plainly-furnished cottage allotted to him. This came to be known as the 'barracks,' and to be used as a convenient abode for strangers and pilgrims, as well as for the storekeeper, the working overseers, and the young gentlemen. Here, in summer, they could sleep on the verandah, smoke and yarn on the same, or, in winter, around the cheerful fire, without danger of disturbing the squatter's domestic arrangements. This of course without prejudice to personal friends or strangers of distinction.

As to the pilgrims, they might be described as 'human warious.' There was first the squatter proper, young, middle-aged, or elderly, on his way from one station to the other, returning from new country or from a journey with fat cattle or sheep. He was of course welcome, being, presumably, ready and willing to repay the accommodation in kind. Then there were overseers and managers, cattle and sheep buyers, agents and drovers. These were pastoral personages, and, of course, to be considered. The dealers, even when roughish in manner, were a power in the land, capable too of drawing cheques to an amount which secured respect. They could not in any case be sent to the men's hut. Tourists, _bona-fide_ travellers, and globe-trotters, having business of some sort, others without any particular aim or destination,—these gentry in the 'barracks' were evidently the 'right men in the right place.'

It must be surmised also that adventurers travelled about among the stations as a pleasant way of seeing the country and spending a few months at free quarters. A man of prepossessing appearance and agreeable manners, 'who wanted to buy a station—a real first-class property, you know,' made his appearance in a certain district just 'after the gold.' He was courteously treated, and shown a variety of stations. He passed a whole summer in the leisurely inspection of sheep and cattle properties, none of which quite suited his taste. He became quite a well-known inhabitant. Many people believed at last that he had so invested, and accepted him as a recognised identity. But he never _did_ buy a station or any stock—eventually contenting himself with a Government billet of a moderate description, under circumstances which proved the presumption of his being a capitalist to have been erroneous.

As a general rule it may be stated that the farther back, the more distant the station, the more liberal and invariable the hospitality. When men went seldom to town, when books and newspapers were scarce, the lonely squatter was well disposed towards any kind of stranger guest above the level of shepherd or stock-rider. He was a change, an animated evening newspaper, and as such intrinsically valuable. His visit, besides, was of a transitory or fleeting nature, so that only his good qualities were apparent.

Even this form of enjoyment was subject to abatement. There was the pilgrim now and then who declined to proceed on his pilgrimage, especially when he fell upon a comfortable bachelor abode, with _cuisine_, library, and liquor reasonably up to date. Not infrequently the pilgrim's steed would stray, which the owner would search for in such a perfunctory manner that it seemed as if years might roll on before he was run in. One really most agreeable and gifted person——he afterwards became Premier in a neighbouring colony—was celebrated as protracting his visits by this device. One morning there appeared in a provincial paper the startling announcement, 'Mr. Blank's horse is found.' It was the making of him. The laughter was so general that he left that colony, and attained in another to political eminence and material prosperity.

Not always, however, was even the _bona-fide_ squatter on his travels made welcome. A friend of mine arrived at a station late in the evening. 'I am Mr. Blake,' he said, 'of Kilrush'—a name well known throughout his own and other districts for generous, unstinted hospitality. The proprietor stood at his door, but offered no welcome.

'How far is it to the next place?' inquired the traveller.

'Sixteen miles; you can't miss the road.'

'Thanks; much obliged.' So he put spurs to his weary steed—he had come far since sunrise—and departed, reaching the station, so obligingly referred to, long after dark on a cold night.

In the following year the same squatter arrived at Kilrush. He was cordially received—invited to stay a day and rest his horse. 'I killed him with kindness,' were my friend's words—relating the affair to me years afterwards—'and when he rode away, did everything possible, short of holding his stirrup for him.

'"Mr. Blake," said he, "you've behaved to me like a gentleman! I am afraid I didn't give you that idea when you called at Bareacres. I feel ashamed of myself, I assure you."

'"So you ought to be," I said, looking him straight in the face. He muttered something and rode away.'

LAPSED GENTLEFOLK

Ah me! who has not known and pitied them in this Australian land of ours? The workman's Paradise! yet all too well adapted for converting the gently-nurtured waif into the resigned labourer, the homeless vagrant. The gradations through which slowly, invisibly, but none the less surely, drifts to lower levels the luckless gentleman adventurer, are fraught with a melancholy interest. How sad it seems to realise that of the hundreds of well-dressed, well-educated, high-hearted youngsters, fresh from pleasant British homes, who every season land on our shores, a certain proportion will, in a few years of Colonial Experience (save the mark!), be transformed into misanthropic shepherds, ragged tramps, or reckless rouseabouts.

One always sees a few in the men's hut at shearing time, owning no higher aspirations than the ordinary station hand, living the rough life of the bush-labourer, relishing coarse tobacco and the coarser jests when the day's work is done, hardly distinguishable in dress, tone, and manner from their ruder comrades. Like them, alas! too prone to end each term's unrelieved labour by an aimless, ruinous drinking-bout.

It is not that the daily toil, the plain fare, and rude companionship would be in any sense degrading, were they used as means to an end. Did the cadet resolve to save all but the cash absolutely required for clothing and other needs, a small capital might easily be acquired, with reasonable credit in proportion, for which a profitable outlet is always to be found. And a knowledge of the rougher side of Australian life is always valuable wherever his lot might be cast.

The real social deterioration accrues when the well-born or well-educated man becomes fatally contented with his humble surroundings; when hope has faded out, when ambition is dead, when repeated trials have landed him in deeper failure; when the conviction is only too well founded that for him no higher position is attainable in this world. Nay, that even if attained, he is no longer fitted to occupy it.

Persons imperfectly acquainted with our social system may say, 'Oh, once a gentleman, always a gentleman!' and so on. From whatever rude environment, he will come forth true to his training, and assume his earlier habitudes as easily as the well-fitting garments which his altered circumstances render necessary.

It is not so, unfortunately. Granted that the exceptional individual emerges from the wreck of his youthful aspirations safe and uninjured, more numerous are they tenfold who reach the shore bleeding and disabled, never to be again but the simulacra of their former selves—hopeless of ever attaining the fair heaven-crowned heights, so near, so tempting of ascent in boyhood; heedless but of the lower pains and pleasures to which they have all unresistingly yielded their future lives.

Much of course depends on the mental fibre of the youngster. If happily constituted, he may defy the most inauspicious surroundings to alter his habits of thought or change his settled purpose in life. One boy, at the roughest station in the 'back blocks,' will save his money and do his work in a cheerfully observant spirit; he will utilise the spare time, of which he has so large a supply, in reading and improving his mind; he will find out all he can about the working of the station, with a view to future operations when he is promoted to partnership or management. To this he resolutely looks forward. He preserves the manners and the principles which he brought from home untarnished; an easy enough matter, since even in the farthest wilds, among the roughest working men in Australia, a true gentleman's mien and tone are always held in respect, which no man loses save by his own act.

Say that he has a few years of hard work and privation, he is sure to rise in life, and eventually, by dint of perseverance and attention to detail, to become the owner of or partner in a station. His character for steadiness, efficiency, and industry becomes known from one end of the district to the other. And if those with whom he is temporarily connected do not advance him, be sure that some neighbouring proprietor in need of an active lieutenant will not lose the opportunity.

The young man of less robust self-denial takes station life after a very different fashion. His fixed idea has been from the first that galloping about on horseback, smoking, shooting, and drinking are the recognised pastoral industries by which fortunes in Australia are made. He does not bother his head about the science of sheep-breeding, or the management of that capricious but profitable animal the merino. He forgets messages. He overrides the station horses. He smokes diligently, talks familiarly and plays cards with the men, from whom he learns to swear profanely and acquires no useful knowledge—on the contrary, much that is evil. On his visits to the village or post-town he learns to drink spirits, and thus lays the foundation of a dangerous habit, which, if not checked, may destroy his after-life. At the end of his two years' experience he is regarded as about on a level with the ordinary rouseabout—hardly as good, certainly no better. On making up his mind to leave for other employment, he is told that he is heartily welcome to please himself.

Occasionally the unsuccessful gentleman, emigrant or colonial, is not distinctly to blame for his fall in social position. He has adopted a bush life, trusting vaguely to be able to get on in one of the numerous ways of which he has heard tell. He tries hard at first for situations suited to his former position in life, finding, however, that no one is in pressing need of an inexperienced youth not brought up to work. Still, if strong and willing, he can earn ordinary wages as a station hand. He learns how to manage the routine work nearly as well as his comrades in the men's hut, and by degrees, not being mentally persistent, he adopts the tone and manner of the men who are his companions—not at once, and not altogether, but after a year or two—to a much greater extent than any one would think possible. In a work of fiction some kindly squatter would free the poor fellow from his rough, or let us say uneducated comrades, but in real life no one would risk the experiment. He may have been deceived before. He would argue that though the waif might be a gentleman by birth, it must have been his own fault in some way that he was in his present position—most likely drank, gambled, or had done something shady; and this would be true in nine cases out of ten. If he introduced Mr. Waif to his family, or took him into his house if a bachelor, he might, of course, behave well for a time, but one fine day, unable to withstand the temptation of an open sideboard, would be found dead drunk or madly intoxicated on his employer's return.

Gradually the unsuccessful one, after a year or two of nomadic life, tramping it from one end of a colony to another, begins to abandon the punctilious habits of his early life. His speech shows signs of degeneration. He talks of people indifferently as 'coves' or 'cards'; _causerie_ with him is 'pitching'; he refrains with difficulty from expletives, and so on. His reading has not been kept up, though, had he cared, it might have been. He is scented unpleasantly with coarse tobacco, occasionally, alas! with the too frequent 'nip' of alcohol. If he by any chance re-enters civilised life, he shows in a dozen ways that he is no longer in touch with it. He makes things uncomfortable for his friends or companions, and is thoroughly convinced that he is out of place himself.

A youngster of this type came to a squatter's station one evening, carrying his 'swag' like any other tramp. The owner knew that he was or had been a gentleman, but apologised, as he had guests, for not asking him into the house. He was too dirty to be quite exact, and neither in raiment nor in other matters was he then fitted for the society of ladies. So he had his supper and bed in the men's hut, smoked his pipe over the fire with the man-cook, and turned in, quite contented with his accommodation.

Sometimes, if fairly industrious and steady, the ex-tramp makes his way to a managership, or even a share in a station, where he recovers a portion of his earlier form. But he is apt to be rough and careless to the end, which his English friends attribute to the necessarily deteriorating influences of colonial life.

Perhaps the saddest sight of all is the broken-down 'swell' of maturer years, carrying his 'swag' along the road, sometimes a solitary 'traveller'—a name that has its own significance in Australia—sometimes in company with other 'sundowners.' He is free of the guild now, unluckily. They neither resent his companionship, nor feel flattered by it; in no way do they alter their mode of speech or action in consequence. It is known that he has 'seen better days,' as the phrase runs. If so, it is nobody's business but his own. A certain amount of reticence characterises Australian bushmen, which is not noticeable among their British comrades. The nomadic habit, and the goldfields' experience—for nearly every able-bodied man in Australia has graduated there—may be held accountable for this trait. Travel is the true civiliser, and in many respects supplies the place of the higher education, teaching reserve, undemonstrativeness, and the patient endurance of privations and dangers which cannot be evaded.

So, though it is generally believed that Jack Somers or Bill Brown _was_ a gentleman (nothing, alas! will ever make or keep him one again), he is treated by the master who employs him, and the station hands or farm labourers who work with him, exactly as the others—neither better nor worse. Generally a smart, intelligent worker, whether a shearer, rouseabout, boundary rider, road hand, what not, during the often protracted periods when he is compulsorily sober. This is secured by giving him no money (the more obvious necessaries can be procured from the station store), until his term of work be completed or his contract finished. Then he gets his cheque, and short work he makes of it. For the nearest bush public-house is to him a barrier fixed and impassable, while there is a pound in his purse.

After all, Australia is perhaps the best country for the fallen swell. A reasonable share of honest work is always open to him, which, from the custom of the country, is not held to be degrading, as it would be in Europe. He could not work in the field in Britain, tend sheep, drive a team, break stones. All these things he can do in Australia with but temporary loss of prestige or social rank. He would find it next to impossible to gain a living in the old country in any form of day labour. Were he even to succeed in doing so, he would be gazed and wondered at by the whole country-side. A man of good family requested me to officially certify his identity for the security of his people at home, who were remitting money to his credit. Roughly dressed was he—had evidently been 'on the wallaby' recently. After telling me his name and birth, he must have thought I looked doubtful, for he said, 'I am the man I say; I'm not the Claimant.' That great personage was then supplying England and Australia with food for conversation. A book lay near me with a Latin quotation on the frontispiece. This I slightly indicated; he at once took the hint and translated it correctly.

'What have you been doing lately?' I inquired. His hands, roughened and gnarled, with no make-believe manual labour, assured me that he had been pretty continuously at work of some sort.

'Well, station work mostly,' he returned answer. 'My last job was cooking for a survey camp.'

'Was it for this that you graduated at Trinity College, Dublin?' was my unspoken thought. That he drank hard between times, poor fellow, was apparent to my experienced eye. He received his money duly, which was, of course, 'blued' like all previous remittances. I exchanged letters with the friends who had written after him. I advised, if they were really anxious for his return, that he should be placed on board ship, but no money given to him till safe on blue water. What historiettes of lapsed gentlefolk in the colonies might be written! The Honourable Blank Blank, long past even the middle passage of station work, who loafs about country towns, taking work as ostler, or even 'boots' at the hotels, ready to drink with any rough, and feebly subsisting upon the reflection of former greatness, until he becomes too useless for even such a position, is locked up for repeated drunkenness, and finally dies in a gutter.

The 'cranky' long-bearded shepherd vegetates on a back-block station, amid desert regions now becoming traditionary, where wire fences are all unknown, or by dingoes rendered ineffectual.

A row of books adorns his solitary hut, a weekly paper, perhaps his sponge and ivory-backed brushes, curious-appearing souvenirs of old days. He talks pleasantly enough to the rare-appearing stranger, who is also a gentleman. The British tourist, if a new arrival, rides off with pity in his heart, possibly with some idea of aiding the hermit to return to his friends in England. If a colonist, he knows better; knows that the old man has his half-yearly or annual 'break-out'; that he can no more inhabit the same dwelling as ardent spirits without utter debasement than fly; that such will be his life, without change or amendment, until he ends it in a Benevolent Asylum, or, more probably, is found dead in his hut. Then from his papers it will be discovered that 'Old Jack' or 'Jindabyne Joe' was, once upon a time, Lieutenant Harry Willoughby Howard of the—th Fusiliers, one of the smartest subalterns in that distinguished and tolerably fast regiment. What brought him here? How fared he so ill in Australia, where blue blood always counts for something, the Radical press notwithstanding? Heigho! These and other questions may be answered some day, or they may never be. The nearest magistrate holds an inquiry, sitting on a bench outside of the lonely hut on the sandhill. The overseer counts out his flock to a fresh hand, and the ex-Fusilier, younger brother of one of the magnates of Blankshire, is carted into the head station and decently buried, with the collie dog as chief mourner, _his_ grief being real and unaffected, and his lamentations for the next few days touchingly audible.

Having a favourite horse to put in harness in the early goldfield days, I betook me to an establishment in Melbourne where a brake was kept. Of course I mounted the box to watch and perhaps assist in the interesting performance. When the brakesman got up—a good-looking middle-aged man with grey whiskers—if he was not a gentleman, and an ex-swell at that, I had never seen one. From his cravat to his well-polished boots—a neat foot, too—from his hat to his accurate dogskin gloves, he was 'good form.' He might have walked straight out of one of Whyte Melville's novels.

His 'hands,' in stable language, were perfection, and as he and the brake-horse between them, with practised adroitness, conducted the drag and my Zohrab, a slashing grey son of Donald Caird, out of the yard and up Lonsdale Street, I felt a measureless pity for the dear old man, who, doubtless failing to score at Bendigo or Sandhurst, had come down to this for a livelihood. Charmed with his conversation and manners, I am afraid I prolonged the lesson unduly, for when we returned my aristocratic friend was urgently required to school other young ones at a guinea per lesson. The proprietor, a vulgar person, expressed his disapproval in language unfit for publication. I remonstrated hotly, but the dependent _emigré_ said no word. I departed sadly, and never saw him more. Melbourne was full of such derelicts in 'the fifties.'

SHEARING IN RIVERINA, NEW SOUTH WALES

'Shearing begins to-morrow!' These apparently simple words were spoken by Hugh Gordon, the manager of Anabanco Station, in the district of Riverina, in the colony of New South Wales, one Monday morning in the month of August. The utterance had its significance to every member of a rather extensive _corps dramatique_, awaiting the industrial drama about to be performed.

A low sandhill, a few years since, had looked out over a sea of grey plains, covered partly with grass, partly with salsiferous bushes and herbs. Three huts built of the trunks of the pine and roofed with the bark of the box-tree, and a skeleton-looking cattle-yard with its high 'gallows' (a rude timber arrangement whereon to hang slaughtered cattle), alone broke the monotony of the plain-ocean. A comparatively small herd of cattle, numbering two or three thousand, found more than sufficient pasturage during the short winter and spring, but were often compelled to migrate to mountain pastures when the precarious water-stores of the 'Run' were dried up. But, at most, half-a-dozen stock-riders and station hands were ever needed for the purpose of managing the herd, so inadequate in number and profitable occupation to this vast area of grazing country.

But a little later, one of the chiefs of the pastoral interest—a shepherd king, so to speak—of shrewdness, energy, and capital—had seen, approved of, and purchased the Crown lease of this waste kingdom. As if by magic, the scene changed. Gangs of navvies appeared, wending their way across the silent plain. Dams were made, wells were dug. Tons of fencing-wire were dropped on the sand by long lines of teams which never ceased arriving. Sheep by thousands and tens of thousands came grazing and cropping up to the erstwhile lonely sandhill—now swarming with blacksmiths, carpenters, engineers, fencers, shepherds, bullock-drivers—till the place looked like a fair on the borders of Tartary.

Meanwhile everything was moving with calculated force and cost, under the 'reign of law.' The seeming expense illustrated the economic truth of doing all necessary work at once, rather than by instalments. One hundred men for one day, rather than one man for a hundred days. Results began to demonstrate themselves. Within twelve months the dams were full, the wells sending up their far-fetched, priceless water, the wire-fences completed, the shepherds gone, and a hundred and seventy thousand sheep were cropping the herbage of Anabanco. Tuesday was the day fixed for the actual commencement of the momentous, almost solemn transaction—the pastoral Hegira, so to speak, as the time of most station events is calculated with reference to it, as happening before or after shearing. But before the first shot is fired which tells of the battle begun, what raids and skirmishes, what reconnoitring and vedette duty must take place!

First arrives the cook-in-chief to the shearers, with two assistants, to lay in a few provisions for the week's consumption of seventy able-bodied men. Now the cook of a large shearing shed is a highly paid and irresponsible official. He is chosen and provided by the shearers themselves. Payment is generally arranged on the scale of half-a-crown a head weekly from each shearer. For this sum he contracts to provide punctual and effective cooking, paying out of his own pocket as many _marmitons_ as may be needful for that end, and must satisfy the taste of his exacting and fastidious employers.

In the present case he confers with the storekeeper, Mr. de Vere, a young gentleman of aristocratic connections, who is thus gaining an excellent practical knowledge of the working of a large station; and to this end has the store-keeping department entrusted to him during shearing.

He is not, perhaps, quite fit for a croquet party as he stands now, with a flour-scoop in one hand and a pound of tobacco in the other. But he looks like a man at work, also like a gentleman, as he is. 'Jack the Cook' thus addresses him:

'Now, Mr. de Vere, I hope there's not going to be any humbugging about my rations and things. The men are all up in their quarters, and as hungry as free selectors. They've been a-payin' for their rations for ever so long, and of course, now shearin's on, they're good for a little extra.'

'All right, Jack,' returns De Vere good-humouredly; 'your order was weighed out and sent away before breakfast. You must have missed the cart. Here's the list. I'll read it out to you—three bags flour, half a bullock, two bags sugar, a chest of tea, four dozen of pickles, four dozen of jam, two gallons of vinegar, five lbs. pepper, a bag of salt, plates, knives, forks, ovens, frying-pans, saucepans, iron pots, and about a hundred other things. You're to return all the cooking things safe, or _pay for them_, mind that! You don't want anything more, do you? Got enough for a regiment of cavalry, I should think.'

'Well, I don't know, sir. There won't be much left in a week if the weather holds good,' makes answer the chief, as one who thought nothing too stupendous to be accomplished by shearers; 'but I knew I'd forgot something. As I'm here, I'll take a few dozen boxes of sardines, and a case of pickled salmon. The boys likes 'em, and, murder alive! haven't we forgot the plums and currants; a hundredweight of each, Mr. de Vere. They'll be crying out for plum-duff and currant-buns for the afternoon, and bullying the life out of me if I haven't a few trifles like. It's a hard life, surely, a shearers' cook. Well, good-day, sir, you have 'em all down in the book.'

Lest the reader should imagine that the rule of Mr. Gordon at Anabanco was a reign of luxury and that waste which tendeth to penury, let him be aware that shearers in Riverina are paid at a certain rate, usually that of one pound per hundred sheep shorn. They agree, on the other hand, to pay for all supplies consumed by them, at certain prices fixed before the shearing agreement is signed. Hence it is entirely their own affair whether their mess bills are extravagant or economical. They can have everything within the rather wide range of the station store—_pâtés de foie gras_, ortolans, roast ostrich, novels, top-boots, double-barrelled guns, _if they like to pay for them_; with one exception—no wine, no spirits! Neither are they permitted to bring these stimulants 'on to the ground' for their private use. Grog at shearing? Matches in a powder-mill! It's very sad and bad; but our Anglo-Saxon industrial champion cannot be trusted with the fire-water. Navvies, men-of-war's men, soldiers, _and_ shearers—fine fellows all. But though the younger men might only drink in moderation, the majority of the elders are utterly without self-control, once in the front of temptation. And wars, 'wounds without cause,' hot heads, shaking hands, delay, and bad shearing, would be the inevitable result of spirits, _à la discrétion_. So much is this a matter of certainty from experience, that a clause is inserted and cheerfully signed in most shearing agreements, 'that any man getting drunk or bringing spirits on to the station during shearing, loses _the whole of the money_ earned by him.' The men know that the restriction is for their benefit, as well as for the interest of the master, and join in the prohibition heartily.

Let us give a glance at the small army of working-men assembled at Anabanco—one out of hundreds of stations in the colony of New South Wales, ranging from 100,000 sheep downwards. There are seventy shearers; about fifty washers, including the men connected with the steam-engine, boilers, bricklayers, etc.; ten or twelve boundary riders, whose duty it is to ride round the large paddocks, seeing that the fences are intact, and keeping a general look-out over the condition of the sheep; three or four overseers; half-a-dozen young gentlemen acquiring a practical knowledge of sheep-farming, or, as it is generally phrased, 'colonial experience,' a comprehensive expression enough; a score or so of teamsters, with a couple of hundred horses or bullocks waiting for the high-piled wool-bales, which are loaded up and sent away almost as soon as shorn; wool-sorters, pickers-up, pressers, yardsmen, extra shepherds. It may easily be gathered from this outline what an 'army with banners' is arrayed at Anabanco. While statistically inclined, it may be added that the cash due for the shearing alone (less the mess-bill) amounts to £17,000; for the washing (roughly), £400, exclusive of provisions consumed, hutting, wood, water, cooking, etc. Carriage of wool, £1500. Other hands from £30 to £40 per week. All of which disbursements take place within eight to twelve weeks after the shears are in the first sheep.

Tuesday arrives, 'big with fate.' As the sun tinges the far sky-line the shearers are taking a slight refection of coffee and currant-buns, to enable them to withstand the exhausting interval between six A.M. and eight o'clock, when serious breakfast occurs. Shearers diet themselves on the principle that the more they eat the stronger they must be. Digestion, as preliminary to muscular development, is left to take its chance. They certainly do get through a tremendous amount of work. The whole frame is at its utmost tension, early and late. But the preservation of health is due to natural strength of constitution rather than to their profuse and unscientific diet. Half an hour after sunrise Mr. Gordon walks quietly into the vast building which contains the sheep and their shearers—called 'the shed,' _par excellence_. Everything is in perfect cleanliness and order. The floor swept and smooth, with its carefully planed boards of pale yellow aromatic pine. Small tramways, with baskets for the fleeces, run the wool up to the wool-tables, superseding the more general plan of handpicking. At each side of the shed-floor are certain small areas, four or five feet square, such space being found by experience to be sufficient for the postures and gymnastics practised during the shearing of a sheep. Opposite each square is an aperture, communicating with a long, narrow, paled yard, outside of the shed. Through this each man pops his sheep when shorn, where he remains in company with the others shorn by the same hand, until counted out. This being done by the overseer or manager, supplies a check upon hasty, unskilful work. The body of the woolshed, floored with battens placed half an inch apart, is filled with the woolly victims. This enclosure is subdivided into minor pens, of which each fronts the place of two shearers, who catch from it till the pen is empty. When this takes place, a man detailed for the purpose refills it. As there are local advantages, an equal distribution of places is made by lot.

On every subdivision stands a shearer, as Mr. Gordon walks, with an air of calm authority, down the long aisle. Seventy men, chiefly in their prime, the flower of the working-men of the colony, they are variously gathered. England, Ireland, and Scotland are represented in the proportion of one-third of the number; the balance is composed of native-born Australians.

Among these last—of pure Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-Celtic descent—are to be seen some of the finest men, physically considered, the race is capable of producing. Taller than their British-born brethren, with softer voices and more regular features, they inherit the powerful frames and unequalled muscular development of the breed. Leading lives chiefly devoted to agriculture, they enjoy larger intervals of leisure than are permissible to the labouring classes of Europe. The climate is mild and favourable to health. They have been accustomed from childhood to abundance of the best food; opportunities of intercolonial travel are common. Hence the Anglo-Australian labourer, without, on the one hand, the sharpened eagerness which marks his Transatlantic cousin, has yet an air of independence and intelligence, combined with a natural grace of movement, unknown to the peasantry of Britain.

An idea is prevalent that the Australians are, as a race, physically inferior to the British. It is asserted that they grow too fast, tend to height and slenderness, and do not possess adequate stamina and muscle. This idea is erroneous. The men reared in the cities on the sea-boards, living sedentary lives in shops or counting-houses, are often pallid and slight of form. Such are they who live under similar conditions all over the world. But those youngsters who have followed the plough on the upland farms, or lived a wilder life on the stations of the far interior; who have had their fill of wheaten bread, chops, and steaks since they could walk, and sniffed up the free bush breezes from infancy, they are _men_—

Stout of heart and ready of hand, As e'er drove prey from Cumberland

—a business, I may remark, at which many of them would have distinguished themselves.

Take Abraham Lawson, as he stands there in a natural and unstudied attitude, six feet four in his stockings, wide-chested, stalwart, with a face like that of a Greek statue. Take Billy May, fair-haired, mild, insouciant, almost languid, till you see him at work. Then, again, Jack Windsor, handsome, saucy, and wiry as a bull-terrier; like him, with a strong natural inclination for the combat; good for any man of his weight or a trifle over, with the gloves or without.

It is curious to note how the old English practice of settling disputes with nature's weapons has taken root in Australia. It would 'gladden the sullen souls of defunct gladiators' to watch two lads, whose fathers had never trodden Britain's soil, pull off their jackets, and go to work 'hammer and tongs' with the savage silence of the true island type.

It is now seven o'clock. Mr. Gordon moves forward. As he does so, every man leans towards the open door of the pen, in front of which he stands. The bell sounds. With the first stroke each one of the seventy men has sprung upon a sheep; has drawn it out, placed its head across his knee, and is working his shears, as if the 'last man out' was to be flogged. Four minutes—James Steadman, who learned last year, has shorn down one side of his sheep; Jack Holmes and Gundagai Bill are well down the other side of theirs; when Billy May raises himself with a jerking sigh, and releases his sheep, perfectly clean—shorn from the nose to the heels, through the aperture of his separate enclosure. With the same effort apparently he calls out 'Wool!' and darts upon another sheep. Drawing this second victim across his knee, he buries his shear-point in the long wool of its neck. A moment later (a lithe, eager boy having gathered up fleece number one and tossed it into the tram-basket) he is half-way down its side, the wool hanging in one fleece like a great glossy mat, before you have done wondering whether he did really shear the first sheep, or whether he had not a ready-shorn one in his coat sleeve, like a conjurer. By this time Lawson and Windsor, Jack Holmes and Gundagai Bill are 'out,' or finished, and the cry of 'Wool! wool!' seems to run continuously up and down the long aisles of the shed, like a single note upon some rude instrument. Now and then the refrain is varied by 'Tar!' being shouted instead, when a piece of skin is snipped off as well as the wool. Great healing properties are attributed to this extract in the shed. And if a shearer slice off a piece of flesh from his own person, as occasionally happens, he gravely anoints it with the universal remedy, and considers that the onus then lies with Providence, there being no more that man can do. Though little time is lost, the men are by no means up to the speed which they will attain in a few days, when in full practice and training. Their nerve and muscle will be then, so to speak, at concert-pitch, while sheep after sheep will be shorn with a precision and celerity almost magical to the unprofessional observer.

The reader may here be informed that speed and completeness of denudation are the grand desiderata in shearing. The employer thinks principally of the latter, the shearer of the former. To adjust the proportion equitably is one of the incomplete aspirations which torment humanity. Hence the contest—old as human society—between labour and capital.

This is the first day. According to old-established custom, a kind of truce obtains. It is before the battle—the _salut_, when no hasty word or too demonstrative action can be suffered by the canons of good taste. Red Bill, Flash Jack, Jem the Scooper, and other roaring blades, more famous for expedition than faithful manipulation, are shearing to-day with a painstaking precision, as of men to whom character is everything. Mr. Gordon marches softly up and down, regarding the shearers with a paternal and gratified expression, occasionally hinting at slight improvements of style, or expressing unqualified approval, as a sheep is turned out shaven rather than shorn. All goes on well. Nothing is heard but expressions of goodwill and enthusiasm for the general welfare. It is a triumph of the dignity of labour.

One o'clock. Mr. Gordon moved to the bell and sounded it. At the first stroke several men on their way to the pens stopped abruptly, and began to put on their coats. One fellow of an alert nature had just finished his sheep and was sharpening his shears, when his eye caught Mr. Gordon's form in close proximity to the final bell. With a bound like a wild-cat, he reached the pen and drew out his sheep a bare second before the first stroke, amidst the laughter and congratulations of his comrades. Another man had his hand on the pen-gate at the same instant, but by the Median law was compelled to return sheepless. He was cheered, but ironically. Those whose sheep were in an unfinished stage quietly completed them, the others moving off to the dinner, where the board literally smoked with abundance. An hour passed. The meal was concluded; the smoke was over; and the more careful men were back in the shed sharpening their shears by two o'clock. Punctually at that hour the bell repeated its summons _da capo_. The warm afternoon gradually lengthened its shadows; the shears clicked in tireless monotone; the pens filled and became empty. The wool-presses yawned for the mountain of fleeces which filled the bins in front of them, divided into various grades of excellence, and continuously disgorged them, neatly, cubically packed and branded.

At six o'clock the bell brought the day's work to a close. The sheep of each man were counted in his presence, and noted down with scrupulous care, the record being written in full and hung up for public inspection in the shed next day. This important ceremony over, master and men, manager, labourers, and supernumeraries betook themselves to their separate abodes, with such avoidance of delay that in five minutes not a soul was left in or near the great building lately so busy and populous, except the boys who were sweeping up the floor. The silence of ages seems to fall and settle upon it.

Next morning at a rather earlier hour every man is at his post. Business is meant decidedly. Now commences the delicate and difficult part of the superintendence which keeps Mr. Gordon at his post in the shed nearly from daylight to dark for from eight to ten weeks. During the first day he has formed a sort of gauge of each man's temper and workmanship. For now and henceforth the natural bias of each shearer will appear. Some try to shear too fast, and in their haste shear badly. Some are rough and savage with the sheep, which do occasionally kick and become unquiet at critical times, and, it must be confessed, are provoking enough. Some shear fairly and handsomely to a superficial eye, but commit the unpardonable offence of 'leaving wool on.' Some are deceitful, shearing carefully when overlooked, but 'racing' and otherwise misbehaving directly the eye of authority is diverted. These and many other tricks and defects require to be noted and abated, quietly but firmly, by the manager of the shed—firmly, because evil would develop and spread ruinously if not checked; quietly, because immense loss might be incurred by a strike. Shearing differs from other work in this wise—it is work _against time_, more especially in Riverina. If the wool be not off the backs of the sheep before November, all sorts of drawbacks and destructions supervene. The spear-shaped grass seeds, specially formed as if in special collusion with the evil one, hasten to bury themselves in the wool and even in the flesh of the tender victims. Dust rises in red clouds from the unmoistened, betrampled meadows, so lately verdurous and flower-spangled. From snowy white to an unlovely bistre turn the carefully-washed fleeces, causing anathemas from overseers and depreciation from brokers. All these losses of temper, trouble, and money become inevitable if shearing be protracted, it may be, beyond a given week.

Hence, as in harvest with a short allowance of fair weather, discipline must be tempered with diplomacy. Lose your temper, and be over particular; off go Billy May, Abraham Lawson, and half-a-dozen of your best men, making a weekly difference of two or three thousand sheep for the remainder of the shearing. Can you not replace them? Not so! Every shed in Riverina will be hard at work during this present month of September and for every hour of October. Till that time not a shearer will come to your gate, except, perhaps, one or two useless, characterless men. Are you to tolerate bad workmanship? Not that either. But try all other means with your men before you resort to harshness; and be _quite_ certain that your sentence is just, and that you can afford the defection.

So our friend Mr. Gordon, wise from tens of thousands of shorn sheep that have been counted out past his steady eye, criticises temperately but watchfully. He reproves sufficiently, but no more, any glaring fault; makes his calculation as to who are really bad shearers, and can be discharged without loss to the commonwealth; or who shear fairly and can be coached up to a decent average. One division, slow, and good only when slow, have to be watched lest they emulate 'the talent,' and so come to grief. Then 'the talent' has to be mildly admonished from time to time lest they force the pace, set a bad example, and lure the other men on to 'racing.' This last leads to slovenly shearing, ill-usage of the sheep, and general dissatisfaction.

Tact, temper, patience, and firmness are each and all necessary attributes in that captain of industry who has the delicate and responsible task of superintending a large woolshed. Hugh Gordon had shown all in such proportion as would have made him a distinguished person anywhere, had fortune not adjusted for him this particular profession. Calm with the consciousness of strength, he was considerate in manner as in nature, until provoked by glaring dishonesty or incivility. Then the lion part of his nature awoke, so that it commonly went ill with the aggressor. As this was matter of public report, he had little occasion to spoil the repose of his bearing. Day succeeds day, and for a fortnight the machinery goes on smoothly and successfully. The sheep arrive at an appointed hour by detachments and regiments at the wash-pen. They depart thence, like good boys on Saturday night, redolent of soap and water, and clean to a fault—entering the shed white and flossy as newly-combed poodles, to emerge on the way back to their pasturage, slim, delicate, agile, with a bright black =A= legibly branded with tar on their paper-white skins.

The Anabanco world—stiffish but undaunted—is turning out of bed one morning. Ha! what sounds are these? and why does the room look so dark? Rain, as I'm alive! 'Hurrah!' says Master Jack Bowles, one of the young gentlemen. He is learning (more or less) practical sheep-farming, preparatory to having (one of these days) an Anabanco of his own. 'Well, this is a change, and I'm not sorry, for one,' quoth Mr. Jack. 'I'm stiff all over. No one can stand such work long. Won't the shearers growl? No shearing to-day, and perhaps none to-morrow either.' Truth to tell, Mr. Bowles' sentiments are not confined to his ingenuous bosom. Some of the shearers grumble at being stopped, 'just as a man was earning a few shillings.' Those who are in top pace and condition don't like it. But to many of the rank and file—working up to and a little beyond their strength—with whom swelled wrists and other protests of nature are becoming apparent, it is a relief. They are glad of the respite. At dinner-time all the sheep in the sheds, put in overnight in anticipation of such a contingency, are reported shorn. All hands then are idle for the rest of the day. The shearers dress and avail themselves of various resources. Some go to look at their horses, now in clover or its equivalent, in the Riverina graminetum. Some play cards, others wash or mend their clothes. A large proportion of the Australians, having armed themselves with paper, envelopes, and a shilling's worth of stamps from the store, bethink themselves of neglected or desirable correspondents. Many a letter for Mrs. Leftalone, Wallaroo Creek, or Miss Jane Sweetapple, Honeysuckle Flat, as the case may be, will find its way into the post-bag to-morrow. A pair of the youngsters are having a round or two with the gloves; while to complete the variety of recreations compatible with life at a woolshed, a selected troupe are busy in the comparative solitude of that building, at a rehearsal of a tragedy and a farce, with which they intend, the very next rainy day, to astonish the population of Anabanco.

At the home station a truce to labour's 'alarms' is proclaimed, except in the case and person of Mr. De Vere. So far is he from participation in the general holiday, that he finds the store thronged with shearers, washers, and 'knockabout men,' who, being let loose, think it would be nice to go and buy something. He therefore grumbles slightly at having no rest like other people.

'That's all very fine,' says Mr. Jack Bowles, who, seated on a case, is smoking a large meerschaum and mildly regarding all things; 'but what have you got to do when we're all _hard at work_ at the shed?' with an air of great importance and responsibility.

'That's right, Mr. Bowles,' chimes in one of the shearers; 'stand up for the shed. I never see a young gentleman work as hard as you do.'

'Bosh!' growls De Vere; 'as if anybody couldn't gallop about from the shed to the wash-pen, and carry messages, and give half of them wrong! Why, Mr. Gordon said the other day he should have to take you off and put on a Chinaman—that he couldn't make more mistakes.'

'All envy and malice and t'other thing, De Vere, because you think I'm rising in the profession,' returns the good-natured Bowles. 'Mr. Gordon's going to send 20,000 sheep, after shearing, to the Lik Lak paddock, and he said I should go in charge.'

'Charge be hanged!' laughs De Vere (with two very bright-patterned Crimean shirts, one in each hand, which he offers to a tall young shearer for inspection). 'There's a well there, and whenever either of the two men, of whom you'll have _charge_, gets sick or runs away, you'll have to work the whim in his place, till another man's sent out, if it's a month.'

This appalling view of station promotion rather startles Mr. Bowles, who applies himself to his meerschaum, amid the ironical comments of the shearers. However, not easily daunted, or 'shut up,' according to the more familiar station phrase, he rejoins, after a brief interval of contemplation, that 'accidents will happen, you know, De Vere, my boy—_apropos_ of which moral sentiment, I'll come and help you in your dry-goods business; and then, look here, if _you_ get ill or run away, I'll have a profession to fall back upon.' This is held to be a Roland of sufficient pungency for De Vere's Oliver. Every one laughed. And the two youngsters betook themselves to a humorous puffing of the miscellaneous contents of the store: tulip beds of gorgeous Crimean shirts, boots, books, tobacco, canvas slippers, pocket-knives, Epsom salts, pipes, pickles, pain-killer, pocket-handkerchiefs, and pills, sardines, saddles, shears, and sauces; in fact, everything which every kind of man might want, and which apparently every man did want, for large and various were the purchases, and great the flow of conversation. Finally, after everything had been severely and accurately debited to the purchasers, the store was cleared and locked up. A store is a necessity of a large station; not by any means because of the profit upon goods sold, but it obviously would be bad economy for old Bill the shepherd, or Barney the bullock-driver, to visit the next township, from ten to twenty miles distant, as the case may be, every time the former wanted a pound of tobacco, or the latter a pair of boots. They might possibly obtain these necessary articles as good in quality, as cheap in price. But there are wolves in that wood, oh, my weak brothers! In every town dwells one of the 'sons of the giant'—the Giant Grog—red-eyed, with steel muscles and iron claws; once in these, which have held many and better men to the death, Barney nor Bill emerges not, save pale, fevered, nerveless, and impecunious. So arose the station store. Barney befits himself with boots without losing his feet; Bill fills his pockets with match-boxes and smokes the pipe of sobriety, virtuous perforce till his carnival, _after_ shearing.

The next day was wet, and threatened broken weather. Matters were not too placid with the shearers. A day or two for rest is all very well, but continuous wet weather means compulsory idleness, and gloom succeeds repose; for not only are all hands losing time and earning no money, but they are, to use the language of the stable, 'eating their heads off' the while. The rather profuse mess and general expenditure, which caused little reflection when they were earning at the rate of two or three hundred a year, became unpleasantly suggestive now that all was going out and nothing coming in. Hence loud and deep rose the anathemas, as the discontented men gazed sadly or wrathfully at the misty sky.

A few days' showery weather having well-nigh driven our shearers to desperation, out comes the sun in all his glory. He is never far away or very faint in Riverina.

All the pens are filled for the morrow; very soon after the earliest sunbeams, the bell sounds its welcome summons, and the whole force tackles to the work with an ardour proportioned to the delay, every man working as if for the ransom of his family from slavery. These men work, spurred on by the double excitement of acquiring social reputation and making money rapidly. Not an instant is lost; not a nerve, limb, or muscle doing less than the hardest taskmaster could flog out of a slave. Occasionally you see a shearer, after finishing his sheep, walk quietly out, and not appearing for a couple of hours, or perhaps not again during the day. Do not put him down as a sluggard; be assured that he has tasked Nature dangerously hard, and has only just given in before she does. Look at that silent, slight youngster, with a bandage round his swollen wrist. Every 'blow' of the shears is agony to him, yet he disdains to give in, and has been working 'in distress' for hours. The pain is great, as you can see by the flush which surges across his brown face, yet he goes on manfully to the last sheep, and endures to the very verge of fainting.

A change in the manner and tone of the shed is apparent towards the end of the day. It is now the ding-dong of the desperate fray, when the blood of the fierce animal man is up, when mortal blows are exchanged, and curses float upwards with the smoke and dust. The ceaseless clicking of the shears—the stern earnestness of the men, toiling with feverish, tireless energy—the constant succession of sheep shorn and let go, caught and commenced—the occasional savage oath or passionate gesture, as a sheep kicked and struggled with perverse, delaying obstinacy—the cuts and stabs, with attendant effusion of blood, both of sheep and shearers—the brief decided tones of Mr. Gordon, in repression or command—all told the spectator that tragic action was introduced into the performance; indeed, one of the minor excitements of shearing was then and there transacted. Mr. Gordon had more than once warned a dark, sullen-looking man that he did not approve of his style of shearing. He was temporarily absent, and on his return found the same man about to let go a sheep, whose appearance, as a shorn wool-bearing quadruped, was painful and discreditable in the extreme.

'Let your sheep go, my man,' said he, in a tone which arrested the attention of the shearers; 'but don't trouble yourself to catch another.'

'Why not?' said the delinquent sulkily.

'You know very well why not!' said Gordon, walking closely up to him, and looking straight at him with eyes that began to glitter. 'You've had fair warning; you've not chosen to take it. Now you can go!'

'I suppose you'll pay a man for the sheep he's shorn?' growled out the ruffian.

'Not one shilling until after shearing. You can come then, if you like,' answered Mr. Gordon with perfect distinctness.

The bully looks savage; but the tall, powerful frame and steady eye were not inviting for personal arbitration of the matter in hand. He puts up his two pairs of shears, takes up his coat, and walks out of the shed. The time was past when Red Bill or Terrible Dick (ruffians whom a sparse labour market rendered necessary evils) would have flung down his shears on the floor and told the manager that if he didn't like that shearing he could shear his —— sheep himself and be hanged to him; or, on refusal of instant payment, would have proposed to bury his shears in the intestines of his employer, by way of adjusting the balance between Capital and Labour. Wild tales are told of woolshed rows. One squatter at least was stabbed mortally with that fatal and too convenient weapon, a shear-blade.

The man thus summarily dealt with could, like most of his companions, shear very well if he took pains. Keeping to a moderate number of sheep, his workmanship could be good; but he must needs try and keep up with Billy May or Abraham Lawson, who can shear from a hundred to a hundred and thirty sheep per day, and do them beautifully. So in 'racing' he works hastily and badly, cuts the skin of his luckless sheep, and leaves wool here and there on them, grievous and exasperating to behold. So sentence of expulsion goes forth fully against him. Having arrayed himself for the road, he makes one more effort for a settlement and some money wherewith to pay for board and lodgings on the road. Only to have a mad carouse at the nearest township, however; after which he will tell a plausible story of his leaving the shed on account of Mr. Gordon's temper, and avail himself of the usual free hospitality of the bush to reach another shed. He addresses Mr. Gordon with an attempt at conciliation and deference:

'It seems very 'ard, sir, as a man can't get the trifle of money coming to him, which I've worked 'ard for.'

'It's very hard you won't try and shear decently,' retorts Mr. Gordon, by no means conciliated. 'Leave the shed!'

Ill-conditioned rascal as he is, he has a mate or travelling-companion in whose breast exists some rough ideas of fidelity. He now takes up the dialogue.

'I suppose if Jim's shearing don't suit, mine won't either.'

'I did not speak to you,' answered Mr. Gordon, as calmly as if he had expected the speech; 'but of course you can go too.' He said this with an air of studied unconcern, as if he would rather like a dozen more men to knock off work. The two men walk out; but the epidemic does not spread; and several take the lesson home and mend their ways accordingly.

The weather is now splendid. Not a cloud specks the bright blue sky. The shearers continue to work at the same express-train pace; fifty bales of wool roll every day from the wool-presses; as fast as they reach that number they are loaded upon one of the numerous drays and waggons which have been waiting for weeks. Tall brown men have been recklessly cutting up hides for the last fortnight, wherewith to lash the bales securely. It is considered safer practice to load wool as soon as may be; fifty bales represent about a thousand pounds sterling. In a building, however secure, should a fire break out, a few hundred bales are easily burned; but once on the dray, this much-dreaded _edax rerum_ in a dry country has little chance. The driver, responsible to the extent of his freight, generally sleeps under his dray; hence both watchman and insulation are provided.

The unrelaxing energy with which work is pushed at this stage is exciting and contagious. At or before daylight every soul in the great establishment is up. The boundary riders are always starting off for a twenty or thirty mile ride, and bringing tens of thousands of sheep to the wash-pen; at that huge lavatory, there is splashing and soaking all day with an army of washers; not a moment is lost from daylight till dark, or used for any purpose save the all-engrossing work and needful food. At nine o'clock P.M. luxurious dreamless sleep obtains, given only to those whose physical powers have been taxed to the utmost, and who can bear without injury the daily tension.

Everything and everybody is in splendid working order, nothing is out of gear. Rapid and regular as a steam-engine the great host of toilers moves onward daily, with a march promising an early completion. Mr. Gordon is not in high spirits, for so cautious and far-seeing a captain rarely feels himself so independent of circumstances as to indulge in that reckless mood, but much satisfied with the prospect. Whew! the afternoon darkens, and the night is given over to waterspouts and hurricanes, as it appears. Next day is raw, gusty, with chill heavy showers, drains to be cut, roofs to be seen to, shorn sheep shivering, washers all playing pitch-and-toss, shearers sulky; everybody but the young gentlemen wearing an injured expression of countenance. 'Looks as if it would rain for a month,' says Long Jack. 'If we hadn't been delayed, might have had the shearing over by this.' Reminded that there are 50,000 sheep yet remaining to be shorn, and that by no possibility could they have been finished; answers, 'He supposes so, always the same, everything sure to go agin the pore man.' The weather does not clear up. Winter seems to have taken thought, and determined to assert his rights even in this land of eternal summer. The shed is filled, and before the sheep so kept dry are shorn, down comes the rain again. Not a full day's shearing for ten days. Then the clouds disappear as if the curtain of a stage had been rolled up, and lo! the golden sun, fervid and impatient to obliterate the track of winter.

On the first day after the recommencement, matters go much as usual. Steady work and little talk; every one is apparently anxious to make up for lost time. But on the second morning after breakfast, when the bell sounds, instead of the usual cheerful dash at the sheep, every man stands silent and motionless in his place. Some one uttered the words 'Roll up!' Then the seventy men converge, and slowly, but with one impulse, walk to the end of the shed, where stands Mr. Gordon.

The concerted action of any large body of men bears with it an element of power which commands respect. The weapons of force and number are theirs; at their option to wield with or without mercy. At one period of Australian colonisation a superintendent in Mr. Gordon's position might have had good ground for uneasiness. Mr. Jack Bowles sees in it an _émeute_ of a democratic and sanguinary nature; regrets deeply his absent revolver, but draws up to his leader, prepared to die by his side. That calm centurion feels no such serious misgivings. He knows there had been dire grumbling among the shearers, in consequence of the weather. He knows of malcontents among them. He is prepared for some sort of demand on their part, and has concluded to make moderate concessions. So, looking cheerfully at the men, he quietly awaits the deputation. As they near him there is some hesitation; then three delegates come to the front. These are old Ben, Abraham Lawson, and Billy May. Ben Thornton had been selected from his age and long experience of the rights and laws of the craft. A weather-beaten, wiry old Englishman, his face and accent, darkened as the former is by the Australian summers of half a century, still retain the trace of his native Devonshire. It is his boast that he had shorn for forty years, and as regularly 'knocked down' (or spent in a single debauch) his shearing money. Lawson represents the small free-holders, being a steady, shrewd fellow, and one of the fastest shearers. Billy May stands for the fashion and 'talent,' being the 'Ringer,' or fastest shearer of the whole assembly, and as such truly admirable and distinguished.

'Well now, men,' quoth Mr. Gordon, cheerily meeting matters half-way, 'what's it all about?' The younger delegates look at old Ben, who, now that it was 'demanded of him to speak the truth,' or such dilution thereof as might seem most favourable to the interests of the shed, found a difficulty, like many wiser men, about his exordium.

'Well, Muster Gordon, look'ee here, sir. The weather's been summat awful, and clean agin' shearin'. We've not been earning our grub, and——'

'So it has,' answered the manager, 'so it has; but can I help the weather? I'm as anxious as you are to have the shearing over quickly. We're both of us of one mind about that, eh?'

'That's right enough, sir,' strikes in Abraham Lawson, feeling that Ben was getting the worst of the argument, and was moreover far less fluent than usual, probably from being deprived of the aid of the customary expletives; 'but we're come to say this, sir, that the season's turned out very wet indeed; we've had a deal of broken time, and the men feel it hard to be paying for a lot of rations, and hardly earning anything. We're shearing the sheep very close and clean. You won't have 'em done no otherways. Not like some sheds where a man can "run" a bit and make up for lost time. Now, we've all come to think this, sir, that if we're to go on shearing the sheep well, and stick to them, so as to get them done before the dust and grass-seed come in, you ought to make us some allowance. We know we've agreed for so much a hundred, and all that. Still, the season's turned out so out-and-out bad, and we hope you'll consider it and make it up to us somehow.'

'Never knew a worse year,' corroborated Billy May, who thought it indispensable to say something; 'haven't made enough, myself, to pay the cook.'

This was not strictly true, at any rate, as to Master Billy's own earnings; he being such a remarkably fast shearer (and good withal), that he had always a respectable sum credited to him for his day's work, even when many of the slower men came off short enough. However, enough had been said to make Mr. Gordon fully comprehend the case. The men were dissatisfied. They had come in a roundabout way to the conclusion that some concession, not mentioned in their bond, should come from the side of Capital to that of Labour. Whether wages, interest of capital, share of profits or reserved fund, they knew not, nor cared. This was their stand. And being Englishmen they intended to abide by it.

The manager had considered the situation before it actually arose. He now rapidly took in the remaining points of debate. The shearers had signed a specific agreement for a stipulated rate of payment, irrespective of the weather. By the letter of the law they had no case. Whether they made little or much profit was not his affair. But he was a just and kindly man, as well as reasonably politic. They had shorn well, and the weather had been discouraging. He knew, too, that an abrupt denial might cause a passive mutiny, if not a strike. If they set themselves to thwart him, it was in their power to shear badly, to shear slowly, and to force him to discharge many of them. He might have them fined, perhaps imprisoned by the police court. Meanwhile how could shearing go on? Dust and grass-seeds would soon be upon them. He resolved on a compromise, and spoke out at once in a decided tone, as the men gathered yet more closely around him.

'Look here, all of you! You know well that I'm not bound to find you in good shearing weather. Still, I'm aware that the season has been against you; you have shorn pretty well, so far, though I've had to make examples, and am quite ready to make more. What I am willing to do is this: to every man who works on till the finish, and shears to my satisfaction, I will make a fair allowance in the ration account. That is, I will make no charge for the beef. Does that suit you? There was a chorus of 'All right, sir, we're satisfied.' 'Mr. Gordon always does the fair thing,' etc. And work was immediately resumed with alacrity.

The clerk of the weather, too gracious even in these regions, as far as the absence of rain is concerned, became steadily propitious.

Cloudless skies and a gradually ascending thermometer were the signs that spring was changing into summer. The splendid herbage ripened and dried; patches of bare earth began to be discernible amid the late thick-swarded pastures, dust to rise, and cloud-pillars of sand to float and eddy—the desert genii of the Arab. But the work went on at a high rate of speed, outpacing the fast-coming summer; and before any serious disaster arose, the last flock was 'on the battens,' and amid ironical congratulations the 'cobbler' (or last sheep) was seized, and stripped of his dense and difficult fleece. In ten minutes the vast woolshed, lately echoing with the ceaseless click of the shears, the jests, the songs, the oaths of the rude congregation, was silent and deserted. The floors were swept, the pens closed, the sheep on their way to a distant paddock. Not a soul remains about the building but the pressers, who stay to work at the rapidly lessening piles of fleece in the bins, or a meditative teamster who sits musing on a wool-bale, absorbed in a calculation as to when his load will be made up.

It is sundown, a rather later time of closing than usual, but rendered necessary by the possibility of the grand finale. The younger men troop over to the hut, larking like schoolboys. Abraham Lawson throws a poncho over his broad shoulders, lights his pipe, and strides along, towering above the rest, erect and stately as a guardsman. Considerably more than you or I, reader, would have been, had we shorn a hundred and thirty-four sheep, as he has done to-day. Billy May has shorn a hundred and forty-two, and he puts his hand on the four-foot paling fence of the yard and vaults over it like a deer, preparatory to a swim in the creek. At dinner you will see them all, with fresh Crimeans and jerseys, clean, comfortable, and in grand spirits. Next morning is settling day. The book-keeping department at Anabanco being severely correct, all is in readiness. Each man's tally, or number of sheep shorn, has been entered daily to his credit. His private and personal investments at the store have been as duly debited. The shearers, as a corporation, have been charged with the multifarious items of their rather copious mess-bill. This sum-total is divided by the number of the shearers, the extract being the amount for which each man is liable. This sum varies in its weekly proportion, at different sheds. With an extravagant cook, or cooks, the weekly bill is often alarming. When the men and their functionary study economy, it may be kept reasonably low.

The men have been sitting or standing about the office for half an hour, when Mr. Jack Bowles rushes out and shouts, 'William May.' That young person, excessively clean, attired in a quiet tweed suit, with his hair cut correctly short, advances with an air of calm intrepidity, and faces Mr. Gordon, now seated at a long table, wearing a judicial expression of countenance.

'Well, May! here's your account:—

So many sheep at £1 per 100 £ Cook, so many weeks £ Shearing store account Private store account ——— ——— Total £ ======

Is the tally of your sheep right?'

'Oh, I daresay it's all right, Mr. Gordon. I made it so and so; about ten less.'

'Well, well; ours is correct, no doubt. Now, I want to make up a good subscription for the hospital this year. How much will you give? You've done pretty well, I think.'

'Put me down a pound, sir.'

'Very well, that's fair enough. If every one gives what they can afford, you men will always have a place to go to when you're hurt or laid up. See, I put your name down, and you'll see it in the published list. Now, about the shearing, May. I consider that you have done your work excellently well, and behaved well all through. You're a fast shearer, but you shear closely, and don't knock your sheep about. I therefore do not charge you for any part of your meat bill, and I pay you at the rate of half-a-crown a hundred for all your sheep, _over and above_ your agreement. Will that do?'

'Very well indeed, and I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Gordon.'

'Well, good-bye, May. Always call when you're passing, and if any work is going on you'll get your share. Here's your cheque. Send in Lawson.' Exit May in high spirits, having cleared about three pounds per week during the whole time of shearing, and having lived a far from unpleasant life, indeed akin to that of a fighting cock, from the commencement to the end of that period.

Lawson's interview may be described as having similar results. He also was a first-class shearer, though not so artistic as the gifted Billy. Jack Windsor's saucy blue eyes twinkled merrily as he returned to his companions, and incontinently leaped into the saddle on his wild-eyed colt. After these worthies came a shearer named Jackson. He belonged to quite a different class; he could shear well if he pleased, but had a rooted disbelief that honesty was the best policy, and a fixed determination to shear as many sheep as he could get the manager to pass. By dint of close watching, constant reprimand, and occasional 'raddling' (marking badly shorn sheep and refusing to count them), Mr. Gordon had managed to tone him down to average respectability of execution; still he was always uneasily aware that whenever his eye was not upon him, Jackson was doing what he ought not to do, with might and main. He had indeed kept him on from sheer necessity, but he intended none the less to mark his opinion of him.

'Come in, Jackson. Your tally is so and so. Is that right?'

_Jackson._—'I suppose so.'

'Cook and store account, so much; shearing account so much.'

_Jackson._—'And a good deal too.'

'That is your affair,' said Mr. Gordon, sternly enough. 'Now, look here, you're in my opinion a bad shearer and a bad man. You have given me a great deal of trouble, and I should have kicked you out of the shed weeks ago, if I had not been short of men. I shall make a difference between you and those who have tried to do their best; I make you no allowance of any sort; I pay you by the strict agreement; there's your cheque. Now, go!'

Jackson goes out with a very black countenance. He mutters, with an oath, that, if he'd known how he was going to be served 'he'd 'a "blocked" 'em a little more.' He is believed to have been served right, and he secures no sympathy whatever. Working-men of all classes in Australia are shrewd and fair judges generally. If an employer does his best to mete out justice, he is always appreciated and supported by the majority. These few instances will serve as a description of the whole process of settling with the shearers. The horses have been got in. Great catching and saddling-up has taken place all the morning. By the afternoon the whole party are dispersed to the four winds: some, like Abraham Lawson and his friends, to sheds 'higher up,' in a colder climate, where shearing necessarily commences later. From these they will pass to others, until the last flocks in the 'mountain runs' are shorn. Those who have not farms of their own then betake themselves to reaping. Billy May and Jack Windsor are quite as ready to back themselves against time in the wheat-field as on the shearing-floor. Harvest over, they find their pockets inconveniently full, so they commence to visit their friends and repay themselves for their toils by a liberal allowance of rest and recreation.

Old Ben and a few other specimens of the olden time get no further than the nearest public-house. Their cheques are handed to the landlord, and a 'sdubendous and derrible spree' sets in. At the end of a week or ten days, that worthy informs them that they have received liquor to the amount of their cheques—something over a hundred pounds—save the mark! They meekly acquiesce, as is their custom. The landlord generously presents them with a glass of grog each, and they take the road for the next shed.

The shearers being despatched, the sheep-washers, a smaller and less regarded force, file up. They number some forty men. Nothing more than fair bodily strength, willingness, and obedience being required in their case, they are more easy to get and replace than shearers. They are a varied and motley lot. That powerful and rather handsome man is a New Yorker, of Irish parentage. Next to him is a slight, neat, quiet individual. He had been a lieutenant in a line regiment. The lad in the rear was a Sandhurst cadet. Then came two navvies and a New Zealander, five Chinamen, a Frenchman, two Germans, Tin Pot, Jerry, and Wallaby—three aboriginal blacks. There are no invidious distinctions as to caste, colour, or nationality. Every one is a man and a brother at sheep-washing. Wage, one pound per week; wood, water, tents, and food provided. Their accounts are simple: so many weeks, so many pounds; store accounts, so much. Hospital? Well, five shillings. Cheque; good-morning.

The wool-pressers, the fleece-rollers, the fleece-pickers, the yardsmen, the washers' cooks, the hut cooks, the spare shepherds—all these and other supernumeraries, inevitable at shearing-time, having been paid off, the snowstorm of cheques which has been fluttering all day comes to an end. Mr. Gordon and the remaining _sous-officiers_ go to rest that night with much of the mental strain removed, which has been telling on every waking moment for the last two months.

The long train of drays and waggons, with loads varying from twenty to forty-five bales, has been moving off in detachments since the commencement. In a day or two the last of them will have rolled heavily away. The 1400 bales, averaging three and a half hundredweight, are distributed, slow journeying, along the road, which they mark from afar, or standing huge and columnar, like guide tumuli, from Anabanco to the waters of the Murray. Between the two points, a hundred and fifty miles, there is neither a hill nor a stone. All is one vast monotonous sea of plain—at this season a prairie-meadow exuberant of vegetation; in the late summer, or in the occasional and dreaded phenomenon of a _dry winter_, dusty and herbless as a brickfield, for hundreds of miles.

Silence falls on the plains and waters of Anabanco for the next six months. The woolshed, the wash-pen, and all the huts connected with them are lone and voiceless as caravanserais in a city of the plague.

ANCIENT SYDNEY

Our good barque anchored in Launceston harbour in 1831—about the same year, by the way, in which Marcus Clarke's dream-ship, the _Malabar_, ended her eventful voyage to the same port. The writer's father owned and commanded the vessel. Our steerage passengers were of the same class as those of the _Malabar_, being a draft of convicts, in process of deportation to the strange South land, there to undergo experimental discipline, which to some meant probationary industry—the path to a prospective fortune; to others, a slave's dread life, a felon's shameful death.

Ruffians doubtless cursed and caballed among the two hundred prisoners which crowded the lower deck, but they were in a minority. A herd of luckless peasants constituted the main body; found guilty of rick-burning and machine-breaking only—crimes common enough in England, before the repeal of the corn-laws.

Their offences had been but the ignorant, instinctive protest of Labour against Capital; less dangerous far than the organised communism of the present day. Poachers and petty larcenists, with other humble criminals, completed the list. For the most part they were a timid and obedient company, cowed and unresisting, incapable of planning mutiny or revenge. Our family party consisted of two tiny sisters and myself, my mother, and our nursemaid—a resolute, sterling Englishwoman, destined in days to come to be the best friend our childhood could have found in the new world or the old. The ordinary military guard, so many rank and file, with their officers, together with the Surgeon-Superintendent, had been detailed for the duty of ensuring discipline and the safety of the ship.

It may well have been that among the band of exiles were some unjustly sentenced, mixed up accidentally with a crowd of excited rustics engaged in unlawful deeds—wondering spectators rather than actors. Such a victim was probably the unhappy Annetts, a vacant-faced farm labourer, from Essex or Dorset, whose wife, accompanied by their two children, came daily to see him before the ship sailed.

I seem to remember the wretched group, though most probably it was my good nurse's description that imprinted it indelibly on my memory.

There would they sit, hour after hour, bathed in tears—he, with the irons on his limbs and the ugly prison garb; she almost a girl, with traces of rustic beauty, as he was hardly more than a boy—holding each other's hands and weeping silently for hours; then, sobbing in paroxysms of lamentation, both repeatedly declaring his innocence, the children wondering gravely at the strange surroundings, at times mingling their tears with those of their parents. It was a sight to touch the heart of the sternest. Then the last agonised parting, when the fainting woman was carried on shore, when the hopeless outcast watched his native land recede, instinctively aware that he gazed on it for the last time.

Is there such a physiological process as a broken heart? It would seem so, even in this world of lightly-borne sorrows and forgotten joys. He, at least, was not thus fashioned, stolid peasant as he seemed to outward view, untaught, uncared-for, born to the plough and the monotonous labour of the farm animals, which in his undeveloped intelligence he so closely resembled. But their fidelity to the heart's deepest feelings was rooted in his being. He never raised his head afterwards, as the phrase goes. He moved and spoke, went through the ordinary motions of humanity, as in a dream. Day by day he pined and wasted; in little more than a month, from no particular ailment, he died and found burial in that mysterious main which before his sentence he had never seen.

The only other death on board was that of the second mate, a fine young seaman named Keeling. Strange to say, he had a presentiment that drowning would be the manner of his end. He would say as much, on one occasion telling us that he was one of three brothers. Two had been lost at sea. He _knew_ the same fate was in store for him. He even put his head in a bucket of water once, and held it there, 'to see how it felt.' He was strong, active, temperate, and a smart officer. One day, in calm weather, when spearing fish from the dolphin-striker, he lost his balance and fell overboard. The ship had way on, though the breeze was light. He was a good swimmer; a boat was instantly lowered. I believe that my recollection of seeing him rise and fall upon the waves, far astern of the vessel, is accurate. The boat rapidly nears him—swimming strongly and easily supporting himself. It turns for a moment, shutting him out from sight. A man leans over to grasp him. Why do they commence to pull round in circles? Why can we not see the rescued man taken into the boat? After an interval which appears terribly long, the boat comes back to the ship _without him_. At the very moment of rescue a wave drove the boat stem on. The keel struck him on the head. He sank like a stone, never being visible to the boat's crew afterwards. Thus was his doom accomplished.

Though our passengers did not resemble those of the _Malabar_, we boasted a similar military force. The Surgeon-Superintendent was a much-travelled, cultured man. The Major and Subalterns in charge of the detachment were agreeable personages; fortunately they were not required to act in any military capacity beyond causing guards to be strictly kept. Had the prisoners even been other than they were, their chance in rising would have been small, having to deal with one of the most watchful, prompt, and determined men, in the captain of the vessel, that ever trod a plank. It was happily ordered otherwise. The voyage was successful and devoid of adventure. There were neither storms, mutinies, fevers, nor other disasters. And somewhere about the month of August (as we left England in April 1831) we delivered our passengers to the authorities in Launceston, in good order and condition. Our military friends quitted us after our arrival in Sydney, our final destination. My father had visited the port when an officer in the East India Company's service as far back as the year 1820, had been struck with the land's capabilities, and augured well of its future. He resolved to settle therein in the aftertime, did events shape themselves that way. By that voyage our destinies as a family were decided.

The Paris of the South was then a seaside town, numbering not more than thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. Described in station parlance, it was well grassed and lightly stocked. As a matter of fact there was a good deal of grass in the streets, and between Macquarie Place, which was our first location, and the Domain, the little Alderney cow, which had accompanied us on the ship, was able to pick up a good living. She and other vagrom milch kine often eluded the vigilance of the sentry, at the entrance to the Domain, where they revelled in the thick couch-grass; to be turned out at the point of the bayonet when discovered. Much of the city is changed; but much remains unchanged. Our first abode was a moderate-sized house in Macquarie Place. It possessed a second story and a garden, standing next to a tall, narrow building, occupied by Mr. Harrington, an eminent civil servant of the pre-parliamentary régime, later on Griffiths Fanning's office. Messrs. Montefiore, Breillat, and Co. possessed the corner house with its walled enclosure, taking in the angle of Bent Street, with a frontage also to O'Connell Street. The wall, the house, and the store _still_ stand, unaltered in half a century. Mr. Dalgety, then himself a junior clerk, might be seen walking to and fro from the wharves, inspecting cargo, note-book in hand. Think of that, young gentlemen in like positions, and ponder upon the mercantile monarchies which have been (and may still be) reached by perseverance, financial talent, and prudent ambition!

Chief-Justice and Mrs. Forbes, with their family, inhabited a large stone house on the opposite side of the street, also surrounded by a wall. It now forms a portion of the Lands Office buildings. Archdeacon Cowper lived on the other side, now New Pitt Street, a grass plot with two large cedars being in front of the house.

Sydney must have been then not unlike in appearance to one of the larger country towns, Bathurst or Goulburn, save and excepting always its possession of the unrivalled harbour and that fragment of Eden the Botanic Garden. There we children walked in the mornings of our first summer in Sydney. The grateful freshness of the air, the beauty of the overhanging trees, the vision of blue water and white-winged skiffs seen through flower thickets, still remains among my childhood's fairest memories.

At the back of our garden rose a stone wall, which supported the higher level of the allotments fronting O'Connell Street. In a balconied mansion opposite lived Mr. Raymond, the Postmaster-General, with his numerous family of sons and daughters.

How few survive of that merry band of youths and maidens, whom I remember so well! After our debarkation no time was lost in sending me to school. A lady who lived conveniently close, in O'Connell Street, first directed the pothooks and hangers, which, further developed, have since covered so many a printed page. Mr. Walter Lamb and the late Colonel Peel Raymond were among my schoolfellows. At the ripe age of seven, being according to the maternal partiality too far advanced for a dame school, I was promoted to Mr. Cape's Sydney Academy, in King Street, opposite to St. James's Church. Seventy boys more or less were there, not a few of whom have since distinguished themselves 'in arms, in arts, in song.' William Forster, Walter Lamb, Whistler Smith, and Allan Macpherson were among my older comrades. I well remember on the day of my arrival how Forster, actuated by the hatred of injustice which characterised his after-life, fought a sanguinary battle with another oldster who had been oppressing a smaller boy. Sir James Martin was there then, or came soon afterwards. At any rate he was one of the scholars when Mr. Cape, then newly appointed Headmaster of the Sydney College, moved over and took possession of that institution upon its opening day. The Nortons, James and John, were among the pupils, with many others whom I could perhaps recall, but whose names are at present fading in the mists of the past. The Dowlings, Mitchells, David Forbes, Sir John Robertson, Mr. Dalley, with many another, were among the pupils of that most conscientious and earnest teacher. They will always acknowledge, doubtless, their indebtedness to him for a sound classical training, the groundwork of their higher education.

The late Mr. James Laidley was one of the smaller boys at that time. Our fathers had been friends in other lands. I saw Commissary-General Laidley's funeral—a military one—and Dick Webb, the family coachman, leading the dead officer's favourite chestnut mare in the procession.

On the day of my introduction came also a new boy, about the same age. His name was Hugh Ranclaud. We were placed in a class in order to test our reading, and, as the last comers, at the bottom of the class. The lesson commenced; the others went through their allotted portion haltingly, after the fashion of the small boy of the period. When it came to Ranclaud's turn, he commenced in a clear, distinct, properly-punctuated manner, much as if he had been in the habit of performing at penny readings, or acting as curate on occasion. I see (as if it were yesterday) Mr. Cape, who paused to listen, take him by the arm and march him to the head of the class. I was promoted, too, and we soon quitted that class for a higher place in the Division, from that day to be close friends and confidants in literary matters. Eager, voracious readers we both were. He was a poet as well. We used to walk about arm in arm and recite bits out of Walter Scott and Byron. Until we left school and settled in different colonies our friendship remained unbroken.

The first thing I remember after the ceremony of installation was the adjournment to the new cricket-ground granted for our use in that part of Hyde Park then known as the Racecourse, which was opposite to the College, now the Grammar School. Percy and Hamilton Stephen were at the wickets. They, with their cousins James and Frank, Alfred, Consett, and Matthew Henry were among the schoolboys of that period; Prosper and André de Mestre, with, later on, Etty (Etienne), then a little chap, like myself.

We of the old school were much gratified at the superior advantages we now enjoyed in the way of playgrounds. The free use of Hyde Park, then merely fenced and not planted, was granted to us. Below the school building was a large area, divided by a wall from the present labyrinth of terraces built on the Riley Estate, then a furze-covered paddock of pathless wilds, in which we were free to wander.

A chain-gang was at that time employed, under armed warders, in levelling the line of road which leads towards Waverley. One of the prisoners tried to escape and was shot by a warder. We boys went over. There he lay dead in his prison garb, with a red stain across his chest, 'well out of the scrape of being alive and poor,'—only paupers were unknown then, and prisoners, of course, plentiful.

We were near enough to the Domain for the boarders to walk to 'The Fig-tree,' that well-known spot in Wooloomooloo Bay, where so many generations of Sydney boys have learned to swim. The old tree (a wild one) was there long years after, and from the stone wharf, with steps considerately made in Governor Macquarie's time, how many a 'header' has been taken, how many a trembling youngster pitched in by ruthless schoolmates! There was no danger, of course, and among rough-and-ready methods of teaching a useful accomplishment, it is perhaps one of the best. Mr. Cape was a good swimmer, and on the mornings when he accompanied us, these little diversions were not indulged in.

My recollections of him as a headmaster, and, indeed, in every other capacity, is uniformly favourable. He was a strict, occasionally severe, but invariably just ruler. Discriminating too, always ready to assist real workers such as Forster, Martin, George Rowley, and other exceptional performers. But for us of the rank and file, whose scholastic ambition lagged consistently behind our powers, he had neither mercy nor toleration. A thorough disciplinarian, prompt, punctual, unsparing, we knew what we had to expect. The consequence was that a standard of acquirement was reached at a comparatively early age by his scholars which with a less resolute instructor would never have been gained.

The constitution of the school was professedly in accordance with the Church of England denomination, but it was wisely ordered by the founders that no religious disability should exist. The fees were low, particularly for the day scholars. All ranks and denominations were equally represented, equally welcome. Mr. Cape himself, though inflexibly orthodox as an Anglican Churchman, was liberal and comprehensive in his views. The school was commenced (I think)—certainly ended—with a prayer from the Liturgy. The boys who belonged to Jewish, Roman Catholic, or Nonconformist denominations were permitted at pleasure to absent themselves from this observance. Very few troubled themselves to do so. Among the boys themselves I never remember the religious question being raised. We remained united and peaceable as a family (resorting, of course, to the British ordeal of single combat on occasions), but all took rank in the school chiefly in accordance with their prowess in the classes or the cricket-field. We had no other standards of merit.

Talking of cricket, the 'stars' of my day were Mr. William Roberts, senior, who with his brothers Dan and Jack were my contemporaries, and Mr. William Still. Roberts was a distinguished bat, renowned for the finer strokes and artistic 'cuts.' Still was a deadly bowler, a first-class field, and unerring catch.

In those days the old barrack-square was in existence, taking up many thousand feet of priceless frontage, at present value, in George Street. The military reviews and evolutions performed therein afforded unfailing interest to the schoolboy and nursery-maid of the period. Colonel Despard was the military commander of the day. His carriage and pair of chestnut horses, George and Charger, both nearly thoroughbreds, passed into our hands at the sale of his effects previous to his departure from the colony for New Zealand.

Racing matters, which have received of late years such astonishing development, were then in an infantile condition, it may be believed. Hyde Park was probably the first race-course. The next arena (literally) was the Old Sandy Course near Botany. To this unimproved tract I remember trudging with school comrades in 1836, when we witnessed a closely contested race, in heats too, between Traveller and Chester, the former winning. Frank Stephen rode a mule that day, who kicked all the way there and back. Lady Godiva and Lady Cordelia were the heroines of that meeting. Charles Smith and Charles Roberts were the principal supporters of the turf. This was near the proclamation of Her Gracious Majesty's accession to the throne at the age of eighteen years. Hugh Ranclaud and I attended the ceremony, and heard the proclamation read among the oak trees not far from the Lands Office.

The late Colonel Gibbes was a friend of the family. Edmund Gibbes was a schoolfellow, and many holiday visits were paid to Point Piper, their lovely residence. It was my ideal of perfection as a haven of bliss for boys, far removed from lessons and other drawbacks of youth. Many a happy day I spent there, though nearly coming to premature grief in the fair (and false) harbour. A large, well-ordered mansion, sufficiently removed from town to have country privileges, Point Piper contained all the requirements for youthful enjoyment. The kindest hostess, the nicest girls, a picturesque old-fashioned garden with fruit and flowers in profusion, fishing, bathing, boating to any extent, books, and music,—all the refinements and elegancies then procurable in Australia. As to the course of everyday life, it did not differ noticeably, as I can aver from after-experience, from that of country-house life in England. The stables were well ordered, grooms and coachman being assigned servants of course. Perhaps a stricter supervision was necessary for some reasons. At a stated hour one of the sons of the house was expected to walk down to the stables, which were half a mile distant, to perform the regulation inspection, to see the evening corn given, the horses bedded down for the night.

We boys (Edmund, his younger brother Gussie, and myself) used to fish and bathe nearly all day long, continuing indeed the latter recreation in the summer afternoons till the sun scorched our backs. Then, after a joyous evening, how sweet to fall asleep, lulled by the surges, which ever, even in calmest weather, made mournful music on rock or silver-sanded shore the long night through!

About this time a certain adventure befell our party, which might have ended tragically. One fine morning Gussie and I, with a kinsman about the same age, went fishing in the bay. Our 'kellick' was down, and the sport had been good. The provisional anchor was lifted at length, as the wind, having shifted, began to blow off the land. We had delayed too long, and found it hard work to make headway against it. Pulling with unusual determination, one oar snapped. The blade floated away. The gale was rising fast. Moving broadside on meant being blown out to sea. An interval of uncertainty ensued. Gussie, who was a little fellow, began to cry as we rapidly receded from the Point and the waves rose higher.

I took the command—my first salt-water commission. It was no use letting matters (and the boat) drift. To this day I wonder at the inventiveness which the emergency developed. Taking off Gussie's pinafore, a brown holland garment of sufficient length, I caused him to stand up and hold it like a sail. Wallace, the other boy, was to act as look-out man. I took the tiller and steered towards Shark Island, which lay between Point Piper and the Heads. Our spread of canvas was just sufficient to keep steerage way on. The wind was right aft. And in a comparatively short time we jammed the boat's bow between two rocks, where there was just beach enough to haul her up safe on our desert island.

We knew, of course, that they would see us from the house, and judging that we were cast away, send for us. Soon we discerned a boat coming to our rescue manned by the groom and the gardener—both fair oarsmen. The wind was a good capful by this time, and it took two hours' hard pulling to land us at the Point Piper jetty. 'Oh, you naughty boys!' I can hear the mild châtelaine saying in simulated wrath as we marched up, extremely glad to be so well out of it; and as they were very glad too, no serious consequences tending to moral improvement ensued.

At the Sydney College half-yearly examination Archbishop Polding was always among the examiners—a gentle, if dignified, old man, whom all of us revered. Our own Bishop and clergy attended on these occasions, but I have a more distinct impression of the Prelate first mentioned than of any other clergyman of the day. St. Mary's Cathedral was building then—it is building now—a monument of the persistent progress of the Church of Rome. What she begins she always ends, rarely relinquishing an undertaking or a stronghold. My reason for mentioning the religious aspect of the question is that, save for the morning and evening prayer and Mr. Cape's regular church-going, our school, though strictly denominational in theory, was virtually national and secular; chiefly, as I said before, because we of the different sects and persuasions agreed to respect each other's religious opinions and beliefs.

Whether this practical Christianity made us the worse churchmen in after-life I leave others to judge. When my father deserted salt water for the land permanently, he did not fix on one of the charming nooks embosomed in sea-woods which lay so temptingly between Hyde Park and the South Head road. Like most sailors, he had had enough of 'the sad sea waves,' whether in play or in earnest, and was relieved to be out of sound of them. Glenrock was, I believe, offered to him at a temptingly low rate, but he preferred to buy a tract of wild land at Newtown, as the suburban hamlet was then called, there to build and improve.

Beginning in good earnest, the walls of a large two-storeyed house soon arose—something between a bungalow and a section of a terrace. One Indian feature of the place was a verandah fully a hundred feet in length, and twelve feet in breadth, running across the façade and turning the ends of the house. This was flagged with the cream-coloured Sydney sandstone. Well do I remember its refreshing coolness of touch and appearance in our first summer. The house being built, the garden planted, and the whole purchase substantially fenced, the property was christened 'Enmore,' the name borne by the suburb into which it has grown to this day. East Saxon originally, it may be quoted as an instance of the evolution even of names. From one of the eastern counties of England it emigrated to Barbadoes, where it served to distinguish the plantation of an intimate friend of my father, the late James Cavan, a wealthy mercantile celebrity of Barbadoes in the good old days—the days of slavery and splendour, of princely magnificence and gorgeous profits, whereof the author of _Tom Cringle's Log_ has left such picturesque descriptions. Hence to an Australian suburb, and going further afield, still following the course of colonisation, the homely name has travelled into the far interior. There are now the Enmore Blocks, an Enmore sheep station, and possibly in the future there will arise an Enmore inland town, with railway terminus, town hall, and municipality complete.

In the years between 1836 and 1840, when we lived at Enmore, we had, like all other householders of the day, assigned servants. The only exceptions at that time were our confidential nurse, and Copeland the coachman, an ex-50th man. Most fortunate was it for us young people that such a woman had attached herself to the family; of exceptional energy and intelligence, deeply religious, with an earnest and unswerving faith—'a slave of the ought,' like Miss Feely. As she abode with us from 1828 to 1858, it may be imagined what an influence for good she exerted upon us children when almost wholly under her control.

As for the poor convicts, they were really much the same as other people. Some were good, none of them particularly bad. Their master, though with a natural leaning to quarterdeck discipline, was not severe. When they got 'into trouble,' as they expressed it, it was through their own irregularities. A man would apply for a 'pass' (a permit in writing), granting leave to go to town and return by, say, eight o'clock P.M.; instead of which (like the ingrate who stole geese off a common) he would get drunk, be locked up by the police, and be brought up before Captain Wilson or other Police Magistrate of the day, charged with intoxication and being out after hours, whereupon he received twenty-five or fifty lashes, and was carefully returned to our service. The first intimation we received was the sight of Jack or Bill, as the case might be, coming up the carriage-drive in charge of a constable; his blood-stained shirt tied over his shoulders by the sleeves, instead of being worn as usual.

The flogging wasn't child's play, as may be believed. I have seen the weals and torn flesh; but the men did not seem to care so much about it, nor did it tend to brutalise them, as asserted. They admitted that it was their own fault, for running against that stone wall, the law. We had nothing to do with it, but indeed suffered loss of work thereby. In a day or two they were all right and cheerful again, well behaved of course, until that fatal 'next time.' Whether the men were of tougher fibre in those days, I can't say; but fancy a latter-day larrikin getting fifty or a hundred lashes, as these men did occasionally, without wincing, too! Compared to the modern product, the 'larrikin,' with his higher wages, better food, and more of the comforts of life than are good for him, they were angels of light.

The groom was a prisoner; so also the gardener, the butler, the housemaid, the laundress, the cook. The women were, no doubt, more difficult to manage. If they got to the sideboard when there was a bottle of wine open, trouble ensued. Hard working and well behaved generally, none of them could withstand the temptation of drink. This may have occurred more than once, but the ultimatum of which they stood in dread was, after repeated misbehaviour, to be sent to the Factory at Parramatta—the Bridewell of the colony. Their hair was cut short in that house of correction. They were supposed to work at hard and monotonous tasks. The work the unfortunates did not mind so much, but the short-cropped hair—all ignorant of the turn fashion was to take in after-years—they detested unutterably.

Two of these _engagés_ (as French colonial officials called them) played us a pretty trick, for which, though it caused temporary inconvenience to the household, I have always felt inclined to pardon them.

The butler was a smartish young Dublin man, not more than a year out. He behaved well—was steady and willing. The laundress—Catherine Maloney, let us say—a quiet, hard-working young woman, was a valuable servant, worth about fifteen shillings a week, as wages go now. Fancy the privilege of keeping a capable servant, say, for four or five years certain! 'Please to suit yourself, ma'am,' and the later domestic tyrannies were then unknown. However, Patrick and Kate nourished deep designs—made it up to get married; wicked, ungrateful creatures! One fine morning they were missing, and, what was really exceptional in those man-hunting days, were never discovered—never indeed found from that day to this! 'These lovers fled away into the storm.' It would be in 1839, just about the 'breaking out' of Port Phillip. They probably got there undetected. Who knows? One wonders what became of them. Did Patrick grow rich, prosperous—even politically eminent? It was on the cards. They had my good wishes, in any case.

When we migrated to Port Phillip in 1840, a special permit was obtained from the Governor in Council to take down our servants—eight men and two women. The men went overland with the stock, and of course remained till their tickets-of-leave were due. But the women, our fellow-passengers by sea, married soon after they got to Melbourne. It was a 'rush,' in the latter-day goldfields' idiom, and women were at a premium. We might have refused our royal permission to this, but were not hard-hearted enough to do so. We were thus left desolate and servantless, a condition in life much less common in those days than it is now, I grieve to say, speaking as a householder. The men on the whole behaved well. George Stevenson, a clever mechanic and gardener from the north of Ireland, was drowned while crossing the Yarra at Heidelberg by night—a shanty being the fatal temptation. The groom died in the Benevolent Asylum at Melbourne, after many a year of faithful service to us and others. All our men but one got their tickets-of-leave, and drifted away out of ken. But while on the question, I may here record my opinion, that these men and their class generally did an immense deal of indispensable work in the earlier decades of the colony. They were, on the whole, when fairly treated, well behaved. They rarely shirked their work, were often touchingly attached to the families wherein they had done their enforced servitude, and after their virtual freedom was gained, mostly led industrious and reputable lives.

AFTER LONG YEARS

'This is the place; stand still, my steed, let me review the scene!' Quite correct, this is the place, though so changed that I hardly recognise the homestead which I built when I 'took up the Run' still known as 'Squattlesea Mere,' so many a year ago. Can it be possible that half a century should have passed—fleeted by like a dream—as a tale that is told—and that I should again stand here, looking at the work of my hands in that old time, whereof the memory is so fresh? The huts, the stock-yards, the cottage wherein we dwelt in peaceful contentment, nearly all are there, though much decayed and showing manifest signs of old Time—_edax rerum_—with his slow but sure attrition. The fruit trees in the garden, planted with my own hands, are of great age and size, and still bearing abundantly in a soil and climate so favourable to their growth. I find it almost impossible to realise that in June 1844, being then a stripling of eighteen, I should have established this 'lodge in the wilderness,' now developed into a fair-sized freehold, besides supporting a number of families in comfort and respectability on the selected portions.

Well do I remember the dark night when I reached this very spot, on a tired horse, having ridden from Grasmere on the Merrai that day, nearly fifty miles, without food for man or beast. The black marauders of the period held revel on a cape of the lava-bestrewn land which jutted out upon the marsh, near the Native Dog's Well. I had stumbled on to their camp, not seeing it until I was amid their dimly-burning fires. Relations were strained between us, and as they were then engaged in banqueting upon one of my milch cows (name Matilda), there is no saying what might have happened to the chronicler if my colt, a great-grandson of Skeleton (own brother to Drone), had not responded to the spur.

The overseer and I, arming ourselves, rode to the scene of the entertainment next morning, which presented an appearance much resembling the locality in Robinson Crusoe's island after the savages had finished their repast. Portions of the murdered milker were visible, also her orphaned calf, lowing in lament after his kind. But our sable neighbours had vanished.

* * * * *

I drove over the identical spot last week. How different its aspect! Drained and fenced—the black soil of the fen showing by depth and colour what crops it is destined to grow—a wire fence, a dog-leg ditto, all sorts of queer enclosures. Only the volcanic trap ridges remain unchanged, and the 'Blue Alsatian Mountains,' as typified by Mount Eeles and Mount Napier, which seem to 'watch and wait alway.'

Yes. The landscape has an altered appearance. What we used to call 'the smooth side' of the Eumeralla—as differentiated from the 'stones' of Mount Eeles, then, as now, rough enough in all conscience—has since our day been almost wholly denuded of timber. The handsome, umbrageous, blackwood trees (_Acacia melanoxylon_), which marked and shaded the 'islands' in the great mere, are dead and gone.

The marsh lands, then divided into islands, flats, and reed-beds, now present one apparently dead level, less picturesque, but more profitable, as fields of oats and barley are now to be seen where the 'wild drake quacked and the bittern boomed.'

Yon broad arterial drain is responsible for this transformation. More complete reticulation will in time turn the ancient fen, I doubt not, into one of the most productive agricultural areas in the Port Fairy district.

Still, with the increase of population and the onward march of civilisation, one natural enemy of the grazier comes forward as another is displaced. The dingo and kangaroo, with our poor relations, the aborigines, have mostly disappeared. But the rabbit in countless multitudes has arrived and come to stay; while the hero of our nursery tales and I wot not of what mediæval legends, Master Reynard, the fox, has found the climate suit his constitution. He raids the good-wife's turkeys, not wholly neglecting lambs, much as he might have done in the midland counties of England. Charles Kingsley's father (he tells us) took him into the garden one night to hear a fox bark, believing that the breed would soon be extinct in England; but he has held his own so far in the old country, and as I was told of a vixen with six cubs discovered in a log at Snaky Creek last week, I doubt whether we should not be able to re-export him, like the hares and rabbits, if a demand sprang up for the Australian Reynard.

Squattlesea Mere was certainly a good place for game. Snipe were plentiful, and might be shot, so to speak, from the parlour window. Wild ducks, geese, turkeys, quail, and the beautiful bronze-wing pigeon also. The kangaroo was then in the land, and helped our larder (notably with his tail, which made excellent soup), and an occasional dish of steak or hashed wallaby. The flesh tasted something between lean beef and veal, not at all a bad substitute for salt junk, when well cooked. A couple of hundred rabbits at least must have crossed the road, running eastward, in two or three miles, as we drove along this morning.

How such a sight would have astonished us formerly! Hares, too, from time to time. Our kangaroo dogs were then nearly as fast as the pure greyhounds now so plentiful on every estate, and what good sport we should have had! Driving by coach between the towns of Hamilton and Macarthur, I observed with satisfaction that the old stations survived in the form of respectable, though not overgrown, freehold estates. And although the owners are no longer the same, they still bear their old names, and are thus distinguished from the smaller-sized arable and grazing farms which have occupied the remaining areas.

'Monivae' (the first in order along the Macarthur road), from which I have more than once seen Acheson Ffrench driving his four-in-hand, now boasts a mansion and excellent fencing. The old cottage, however, yet stands, surrounded by the station buildings, where the merry girls and boys grew up, and where we used to be glad to be asked to stop for a night in the 'dear dead days beyond recall.' Werongurt too, where John Cox held sway, where the first orchard was planted, where the choice Herefords roamed at will, where The Caliph and The Don were located, may still be recognised. There the rye-grass and clover—in after-years destined to overspread the land—were introduced; and more wonderful still, where the first swing-gate for drafting cattle was put up in 1842 or 1843 (_pace_ Mr. Lockhart Morton). At the thriving township of Macarthur I had the pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with my old friend Mr. Joe Twist, formerly the crack stock-rider of the Port Fairy district.

At a little distance on the old Port Fairy road to Hamilton, now left untouched by the present railway, is Lyne, once the station of Messrs. Lang and Elms. At Macarthur, where I again beheld the deep, unruffled waters of the Eumeralla, still exists a compact freehold, running back to Mount Eeles and the volcanic country, which is now, I am afraid, an extensive rabbit preserve. This is known as Eumeralla West, at present in the occupation of Mr. John Learmonth, in whose hands it presents a thriving well-managed appearance. On the other side of the river is Eumeralla East, cut off from the original run by an authoritative decision of Mr. Commissioner Fyans, and now in the possession of Mr. Staughton.

Dunmore alone—once a show station for the quality of its sheep, cattle, and horses—has suffered a melancholy change. The last of the three partners, Messrs. Campbell, Macknight, and Irvine, strong in youthful hope and sanguine trust in fortune when I first knew the district, died but a few months since.

'Tis a saddening task to run over the list of the companions of one's youth and to note how the summons of death, the warning, the unsparing hand of time, has thinned or menaced their ranks.

Poor dear old Dunmore! How many a jolly muster have we shared in there! How many a loving 'look through' the stud—how many a race had we talked over with the first owners! It was taken up only a year or two before Squattlesea Mere. What dances and picnics, rides and drives, had we there joined in! What musters of well-bred bullocks, fat and high-priced, had we escorted from Paradise Camp when 'Long John Mooney' reigned as king of the cattle-dealers! And now, to think of all this greatness departed! The pity of it! No herd of cattle, no stud—Traveller and Clifton, The Premier, Tramp, Triton and Trackdeer, St. George, The Margravine, Lord of Clyde, Mormon—all dead and gone! Equine shadows and phantoms of the 'brave days of old.'

Hospitably received by the present proprietor of Squattlesea Mere, with whom I had much in common, as we had shared the changing seasons and varying profits of the Riverina in the sixties, I stayed a day at the old place. Once more I slept in the old chamber, sat at the table in the parlour where so many a cheerful evening had been passed by the young people who then formed our family circle, and for whom for a decade it was so safe and healthy a shelter. Again I heard the roll of the surges, as they beat in days of old on the shore. Again I felt as I rose at sunrise the fresh, pure air of early morn, and wondered if I should have the horses run into the stock-yard to pick out those wanted for the day's work.

_Tempora mutantur_, indeed. Where are now the overseer, the groom, the stock-rider, who, well mounted, and high-mettled as their steeds, were wont to fare forth with me for a long day's muster of 'the lower end of the run'? Where, indeed? Frank, the groom, most patient and cool-couraged of rough-riders—good alike on camp or road—is dead. The trusty overseer, who could ride all day and night at a pinch, or stride through the Mount Eeles rocks for hours at a time, now walks with a stick and is restricted to a buggy with a quiet horse for locomotion. And the gay Irish stock-rider, who took so kindly to the trade, though not to 'the manner born,' would, I fear me, distinctly decline to sit in the saddle for ten hours of a winter's day, wet to the waist and splashed to the eyes, as many a time and oft was our custom.

There is no doubt we are Rip Van Winkle. All the intervening life which has passed like a dream and left so few traces, must be in the nature of a magic slumber.

We could think so, were it not for certain changes we wot of.

The knight has been to the wars, and though shrewdly wounded, has escaped with life, and once more beholds the walls of the old keep. It sadly recalls the ballad—

Hawk, hound and steed roam masterless, His serving-men grow grey, His roofs are mossed—'tis thirty years Since the warrior went away.

My next stage was past Orford, on the Shaw River, locally known in that olden time 'before the gold' as the 'Crossing Place,' now a township with inhabitants. The brothers Horan, my faithful servitors, were the principal business men there, after the Free Selector's Act of Sir Gavan Duffy altered the pastoral proprietary so materially.

One kept the hotel, The Horse and Jockey, built and first opened by the Dunmore stud-groom, Baker. He trained Triton, Tramp, Trackdeer, and other Tr-named descendants of Traveller. A good jock and finished horseman in his day, but grown too heavy for the trade, he took to the general stud business, and subsided into hotel-keeping. Death, the inexorable, had claimed Mr. Michael Horan, but his widow still holds the license, with a goodly number of young people, mostly settled in life, to uphold the family name and fame.

Mr. Patrick Horan owns the general store which supplies the wants of the township, but the hardships of bush life have told on the once active and athletic frame, and though the dark blue eyes are still bright and clear, the white beard and faded lineaments might well accompany an older man. However, men can't live for ever, even in the cool and temperate clime of Port Fairy.

Pat and I are still in the land of the living. For that, and the moderate enjoyment of life, let us be duly thankful; and though neither of us, I venture to say, will ride buck-jumpers any more, or follow the fast-receding herd through the forest thickets, some reasonable recreation may yet be meted out to us in our 'declining days.'

Melancholy-sounding phrase! But _triste_ or otherwise the reality has arrived. And we must make the best of it.

IN THE DROVING DAYS

It is midwinter. The season has been severe, the rainfall heavy and continuous, almost without parallel. The floods are out and the whole country is generally spoken of as being 'under water.' We are on the road from Goulburn, New South Wales, to Gippsland with a thousand head of store cattle. We have crossed the high bare downs of the historical district of Monaro, rich in tales of wonderful feats of stock-riding, performed by 'the old hands,' and repeated by one generation of stock-riders after another. The Snowy River, rushing savagely over granite boulders, is in sight, and we hail that turbulent stream as a midway stage in our long, tedious, and adventurous journey.

Now there is cattle-droving and cattle-droving. When loitering in early summer-time over rich or level country the expedition is an idyll. The cattle follow one another without pressing, feeding as they go. The horses lounge along or are driven among the cattle, some of the men always preferring to be on foot. The dogs are easy in their minds, the whips are at rest. Around the camp-fires at night are heard sounds of careless merriment; the air seems charged with exhilaration, and all is _couleur de rose_. This sort of business is occasionally the rule for weeks, causing the unreflecting newcomer to exclaim, 'Is this the overlanding of which we have heard so much? Why, any fellow could do this.'

Quite another style of travelling was that which we had experienced for weeks and which was even now becoming intensified. When the country travelled through is rough, thickly timbered, or mountainous; when ceaseless rain floods the rivers and soaks the baggage; when the horses and cattle are enfeebled and therefore prone to straggle, ordinary difficulties are increased fourfold. Everybody is required to be at the fullest stretch of exertion, with both head and hand, from daylight till dark—occasionally for all night as well. Horses become lame or die; losses occur among the cattle; the person in charge has a tendency to become gruff, even abusive; hard work, anxiety, and perhaps short commons are frequently inscribed on this, the reverse side of the shield. Such is the prospect which we shrewdly suspect lies before us as we halt the drove nearly a mile from the formidable ice-fed stream, 'rolling red from brae to brae,' and prepare for a swim over.

Our party consists of eight mounted men, exclusive of a cook or tent-keeper, and a boy, hardy, knowing, and, it might be added, impudent beyond his years. The leader is Mr. Harold Lodbroke, an Australian of English descent; he has managed cattle from his youth up, and these are not the first thousand head that he has personally conducted from one side of the country to the other.

Mr. Elms, the second in command, is an Englishman who has plainly, by some peculiar arrangement of circumstances, been 'born out of his native country.' In speech, in manner, in the fifteen stone which he walks, in the square-built, clever cob which he rides, he is as conspicuously English as his name 'John Meadows Elms' would lead you to suppose. Nevertheless he is a 'Campbelltown native'—(why were so many of the early Australians born in that curious old-fashioned village in New South Wales?)—and he knows, I feel persuaded, not only what any cow or bullock would do under given circumstances, but what they would _think_.

James Dickson (otherwise Monaro Jim) and his mate, whom he introduced at their hiring as 'a young man from the big Tindaree,' are stock-riders of the ordinary run of Australian bush natives. They are given to long hair, tight breeches, tobacco, and profane swearing; it is possible they may be 'everything that is bad,' but bad riders—their worst enemy could find no fault in that respect. They require to be kept well in hand, but as they will receive no payment until the completion of the journey, it is probable they will do their work well.

Mr. Jones (of England) is a young gentleman recently arrived, who has joined the partly mainly for the sport and to add to his colonial experience—of this last commodity he is likely to gain on this expedition perhaps a little more than accords with amusement; but he is plucky and energetic, so he will most likely come well through, with a fair allowance of grumbling, as befits his nation.

Some preparation for the wilderness is now progressing, this being the last outpost of civilisation. Whips are looked to, and 'crackers' are at a premium; every horse has his shoes examined in anticipation of rocky passes and absence of blacksmiths. 'You won't find no shoes on the Black Mountain,' says Monaro Jim to Mr. Jones, 'and you'd look well leading that chestnut mare fifty mile.' At this cheerful way of putting things, Mr. Jones has a close overhaul of his charger's feet and makes at once for the smithy. Flour and beef are laid in, spare boots, and, above all, full supplies of tobacco are secured by the men, and lastly the pack-saddles, provisions, tent, and general property are ferried across the river in a rough sort of punt. It is now mid-day, dinner is ready, and after due observance of that ceremony, every one mounts and real work begins.

Harold Lodbroke on The Dromedary, a long brown horse, not far from thoroughbred, plain enough, but with legs of iron and a constitution to match, slides in among the cattle, followed by Monaro Jim and his mate. They bring on separately, or as they would say 'cut off,' three or four hundred of the vanguard; the rest of the party close up behind these and they are brought briskly towards the river. There is a steep but sandy bank, below which is the river shore. The cattle see this and hesitate; at a shout from the leader, every whip and every voice is raised simultaneously; the half-wild, half-fierce bullocks dash forward like a herd of deer. Down the bank they go, dropping over and breaking down the overhanging bank as they are forced on by the maddened animals in the rear. Harold jumps The Dromedary over the crumbling ledge, and, making a drop leap of three or four feet, lands right among their undecided lead. Swinging his twelve-foot stockwhip and yelling like a Sioux Indian, he forces half-a-dozen bullocks into the foaming water. The next moment they are struggling with the deep, violent stream, heading straight for the further shore and followed by all the rest. Other detachments are brought down, which readily follow their comrades, and in little more than an hour the whole expedition is safe on the right side of the treacherous Snowy River. We do not purpose to camp after the usual fashion to-night; no watching is thought necessary, we can see for some ten miles in every direction, the cattle are not likely to re-swim that pleasant rivulet, so the order goes forth, 'Let 'em rip.' They graze peacefully in the gathering darkness, a fire is made of drift-wood, the tent is pitched, and that day at least is successfully over. I have often thought that a nearer approach to perfect contentment, and therefore to happiness, is more frequently realised 'on the road' than under any other circumstances of life's travel. Everything conduces to those 'short views' which Sydney Smith recommended. The hours spent in the saddle or at the watch-fire tend to a pleasant weariness of mind and body. Health and spirits are at a high register, owing to a freshness of the atmosphere and the regularity of muscular action. A certain amount of anxiety is felt for the success of the daily enterprise, and when that is reached in the crossing of a dangerous river, or by the attainment of a favourable camp, the needs of our nature seem fully if temporarily gratified. Let the morrow provide for itself. The abstract incompleteness appears to diminish, almost to disappear in the illimitable distance, and we smoke our meerschaum by the watch-fire, or sink into well-earned repose, in the luxurious enjoyment of that unbroken slumber which is born of toil and toil alone.

So, one by one, we lie down to rest with the lulling sound in our ears of the turbulent, rock-strewn river. The _réveillé_ is sounded at 5.30; there is no possibility of daylight for more than an hour, but breakfast can be cooked and eaten before dawn, whereas horses cannot be profitably searched for without some manner of daylight. The day breaks, cold and discouraging. The rain, which had poured steadily during the latter part of the night, causes us to congratulate ourselves that we are on the right bank of old Snowy, now rising fast. The faintly chiming bells, which every other horse of the twenty-three composing our 'caballada' wore, warn us of their whereabouts. We see, as the mist lifts, long lines of the cattle at various distances, but within easy reach of the camp. The horses, now driven in by the boy, Sydney Ben, and the 'young man from the Tindaree,' arrive. The cattle are soon put together. It seems improbable that any stragglers had left the main body. Mr. Elms, after looking through them, gives it as his deliberate opinion that he didn't miss any of the 'walk-about mob.' We take the trail that faces the dark woods and frowning ranges of the south, and the grand array moves on. It would be hard to find a more bitter day, except on a Russian steppe in a snowstorm. The unsheltered, stony downs over which we pass seem to invite the whirlwinds of sleet which ever and anon sweep over them. The cattle refuse to face their course from time to time, only to be forced on as regularly in the very teeth of the blast. The stage is comparatively long, so we toil on, drenched to the skin and cold to the very marrow, in spite of oilskins and wraps. Still 'the day drags on, though storms keep out the sun,' and nightfall find us at the appointed halting-place. We do not propose to 'chance' the cattle to-night, so a camp is made. First of all the drove is permitted to graze peaceably to the particular spot selected. This is either a dry knoll or the angle of a creek, fence, or whatever boundary may help to confine the cattle at night and lessen the labour of watching. This being accomplished, they are gradually driven up into such a compass as gives room for comfort without undue extension of line. Fires are as quickly as possible lighted around them. The horses are unsaddled, hobbled, 'belled,' and turned loose. For all night purposes cattle can be managed on foot, always excepting when they have been recently brought from their native pastures, in which case a relay of fresh 'night horses' is always kept ready for a rush or other emergency. Regular watches now are allotted to the different members of the party, changing, of course, every night. On this occasion Mr. Jones, who is on the first watch, is informed by the cook that his tea is ready, a piece of information which he receives with the keenest gratification. He seats himself between the tent and the camp-fire upon his rolled up gutta-percha ground-sheet and bedding, and thinks he never enjoyed anything so much in his life as the boiled corned beef, fresh damper, and quart-pot tea. Monaro Jim, who is his companion on watch, is also partaking after a deliberate and satisfying fashion, volunteering from time to time his impressions about the weather, the road, and the state of the cattle.

Mr. Lodbroke and the rest of the party are at this time fully engaged in lighting fires, and 'steadying the cattle.' Their turn for luxury, tea, and improving conversation will come at a later period.

'Terrible hard they seem to camp to-night,' quoth Jim, taking off a wedge of beef with his clasp-knife, and looking approvingly at Mr. Elms, who is rushing frantically after an old cow with a fire-stick in his hand. 'One comfort is, some of it'll be out of 'em by the time we're on watch.'

'Surely we two won't be able to keep them on the camp?' queries Mr. Jones, alarmed at the responsibility about to devolve upon him and his companion, and picturing cattle escaping into the darkness in all directions.

'Dessay we'll do well enough, after a bit,' said that experienced person reassuringly. 'Just you keep walking round 'em till you come to me. I'll be t'other side. If two or three sneaks out, rush at 'em and keep a fire-stick handy to throw. If a string makes for goin', holler for me. But they ain't fond of leavin' one another, nor yet travellin' in the dark. We'd as well go on now.'

Supper having been concluded without unnecessary hurry on his part, Monaro Jim walks forth, filling his pipe as he goes. He explains to Mr. Jones the position of the fires he is to guard, and departs to his post. As they advance, the rest of the party make for the main camp-fire with considerable alacrity, leaving Mr. Jones nervous but sternly determined. For the first half-hour he paces rapidly from fire to fire, anxiously peering into the darkness and driving back straggling animals. Rather to his surprise they rush back to their companions in the herd directly they see him or hear his voice, in preference to what he supposed to be their obvious course, viz. to disappear in the darkness and elude pursuit.

Finding that Jim did not think the same activity necessary, and observing that the cattle, with few exceptions, remained stationary, even commenced to lie down, Mr. Jones moderates his energy and lights his pipe. He finds time to smoke in peace by the middle fire. As the night wears on he employs himself in replenishing the fires on his side, and occasionally carrying or dragging heavy logs of wood. Happening to look at his watch after doing all this, he finds to his astonishment that half his vigil is over. He feels refreshed by his late heartily-eaten meal. He warms himself from time to time by the blazing fires which he has piled up. Once every half-hour he walks round his watch and ward. The night is calm and starlit. The cattle have mostly lain down, and are apparently not disposed to stir. When another hour has passed, Mr. Jones begins to realise a treacherous inclination for slumber.

He has been up early, has worked hard all day, and after the third hour of watching begins to feel as if he would give all the world for a good, careless sleep. However, he combats the feeling, and it passes off. Great comfort comes from the thought that when his watch is over at ten o'clock, he can have unbroken rest till breakfast-time.

The last hour dies hard, but comes to its end in due time, and then Mr. Jones, with secret joy, veiled under a careless manner, shakes the feet of the pair who are to relieve him and his mate, telling them to keep moving as the cattle are troublesome on the far side. Having seen them drowsily dressing and finally on their way to his outside fire, Mr. Jones betakes himself to his cork mattress, ground-sheet, and blankets, where under five minutes he is sleeping that sleep which comes to the just and the unjust alike if only they be sufficiently tired.

At half-past five A.M. Dan, the cook, is roaring out unfeelingly, 'All aboard!' It seems but a few minutes to our tired hero, but on reference to his watch the fact is fully borne out. So ends his first night's watching.

Another day, with its difficulties to be surmounted and its dangers to be risked. We have said farewell to the cold uplands of Monaro proper, and are entering a mountain land, amid deep ravines and narrow gorges, sunless glens, dense forests, and precipitous ranges. We become aware that our droving difficulties are commencing. The subsoil, saturated with the rains of the most severe season known for thirty years, gives under the heavy trampling of the leading bullocks. In the vain struggle to pass quickly many of the stronger cattle only succeed in getting deeper and deeper into the treacherous hillsides.

It is even difficult to ride, and Mr. Jones more than once finds himself confronted by a bullock of forbidding aspect, who, unable to advance or retire, glares as if too happy to have the chance of 'skewering' him, and keeps, with the defiance of despair, turning his horns instead of his heels towards Mr. Jones' person.

However, by patience and strategy, these difficulties are disposed of and the camp is reached, in the darkest and most gloomy of forests. No more easy days, no more 'lazy-ally' for us. We have entered the 'big timber,' _crede_ Monaro Jim, and it will be all hard work and 'slogging' till we sight the parks and meadows of Gippsland. So we fare on, gradually ascending the forest hills which are to bring us to the celebrated pass by which we shall surmount the grand alpine chain. Sometimes we pass through darksome forests, where the scanty vegetation tantalises the hungry drove; now we stand upon the brow of rocky pinnacles and see stretching before us a cloud-world of mountain peaks and glaciers, rosy in the flush of dawn. We dine by the side of clear, cold, alpine streams, which ripple and gurgle through long summer days, full-fed as now. By such a brook, it chances one day, as we round a rugged promontory, that the unwonted appearance of a settler's hut startles us; an inhabited dwelling too, with smoke issuing from the chimney, a real woman, and (ever so many) children. Shy and wondering, they stand gazing at us as if we were Red Indians, while their mother civilly offers milk and potatoes—luxuries both.

'Her husband was away,' she explained in answer to our inquiries. 'He was nearly always out on the run, and sometimes away for weeks at a time, mustering.'

'Was she not afraid?'

'Oh no; who would harm her? And there was not much to steal.'

'Wasn't she awfully dull?' (This from Mr. Jones.)

'Well, it was rather quiet, but there—the children, and the cows, and the garden,—she always had something to do.'

'Her husband was handy if he made that water-wheel, eh?'

'Oh no. Yankee Jack, the digger, made that one summer he was prospecting about here.'

'However did they manage to get the dray here?'

'Well' (rather proudly), 'it was the only dray for many a mile round; her father gave it to them—and Joe, he packed it on the old horse, up the range, bit by bit.'

'Did she think the mountains fine?'

'Oh yes. They were very well, but she wished they wouldn't rise just out of their back-door like.'

We said farewell to the kindly, simple dame and her sturdy brood of Anglo-Saxons—blue-eyed and rosy-faced as if they had come out of Kent or Devonshire—true types of a race which claims the waste places of the earth for a heritage and which creates thereof New Englands and Greater Britains.

We wander slowly on with our sauntering, grazing herd, this rarely mild, calm winter day. We look back as the cottage grows dim in the distance—the little garden, the water-wheel, the patient wife listening ever for the hoof-tramps of her husband's horse, fade in the darkening eve. But we do not forget the little home picture, this floweret of tender bloom beneath the melancholy alp.

'We'll have to look out pretty sharp to-morrow, Mr. Jones,' says Monaro Jim. 'We've got rather bad country before us.'

'Bad country? Why, what do you call this?' hastily returns that gentleman.

'We're only just a-comin' to it,' calmly explains the saturnine stock-rider. 'You'll see what the sidelings is like; why, this here's a plain to it—cattle slipping and perhaps killing theirselves, big rocks falling fit to knock yer brains out; there ain't hardly a yard fit for a horse to carry you. Them boots of your'n won't look very fresh to-morrow night.' Here Jim took a soothing draw at his pipe, and glanced pityingly at Mr. Jones' neat elastic-sided boots, apparently absorbed in pleasing thoughts of evil which the morrow night will bring forth.

'Is there much more "sideling," as you call it?' inquired Mr. Jones, rather overcome by this terrific description, and almost prepared to arrive in Gippsland like a barefooted friar, if indeed he ever reached that far and, as he is beginning to believe, fabulous country.

'Not more'n a week of the wust of it,' answered the hard-hearted Jim. 'I wish we was well over it. I've known a-many accidents in the sidelings in my time.'

The dawn is still grey as we ascend a green peak, at the summit of which commences the first of the dreaded sidelings. The peculiarity of the track here is, that while on the upper side the mountains through which the Snowy River cleaves its rugged path rear themselves heavenwards with a gradient of about one foot in three, on the lower side there is not an inch of level ground between the track and the foaming waters of the river. Where the river shore should have been is a mass of granite crags and boulders. The trails of the many herds which have preceded us are deeply-worn ruts, along which it is just possible for men to walk in single file; if slippery with recent rains, or if any confusion occurs, they are all but impassable. If the cattle, as was their constant endeavour, manage to climb upwards, it is difficult and dangerous to force them down. If they slip or fall downwards towards the river, it is a forlorn hope to get them up.

THE AUSTRALIAN NATIVE-BORN TYPE

Numberless speculations, dogmatisms, and prophecies have found utterance, in and out of Australia, touching the characteristics and destiny of the Children of the Soil. Colonial critics sitting in judgment upon their own and other people's offspring have chiefly felt moved to deliver a verdict of inferiority to the sacred British type. Not noticeably diverse has been that of the untravelled European philosopher or social student. In nearly all cases, the mildest judgment indicated some degree of physical or mental differentiation; another term, for degeneration. If in the former greater height and length of limb were conceded, to be neutralised by lack of muscle and vitality. Worse again, if in the latter category a savage precocity and perceptive intelligence were admitted, it was rarely if ever supported by persistency, application, or broad mental grasp.

In the very early days of New South Wales, which I am old enough, alas! to remember, my boyish experience familiarised me with various products, animate and inanimate, of the Cape of Good Hope, then a handy storehouse of necessaries, for this far and oft-forgotten continent. The mention of 'Cape' geese, 'Cape' wine, 'Cape' horses, 'Cape' gooseberries, was unceasing. Indeed I once heard the pied peewit—a bird familiar to all observing youth—referred to as a Cape 'magpie.' This was, of course, natural enough. But the logical outcome of this simple nomenclature, which puzzled me at the time, was that 'Cape,' used in that sense, was another name for almost any article resembling but _inferior_ to a prized original. Thus the Cape wine was what we still, perhaps erroneously, consider that inspiriting but less delicate beverage to be; the Cape geese were smaller and marketably less valuable than their thick-necked solemn English cousins; the Cape gooseberries were sweet with a mawkish sweetness, how far below the rough richness of the English fruit! The Cape horses, not devoid of pace, were weedy and low-caste; while the Cape pigeon was not a pigeon at all, but a gull; and even the Cape magpie was held to be a species of lark, dressed up in the parti-coloured plumes of his august relative, the herald of the dawn.

Can my readers recall a period in which the adjectives 'colonial' or 'native' were not held to express very similar ideas as contrasted with 'European' or 'imported'? Along with the 'Cape' associations, I acquired, from many sources, a fixed idea that an indefinable, climatic process was somehow at work in Australia, preventing like from producing like. It applied equally to men and women, horses and cattle, sheep and goats, plants and flowers, qualities and manners. Over this anomaly, dooming the unconscious 'currency lads and lasses' to perpetual 'Cape' creolism, I marvelled greatly. My sympathies, meantime, were loyally enlisted with the 'native' party.

Years rolled on. I visited other colonies and roamed over tracts of broad Australia, far from my boyhood's home. Yet I never lost sight of the question which so troubled my youth. I neglected no opportunity of making observations, recording facts, or instituting comparisons connected with this mysterious subtle Australian degeneration theory.

I even enjoyed the privilege—of which I desire to speak reverently and gratefully—of visiting the dear old land, whence came the ancestors of all Australians, the land of the real, veritable 'old masters,' before any like-seeming but disappointing 'Cape' copies of the glorious originals were thought of. I enjoyed thus certain opportunities, of which I did not fail to make reasonable use.

I mention personal facts merely to show that, having early in life apprehended the magnitude of the question, I set myself, not without certain facilities for generalisation, or reasonable time devoted to the inquiry (about fifty years—ah me!), to do battle with the error, now as then, possessing vitality and power of propagation.

The first primary fact which appealed to my reasoning powers as subversive of the 'Cape' or degeneration doctrine was that of the high and increasing value of the fleece of the Australian merino sheep. This astonishing animal, bred from individuals of selected _cabanas_ of the highest Spanish lineage, was landed in New South Wales in the early years of settlement, and tenderly cherished by the Macarthurs, Rileys, Coxes, and other leading colonists, more enthusiastic for the welfare of the land than their own aggrandisement. Kept free from 'improvement'(?) by heterogeneous imported blood, it was actually declared by Shaw of Victoria and other clear-visioned pastoral prophets to be equal, nay _superior_, to the best imported sheep. It was contended for him that the calumniated climate and pastures of Australia had in the acclimatised merino produced a fleece delicately soft, free, lustrous; withal, so highly adapted for the finer fabrics that nothing European could compare with it. That from the type, now securely fixed, and capable of reproducing itself illimitably, had been evolved the most valuable fleece-producing animal, reared in the open air and under natural conditions, _in the whole world_. That so far from the infusion of the best Spanish and Gascon blood improving the Camden merino, as it commenced to be called, marked deterioration followed. Horror of horrors! _imported blood_ injurious—what heresy was this? Yet, incontestably, the prices of the Havilah, Mount Hope, Larra, and Ercildoune clips would seem to have triumphantly established Mr. Shaw's daring proposition.

As to horses, slowly and yet surely it began to be asserted, if not believed, that any stud-master in possession of a family of Australian thoroughbreds, originally imported and bred uncrossed for generations beneath the bright Australian sky, reared on the crisp Australian pastures, had probably better pause before he introduced English blood, _unless he knew_ it to be absolutely superior and likely to assimilate successfully. Later on men were found to say that, given pure pedigree, speed, and soundness on the part of sire and dam, Australian blood-horses, though reared for generations under the _fibre-relaxing climatic influences_ of the Great South Land, were as grandly grown, as speedy, as sound in wind and limb, as full of vigour and vitality, as any of the 'terribly high-bred cattle' which at Newmarket represent the _ne plus ultra_ of equine perfection.

To this latter-day heresy, speculations as to what might have come to the reputation of the race-courses of the land if evil hap had chanced to the son of Cap-à-pie and Paraguay, lent considerable force.

Gradually, also, uprose a bucolic, protesting party, who denied that the unqualified supremacy of the British-bred shorthorn was to last for all time. Second Hubback cows and bulls of the blood of Belvidere and Mussulman, Favourite and Comet, had landed here before the rival names of Bates and Booth were household words, from the Hawkesbury to the Sylvester. Careful breeders, enthusiasts for pedigree, had jealously kept the blood pure. Size and beauty, hair, colour and handling, constitution and flesh-amassing power were equalled or even exceeded in their descendants. Though sorely trammelled by the 'Cape' orthodoxy, these even at length ventured to raise their flag and proclaim a revolutionary epic of fullest colonial brotherhood, other things being equal. Following them came the champions of Devon and Hereford cattle. Lastly, the Suez mail brought news that certain Bates' Duchesses, born and bred in America, in the United States, where the 'Cape' theory as regarding man and beast to this day doth flourish luxuriantly, were re-exported and sold in England for dream-prices before an idolatrous audience. 'So mote it be,' argued the bolder reasoner—'even yet in Australia preserve we but our pure tribes inviolate!'

It irks one to recall how rigidly comprehensive was the elastic network of the 'Cape' theory. By no means would the bulldog fight, nor die in battle the close-trimmed cock, nor sing the bird, nor flower perfume the breeze in Australia, as did their prototypes in 'Merrie England.' Long years since this prejudicial indictment has been laid to rest amid the limbo of forgotten absurdities. Man, the most highly-organised animal, suffered of course the most injurious disparagement; he has but slowly been able to clear himself from these damaging aspersions.

Yet, methinks, old Time, his 'whirligigs and revenges,' is even now uplifting the personal character of the Southern Briton, no longer forced to resent the damaging accusation. In the lower forms of the great School of Effort our champions have arisen and done battle with many a dux of the Old World. They have abundantly demonstrated that they could 'make the pace' and yet exhibit the 'staying power,' which is the great heritage of the breed. Lofty of stature and lithe of limb as they may be—though all are not so—they have shown that they inherited the stark sinews, the unyielding muscles, the indomitable, dogged energy of those 'terrible beef-fed islanders' from whom we are all descended. In the boat, on the cricket-field, at the rifle-targets, and in the saddle, the Australian has shown that he can hold his own with his European relatives.

It remains to be seen whether in the more æsthetic departments he has exhibited the same power of competing on equal terms with his Northern kinsmen. I now venture to assert, considering the limited number of families relatively from which choice could be made, that a very large proportion of Australian-born persons, of both sexes, have exhibited a high degree of talent, and, in some cases, unquestioned genius in the literary, forensic, or scientific arena. That small and distant English-speaking population, which in a single generation produced such men as Wentworth, Robertson, Martin, Dalley, Stephen, Forster, Halloran, Deniehy, Kendall, and Harper—Australians by birth or rearing—may fairly lay claim to the highest intellectual proclivities, to a moral atmosphere favourable to mental development. It is inexpedient to mention names in a limited community, but I may assert, without laying myself open to that accusation of boasting for which a colonial synonym has been adopted, that in the learned professions Australians may be found, if not at the acknowledged pinnacle, so near as to be worthily striving for pre-eminence. Among the fair daughters of the land we know that there are numbered singers, painters, musicians, histrionic artists, and writers, of an eminence which fits them worthily to compete with European celebrities.

Pledged to observing, with deep interest, the native Australian type, so far as it has been presented to me, I have rarely missed an opportunity of testing not only the general characteristics of the individuals examined,—I have even pushed my inquiries almost to the verge of rudeness as to the nationality of parents and grandparents; from the Parramatta River to the Clarence, from the Moyne to the Murrumbidgee, from the Yarra to the Mataura, I have noticed 'natives' of all ranks, ages, and sexes. The eager ethnological reader will naturally require my conclusive opinion—a prosaic, possibly a disappointing one. Australian-born persons, with trifling exceptions, are very like everybody else, born of British blood, anywhere. So far from all being run into one mould, as it pleases strangers to believe, they present as many instances of individual divergence from the ordinary Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-Celtic types—mentally and physically—as are to be found in Europe or elsewhere. Then the heat, the constant eating of meat, the locomotive, speculative habit of the land—do these not produce a variation of type? How _can_ they be like people born in the green Motherland? is eagerly asked. My answer is—that 'race is everything.' A little heat more or less, a little extra wayfaring, the prevalence of the orange and banana, of abundant food—these things do not suffice to relax the fibre and lower the stamina of the bold sea-roving breed which has never counted the cost of the deadliest climate or the wildest sea where honour was to be satisfied, thirst for adventure to be slaked, or even that lower but essential desideratum, a full purse to be secured. If the air be hot, there sighs the ocean breeze to temper it withal. On the great interior plateaux, the pure, dry atmosphere, which invigorates the invalid, rears up uninjured the hardy broods of the farmer, the stock-rider, and the shepherd. Stalwart men and wholesome, stirring lasses do they make. The profusely-used beef and mutton diet, due to our countless flocks and herds, though it does not tend to produce grossness of habit, is a muscle-producing food, best fitted for those who are compelled to travel far and fast. The ordinary bush-labourer, reared on a farm or a station, is generally a tall, rather graceful personage. He may be comparatively slight-looking, but if you test or measure him, you will find that the spareness is more apparent than real. His limbs are muscular and sinewy; his chest is broad; his shoulders well spread; he is extremely active, and, either on foot or horseback, can hold his own with any nationality. Wiry and athletic, he is much stronger than he looks. He will generally do manual labour after a fashion and at a pace that would astonish a Kent or Sussex yokel. If he have not the abnormally broad frame of the English navvy or farm-labourer, neither has he the bowed frame, the bent back, the shorter limbs of the European hind. With all his faults he is much more as Nature made him, unwarped by ceaseless compulsory labour, and more capable of the rational enjoyment of life.

With regard to mental characteristics. It has been the fashion to assert that a certain want of thoroughness is observable in the native Australian youths. 'They will not fag at their books to the same extent as a Britisher. They are superficial, light-minded, unstable, what not.'

I well believe this to be an unfounded charge. When will people cease to talk of 'Australians' doing this and that, or permit colonists to differ among themselves from birth, as elsewhere? Here, under the Southern Cross as under Ursa Major, are born the imaginative and the practical, the energetic, the dreamy, the slow and the brilliant, the cautious and the rash, the persevering and the fickle. As the inscrutable human unit enters the world, so must he or she remain, I hold, but partially modified by human agency, until the day of death. Change of abode or circumstance will not perceptibly alter the mysteriously-persistent entity. The eager British or other critic sums up the inhabitants living in five hundred different ways as typical colonists. 'The Australian' (saith he) 'does this, or looks like that, dislikes formality, or abhors uniformity. He is quick, but not persevering; he is not so profound, so long enduring, so "thorough" as the Englishman.' Such reasoners surely assume that all Australians 'to the manner born' were hewn out of one primeval eucalyptus log, instead of, as I had the honour to remark before, possessing in full abundance the endless differentiations and divergences from the parent type, and from each other, so noticeable in Great Britain.

Know, O friendly generaliser, that there be tall Australians and short Australians, lean Australians, and those to whom the increase of adipose tissue is a sore trial. There be fair-haired and dark-haired, brown-and auburn-haired youths and maidens, and ever, as the outward man or woman ripens diverse under the same sun, do the invisible forces of the mind wax faint or fierce, feeble-clinging or deathless-strong. There are speculative, rash Australians; also cautious, _very wary_ Australians. Some to whom gold is but dross, peculiarly difficult to 'pocket' in life's billiard-table, and woefully given to the losing hazard; others to whom pence and half-pence are dear as the rarest coins of the collector, prone to fight for or hoard them with desperate tenacity. 'Natives' who are ready to accept the gravest charge without a grain of self-distrust; 'natives' to whom responsibility is a misery and a burden. Some there are who from childhood to old age scarcely glance at any literary product except a newspaper. Born on the same stream, or tending the same herds, shall be those whose every waking thought is more or less connected with books; to whom the unvisited regions of the Old World, through such glorious guides, are rendered common and familiar. There is _no_ generic native Australian definition, such as we carelessly apply to Englishmen, Americans, Frenchmen, or Germans, when we call the first practical, the second 'go-ahead,' the third gay, the fourth solid. The Australian, perhaps, more nearly resembles the Briton, from whom he has chiefly sprung, than any other sub-variety of mankind.

There may be a slight but noticeable tendency to variation, but it smacks of progressive development rather than of retrogression. Let it be remembered that the inhabitants of the principal subdivisions of Britain have mingled and intermarried in Australia to a greater degree than is possible in the mother-country. Doubtless English and Scotch, Scotch and Irish, and so on, continuously form alliances in Britain; but there scarcely can have been such a thorough sifting up together, such intermixture of blood there, as where the three divisions, having been imported in rateably even quantities, have intermarried, for nearly a century. The thorough welding of Celt and Saxon, Dane and Norseman, Ancient Briton, Scoto-Celt, and Hiberno-Saxon strains, is hardly possible except in a colony. Hence Australia may eventually produce a type of the highest physical and mental vigour possible to the race. It has been conceded that borderers—presumably mixed—have always excelled in stature and mental calibre the pure races. As much may be asserted in days to come of Australians. As it is, instances are not wanting of a type of manhood combining harmoniously those qualities of which English, Irish, and Scotch have from time immemorial been accustomed to boast.

I conclude this outline of a deeply-important question by recording my deliberate conviction, that in the essentials of character, the Southern British race truly resembles and in none falls short of the parent stock. Apparent physical peculiarities may be explained, as the results of a higher average standard of living, a less stationary habit, and the unshared freshness of a glorious atmosphere.

The Great South Land, in extent and variety of climate and soil, offers a more fruitful field for the development of the root-qualities of the race than did any former abiding-place of the great Aryan stock. And though the average stature be exceeded, and the rugged lineaments, no longer ocean-striving, but fanned by softer airs, approximate more closely to the chiselled features of the Greek, ever and for ever more will Australia 'keep unchanged the strong heart of her sons'; for ages yet to come jealously claiming the proud title of 'Britons of the South,' and as such, when the world's war-dogs bay around the sacred standard of the Empire, eagerly emulous to be enrolled among the 'Soldiers of the Queen.'

MY SCHOOL DAYS

It savours of the improbable to assert that the life-careers of my school-comrades have proved to be mainly in development of their boyish traits of character; yet in the majority of instances such has been the case.

Sir James Martin, late Chief Justice of New South Wales, was always _facile princeps_ among us—in every class, in every subject. He may not have posed as a too industrious worker, but, whatever his method, he mastered every department of knowledge which he essayed with unvarying success. That he, in common with most of the 'old boys,' wrote with ease and effectiveness was due, perhaps, to the care bestowed upon the study of English composition. It was a speciality of the school. Hugh Ranclaud once produced an essay so polished and scholarly that suspicion of plagiarism was aroused. A subject was given to him, 'Marauders by land or sea,' to work out under supervision. He emerged triumphantly from the ordeal. The first numbers of _Pickwick_ appearing about that time, in green covers, if I mistake not, Martin commenced a tale, embodying a similar style of incident. I forget the title now, but some numbers were printed. It was a boy's audacious imitation, but even at this distance of time I recall the undoubted ability of his performance. Part of the action was laid in London, a city, strangely enough (though he knew more of its history and topography than many a dweller within sound of Bow Bells), that he was never destined to behold.

William Forster was much the same kind of boy as he was a man: obstinately honest, uncompromising, detesting the expedient; clever at classics and mathematics, yet with a strong leaning to poetry. He left us to go to the King's School at Parramatta, then in charge of the Rev. Mr. Forrest, Hovenden. Hely, Whistler and Eustace Smith, Moule, the Rossi Brothers, Walter Lamb, and a large contingent of Stephens were contemporaries. Alfred of that ilk and I were great chums. He was a steady worker, as were most of that branch of his family. Consett (Connie) was then a handsome, clever boy, who could learn anything when he liked, but was not over-fond of work. Matthew Henry (now a Supreme Court judge), on the other hand, was an insatiable acquirer of knowledge, and bore off a bagful of prizes, so to speak, at every examination. Frank, his cousin, was not over-eager about draughts from the Pierian spring, which led to misunderstandings between him and our worthy master; but he was famous for tenacity of purpose and indomitable resolution, qualities which served him well in after-life. Among the boys who came comparatively late was George Rowley. He must have been fourteen, at least, and by no means forward. In two years he was not far from the head of the school. The Brennans—John, the late sheriff, and his brother Joseph—David Moore, a Minister of the Crown in Victoria in days to come, David Forbes, the present judge, and George Lord were the Spofforths, Bannermans, and Massies of that long-past day—old fashioned, perhaps, in a cricketing sense, but prophetic of triumphs to come.

There were fights now and then, and 'what for no?' But these necessary conflicts were conducted with all proper decorum at the bottom of the playground. Mr. Cape, very properly, did not discourage them as long as there was no unfairness. I reminded Mr. William Crane, stipendiary magistrate, years since, of an obstinate engagement between us, in which his superior science gained the victory. I 'knocked back' or put out a knuckle of my right hand (as our schoolboy phrase was) in that or some other desperate fray. Dr. Parsons, a medical friend whom I met in the street, reduced the swelling for me. The worthy stipendiary showed a similar displacement, attributable to the same cause, as we compared notes.

Ronald Cameron was one of our leading champions, being ready to fight anything or anybody at short notice. He challenged to the combat Cyrus Doyle, a long-limbed native, big enough to eat him, with the assurance of a gamecock defying an emu. He lost the fight, of course; but no other boy of his size in the school would have thought of commencing it. He had been at sea for a year, and was thereby enabled to tell us wonderful tales of his adventures among the South Sea Islands—much after the fashion of 'Jack Harkaway,' who, however, like gas in the time of Guy Fawkes, 'wasn't then inwented.' In after-years a report was current among us that he was lost at sea. Whether true or not I am unable to say. He certainly was, with the exception of Carden Collins, the most utterly fearless boy I ever saw.

Of course, with so large a school, under masters were required. These gentlemen were excellent teachers and conscientious disciplinarians. First came Mr. Murray, the English and arithmetical master; then Mr. O'Brien, writing master and teacher of mathematics. He had a way of saying, when arrived at the Q.E.D. of a problem in Euclid, 'And the thing is done.' How well I remember his desk and the pen he was always mending! No steel pens in those days. We had to learn to mend our own quill pens and keep them in good order. If the pens were bad and the writing suffered thereby, we suffered in person. This led to the careful preparation of the obsolete goose-quill—now a figure of speech, a thing of the past.

The Rev. Mr. Woolls was for a year or more classical master. He afterwards went to Parramatta and established himself independently. A fair-haired, ruddy-faced, Kingsley-looking young Englishman was he when he first came to Sydney College. He was the ideal tutor, and most popular with us all: strict in school, but full of life and gaiety when lessons were over.

The late Reverend David Boyd, afterwards of East Maitland, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, succeeded him. He was an accomplished person if you like: a first-rate classical scholar, with a fair knowledge of French, German, and Italian—possibly Hebrew, for he knew pretty well everything, from astronomy to single-stick, fencing to comparative philology. He rode, drove, shot, fished, painted, was musical, mathematical—a mesmerist doubtless. 'Omnibus rebus et quibusdem aliis' ought to have been his motto. We boys looked upon him as a successor of the Admirable Crichton, and revered him accordingly. I was very glad when he 'followed the rush' to Port Phillip in 1842, and gave the Hammonds, Howards, myself, and a few other ex-Sydney College boys our last year's teaching. We ought to have made the most of it, for, as none of us got any more, we had to rely upon those early years of conscientious grounding for the foundation of any edifice of learning we should elect to place thereon. It has proved extremely useful to all of us, and it was no one's fault but our own if we did not imbibe every form of useful knowledge short of what university training alone could have supplied.

Besides these gentlemen we had drawing and French masters. Mr. Rodius was a German artist, a painter in watercolours and a limner of likenesses in crayon. Many of the early celebrities will owe whatever immortality they may secure, to his industrious pencil. Still linger in old colonial mansions a few portraits, not obtruded perhaps, but too life-like to be lost sight of, bearing the signature 'C. Rodius.' In our family scrap-album several water-colour sketches are to be seen, showing perhaps more than the portraits—which were necessary 'pot-boilers' in that material age—the true artistic touch. He used to scold us, his pupils, for our indifference and inattention: 'Ven I was yong I did rone a whole mile every day so as to be in dime vor my bainding lezzon; I belief you would all rone a mile do esgabe it.' I don't know that he succeeded in forming artists of that generation, but possibly we may have been rendered more appreciative of the paintings which most of us were to behold in the Galleries of Europe. Mr. Stanley, our French master, knew his Paris intimately, I doubt not. He had the Parisian accent, too, very different in quality from the provincial French which, when spoken fluently, enables so many professors of the language to pass muster. He was a man of distinguished bearing and 'club' form, resembling curiously in appearance, and in some other ways, a late fashionable celebrity. Why he had come to live in a colony and teach French at a boarding-school we might wonder, but had no means of ascertaining. His life, doubtless, contained one of the romances of which Australia was at that time full. He was generous to all his pupils. No unkind word was ever said regarding him. He imparted to us a thorough comprehension of the genius of the language; and if we never fully probed the subtle distinctions of irregular verbs, it was no fault of his. Long afterwards, when at the Grand Hôtel de Louvre, or the 'Trois Frères Provencaux,' I was able to make my wants known, surrounded by British and American capitalists, sitting mute as fishes, I recalled with gratitude Mr. Stanley's faithful monitions.

One of our school games was, of course, that of 'fives.' We played against one of the high gables of the college building, where the ground had been partially levelled; but it was rather rough still. A road-party was doing something to the present College Street when a master suggested that I should ask my friend Mr. Felton Mathew, then Surveyor-General and Chief Road-superintendent, to allow the men to complete our 'fives' court. Mr. Mathew was our neighbour at Enmore; he bought the ground from my father on which he built Penselwood. My request was granted, and a party of men under an overseer soon made another place of it.

A tragical incident connected with the game occurred about this time. Some of the boys were playing in Sydney against a high wall in a court built for the purpose. It was not properly supported, for it fell suddenly, killing poor Billy Jones, who was one of the players. I don't think I remember any other accident. There was an epidemic of influenza, precisely like the 'fog fever' of recent years in symptom, cause, and effect. It was universal, severe, and troublesome, but we all recovered in due time. Even 'fog fever,' therefore, is no new thing. A certain school of weather prophets is convinced that, as they state their proposition, 'the seasons have changed; since the old colonial days they have become drier or cooler, even hotter, sometimes.' After a pretty clear recollection of most of the seasons since the 'three years' drought' of 1836-7-8, I am opposed to that belief. What has been will be again. People were justified in surmising about the time of last autumn that it had forgotten how to rain in New South Wales and part of Queensland. In this year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven that theory may be said to have exploded.

What was a really exceptional, even phenomenal, form of weather, however, did take place in and near Sydney in one of the dry years mentioned, which was a fall of snow. We made snowballs at Enmore and enjoyed the usual schoolboy amusements connected therewith. It must have been nearly as cold a day as last Monday week. There was snow on all the hills around Albury, but I did not hear of any snowballing quite so near Sydney as I refer to. If the Messrs. Chaffey Brothers succeed in their irrigation scheme, and make the Mildura salt-bush wilderness to bloom as the rose, we may attain partial security from droughts at least. Nevertheless let us pray to be delivered from the legendary visitations which grey-headed aboriginals have described to pioneer settlers. Such an one, unbroken for _seven years_, is now laying waste Queensland.

The sons of Sir Thomas Mitchell—Livingstone, Roderick, and Murray—were among the denizens of that old enclosure of learning, where, as Hood so truly sings—

Ay! there's the playground—there's the lime, Beneath whose shade in summer's prime So wildly I have read! Who sits there now and skims the cream Of young romance and weaves a dream Of love and cottage bread?

Who, indeed! and how few are left of all that joyous crew that ran and leaped, shouted and whooped with the delight of abounding animal spirits? Besides the Mitchells were the sons of Colonel Snodgrass; the Dowlings, the present worthy judge and his brother Vincent; the Ritchies; the Nortons, James and John; George Wigram Allen; the Mannings, Arthur and Henry. These with others might be considered the aristocratic section, but there were no divisions founded upon social inequalities. We learned and fed, played and lived generally, in generous and hearty fellowship.

William Wentworth the younger, who afterwards distinguished himself at Cambridge, but died early, was intellectually a loss to his native land of no trifling extent.

John Lang, whose name to this day is well remembered in the Madras Presidency, was a Sydney College boy. Known to be clever, no one was surprised to hear that he distinguished himself at Cambridge, and passed as a barrister with credit. He made a short visit to Sydney afterwards, where, politically, he followed the banner of Mr. Wentworth. But he preferred to quit Australia for the exciting life and larger fees with which Indian barristers are credited. There, thanks to an unusual facility for acquiring languages, he acquired legal celebrity and a brilliant forensic reputation. He gained the historic case of Jootie Persaud, a native contractor, against the Government, which involved half a million of money. His fee, it was said, paid by the grateful plaintiff, was the royal one of a _lakh of rupees_ (£10,000). A brilliant companion, a more than popular society man, whose promising career was cut short by an early death, he found time to write several Anglo-Indian and an Australian novelette or two. _Will He Marry Her?_, _The Forger's Wife_, _York; you're wanted_, are still in constant demand, judging from the number of cheap editions issued. But to my mind _Wanderings in India_ is one of the best of the lighter descriptions of Eastern life ever published. The mingled realism and pathos of the style have been rarely excelled.

Our worthy master was fully aware that moral suasion was by no means wholly to be relied upon for the steady stimulation of his troop along the high-road of knowledge. Yet did he make from time to time appeals to the higher nature, attributed to boys in improving works of fiction.

'Bear in mind,' he would say on these occasions, 'that you are to be the future leaders and guides of society in this new country, which is destined to develop into such a great and important one. Out of your ranks, from among those who stand before me in this hall this day, will be chosen the judges, the magistrates of the land, the clergymen, the lawyers, the legislators and civil servants. These high positions and responsible offices must be filled by you, or boys of like age and training, when grown to be men. Should you not, therefore, strive earnestly, resolutely, to fit yourselves to discharge the duties to which in the course of nature you are to be called, intelligently, efficiently, honourably? And is there any probability that such will be the case unless you apply yourselves lovingly, perseveringly, to the tasks set you by me, your teacher and your friend, for which purpose and no other you are placed here by your worthy parents? Master Jones will now commence the Latin lesson of the day—the second ode of Horace, if I mistake not, etc.'

Portions of this wise, thoughtful advice were probably retained mechanically, as an exercise of memory, though not seriously reflected upon. Much passed 'in at one ear and out of the other,' unheeded and soon forgotten, with the incredible heedlessness of early youth. Yet how strangely accurate has been the fulfilment of these long-past warnings. Among us then stood in embryo a Chief Justice, since eminent among high legal authorities, dying in proved possession of a massive intellect, a wide-reaching grasp of principles, a rapid faculty of generalisation which will ever cause his memory to be revered and his decisions to be quoted; three puisne judges, all of whom have earned the respect of men for legal attainment and unswerving impartiality; a Right Honourable Privy Councillor of our Gracious Sovereign, whose Jubilee (now that half a century has rolled by since Hugh Ranclaud and I, arms crony-like about each other's necks, heard the Proclamation of her majority read under the oaks of Macquarie Place) received a world-wide celebration. A Privy Councillor, moreover, whose privilege it was, by one act of statesmanlike inspiration, to nationalise Australia and to immortalise himself.

Alfred Stephen became a clergyman, always a hard-working, conscientious parish priest, beloved by his parishioners. He died in harness. Poor Connie, when I saw him many a year after his schoolboy days, was no longer handsome and careless, but as an eminent solicitor, and thus chained to the Bench, a galley-slave of the law, comparatively war-worn of visage. And pray what are we all in middle life but the bond-slaves, scarcely disguised, of some form of ownership which we dignify with the name of Circumstance? He and his brother Matthew Henry were in the House of Assembly at one time, thus justifying the prophecy as to the school being the nursery of future legislators.

Sir James Martin was Her Majesty's Attorney-General, and afterwards Chief-Justice William Forster was in more than one Ministry. Allan Macpherson was for many years regularly returned to Parliament. Sir George Wigram Allen, the steadiest of workers at school, again kept close to Hood's humorous declaration—

Each little boy at Enfield School Became an 'Enfield's Speaker.

He, with the Honourable James Norton, his neighbour and class-fellow, but continued unchanged the steadfastness and success of his school record. With one's schoolfellows the physical proportion seems to alter strangely and, in a sense, unnaturally in the aftertime. The big boys, the eldsters of one's early days, when met with in other years, appear unaccountably shrunken; while the 'little boys' of the same period seem to have developed abnormally and assumed the gigantic. For instance, a small orphan creature was brought to the school very young. He seemed unable to face the strangeness of his surroundings. When, years afterwards, I met at the race-ground of another colony an athletic six-foot manager of a cattle-station, mounted on a fiery steed, and by repute the show stock-rider of the district, I could not reconcile it to credibility that he should be the 'Bluey' (such was his sobriquet) of our school days. He was, nevertheless.

The Broughtons of Tumut, Archer and Robert—now no more—were among the elders of the Sydney College. During the last two years I have visited their homes in that romantic corner of New South Wales. All this time I had a curiosity to explore their ancient town of Tumut under the shadow of the Australian Alps, with its rushing river, green valleys, and romantic scenery. I shall always feel thankful that my desire has been gratified.

We were not permitted to go boating in the harbour unless in charge of relatives. And very properly. But we were allowed to bathe in the summer afternoons, after applying for formal leave.

Our greatest treat was, on the Saturday half-holiday, the picnic to Double Bay. We chose this as being a quasi-romantic spot. Some one had commenced a mansion there and had not completed it. There was a deserted vineyard, which looked like an amphitheatre; an artificial fish-pond too—an object of deep interest. In those golden summer eves we gathered bagfuls of the native currant—a small fruit capable of being converted into jam in spite of a startling acidity of flavour—and having eaten our lunch, 'sub Jove,' used to fish, bathe, and scamper about the beach till it was time to return. Still runs the tiny creek into which we used to dash 'like troutlets in a pool'; still ebb and flow the tides of the little bay; but the neighbourhood is crowded with buildings, incongruous to the scene, and the glory of youthful adventure, which then pervaded all things, like the _genius loci_, has, with the long-past years, fled for ever.

SYDNEY FIFTY YEARS AGO

Soon after we went to live at Enmore, I being then nine or ten years old, my first pony was presented to me by my father. A tiny Timor mare was little Bet; Dick Webb, the well-known horse-dealer and livery-stable keeper, being the intermediary. Cargoes of these small Eastern horses, degenerate in size only, from scant feeding and crowded pastures, were then imported from the islands of Timor and Lombok. Disrespectful remarks have been written touching the quality of these early Australian hackneys. They were accused of spoiling the breed of our horses. Spoiling, forsooth! Nothing better ever trod on turf than these miniature Barbs, for such they undoubtedly were. Clean-legged, long-pasterned, bright-eyed, lean-headed, mostly with well-placed shoulders and well-bent hocks, each with pluck enough for a troop of horse—where could one get a better cross than these wonderful little 'tats,' with legs and feet of iron, and though only ranging from ten to twelve hands high, able to carry a heavy man a long day's journey?

The Shetland pony, grand little chap as he may be, is a degenerate cart-horse, nothing more; he can trot, walk, and carry a burly gamekeeper up a steep hillside, but he has no pace. The Timor ponies, on the contrary, with light-weights, could make very fair racing time, were high-couraged and untiring, in or out of condition, bequeathing to their offspring the fire and speed of the Eastern horse, with a quality of legs and feet difficult to find nowadays. My little mare was a trotter, a jumper, a clever all-round hack. A colt of my next Timor mare I used to ride when I was a man grown, nearly twelve stone in weight, the which impost he could carry like a bird, and even bolt with occasionally.

More than one fashionably bred racehorse of the present day has the blood of a Timor ancestress in his veins, and though the fact is not obtruded, doubtless owes the staying power and undeniable legs and feet to that infusion. In those early days whole cargoes of them were brought through the streets of Sydney by the sailors, the manner being thus—half-a-dozen were tied neck to neck with strong short ropes, a halter attached to the one on the near side of the string, the which a couple of stalwart sailors tugged manfully, another encouraging the line from the rear. They were half-covered with hieroglyphs in the shape of brands. Prices ranged from five pounds to ten, according to quality. The sons of well-to-do people were to be seen mounted upon them. When fed and groomed they were as showy and fast hackneys as a light-weight would desire.

While dwelling upon these incidents of an earlier day, the hours and limits of school deserve notice. At the Sydney College we were expected to attend at nine o'clock in the morning. At mid-day an hour's recess was granted. In that interval the boarders dined; the day-scholars having disposed of their lunches hurriedly, went in for as much play as the time would admit. From 1 o'clock till 3 P.M. was occupied by afternoon school; the day-scholars departing then whithersoever they listed. The boarders dispersed to play cricket, went for a walk or into town—after applying for leave in the latter cases. On Saturday we worked from nine till twelve, when the half-holiday set in. There was no whole holiday in my day. And three morning hours, multiplied by the weeks in a year, should account for a fair measure of work.

After the country had become fairly prosperous and it was seen that tens of thousands of men could find work and room for their energy in the virgin waste of the interior, immigration was encouraged by the Government of the day. A bounty was paid to each emigrant or to the agent who recommended or persuaded him to come to the far, unknown land.

It was curious, even then, to find a class which held that they had a vested labour interest in the colony—which disapproved strongly of assisted, unrestricted immigration. They complained that other persons should come out at the expense of the State to compete, as they alleged, with them and lower the price of labour.

'It was the prisoners' colony,' asserted the demagogues who formulated this view. 'Free men had no right to come here, subsisted and helped by the Government.'

Enmore, being about three miles from the Sydney College, was rather far for a daily walk before the advent of little Bet, but with the aid of a drive now and then (of course there were no omnibuses) I managed it pretty well at first. The only house at all near us was tenanted by Mrs. Erskine, with whose sons I used to beguile the tedium of the road. Once we asked a wood-carter for a lift, whom not acceding to our request, we pelted with stones. He complained to the authorities, and we suffered in person accordingly. Then an adventure befell which led to grief and anxiety. It might well have been serious. I had started on the home-track in the afternoon, when one of the tropical storms not unknown in Sydney to this day commenced. The rain came down as if to repeat the deluge, an inch apparently falling every ten minutes. The low lands near the Haymarket were flooded. I was drenched. Streams and torrents coursed down every channel. The drains burst up. Things looked bad for a long walk with creeks to cross. At this juncture a tidy-looking old woman (she sold milk) invited me to enter her dwelling. I did so, and found myself in a neat and cleanly cottage. The rain not abating, she invited me to stay for tea, exhibiting most excellent bread and butter. Finally, discovering that I had so far to go and the waters being still 'out,' she prevailed upon me, nothing loth, to remain all night.

Unluckily, as it turned out, my father was in town, and had called at the school to take me home. He was told that I had left shortly before. Driving rapidly, being eager to overtake me, he reached home to find that I had not turned up. After an anxious interval, during which fears obtruded themselves that I had fallen into a creek or water-hole and so got drowned, he rode back into town, searching vainly of course for my extremely naughty self, then calmly reading by the light of a tallow candle, my aged hostess meanwhile knitting. When he again visited the College on the off-chance of my having concluded to return, and was told to the contrary, he gave me up for lost. Mr. Cape, however, stated his belief that R. B., though of tender years, was a boy exceptionally capable of taking care of himself, and probably would be found even now in a place of safety.

This, however, was accepted by my anxious parent merely as an amiable attempt at consolation, whereupon he rode home again through mud and mire in despairing mood. A restless early riser by habit, he was in the saddle before dawn, with a view to having the creeks and hollows searched, when happening to pass my old woman's cottage, I recognised the horses first (Australian fashion), my stern Governor and the groom next. I called out. He turned and saw me. Anger would have been natural and deserved. But he was too overjoyed at my return from the dead, as he doubtless considered it. 'God forgive you, my boy, for what you have caused us to suffer,' was all that he said. I rode home behind the groom, and was received, I need not say, with what transports of delight. Ah me, how ungrateful are we all for the care and tenderness lavished upon us in childhood!

'All's well that ends well' is a comforting and satisfactory proverb. The good old dame was duly thanked and rewarded. Matters soon returned to their former footing. But one mischance, directly proceeding from the demoralisation of the household on that night, was of a serious and melancholy nature. Our inestimable Alderney cow took advantage of the open door of the feed-room to assimilate part of a truss of Lucerne hay; then, 'acting with no more judgment than to take a drink,' died from excessive inflation. An irreparable loss, and one remembered against me at intervals long afterwards.

Promoted to the Timor mare, I used to make pretty good time down Brickfield Hill and so round Black Wattle Swamp and Mr. Shepherd's garden. She was a good trotter, and I have owned a performer in that line—fast, extra, or only moderate, but always a trotter—from that time to this. A trotter is generally a good animal otherwise. I have seen few exceptions.

Mr. A. B. Spark, a mercantile magnate of the day, was our neighbour at Cook's River. I was sent with a letter early one spring morning to Tempé. There I found the good old gentleman in his garden. 'Can you eat strawberries, my boy?' was his prompt inquiry. It is unnecessary to repeat my answer. 'Then set to, and we'll have breakfast afterwards.' That is the way to talk to a boy! I could have died for him; I respect his memory now. At breakfast he told me that the pretty freestone, white-columned house had been built on the model of a Greek temple in the Vale of Tempé. Hence its classical name, which it still retains. The fresh eggs, laid by pure Spanish hens, were the largest I had ever seen. When he showed me some lop-eared rabbits after breakfast and promised me a pair, my heart was almost too full. I rode back the happiest boy in the land, and never forgot the old gentleman's amazing kindness.

It may be that kindly memory, eliding the darker shadows of the past, presents the colonial period which I am recalling, from 1831 to 1840, as almost Arcadian in peaceful simplicity, in steadfast industry, in freedom from atrocious crime, compared with later developments. And yet New South Wales was then to all intents and purposes a convict colony. Shiploads of prisoners arrived from time to time. Expirees from Tasmania no doubt made their way to a land where wages were comparatively high, and where new country offered a refuge from close official inspection. Whether the old-fashioned rule—strict, vigilant, unrelaxing—was better suited to the natural man, free or bond, than the present mercy-mongering management, may partly be judged by results.

'The bush'—a vast and trackless wilderness—was gradually being occupied and reclaimed by that strange lover of the waste places of the earth, the wilful, wicked, wandering Anglo-Saxon. Tragedies from time to time doubtless occurred. Bushrangers were not unknown, but what were they to the Kellys, the Halls and Gilbert, the Clarks and Morgans? Aboriginal blacks were shot occasionally; more than one cruel murder was brought home to the perpetrators, for which they justly atoned. At the same time a lonely hut-keeper or shepherd was often found prone and motionless, speared or clubbed as the case might be; many a stock-rider's horse came home without him. Yet, in a general way, life and property were far more secure under the modified martial law of the period than they have been known to be under a constitutional Government and quasi-democratic rule. When it is considered that for half a century the worst criminals of the old country, as well as the more ordinary rogues, had been sent to Australia, it says much for the management or for the material that so orderly and improvable a society was evolved.

If there were occasional crimes of deepest dye, who could feel surprise? The wonder was that they were so few in comparison to the population. Captain Knatchbull, ex-post-captain R.N., knocks out the brains of a poor washerwoman for the sake of eight pounds sterling, ending on the gallows a life of curiously varied villainy, which had included attempted poisoning, mutiny, and betrayal of comrades. There was the memorable 'Fisher's Ghost' tragedy, in which a supernatural agent was alleged to have led to the discovery of a deed of blood. There were crimes, doubtless, that cried aloud to heaven for vengeance, but which never will be fully known till the Great Day. But discovery, arraignment, and trial followed close on the heels of wrongdoers. In a general way—I assert it unhesitatingly—Sydney was as quiet, as peaceful and orderly in appearance as any town in Britain, save in the purlieus of that half-recognised Alsatia, 'The Rocks'; more decent, sober, and outwardly well-behaved than George Street and Pitt Street in 1887.

It may truly be suggested that one of the great dangers of modern civilisation—certainly of Australian national life—would appear to be the crowding of an unreasonable proportion of the inhabitants into the cities and larger towns.

An increasingly dangerous class is there encouraged to grow and multiply, averse to the honest and well-paid toil of the country, preferring to it a precarious employment in a city, with the accompaniment of the baser pleasures; clamouring at every interval of employment for relief works, subsisting but for _panem et circenses_, like the profligate populace of old Rome, the pandering to which eventually sapped the grandeur and glory of the Mistress of the World. _Absit omen!_

At the corner of Elizabeth and King Streets might have been seen a provisional lock-up, used for the temporary detention of criminals about to be tried at the adjoining courts. A rudely-hewn pillar of sandstone had been deposited there, and served as a seat for wayfarers or persons more immediately concerned. We schoolboys were chiefly interested in the stocks, that old-fashioned detainer in which drunken and disorderly persons were securely placed for such periods—a portion of a day—as the magistrates might consider expedient. In such fashion was Hudibras fast imprisoned when the lady and her steward coming by gazed on him bowed to the earth with shame. In this ancient engine of distraint upon the human property, in default of other, did the malcontents of the day sit, stolid and defiant, upon a more or less uncomfortable seat, 'fast bound in misery and iron.' One doubts whether it would not be more effectual now than the short sentence served in a comfortable, secluded establishment, which the modern offender boasts that 'he can do on his head.'

During the whole period of the time embraced in my reminiscence, I cannot recall a week while we lived in Sydney or near to it, that the Domain and Botanical Gardens were not a joy, a solace, a luxury to us and to the society with which we were acquainted. What a priceless boon was thus bestowed upon the inhabitants of Sydney then and for all time by the dedication of this lovely natural park to the public! What walks—what drives—what merry bathing parties—what lingering in summer eves—what early morning saunters has not this precious primeval fragment, this art-adorned yet beauteous wilderness, witnessed? The pleasure then enjoyed by the toil-worn citizen, the stranger, or the invalid was more exquisite and intense, from an assured freedom from that modern pest, the larrikin. All who were met with in the gardens were courteous and well-mannered persons for the most part; for whomsoever conducted themselves otherwise there was a short shrift, and if not a ready gallows, an effectively deterrent punishment.

The early formation of William Street, now the great arterial highway to Darlinghurst and the aristocratic suburbs, was then progressing. In its straight course it carved away a few acres of the Rosebank suburban property then owned by Mr. Laidley. On the triangular portion so excised were three white cedars, the most graceful of our shade trees. No doubt the proprietor was compensated for the severance and resumption, though not at the prices ruling in favour of latter-day claimants.

What fortunes might have been made by judicious, or even injudicious, purchasers of suburban land in those days! No one foresaw that any notable rise in value would take place in less than a century or two. That land purchased by the acre would sell for such prices in the life of the buyer, by _the foot_, entered not into the mind of man. Wharves, street frontages, building sites, allotments all passed under the hammer of the Government auctioneer of the day at curiously low prices. Who was to foresee that gold, silver, copper, iron, lead, and tin were all to make their appearance in peaceful, pastoral New South Wales and her erstwhile appanage the Port Phillip District, afterwards the Colony of Victoria?

The great public schools of that day were our College, the King's School at Parramatta, and the Normal Institution, this last organised by Dr. Lang—that eminent colonising clergyman. The Reverend Robert Forrest was the Principal of the King's School. He was understood to have been a strict disciplinarian, as indeed he needed to be. We of the Sydney College thought ourselves superior in scholarship; but doubtless good work was done then as now at the Parramatta school.

Mr. Carmichael—Scottish, of course—presided at the Normal Institution, which was situated on the northern side of the Racecourse, or Hyde Park as at present named. We were near enough to play cricket together sometimes; also to fight, indeed, as occasions of strife will arise among schoolboys. Roland Cameron, a boy by nature warlike in the earlier stages of life, had then his celebrated combat, having challenged an oldster of the Normal, a head taller than himself. He didn't come off victorious, but he walked forth with an apparently calm consciousness that he couldn't be really conquered, which I have rarely seen paralleled among later and more tragic experiences.

OLD TIME THOROUGHBREDS

When the sons of Woden are admitted into Valhalla, it will be an incomplete Elysium for some of us, maugre the perennial flow of ale and the æsthetic fancy of the goblets, unless the good steed Hengst, whom we have so loved on earth, be permitted resurrection. Alick and Jimmy Hunter would miss Romeo. Could Cornborough be excluded from any realm of bliss which contained 'Dolly' Goldsmith? How superior were those grand horses, not to mention The Premier and Rory O'More, in all their attributes to the average human individual, about whose title to such noble immortality there is no question. I cannot believe that they are doomed to extinction, to eternal oblivion. They are dead and gone, doubtless. But lest any reader of these memories should lack future opportunity of feasting his eyes upon those wondrous equine shapes, I essay faintly to recall their leading characteristics.

Romeo, son of Sir Hercules and Pasta, was a golden chestnut, with a narrow blaze and white hind legs. Originally imported to Tasmania from England, he was in 1842 located at Miamamaluke Station on the 'Devil's River' in Victoria, then the property of the Messrs. Hunter. He died in my possession some years later, and, as I used to look at him for at least half an hour every day for the first few months of ownership, I may, without presumption, attempt a pen-and-ink portrait.

Not a large horse—he might almost be classified as small, indeed, compared with modern fashionable families, but of superb symmetry and superfine quality. 'A head light and lean,' though scarcely equal to The Premier's, his neck was of moderate length, with a delicately-marked crest. But his shoulder! Never have I seen mortal horse with such another. It was a study. So oblique was it; so graceful and elastic was the fore-action in consequence, that you wondered how horses of less perfect mechanism got on at all. His back was short, his croup high. The finely formed, silken-haired tail, which after his death hung in my room, was set on like that of an Arab. He might easily have been ridden without a girth to the saddle. Though his back appeared to be hardly the length of one, he stood over more ground than horses that looked bigger in every way. His barrel was rounded and well ribbed up. Below the knee and hock the legs were admirably clean and flat-boned, with pasterns just long enough to give the elastic motion which so peculiarly distinguishes the thoroughbred.

In those days (I was young, to be sure) I occasionally relieved my pent-up feelings by the perpetration of verse. In an old scrap-book are traced certain 'Lines to a Thoroughbred' which must have been inspired by Romeo. They commence—

Is he not glorious, in the high beauty proud, Which from his desert-spurning Arab sires To him was given? Mark the frontlet broad! The delicate, pointed ear, and silken mane, Scarce coarser than the locks which Delia boasts, Attest his stainless race, etc.

Allusion was also made, if I mistake not, to a problematic ancestor, the well-ridden steed of the poets, who after

Children's voices greet the rescued sire,

became 'a cherished playmate, loving and beloved.' Though high-tempered enough, Romeo was a good-humoured horse in the main, but the companionship of grooms and stable-boys had partly rubbed off the inherited _gentillesse_ of the desert. Notably in one particular.

Whether he had been in some way teased or troubled, or that some mischievous groom had been at the pains to teach him the specific trick, I cannot say; but the fact was notorious that if any one—in or near the stable—made a noise with the mouth, like the drawing of a cork, the old horse fell into a paroxysm of rage and went open-mouthed at all and sundry being within reach at the time.

The knowledge of this peculiarity was turned to account more than once as a practical joke, sometimes with results more or less unpleasant to the unsuspecting bystander. But the joke occasionally recoiled. I happen to know of one instance. A well-known veterinary surgeon of those days, one Mr. Robertson—afterwards drowned in the Goulburn, poor fellow!—happened to be paying a visit of inspection, when a thoughtless friend made the cork-drawing signal. It was Romeo _versus_ Robertson, with a vengeance. Like a wild horse of the prairies, he charged the astonished vet, a resolute active man, who had all he could do to protect himself with a heavy, cutting whip which he fortunately carried at the time. He got out of the box unharmed, but seriously ruffled and demoralised.

The first thing which occurred to him, however, on banging the door of the loose-box behind him, was to lay his whip with hearty goodwill and emphasis across the shoulders of the humourist. Robertson was a burly Scot of more than average physique. His blood was up, and I do not recall the fact of the author of this unusually keen jest making effective resistance. He probably was cured of that particular form of joking, and learned practically that horseplay is one of the games in which two can engage. I never knew the old horse to commit unprovoked assaults, and think that some unusual experience must have led to the tendency described.

Though ordinarily well-behaved, it will be noted that there was a savour of dangerous dealing when aroused, and, as might be expected, a few of his progeny were not famous for the mildness of their tempers. They were, however, handsome and distinguished-looking, good in every relation of equine life. They supplied for many years a regular contingent to all the races in Victoria, and, indeed, within a widely extended radius round Kalangadoo and beyond the South Australian border. Few indeed were the meets, metropolitan or provincial, in which a Romeo colt or filly did not figure in the first flight. Latterly he became the property of Mr. Hector Norman Simson, from whose stud the celebrated Flying Doe and other cracks were evolved.

Young Romeo, Baroness, Countess, and Clinker had all won reputations on the Flemington race-course—which then presented a somewhat different appearance—before 1842. Young Romeo, a handsome, upstanding, dark chestnut horse, then the property of Captain Brunswick Smyth of the 50th Regiment, was raffled, in 1843, I think for a hundred and fifty guineas. We took a five-guinea ticket, but my drawing, innocently young as I then was, did not carry the proverbial gambler's luck. Oberon, a sweet little white-faced chestnut that Dr. David Thomas used to drive somewhat unprofessionally as tandem leader about Melbourne in 1851, was one of the later offspring. The worthy doctor, ever ready for a lark, delighted in getting Oberon's head over the shoulders of stout old gentlemen in the street before they were aware of him or his chariot.

It was somewhere near the end of the 'forties,' those pioneering years paving the way to the golden era which set in for Australia shortly after their decease. I happened to be in Melbourne upon a cattle speculation. At Kirk's Bazaar after breakfast I saw my ideal steed in a loose-box, apparently for sale. After feasting my eyes upon him for a reasonable period, I interviewed Mr. Dalmahoy Campbell, and sought particulars.

The old horse by this time had grown hollow-backed, and was evidently on his last legs. Still at a moderate price he would not be unprofitable, and the value of his blood distributed amid my stud could hardly, I thought, be over-estimated. The main thing to be considered by a prudent young pastoralist (I really was one in those days) was the price. This turned out to be under £50. Money was not abundant in that particular year. Stock were ludicrously cheap. For some reason his owners had decided to sell the dear old horse. His age and growing infirmities were against him. Still here was a chance I might never get again. I had just made a largish offer for the store cattle referred to. There was no use talking, however. I felt like a man who had been offered the Godolphin Arabian by a sheik hard-pushed for a ransom. I _must_ have the horse; that was all about it.

There was another slight difficulty. I had not ten £5 notes in my pocket. Far otherwise. I stated facts in the office. I can see old 'Dal's' kind face as he said, 'We'll take your bill at three months, my boy; that will give you time to turn round.' I gratefully assented, and Romeo—intoxicating thought—was mine. That was my first bill. Never before did I write 'Rolf Boldrewood' across the face or back or below any of those insidious substitutes for ready money. Would that the negotiable instrument had been my last. Well impressed on my mind was the look of the worthy gentleman who managed the financial department of the firm which had the privilege of 'keeping my account' when I exultingly informed him of my transaction. He had grown grey in commerce, not altogether successfully. Doubtless memory carried him back for a moment over years of high hope, guarded enterprise, succeeded by wearing anxiety and dull despair. Looking into my youthful, sanguine countenance, he said, 'Take my advice, and never sign another. I wish _I_ had never seen one.'

I did _not_ take his advice, it is hardly necessary to say. It was many a year before the application came in. Such is the general course of events. But if every future acceptance had been as anxiously considered, as punctually paid, and as profitably contracted as Number One aforesaid, no great harm would have been done.

I rode proudly out of Melbourne next day, leading my valued purchase, duly muzzled and sheeted, along the western road. Travelling by easy stages, only varied by a swim across the Leigh River, 'where ford there was none,' I got on well. It was an anxious moment for me, though, when the strong current swept my precious steed round in midstream; but he fought gallantly for a landing, which we finally gained. A slip, a stagger, and we were safely over. At Dunmore he received the admiration which was his due, while I was congratulated on my enterprise and good fortune.

When I reached home the illustrious stranger was treated with deserved attention. A roomy loose-box was specially dedicated to his use. Boiled food, ground corn, every delicacy of the season was lavished upon him. A revival of constitution apparently took place. But he only lived a year, leaving behind him, however, at Dunmore the beautiful, graceful Pasta, half-sister to St. George, and also to The Margravine and Track-Deer; and at Squattlesea Mere, Bonnie Dundee, Ben Bolt, Fairy, and a few other notable nags. 'He owed me nothing,' as his groom said when I sorrowfully attended his burial in the capacity of chief mourner. He lies under a blackwood tree on an 'island' in the mere, where the close-spreading clover blossoms climb and struggle amid the tussock grass of the marshes. He was accorded respectful interment, and my grief was more sincere than that which accompanies more ostentatious funerals. He had not perhaps the opportunity which another year would have furnished of leaving an illustrious progeny in the Port Fairy district, but some of his offspring made their mark.

Dundee, being my principal hackney and stock horse, was a wonderful performer. An admixture of Clifton blood gave him height and 'scope.' He had the sloped Romeo shoulder, with propelling machinery of unusual power. He was fortunately just short of racing speed. But he was a grand 'camp horse'; could be ridden without flinching right into the shoulder of the worst outlaw of the herd, carrying a fourteen-stone weight over any three-railed fence, and stay for a week. He lived to make a trans-Murray reputation, and still the wild riders of the mallee remember the powerful chestnut that was so well to the front with Sylvester Browne and the brothers Beveridge in more than one 'moonlighting' foray.

Ben Bolt, his half-brother, was a bright chestnut, with four white legs, a broad blaze, and a considerable quantity of white in the corners of his eyes, with which he had an uncanny way of regarding his rider. He was truly illustrious in more ways than one. There is no record of any white man (or black one either) having seen him tired. At the end of the longest day, or the most terrific 'cutting-out' work, Ben's head was up, his clear eyes watchful, his uneasy tail, switching slowly from side to side, like a leopard not fully agitated. He had been known to leave Melbourne after a trip with fat cattle (his rider had a young wife on the station certainly), and late on the second day the marshes of the Eumeralla were in sight. A hundred and eighty miles—winter weather too! I can state from personal experience that as a hackney he was deliciously easy, fast, and free. But the luxurious sensation of being so charmingly carried was modified by the ever-present thought that he could 'buck you into a tree-top' whenever it so pleased him; and at what minute the fit might take him no one had ever been able to foretell.

Sprung from a daughter of the Traveller line, Ben inherited the dire resolution of that potent blood, with a fervent intensity peculiar to the descendants of Romeo. The 'nick' was therefore only a partial success. If one had required, as do certain Indian rajahs, a horse warranted to distinguish himself in combat with a tiger, Ben Bolt was the very animal. Once let him get his heels into position and no living tiger would have had a show. He might as well spring at a mitrailleuse. But under saddle he was distinctly unreliable.

I used to break my own colts in those days, and in the course of events Ben was duly haltered and enticed into the stable. Though sensitive certainly, he was not overtly rebellious until the third day, when he kicked at me in what I held to be an unfair and treacherous manner. I gave him a tap in requital with the butt-end of a hay-fork, upon which he deliberately kicked down the partition between his and the next loose-box. He hardly left a slab standing, and generally conducted himself as if he was not sure whether he would not smash the whole building while he was about it.

I avoided contention after this, and in every way applied myself to calm his fears and inspire confidence. It was all in vain. When approached he would contract every muscle till his flesh felt like a board, glaring the while at you with his strangely bright, white-rimmed eyes, in a blood-curdling homicidal way. However, at the end of a week I backed him, looking to every strap and girth, and picking a good soft spot to fall on. He was led, as was the fashion then, along by the side of another horse, and, to every one's surprise, walked away like an old stager. No irregularity took place the next day or the one following. His mouth was good; he held his head up. I was charmed, and rode him proudly about by myself. Next morning he was queer and sullen, and in the middle of the day, for no earthly reason apparently, reared, plunged, bolted, and commenced to buck like a demon. I 'stuck to him' until he gradually got way on, and being apparently temporarily insane, ran into a paling fence, against which he fell down. I came off, of course, but remounted, when he did nothing further.

I rode him daily afterwards, until he passed into the second stage of breaking, being comparatively handy and pleasanter than many older horses, but we never seemed to get nearer to confidential relations. He took me unawares again ('underhand,' as Mr. Paterson's native young man hath it) while out on the run, and kicked savagely at me while falling. I began to think—having certain responsibilities—that it was hardly worth while to run such risk of life and limb only for the sake, too, of twenty or thirty pounds, and the strictly local reputation of 'being able to ride anything.'

So I relinquished the task of Ben's education to Frank Lawrence, my stud groom, than whom no better rough-rider ever sat in saddle. Plucky, patient, and a fine horseman generally, he gradually brought the rebel round. The reformation was apparently complete. Kept in regular work, he ceased to be fractious, and acquired a decent character in the neighbourhood. He even carried the black boy without protest.

Months passed. The stock-riders were mustering up for the morning's work—neighbours and station hands. Frank was sitting carelessly on Ben Bolt, now regularly 'made' and recognised as a stock-horse. Suddenly, without a moment's warning he 'exploded'—there is no other word for it. Before any one could offer a remark, Frank was catapulted on to the crown of his head, and Ben was tearing down the paddock, kicking at his bridle-reins and trying to send the saddle after the man. Frank arose slowly, and after a careful examination of his neck had convinced him that it was not really broken, as might have been surmised, said, 'I believe Ben means to finish me yet.'

'I would shoot him now if I thought that, Frank,' I answered; 'the treacherous brute. Better take another horse to-day.'

Frank, of course, would not hear of this, and remounted the ungrateful one, led up as he was in a few minutes, with eyes like burning coals and nostrils quivering in anything but a reassuring manner. He made no sign, however, and came in, after about fourteen hours' galloping and camp work, as fresh as a daisy.

When the station changed hands I passed our mutual friend over to Frank, who sold him at a profit. Our paths lay thenceforward apart. Years afterwards, my brother and I walked into the stables of Cobb and Co. at Hamilton, by candlelight, while awaiting a start in the mail. The team which interested us stood harnessed and ready.

'Did you ever see that chestnut leader before?' I queried.

'Great Jove! there he stands—white legs and all—the dear old tiger. To think that we should ever come _to sit behind Ben Bolt!_'

'Looks like it.'

'Nice horse that chestnut with the white hind legs, ostler.'

'Pretty fair, sir. Depends on 'ow 'e's 'andled, in a manner of speakin'.'

'So I should think. How did you get him?'

'Well, he chucked Mr. Jones sky-high; broke his back-ribs, like; so he took and swapped him to the Company.'

'How does he go?'

'Well, he _goes_ right enough when you get him in, but we drives him a double stage every day, just to stiddy him. He's been a year on this piece, and we don't care how soon we get shut on 'im.'

As the day broke, the cry of 'all aboard' was sounded; the passengers took their seats in the coach as the horses were led out. The leaders were not 'hitched' till the last moment; Ben Bolt having a second helper told off to him as he came out with head up and waving tail, the old fashion. _Very_ quickly and noiselessly was he attached, and as the driver drew his reins tight the coach moved on, without a word or whip-touch, Ben demonstrating by the way in which he went into his collar that he was ready and willing to undertake the whole contract. At the end of our stage of twenty-two miles, done in quick time, three horses only were taken out. Ben Bolt, after having run true and level for every yard of the distance, and never once having slackened his pace, was treated to another twenty miles in the company of the fresh team.

'Good horse, that near-side leader,' I remarked to the driver tentatively.

'He's the devil on four legs, if you want to know,' gruffly answered that official; 'takes me all my time to watch him. He'll smash some of us yet, if he don't kill himself first.'

I returned a year after to find the prediction verified. Ben Bolt was no more. True to his name and reputation, he had broken away from the helper while being put to, and after a headlong gallop was discovered to have injured himself beyond hope of recovery. He died a soldier's death. But for the 'accidents and offences' resulting from his demoniac temper, I shall always hold his maternal ancestor, Traveller, mainly responsible.

THE FIRST PORT FAIRY HUNT

The cattle were pretty well broken to their new run at Squattlesea Mere. Little more was necessary than to go round them daily and discourage explorers. The heathen were temporarily at rest, brooding (like the Boers) over fresh ambuscades. A suspicion of monotone pervaded the 'eucalyptine cloisterdom,' when, neither by telegram nor newspaper—our Arcadia knew neither brain-disturber in 1844—word came orally, personally transmitted, that the Mount Rouse Hounds were to throw off at Port Fairy, with races to follow, the whole to wind up with a ball.

These astonishing tidings so affected me that I became unable to settle down to daily details. A meet with _real_ fox-hounds, races, and—temptation overwhelming—a ball! I have resisted things in my day, have exhibited Spartan virtue in sorrowful altruism, economies, mortifications of the flesh, what not. But this special attraction was complicated, ingenious, subtly alluring 'in the brave days when we were twenty-one.' I lacked a year or so of that romantic period, and consequently was more prudent, more intolerant, and more abstemious than in the aftertime. People may talk as they like, but youth is the time for wisdom. That riper years bring prudence, steadfastness, circumspection, indeed any improvement of mind or body, is a widespread error. It is a fable of the wary ancient. The real sage, the true philosopher, the consistent disciple, is the ingenuous youth. The Greeks knew this. Contrast Telemachus with that old humbug Ulysses, far-travelled, much experienced in war; council, battle, and peace alike familiar to him. How reprehensible was his conduct, flirting with Calypso and other beguilers, poor lonely 'Griselda Penelope' doing her worsted work and tatting from year to year, the excellent Telemachus meanwhile looking after the 'selection' at Ithaca. However, this is miles away from the scent. 'Get in there, Fancy.'

In the solitude of my slab-hut this announcement stirred my blood. I considered the pecuniary aspect of the question, and was nearly not going at all. Coin was scarce in the forties, credit shy and difficult. More prudent by far it seemed to remain quietly at home. And yet it _was_ hard. A glimpse of Paradise to be had scarce thirty miles away. A brilliant idea flashed, meteor-like, through my brain. The expense would not amount to more than a bullock. One bullock! The herd was increasing. And I could work so much harder afterwards. My conscience was salved. I made the modest preparations befitting that pioneer period. The valise was packed, the black mare was run in, and proudly mounting that fast, clever hackney, I took the track to the crossing-place of the Shaw River, singing aloud for pure joyousness of heart, like a mavis in springtime.

When I arrived in Port Fairy, and took up my quarters at the Merrijig Hotel (the southern aboriginal predicate signifying 'good,' and thus equivalent to the 'Budgeree' of the Kamilaroi), what news and marvels were afloat! The town was full. Everybody was there or coming; also everybody's favourite horse. All the world and his wife were 'on the march for Rome.' Mr. James Lord had arrived from Tasmania with a draft of hounds for John Cox of Werongurt; had also brought with him The Caliph as a present to the same gentleman from his old friend Sir Richard Dry. The Caliph was a hunting celebrity; I was naturally anxious to see him. The Dunmore people were not down, but were coming of course, with Neil Kennedy and Bob Craufurd, Fred Burchett, the Aplins, Captain and Mrs. Baxter, the Hunters (Alick and Jimmy), George Youl, and the Kemps, Claud Farie, and his partner Rodger—in fact, everybody, as I said before. Old Tom, the stock-rider, had managed to trap a fine dingo. To-morrow the hounds would throw off near Archie M'Neill's farm, across the Moyne. There were to be races the day after, including a steeplechase, for which Richard Rutledge was going to ride Freedom, a well-known blood hackney. Mr. Rodger had bought the grey racing pony Skipjack, a winner on the Melbourne turf. The ball was to be in the big room of the Merrijig Hotel. Could imagination have devised anything more ecstatically delightful?

The _table d'hôte_ dinner that night was a thing to remember—a score or two of men, none of whom had passed 'the golden prime,' while the greater proportion had but lately entered manhood. One or two might have been described by a cynic as beardless boys. I was the youngest squatter in the district. I then exhibited more discretion than has always characterised the mature individual. However, _nemo omnibus_. We had few misgivings about the future in those days. We said to the present 'Stay, for thou art fair,' disturbing not ourselves about autumnal tints.

Such laughter, such jests—keen and incisive enough in all conscience! Such horse-talk—when every man was an owner, a breeder, a connoisseur more or less, of the noble animal; moreover, always possessed a favourite hackney, which he held to be a combination of all the equine virtues. The flowing bowl of the period was not disregarded—claret and champagne were the weaknesses of the day; Dalwood and Cawarra, Yering and Tahbilk, were all to come; even whisky had not made good its footing in society. But for the preponderance of the 'kindly Scot' in Victoria, the 'real Donald' would have been traditionary. However, then as now, the clans mustered strong in the rich pastures west of Geelong. Our host, Archie M'Neill, a stalwart, sinewy Highlander, was a horse-breeder too, Archie's colt being a promising sapling Traveller. The old hereditary feelings had by no means died out. A neighbour of his was wont, when 'the maut gat abune the meal,' to formulate thus his tribal antipathies: 'I'm Macdonald frae Glencoe! D—n the bloody Campbells of Glenlyon!'

Although there were necessarily differences of opinion—as will arise even among friends on such topics at such times—we enjoyed ourselves in all proper moderation. There was far more talking, laughing, and indeed singing, than steady drinking. In those days it was wonderful how musically inclined were all honest revellers. Just before the finale a messenger came to say that 'Old Tom' had made the usual miscalculation, and was then lodged in the Port Fairy lock-up. It was not to be endured that the purveyor of the quarry which was to furnish our entertainment for the morrow, should languish in a dungeon. We arose and in a body marched to the watch-house, where any amount of bail was proffered to the astonished constable. The cell-door being opened, the veteran came forth, bent and humbled, looking not unlike an old dog-fox himself, as he sought his couch unobtrusively, vowing supernatural sobriety for the morrow.

The morning broke—a lovely sight; The sun flashed down on armour bright,

wrote Hugh Ranclaud in his Marmion period. Slightly altered, this description might have suited our array, which, owing to circumstances, exhibited more variety and good intention than uniformity. A pink or two, a good many black cut-aways, with a green riding-coat worn by John Cox, the uniform of a Tasmanian hunt club. His tall figure as he reined The Caliph, a grand half-Arab grey sixteen-hander, up to any weight over any country, looked workman-like. Cords and tops were tolerably plentiful, though 'butcher boots,' such as most of us affected for ordinary stock-riding, were in the ascendant.

One frolicsome youngster, indeed, in default of a pink, resolved to conform as nearly as possible to the fashion of his forefathers. To this end he possessed himself of a bright red serge shirt, such as was occasionally donned by all sorts and conditions of men in those days of sincere effort. This he persuaded the village tailor to fashion into the form of a coatee, and thus arrayed, he rode proudly amid the front-rankers, congratulating himself, with perfect correctness, upon having added a fresh sensation to the entertainment. Fred Burchett had two chestnut hackneys, one a neat cob named Friendship. This day he rode the other, which he had christened Love, being, as he explained, 'very like friendship, only nicer.' Bob Cox (Robert Clerk's brother-in-law—not related to the Clarendon family) might have been there on Bessborough. I am not certain whether he did not join our band of heroes later on. But, if so, the hunt missed that day a joyous comrade, a handsome face with bright dark eyes, never unwelcome in hall or bower; one of the boldest yet most artistic horsemen that ever sat in saddle. Poor old Bob! I used often to think how I should have enjoyed mounting him 'regardless,' and pitting him against the best men with the Quorn, the Pytchley, or wherever the unrivalled English sport in the ancestral isle still holds sway. What nice things a Monte Cristo might do—in that and a few other ways!

The hounds were to throw off on the Warrnambool side of the Moyne, where a broad flat was bounded by farms and the line of sand-dunes, which ran parallel to the sea. A variety of jumping was ensured by this choice of country, the farm fences being of every shade of height, breadth, and solidity. Sound and springy was the turf. If the dingo, when turned down, took the cross country line towards Tower Hill, he was likely to lead us a dance, unless he found refuge in one of the wombat holes with which the ferny slopes, breast high in bracken, abounded.

It must have been ten o'clock or thereabouts when Mr. Lord, arrayed in the well-worn pink, cords, tops, and hunting-cap complete, conducted the spotted beauties across the ford of the Moyne. Within an hour all the Port Fairy world—among which half-a-dozen riding-habits showed that the ladies were not willing to be left out of the excitement—was gathered around. The Australian Reynard, all-ignorant that his imported compeer was, in after-years, to be a prize for scalp-hunters, had been liberated previously, with a due allowance of law, and on a line which involved a reasonable share of fencing. After a preliminary cast or two, the leading hounds hit off the scent, and with a burst of melody which caused more than one of us to anticipate the sensations of Mr. Jorrocks, away went the flower of the horsemen of the western district, riding rather jealous, it must be admitted, but not to be stopped by anything under a six-foot stock-yard fence.

It was a scene to be remembered. The blue sky, the green sward, sound and springy as a cricket-ground, the limitless ocean plain, the long resounding surge, the eager hounds, the medley of horsemen now slightly tailing off, as the pack raced with a breast-high scent towards the volcanic crest of Tower Hill.

Many were the falls, various the fortunes, of those who followed hounds that day. Every man rode as if the honour, firstly, of his station, of the district afterwards, were centred in him personally. It was before the Traveller days, so that the Dunmore triumvirate were mounted on steeds that, though good of their kind and well-bred (for they always went in for blood), were not quite up to the form of St. George and Trackdeer, Triton or Jupiter. William Campbell rode a roan, Houndsfoot, five years old; and Macknight, I believe, his grand old mare Die Vernon—one of those brilliant all-round goers that you couldn't put wrong.

I rode my favourite black mare Tanny, the dam of Hope, Clifton, Red Deer, and Comanchee—the first three winners in the aftertime either on the flat or 'over the sticks.' She could both jump and gallop, as I must show when I have time.

I regret that I cannot supply details anent this almost prehistoric run. I recall The Caliph sailing over everything and taking all manner of fences, from 'chock and log' to stiff three-railers, in his stride. Freedom would probably be running away as usual, being a horse that no mortal man could hold for the first mile. Alick Hunter and his brother, doubtless, were there or thereabouts; and Robert Clerk of Mummumberrich (the M.F.H. in time to come) was forward enough with Rocket in spite of weight over the average. It was pretty straight going. We were used to risks by flood and field. Ordinary stock-riding was hardly safer than this or any other run with hounds. Matters were prosperous, and everybody was looking forward to a first-class run, when 'the devil or some untoward saint' put it into our quarry's head to double back as nearly as possible along the line upon which he had come.

We had the satisfaction of taking nearly the same jumps over again, when, lo and behold! dingo, apparently bent on self-destruction, made across the hummocks, and charging the Pacific Ocean as if he meant to cross over to Tasmania, swam gaily out to sea. As he reached the surf the desperate pack raced down to the beach, where they sniffed and circled in unwonted doubt and desperation. Eventually Reynard found the enterprise disproportionate to his powers, and, swimming back, reached the beach in a state of exhaustion. The hounds were whipped off, however, and Old Tom and his bag being again called into requisition, the sheep-killer was reserved for another and perhaps a straighter run.

The day but half done. We had therefore leisure as we rode homeward for a considerable amount of general chaff and criticism, which resulted, as usual, in wagers and a match or two.

Now my friend James Irvine of Dunmore had been riding the racing pony Skipjack, a very perfectly-shaped grey with a square tail, such being the mistaken fashion of that day and, I grieve to say, of the later one. He was an acknowledged flier, and having won races at Flemington (or the Melbourne Course as it was then called) was thought too good for anything in the provinces. I had always considered my black mare to be fast, but as she was wholly untried it might have been only the fond fancy which a man has for his favourite. Still I believed in her. It ended in my challenging the redoubtable Skipjack for a mile spin on the following day, present riders up.

The odds were against me, inasmuch as the mare was off grass and, excepting on this occasion, had not seen oats for months. She was not even shod, whereas her antagonist was, if not in training, in hard stable condition. Like many of the best hacks of those days he had been bred in Tasmania. He showed Arab blood, and probably owed his speed and strength to that ancient race. Tanny, on the other hand, was a Sydney-sider by extraction, her dam being brought over in 'Howie's mob,' one of the earliest lots of horses driven overland. I saw them sold in a cattle-yard, then standing at the corner of Bourke and Swanston Streets. Mr. Purves senior afterwards occupied the cottage built there, for I remember him showing me Banker in the stable. Dr. Campbell lived there afterwards. A similar sale in the same spot would excite astonishment now in any given forenoon.

So it was an intercolonial contest. More than this, it was all Eumeralla against the Hopkins, inasmuch as Mr. Rodger abode at Merang, while the Dunmores and I rode home towards the setting sun from Port Fairy. Old Tom, a veteran in the pig-skin and a judge of pace, told his friends that 'Tanny was the divil's own mare to pull, but if the masther could hould her the first half mile, she'd give Skipjack his work to do at the finish.' A trifle of speculation resulted, the odds being tempting. James Irvine was a well-known workman on the flat and a light weight. Bets were taken accordingly, and a book or two made in a small way. When on the morrow the entire population of the district turned out to see the races, and when, ours being the first, we did the customary pipe-opener, the leading artists at Goodwood or Ascot felt less pride, possibly less desperate determination.

Down went the flag and off went we. With much ado mastering the mare's wild impulse to bolt, as she had done many a time before in company, I lay well up to my friend, but allowed him to make the pace. He made it a cracker accordingly, hoping to run me out—his obvious line with a slower or untrained horse. But I bided my time. The mare knew me well and gradually steadied down to the work, and when a safe distance from home I made my effort and landed the good, game animal a winner by a neck, I felt, amid cheers, congratulations, and smiles, as if earth had no higher glories to offer, life no brighter joys. 'Bedad, she's a great mare intirely,' said Old Tom as he led her away. 'I wouldn't say but she'd win the Maiden Plate if we thrained her. There's an iligant course at the Native Dog-Hole.' This suggestion was not followed up. Though passionately fond of horses, I was a practical person in those days, eschewing all connection with public racing on principle.

There were other races, a Hack Scurry among them, then a highly-enjoyable picnic lunch, after which the principal event of the day, the steeplechase, was to come off. A fair hunting line had been marked, including among others a solid 'dead-wood' fence. For this race there were a dozen starters more or less, and great was the excitement. The black mare and I were among them, I know—the morning's exercise not being considered of sufficient importance to keep us out of it.

The Caliph was thought too good for the company, and was therefore not entered by his owner. Macknight and Bob Craufurd, Fred Burchett and I, Neil Kennedy and Dick Rutledge, with some others of the old set, were duly marshalled in line and started. It was on that occasion, during some preparatory schooling, that Neil made his famous reply to Norman M'Leod, who, himself a fine horseman and steeplechase jock, scandalised at Neil's loose riding, thus expostulated—

'Look here, Kennedy, why don't you lift your horse at his fence?'

'Lift be d—d,' returned Neil in desperation; 'I've quite enough to do _to hold on_.'

Neil was utterly fearless, a sort of Berserker horseman, ready to ride any sort of horse at any manner of leap, of any height, breadth, or stiffness; but he was not famous for adherence to the pig-skin. Falls, many or few, made no difference in his willingness to try his luck again. If he did not break his neck, practice would make him perfect in time. So, accordingly, Neil faced the starter on a hard puller, full of faith in his star, and confident in future triumphs.

The first fence was wide and high, composed of brush-timber and more or less negotiable, so we sailed over in line in a gallant and satisfactory way. The next was reasonable. Then came our rasper, the dead-wood fence, a kind of wooden wall, raised to nearly five feet, and composed of logs, stumps, and roots of trees, piled horizontally after a compact and unyielding fashion.

Freedom, with Dick Rutledge up, leading by a dozen lengths, flew it without altering stride. Bob Craufurd was over next. Neil Kennedy and I racing for a place charged it, when his horse, hitting it hard, performed a complete somersault, balancing himself for a moment on the broad of his back, and sending Neil flying so far ahead that there was as little danger of his being crushed as likelihood of his being in the race afterwards.

The majority were fairly up at the finish: three made a creditable struggle for second place; but Freedom, a fast two-miler, won the race from end to end, and taking all his leaps without baulk or mistake was never challenged.

So ended the second day's sport. Sport indeed, was it not? How little the faint copies of recreation, misnamed pleasure, resemble it nowadays! As we went home the tide was in, the ford deep, with a fair swim in the midstream, which was the reason I chose to take the short cut I suppose, thus letting off the exuberance of youthful spirits as well as directing certain bright eyes towards myself and the mare as we breasted the broad water.

The remainder of the day but sufficed to see all the horses properly looked to, after their exciting day, in the loose-boxes or improvised stabling which 'The Merrijig,' when put on its metal, was enabled to supply; afterwards a dinner, which, if the cooking was not quite equal to that of the 'Trois Frères Provencaux' or the Café Riche, was more thoroughly enjoyed. Lastly came the needful preparation for the ball. The ladies who had come into town specially for the affair were accommodated at Mr. Rutledge's hospitable mansion or other private houses. This was just as well, as the modified communism which extended to shirt collars, ties, boots and shoes, indeed to all wearing apparel whatever, involved so much rushing in and out of rooms that awkward _contretemps_ must inevitably have occurred.

The music was that of a piano—a really good one—lent for the occasion, and the new dining-hall of the hotel, then constructed by way of addition, properly draped and lighted, made a commodious and effective ballroom.

Would that I could have photographed the costumes displayed that evening—among us men of course. Ladies always manage to be becomingly arrayed under whatever contradictory circumstances. It was not so easy in our stage of civilisation—recently emerged from the pioneer epoch—to provide irreproachable raiment. Few possessed the accredited articles; fewer still bore them about when travelling.

I can hear the waltz now, and see the lady who played, as with one rapt glance I took in the situation on entering the room, for I had my toilette troubles to overcome, and was a trifle late. What did we dance in those days, more than fifty years agone? The _trois temps_ and hop waltzes, the galop, quadrilles, lancers; I think there must have been reels, Scots being in the majority. But no polka, no _deux temps_ or 'military' waltz, no Highland or other schottische, certainly no Washington Post. That sounds a tame programme, doesn't it? Still we danced and talked, nay, even flirted, very much as people do nowadays, and enjoyed ourselves generally, more, far more, than the comparatively languid moderns. It must have looked something like a hunt ball, though a slightly unconventional one, inasmuch as those who were conscious of correct riding toggery elected to sport it. Every variety of rig, in coats, shirts, collars and ties, boots and shoes, from tops to feminine stuff-boots (and not bad things on a pinch), adorned the main body. The supper was welcomed as the crowning glory of the evening. Healths were proposed, speeches were made, dancing was resumed with additional spirit, and daylight found us still unsated—ready, indeed, to begin the programme _da capo_. Prudence and the counsels of the aged, as represented by the infrequent paterfamilias, however prevailed, and the patriotic melody having sounded, there was an end to joy unconfined for the present. Everything had been a triumphant success. No awkwardness of any sort had occurred, if we may except an impromptu _tableau vivant_—a pretty housemaid fleeing Ariadne-like into the ladies' dressing-room, closely pursued by an enterprising youngster, who did not discover, until too late, the awful presence which he had invaded. A wrathful senior declined to see the classic appositeness of the incident, and muttered threats of vengeance dire; but upon Bacchus being adroitly suggested to be in fault, as of old, he was gradually appeased. And so with laugh and jest, and many a pleasant memory to cherish, we fared homewards next day from the First Port Fairy Hunt.

BENDEMEER

That bower and its music I never forget, But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think—Is the nightingale singing there yet? Do the roses still bloom by the calm Bendemeer?

The æsthetic pioneer who bestowed this romantic name upon the New England village between Tamworth and Uralla probably realised a hazy similarity. Yet roses must have been few and far between, eminently suitable as are soil and climate; and the nightingale awaits the millennium of acclimatisers. The sparrow—wastrel of Europe that he is—doth first appear. The clear stream of the Macdonald, winding through the green hill-encircled valley, renders the comparison faintly apposite. On the whole, the name of Bendemeer will sound as well to our federal successors as Curra-wohbo-lah or Murra-munga-myne; and if it sets young Australia to reading _Lalla Rookh_, it may act as a counterpoise to overmuch devotion to wool and horse-racing—may even tend to the cult which _emollit mores_.

These slight incongruities notwithstanding, I would counsel any Australian Beckford, in want of a site for the antipodean Fonthill, to realise the poet's dream in the vale of Bendemeer (Great Northern Railway line, New South Wales), and so immortalise himself in the minds of generations of grateful compatriots.

As I stand in front of the little hostelry in the sweet moonrise of this summer night and gaze around, my heart sympathises with the unknown sentimental sponsor. I feel constrained to admit that he had the true poetic insight, piercing the measureless spaces of the future—

Far as human eye can see.

It is the last month of the year, in the hour for a 'midsummer night's dream' (antipodean); the fervent noonday glare has given place to the fresh, delicious temperature which in this elevated region succeeds sunset; the heavens are cloudless. As the moon's orb is slowly lifted, the grand mountain-chain which lies beyond the head waters of the river shows clearly defined in majestic gloom and ebon shades.

On the hills which enclose this fair green valley, each tree-stem, bough, and frond is traced with pre-Raphaelite distinctness. Fronting the inn, on the river-terrace, hang the pendent branches of an aged willow-tree, the umbrageous spread of which has caused its utilisation as a shade for the horses of customers and wayfarers. A round dozen of these have just been released from durance, as their owners, warned of the closing hour, ride off into the night. The equestrian habit principally differentiates the tavern of the new country from that of the old. Otherwise, in the matter of civility, cleanliness, and quietude, this particular inn and some others I affect in my rambles closely resemble the snug roadside retreats of Old England.

As I pace slowly over the thick green sward which carpets the river-meadow, the thought pursues me of what changes the future Lord of Bendemeer would find requisite. Aided by the Genius of Capital, they could not be wholly impracticable. And what a delicious Palace of Summer Delights, a charmed refuge from the world's woe and the clamorous chatter of society, might he rear amidst these cloistered shades! Important alterations, not in accordance with latter-day legislation, would be first effected. The acquisition of the freehold for leagues around, the disestablishment of stores, telegraph-and post-offices—pernicious contrivances these last for bringing unrest into remotest solitudes; the closing of schools and churches; the abrogation of the utilities; the suppression of trade; the exile of industry; I include with regret the old-fashioned, reposeful hostelry. Happy thought! It would probably be spared until the army of workmen required for the erection of the palace had been disbanded; as also, for similar reasons, the police-barrack which dominates the district, whence issues the man-at-arms of the period, 'native and to the manner born,' but soldierly and erect of bearing—a sleuth-hound in pursuit of horse-thieves and highwaymen, mounted and accoutred proper upon the good steed which he alone can rein.

The railway-line has been averted by good genii or through the _laissez aller_ tone of thought which characterises the inhabitants of the vale. It clangs and thunders through a gorge on the head waters of the river, thus avoiding desecration by scrambling tourists and irreverent sons of commerce; but a huge, white, staring wooden bridge, the financial goal and triumph of the local tradesfolk, disfigures the rippling moonlit water. At a wave of the magic wand it disappears. A fairy-like structure arises in its place, delicate with marble tracery of pillars and arches, where the elves may flit love-whispering through the long sweet nights, may beckon to the Lorelei as she combs her tresses and warbles the fateful song on the rock which guards the midstream above the shimmering whirlpool.

The passes are guarded; the river-course on either side securely barricaded against the conditional purchaser and the drover—sole survivors they of the raider and moss-trooper, which a too considerate civilisation permits. Deer alone are permitted to crop the herbage of the park-like slopes; under the heavy shadows of the mountain, the leaping trout and lordly salmon, the ancient carp with silver-gleaming sides, would flash through stream and pool (this last no visionary image) as the shadows lengthened and the twilight stole tremulously forward. When the day was done, on such a full-orbed night as this, 'the harp, the lute, the viol's cry' should awaken the echoes as a most fair company (for would not all gallant knights and _gracieuses_, dames and damsels—whether summoned from afar or dwelling near at hand—with attendant poets and troubadours, be free of right to the enchanted vale?) flee the hours with song and dance till bright Cynthia paled at the approaching dawn, or, wandering through cedarn alleys and rose-thickets, listen to the nightingale's song as it blended with the murmur of silver-plashing fountains. The gnomes that dwell in the mountain passes, where they pile undreamed-of heaps of ore, steal forth to watch the enchanted revels. The river elves and fays float through mazy measures in fairy rings, or recline, 'neath starry fragrant blossoms, on rose-leaf couches. Even the unseen genius of the Austral wild—no malign, amorphous terror, but a benignant sylvan deity—might peer through the forest leaves and smile wonderingly at the fantasies of the 'coming race.'

Hark! Is that the grey owl? With strange, unmelodious cry he stirs the stillness. I turn to watch him, as he swims the night air with moveless wing—dropping, like the emissary of an evil witch, on the willow branch between me and the moon. Bird of ill omen, thou hast shattered my dream! The Palace has disappeared, the lutes are silent, the fair company dispersed; the nightingale, that sang of 'love, and love's sharp woe,' is mute for another century. Only the faint plash of the river, rippling over its sand-bars; only the mountain shadows beneath the waning, gibbous moon; only the unbroken silence of the Austral woodland, brooding, majestic, as of one watching through the eternities for the birth of a nation. 'The light that never was on sea or land' fades rapidly, and with the sigh that greets the evanishing of the undersoul's fair fantasies I seek my couch.

* * * * *

An early _réveillé_ comes Duty, with reason-compelling Circumstance; a deputation demanding answers to questions, of which due notice has been given. 'Enterprises of great pith and moment are imminent.' We must to horse and away, not betaking ourselves to pilgrim's staff, as is customary with us; time permits not. What bard—was it the sweet singer of a Brisbane Reverie, 'The Complaint of the Doves,' the laureate of Royalty (black), the minstrel of the desert steed, that in a lighter hour proclaimed—

For I am bound to Stanthorpe town, And time with me is tin?

We are not journeying quite so far as the stanniferous stronghold; yet is our errand not unconnected with the metal that the Silures and Phœnicians delved for in Cornwall long before Julius Cæsar, without reference to the susceptibilities of king, kaiser, or chancellor, established his protectorate of Britain.

The stern Roman, the world's master, has vanished from among the tribes of men. His descendant, an ignoble _fainéant_, a stolid peasant, or a hired model, sells the right to mould the heroic form which has survived the heroic soul. The wide-ranging, sea-roving Anglo-Saxon, descendant of the fiercer races, has succeeded to his heritage of universal empire.

But can it be that the mother of nations is sinking into senile decrepitude, with selfish querulousness evading responsibility, only to lapse into deserved decay of power, and well-merited insignificance in the council halls of the world?

Oh for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skilled Bruce to rule the fight!

sang Scotland's bard, in the lament for the fortunes of the field which sealed his country's fate. May not the modern Briton make the application, and in mingled wrath and despair regret the lost leader, who trod firmly, if warily, who drifted not, irresolutely weak, from peril to disasters, and delayed not the call to arms until the foe was at the gate of the citadel?[2]

Footnote 2:

Written in 1884.

But this savours of the digressive. Where are we? Whither is this plaguey, many-sided, chiefly unnecessary, or wholly superfluous, mental apparatus, as some hold (being rarely serviceable in the muck-rake or money-storing business), leading us? To fairyland but yesternight; anon to Albion, Germany, Rome, amid Liberal Ministers even, to their Austral countrymen all too illiberal, stepfatherly, stern, repressive. Prose and the present to the rescue! So we fare on, the trooper and I, along the course of the Macdonald, in the fresh purity of this New England summer morn. How blithe and gladsome are all things! Hard is it to believe that disease, death, and unforeseen disaster can exist in so fair a world! The river ripples merrily onward, or sleeps in deep pools under o'erhanging oaks, whence the shy wild-duck floats out with dusky brood, or the heron rises from the reedy marge and sweeps along the winding stream. Masses of granite overhang the water. The everlasting hills rear themselves, scarped and terraced, at dizzy altitudes on either side. The late rains have lent a velvet, emerald tinge to the thick-growing matted sward. Marguerites, dandelions, white and yellow immortelles, the crimson bunches of hakea, fringed violets, with bright purple masses of swainsonia, diversify mead and upland. Tiny rills and springheads show a well-watered country—'a land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will.' Ever and anon the willow, with foliage of vivid tender green, contrasts with the sombre filaments of the river oak.

My companion is an active, intelligent young fellow—a native-born Australian, whose fair hair and steadfast grey-blue eyes show that the Anglo-Saxon type is not likely to alter materially in Southern Britain.

He and his horse are well suited—the latter a well-bred bay, fast at a finish, and ready to stay for ever. He has done a hundred miles on end before now, and been ridden twenty hours out of the twenty-four. In more than one skirmish, when revolvers were out, he has proved steady under fire, and is the very model, in appearance, in condition, and pace, of what a charger should be in a troop of Irregular Horse. As he stretches along with smooth, fast, easy stride, he looks as quiet as a lamb, and what superficial critics call 'properly broken in.' None the less will he refuse to let a stranger bridle, much less ride him; he would in such case snort and plunge like an unbacked colt.

I have had no experience of the metropolitan police, against whom it is occasionally the wont of a section of the press to say hard things. These may be true or false, for what I know, though I am disposed to believe the latter. But for the last twenty years I have had much knowledge of the mounted portion of the New South Wales force in the towns and districts of the interior, and I willingly record my testimony—not being in official relations with them at present—that a more efficient, well-disciplined, well-behaved body of men—smart, serviceable, and self-respecting—does not exist in any part of the world. In old days they were sometimes at a disadvantage against outlaws, who could ride and track like Comanchee Indians, the police being chiefly of British birth and rearing. But the mounted troopers are now largely recruited from natives of the colony, or men who have lived here from their youth. In one of these, as in my guide of to-day, the cattle-thief or other criminal has a pursuer to contend with as well mounted as himself, and fully his match in all the arcana of bushcraft.

But good as the white Australian may be at following a track, his sable compatriot is a degree better. A tamed preadamite, either borrowed for the occasion from a squatter, or attached by pay and cast-off uniform to a police-barrack, makes a matchless sleuth-hound. Such a one, I am told, helped to run down a notorious party of horse-thieves in these very mountains, following with astonishing accuracy the marauders, who travelled _only by night_, using every artifice as well to blind tracks and divert pursuers.

We cross the river once more, and note an island, upon which in floodtime a leading pastoral proprietor was washed down and nearly drowned. Another mile discovers a picturesquely-situated homestead, overlooking the river, where, winding round a granite promontory, it turns westward on its way to the great plain beyond the 'divide.' The roses proclaim their vicinity to the famed Bendemeer, the decomposed granite having a special chemical affinity; while the violets, large of leaf and profuse of bloom, seem as if prepared to found a new variety, so widely do they differ from the ordinary floweret.

For half a century or more has the venerable pioneer dwelt hard by the river-brim, where now, handsomely lodged, garden-surrounded, he dispenses hospitality, with all the concomitants of successful pastoral life around him, save and excepting only the wife and bairns, the stalwart sons and bright-eyed daughters, with which so worthy and energetic a colonist should have strengthened the State. But 'non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum'; it is not every man's lot thus to wind up life's tale. And it may be conceded that he who at an advanced age, retaining every faculty unimpaired, is permitted to view the work of his hands, conducted from the stage of the untamed wild to smiling prosperity, who can look forward cheerfully to end his days among a population entirely composed of friends and well-wishers, has secured a large proportion of the good which is permissible to mortal man.

Onward, still onward, ride we, for many a mile must be passed ere sunset. Onward through rugged defiles and rock-strewn passes, over which the sure-footed steeds are constrained to clamber like chamois. Indeed we are nearly blocked in consequence of adopting one very tempting 'cut,'—by the way, in bush parlance, the old English predicate has been eliminated, and with reason; one does not speak of a 'long cut,'—for we find ourselves in the centre of a rock labyrinth locally termed a 'gaol.' The path, however, amid the huge boulders eventually conducts us to a grand granite-floored terrace, apparently constructed by one of the Kings of Bashan. Here we have a wide, extended view of the varied landscape, 'valley and mountain and woodland,' but it does not otherwise serve our purpose.

Speedily recovering lost ground, we strike the creek and the tin mines thereon located, which had been the cause of the exploration. The sanguine, undaunted prospectors are as usual delving and ditching, felling the forest, constructing dams, and generally committing assault and robbery upon patient mother Hertha.

We see the stream tin being washed out everywhere, like dark-coloured pebbly gravel. We note where the same rivulet has been formerly ravaged by the wandering mining hordes. We thread the gorges which lead into a rock-walled alpine valley, not inaptly named the 'Giant's Den,' and there meet with tin—more tin—_toujours_ tin. For this fastness of the Titans has been turned into the Grand United Sluicing Company—no liability, let us say—and for the ten thousandth time, more or less, we admire the indomitable pluck and sanguine confidence of the miner proper. Here steam engines, pumping machinery, iron piping by the mile, dams, houses, men and material, are all found, in different stages of adaptation to an end. Evidently the shareholders, some of whom are practical men of transcolonial experience, have faith in the venture. The energetic Victorian captain beguiles us into a long, hot, pedestrian tour of inspection. He, always in advance, shovel on shoulder, prospects from time to time, and 'pans out,' with invariable success, the stanniferous gravel. Sooth to say, we have reached at length the mystic region where there is no 'want of tin.' It occurs everywhere in abundance—in new ground, in old workings, in mullock, in trenches, in each and every conceivable place. At the end of our bit of training, which mentally places us on a footing with Weston and other 'peds' of fame, we express our opinion that, with a steady supply of water for ground-sluicing, the Company should pay handsome dividends for years to come. The energetic captain, 'bred and born in a briar patch,' that is, on a goldfield, so that he is a 'legitimate miner' in every sense of the word, smiles appreciatively. We thankfully resume the saddle, and bid farewell to the 'Giant's Den.' 'It may be for years; it may be for ever.'

SPORT IN AUSTRALIA

Very early in a land peopled by the roving Englishman did sport of one kind or another begin to put forth those shoots which have since so grown and burgeoned. For some years there must have been so few horses, that racing contests were difficult if not impossible. The first cattle were herded without horses, some of the pedestrian stockmen acquiring thereby extraordinary speed of foot. It was customary for early Australians to make longish journeys on foot, and legends are yet rife in colonial families as to the distances performed then by the seniors—tales which strike with astonishment their descendants, who rarely walk, much less run.

We doubt not, however, that as soon as the colts and fillies began to grow up, their young riders, with or without leave, commenced to ascertain their relative speed.

Parramatta has, it is said, the honour of holding the first race meeting in 1810, the example being followed by the officers of the 73rd Regiment, then in Sydney, who utilised the reserve now known as Hyde Park for the purpose. From that time annual races commenced to be held there. The country towns, as they arose, were only too eager to follow the example of the metropolis. Favourites of the turf acquired fame which was trumpeted abroad through the restricted sporting circles of the day.

Sir John Jamison's Bennelong—named after a well-known aboriginal—was one of the early racing celebrities. He ran against Mr. Lawson's Spring Gun in 1829 for a heavy wager as they went then; and the old-world system of heats finishing up Spring Gun, he won easily. He carried off the principal turf events in Parramatta in 1832. In the same year Mr. H. Bayley's imported colt, Whisker, won the great races at the Hawkesbury meeting. Trotting was not entirely overlooked. It appears that a Mr. Potter's horse trotted twelve miles within the hour for a bet of £30, winning by fifteen seconds.

In May 1834 the Sydney Subscription Races were held on the New Course, Botany Road, for the first time. This course was new as compared with Hyde Park, but came to be called 'the old Sandy Course,' in relation to Homebush, the next established convincing-ground. At this meeting, Mr. C. Smith's Chester, a son of Bay Camerton, won the Cup; Whisker the Ladies' Purse. This grand horse won the Town Plate of £50; also the Ladies' Purse, £25, again beating Chester. Whisker, for whom £1400 had been offered three days previously, died within the week. I was present at that same old Sandy Course in the autumn of 1835, when Chester beat his half-brother Traveller—the latter fated to belong to my old friend and neighbour, Charles Macknight, at Dunmore, Victoria, in years to come. The well-known Emigrant mare, Lady Godiva, ran at the same meeting, and won her race for the Ladies' Purse, containing the modest sum of £30. The Town Plate was £50.

The celebrated horse Jorrocks, 'clarum et venerabile nomen' in turf annals, belonged to that period. A son of Whisker from Lady Emily (imported), he inherited some of the best racing-blood in the world; the dry air and nutritive pasturage of his native land did the rest. A horse of astonishing speed, stoutness, and courage, his record covers a longer list of victories than that of any other Australian racehorse. In those days of three-mile heats, he might not win the first, but rarely lost the succeeding ones. It used to be said that when the 'native' lads began to cheer, Jorrocks seemed to comprehend the situation, and would win on the post or die in the attempt. I saw him once, a retired veteran, and can never forget his shape, almost symmetrically perfect. A long forehand, with light, game head and full eye, grand sloping shoulders, cask-like back-rib, muscular quarter and Arab croupe, legs like iron, as indeed they needed to have been; a long, low horse, scarcely exceeding fifteen hands, I should say, in height—such was Jorrocks.

Intercolonial races began in 1849. Without railways there was a difficulty in transporting horses; but it was overcome. Petrel, the property of Mr. Colin Campbell, a popular Victorian squatter, ran a great race on the Melbourne Course with Mr. Austin's Bessie Bedlam, a beautiful daughter of Cornborough.

Dark brown, with tan muzzle.

Gordon's description might have been written for her. She was, to my thinking, the handsomest mare ever stripped on an Australian course. Petrel won, and Mr. Campbell gave a ball at the Prince of Wales' Hotel in Melbourne on the strength of his winnings, at which I was a guest—and a very good ball it was. The same year saw Emerald and Tally-ho (from New South Wales), Coronet and Hollyoake (of Tasmania), beaten by the Victorian horse Bunyip, a big powerful bay. He won the Town Plate, Publicans' Purse, and Ladies' Purse at the same meeting; and starting for fourteen principal races that season, won them all—a truly phenomenal animal.

By this time the gold 'boom of booms' had occurred. There were no more £50 Town Plates. In 1856 Alice Hawthorn won £1000 for Mr. Chirnside, beating Mr. Warby's Cardinal Wiseman; in her turn losing the three-mile race with Veno—an intercolonial duel—for £2000. In 1859 I saw Flying Buck win the Champion Melbourne Sweepstakes for £1000, eighteen starters, and may have heard the late Mr. Goldsborough offer a thousand to thirty against him after the start, and Roger Kelsall call out 'taken.'

The pageant of Flemington on Cup day was yet a visionary forecast. Mr. Bagot had not appeared above the horizon. First King, Briseis, Archer, and Glencoe—much less Carbine and Trenton—were in the dimmest futurity. I was to see Adam Lindsay Gordon win the steeplechase of '69 upon Viking, with Babbler half a length behind. Glencoe the same year bore the coveted Cup trophy to New South Wales.

What a wondrous change had taken place in a few short years between the primitive racing and rude surroundings of the old Botany Course and the shaven lawns, the flower-beds, the asphalt walks, the immense grand-stands, the order, comfort, and perfect organisation of Randwick and Flemington—exceeding indeed, in these respects, the race-courses of the old country! What a difference in the size and quality of the fields of running horses, in the amount of money wagered, in the multitude that attends, in the facilities of rail and road by which the tens of thousands of spectators are safely, comfortably disposed of in transit!

In these and other astounding developments of the era we cannot but mark the transition stage from a colony to a nation, from a collection of humble towns and hamlets to a cluster of cities commencing to take rank with the world's important centres. An Anglo-Saxon dominion unmatched, for the period of its existence, in wealth and culture, population and trade, in progress in all that constitutes true, steadfast, abiding civilisation.

With respect to sport other than horse-racing, the men who had left 'Merrie England' so far away across the Southern main, conscious that in many cases they had looked their last upon that earthly paradise of the angler, the huntsman, the fowler, and the deer-stalker, began to cast about for substitutes and compromises. Hares and rabbits there were none (did we catch a cheer, or was it a groan?); but the active marsupials which then overspread the land afforded reasonable coursing, and led to the formation of a breed of greyhounds, stronger, fiercer, in some instances hardly less fleet, than those of the old country. Reynard was still absent, but Brer Dingo was fast across the open, and a good stayer, while his insatiable appetite for mutton and poultry rendered him beyond a doubt the fox's natural successor. Even as a 'bagman' he was fairly serviceable.

Thus at an early date in Tasmania, a land of farms and small enclosures, and later on in Sydney, the old-world rural recreation, with pinks and tops, horn and hound, huntsman and whipper-in, 'accoutred proper,' was welcomed and supported. In Victoria there are now home-grown foxes in abundance, with hares, and, alas, rabbits in still greater proportion for them to subsist upon; while as to the fields, no straighter goers are to be found in Christendom—_moi qui parle_—than our young Australians, men and maidens, married or single—let the stiff three-railers of Petersham and Ballarat, Geelong and Rooty-hill testify; no better horses—fast, well-bred, clever, and up to weight. It seems hard that distance, expense, and long voyage should stand in the way of members of Australian hunt clubs trying their own and their steeds' mettle in 'the Shires.'

Now for the gun. Wild-fowling has obtained always on the inland lakes and rivers, on marsh and lagoons, with quail and snipe, more or less, still extant; yet it must be confessed that it has chiefly partaken of the nature of 'pot-hunting.' In marshy localities snipe are abundant in the season—I have known a bag made of twenty-five couple in Squattlesea Mere in old days; but the quail, the brown variety of which more nearly resembles the partridge, has a way of disappearing from haunts too much disturbed. Unlike the partridge, it will not return to the same cornfields year after year. The native pheasant is a shy bird, for the most part inhabiting the thickets of the interior and the forests of the main range—localities where sport can hardly be carried out under proper conditions. The wild turkey is a grand bird, both as to size and flavour, but wary and a dweller on plains. He is only to be approached by stratagem.

In New South Wales, Victoria, and Tasmania, the partridge and pheasant, though often imported—my old friend Mr. Yaldwyn brought out both to his station near Macedon early in the 'forties'—have never thriven in the bush proper. Edible seeds and berries are scarce, while natural enemies are plentiful. In New Zealand, a virgin Britannia of the South, the converse obtains. There are in that priceless possession, obtained by pluck and luck (before we got into the habit of advertising for the colonisation of our territory by foreigners), no eagles, no crows, no dingoes or dasyures. Partridges or pheasants turned loose in the woods of the North Island multiply apace, and a tremendous bag of the former was made to my knowledge by a Sydney proprietor on a visit there, walking in breast-high fern, but a few years since. As to introduced game, a herd of red deer, led by a 'stag of ten,' may be seen on the grassy slopes of Laverton, within easy reach of Melbourne, and near enough for an occasional hunt, while fallow deer are plentiful, both there and in other Australian localities. Among the farms they have grown to be somewhat of a nuisance indeed; hence a trifle of justifiable poaching no doubt occasionally takes place. In a general way no great harm has been done by the introduction of European game. Hares have increased amazingly, while greyhounds of stainless pedigree, with coursing matches to suit all comers, are plentiful in every country district.

But the 'werry important and particlar' exception to this comfortable doctrine has been the rabbit. Alack! and alack! What evil genius, hostile to the good South Land, prompted the importation of that fiend in a fur-jacket? 'Brer Rabbit' has amply revenged upon us the sufferings of his kind in bygone ages, and left a balance yet unpaid. What have we spent on him? What tens of thousands of pounds sterling are yet to be disbursed by suffering squatters, o'erburdened tax-payers, even by the humble 'retrenched' civil servant, against whom appears to be the hand of every man in the hour of financial need!

But the subject is too painful. Far removed from any description of sport. Sport? Ha! ha! Death, indeed, is the closer designation. However we may have been deceived as to certain results 'on this behalf,' let us not forget that our enemy is, like most of his congeners, excellent eating—good alike on the table of the poor man and the rich. In time, as population advances and smaller enclosures become necessary, his doom of extermination will be fulfilled, while the more harmless ministers of sport will be protected and encouraged.

About cricket it seems unnecessary to dilate. It has been taught sedulously to the Australian boy, by precept and example. No denominational bias has hindered _that_ lesson being learned thoroughly—a fair argument, by the way, supposing the national reputation and existence to depend solely upon cricket, in favour of the secular system. How all our boys love it! Did I not see a youngster, of say seven or eight, yesterday, leading two small brothers, with one cry of 'Cricket match!' dash up to the engraving of the Gentlemen of England and 'Our Boys' in London, on the cricket-ground, now on view in a bookseller's window in George Street? How they gloated over it!

Many a good match have I seen in the old Hyde Park, when the Sydney College boys had a right of occupation there for a special purpose. His Honour Judge Forbes, then a crack bowler at one wicket, with Mr. William Roberts senior performing the part of the historic veteran of Dingley Dell with the bat. William Still looking out for a catch, George Hill or Geoffrey Eager, or Moule or Hovenden Hely, alert at cover-point or slip, mid-wicket or long-stop.

Ah me! those days have gone, and how many of those who then ran and shouted in all the glee of youthful spirits and health! Those who remain are growing old, if not in the 'serious and yellow' stage, and the young ones are coming on, doubtless to fill their places, 'in arms, in arts, in song.' When Hugh Hamon Massie made that 206 score for the Australian team against Oxford, our British cousins were probably of the same opinion. His triumph on that occasion was by no means a solitary one, and successive teams have demonstrated that in Australians our kin beyond sea will always find foemen worthy of their steel. Long may the friendly rivalry last; and in the deadlier contests to come—as surely they _must_ come—may they always stand, like Highlanders, 'shouther to shouther.'[3]

Footnote 3:

Written in 1885. A prophecy fulfilled in February 1900.

Next to the outside of a horse—even, perhaps, as regards the coast towns, before that instinctively natural position—your true Australian is most at home in a boat. Those who watch the appearance of Sydney Harbour on a holiday must come to the conclusion that as a nursery for seamen it is excelled by few sea-boards in the world. Gay is the sea-lake with every kind of sailing craft, from the fifty-ton yacht, brand new and not launched under a cost of £2000 or £3000, to the canvas dingy flying along, bows under, with a big sail, and the youthful crew perched like seagulls on the weather gunwale. When a capsize occurs, which with these craft is a matter 'quite frequent,' they dive like a brood of wild-ducks, as they right their frail craft, and are soon bowling along as reckless as ever.

With such aquatic habits, small wonder if we have bred or trained the men who have beaten with the sculls not only old England but the world—ay, the world!—at this particular sport. Not only is it now demonstrated that we possess equal skill in all the manlier exercises—the boast of the island Briton, and at which he was long held to be unrivalled—but that in strength, stature, and the desperate courage which prolongs the contest to the last dangerous degree of exhaustion and afterwards, our men, Australian-born or reared, are equal to the best Briton that ever trod a plank, or to the best transatlantic colonist, himself superior in that special section of sport to his British kinsmen.

All Sydney boys, of whatever degree, take naturally to the boat. And when I saw a young friend but the other day, in a Masaniello rig, expand his broad chest and glide into stroke with one stretch of his bronzed muscular arms, I hummed instinctively as I watched the retreating skiff, 'Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves.'

The 'incomplete angler' necessarily commenced by deep-line fishing in Botany Bay, where he discovered the highly-edible schnapper, that moderately-boned fish of comfortable size and toothsome flavour. To him all honour therefor. Also the rock and other cod-fish, whiting, bream, mullet, trumpeter, flounder, sole, and many others (not forgetting yellow-tail for bait)—all these for sea-fish are not to be surpassed. It was some years before the lordly Murray Cod was handled with the help of rod and line, by reason of the Murray, our Australian Mississippi, not being then discovered.

Since then we have made piscatorial advance, and doubtless shall make more. If we have not finally settled the question as to the acclimatisation of _Salmo ferox_ in Tasmania, we have the best of all evidences of the existence of trout of exceptional size in Australian waters. Fly-fishing is still in its infancy, though the _thymallus_ of the Yarra Falls rises eagerly, and gives good sport. Trout and herring furnish many an hour's enjoyment to the disciple of Izaak Walton in Tasmania. Huge lake-trout are to be found in the erstwhile eel-tenanted deeps of New Zealand. A salmo-appearing fish, weight 27 lbs., was killed in Tasmania in 1893.

In time—only give us time—and rest assured, my Australian brethren and English kinsfolk, that we shall have such sport in the South Land generally as shall do no discredit to our race—the best all-round sportsmen in the world. And so, fully aware that this is a bald and incomplete sketch of the rise and progress of sport in Australia, but promising to do better (if spared) at the next Centennial, and wishing us all good fun and fortune at this, one Australian hunter's horn must cease 'blowing' and sound the recall.

OLD STOCK-RIDERS

So poor old 'Flash Jack' is dead, says the _Port Fairy Gazette_, drowned in a creek—a stock-rider's not unfitting end. We remember him, young, _debonair_, tall, sinewy and active, with longish, curling brown locks of which he was rather proud, as also of the cabbage-tree hat of the period. But every one seems to be old nowadays except a crowd of juniors so painfully young that one wonders they are permitted to take life seriously. His sobriquet was acquired more through the ebullitions of a harmless vanity than from any of the offensive qualities which the well-worn colonial adjective is wont to imply. There was a certain amount of 'blow' about Jack, doubtless, but never in undue proportion to his attainments, which, as a stock-rider, horse-breaker, and mailman, were admitted to be creditable. His introduction to the Port Fairy district was through the Messrs. Carmichael, while before taking service with them he had reached Melbourne from England in the _Eagle_, Captain Buckley—both ship and commander favourably known in the early days.

A rumour prevailed that Jack was the scion of a good family; had been sent to sea as a midshipman, possibly to cure the malady of 'wildness,' for which a voyage to or residence in Australia is (erroneously) held to be a specific. It did not answer in Jack's case, for he quitted his ship, 'taking to the bush' (in a restricted sense), and never afterwards abandoning it. Uncommunicative about such matters generally, he threw out hints from time to time that he was not in the position for which his early associations had prepared him.

'My name's not Crickmere, Mas'r Rolf,' he said to me once, as we were riding through the Eumeralla marshes. (He always adopted the fiction that he was an old retainer of our family.) '_Far from it._' But after this dark saying he relapsed into his usual reserve on the subject and enlightened me no further. One trait of character which was in keeping with his presumed social past he was well known to possess.

'You seem mighty independent, my man,' said an employer to him on one occasion.

'Yes,' replied Jack proudly, 'and I can uphold it.'

He was in my service before and after 'the gold' as stock-rider, horse-breaker, and road-hand, both at Port Fairy and Lake Boga. Not the man to save his wages; unlike many of his contemporaries, who are now men of substance, Jack varied but little in his non-possession of the world's goods. But there were many homesteads in his old district where he was always sure of a welcome, a glass of grog, and a week's lodgings, so that when out of employment he was never in any great straits.

With one influential class of the community he was especially acceptable, and a favourite to the last. He had a natural 'Hans the boatman' faculty for amusing children, whom he delighted by making miniature stockwhips and other bush requisites, while they never tired of listening to his wondrous tales of flood and field.

In the matter of stockwhip-making he was a second 'Nangus Jack,' and, moreover, an extraordinary performer with that weapon in the saddle. I have seen him cantering along with a steady stock-horse, standing in the saddle and cracking a brace of stockwhips, one in either hand—a feat which any young gentleman is free to try if he wishes to ascertain if it be easy or otherwise. He had been through the rougher experiences of bush life, and mentioned casually, once, having been speared by blacks in Gippsland. The company being disposed to treat the statement as 'Jack's yarn,' he gave ocular proof by exhibiting a cicatrice, far from trifling in dimensions, where the jagged spear-point had been cut out above his hip-bone.

He was a reliable horse-breaker, for several reasons. Being long and loose of frame, he rode a good deal 'all over his horse'—unlike some breakers, who are so still and noiseless in their method that any unwonted cheerfulness of manner is apt to startle their pupils into 'propping,' But as Jack on his excursions was always singing, shouting, and whistling; leaning half out of his saddle to greet a friend, or leaving his colts tied up at a public-house; by the time he had done with them they were safe for anybody, and would be difficult to alarm or astonish on account of these varied experiences.

As a road-hand Jack was quite in his element, and a decided acquisition to any overlanding party. He would have been invaluable in South Africa. Always in good humour, he kept every one alive during the monotonous days of driving and dreary nights of watching with his songs and stories, his 'quips and quiddities.' He was also of signal service to the commissariat, making frequent _reconnaissances_ where the country was inhabited, and returning with new-laid eggs, butter, and other delicacies, out of which he had wheedled the farmers' wives or daughters.

At one time or other Jack had been in the employment of all the principal stockholders in the Port Fairy district, including Mr. John Cox of Werongurt, the Messrs. Rutledge, Campbell, and Macknight, Kennedy, Carmichael, and others. His never staying very long in one place was less due to any fault of his own than to an inherent restlessness and love of change. A born roamer, with strong Bohemian proclivities, Jack had wandered over a considerable portion of the colony. With commendable taste he latterly elected to make Western Victoria his habitual residence; and, strangely enough, he was fated to finish a roving life as nearly as possible at the place where he first took service, more than forty years since, on his first arrival in the district.

A fellow-worker and in a sense a companion of my youth, he 'was a part of those fresh days to me.' Many a day we rode together in the heaths and marshes, the forests and volcanic trap-ridges which lie between the lower Eumeralla and the sea. At many a muster have I heard Jack's cheery shout, and enjoyed with others his drolleries at camp and drafting-yard. Now poor Jack's whip is silent; his songs and jests are hushed for evermore. A man with few faults and no vices. 'Born for a protest' (as Mrs. Stowe says somewhere) 'against the excessive industrialism of the age.' Many a dweller in the Port Fairy district must have felt sincerely grieved at the news of poor old Jack's ending, and deemed that 'they could have better spared a better man.'

Peter Kearney, who came to Port Fairy first with Mr. Frank Cobham from Monaro (a good specimen of the old race of stock-riders), was one of Jack's earlier contemporaries. With Tom Glendinning, generally known in the district as 'Old Tom,' he was employed for a time on the Eumeralla station. Irish by birth and 'Sydney-siders' by residence, these last had served apprenticeship to every grade of colonial experience. The naming, indeed, of the Eumeralla station and river was due to 'Old Tom' and his mates, who brought from New South Wales the J.T.H. cattle (formerly the brand of John Terry Hughes), with which the station was first 'taken up' by Mr. Hunter. From some fancied resemblance to the Umaralla (spelt differently, by the way), one of the streams which mingle their waters with the Snowy River near the Bredbo, the men christened the new watercourse after the old one. There is no special resemblance, rather the reverse, inasmuch as the Port Fairy river, if such it be, runs mostly underground, percolating through marshes and trap dykes, and generally pursues an erratic course, while the Umaralla of New South Wales is a merry, purling, snow-fed stream, which nearly attained celebrity by drowning Mr. Tyson, who crossed it ahead of our cattle in 1870, unobtrusively travelling, as was his wont, on horseback to Gippsland.

While on the subject of stock-riders, it is noticeable how many different nationalities and sub-varieties there were among them. Peter and Old Tom were, as I said before, Irishmen, both light weights, first-rate riders, and extremely good hands at 'breaking-in cattle to the run'—that lost or almost unnecessary art, except 'down the Cooper, where the Western drovers go,' or thereabouts. I may stop here to state that 'Clancy of the Overflow,' quoted by a writer who signs himself 'Banjo,' which appeared lately, was, in my opinion, the best bush-ballad since Lindsay Gordon. It has the true ring of spur and snaffle combined with poetic treatment—a conjunction not so easy of attainment as might be supposed. When charged with the responsible duty of breaking-in store cattle freshly turned out, Old Tom was ever mounted and away by daylight. He disregarded breakfast, knowing that the early morn is the time for getting on the tracks of wandering cattle. Carrying his quart-pot with him, a wedge of damper and a similar segment of cold corned-beef, after he had gone round his cattle and satisfied himself that none of the leaders were away, then, and not till then, he lighted a fire, made his tea, and settled to his breakfast with a good appetite and a clear conscience. He came with me from Campbell's farm, in order to point out Squattlesea Mere, then unoccupied, somewhere about May 1843. We stayed at Dunmore for lunch. The members of the firm were absent, but good, kind Mrs. Teviot provided me with such a meal of corned-beef, home-baked bread, fresh butter, short-cake and cream, that, as I told my guide, I was provisioned for twenty-four hours if needful. As it happened, by some mischance, we _were_ very nearly that precise time before we had the next meal.

'Jemmy' White, Mr. John Cox's stock-rider at Werongurt, and Joe Twist, his assistant, a native-born Tasmanian, had both followed Mr. Cox's fortunes from Clarendon in the lovely island. 'Jemmy' was a solid, elderly man of considerable experience, and under his management the Werongurt Herefords were kept in admirable order. He, like his fellow-servant Buckley, was assisted by Mr. Cox in the purchase of a run adjoining his master's station, where, with a flock of sheep to start with, he became independent and comparatively rich. After marrying and settling down, he built himself a comfortable brick house at Louth, and died the possessor of beeves and pastures, horses and sheep, in patriarchal plenty.

Joe Twist—now, doubtless, 'old Mr. Twist,' and a substantial burgess of Macarthur—was a boy when I first came to the district, but growing up in the fulness of time, was promoted to be head stock-rider, _vice_ White retired. He had by that time developed into one of the smartest hands in a yard that ever handled drafting-stick, as well as a superb horseman in connection with cattle-work. He would stand in a stock-yard among the excited, angry cattle (and those that came out of the Mount Napier lava country were playful enough) as if horns were so many reeds, even waiting until the charging beast was almost upon him before stepping out of the way, with the cool precision of a Spanish toreador.

With all due respect for the ancestral Briton, whom every good Australian should reverence, I hold that the native-born artist, while equal in staying power, far surpasses him in dexterity. What Britisher could ever shear as many sheep—ay, and shear them well—as the 'big blow' men of the Riverina sheds? Natives they of Goulburn, Bathurst, the Hawkesbury, Campbelltown—all the earlier Sydney settlements. Can any imported 'homo' even now pilot twenty bullocks, with the wool of a small sheep-station on the iron-bark waggon, along the roads the teamster safely travels? And similarly for 'scrub-riding,' drafting, and camp-work, though many of the old hands, grown men before they ever touched Australian shores, became excellent, all-round bushmen, yet the talent, to my mind, lies with their sons and grandsons, who are as superior when it comes to pace and general efficiency as Searle and Kemp to the Thames watermen.

Well remembered yet is the first typical Australian stock-rider I ever set eyes on—a schoolboy then out for a holiday. I was riding to Darlington, our Mount Macedon Run, early in the 'forties,' with a relative. From Howie's station a young man, detailed to show us a short cut, rode up, furnishing to my delighted vision the romantic presentment of a real stock-rider of the wild, such as I had longed to see. Tall, slight, neatly dressed, with spur and stockwhip, strapped trousers and cabbage-tree hat, 'accoutred proper,' he joined us, mounted upon a handsome three-parts bred mare, in top condition. She shied and plunged playfully as she came up.

'Now, Miss Bungate,' he said, with mock severity of tone, 'what are you up to?'

This was one of the mental photographs, little heeded at the time, which were of use in days to come. Tom or Jack, 'Howie's Joe' or 'Ebden's Bill'—the rider's name cannot be guaranteed by me, but that bay mare I never can forget. 'Wincing she went, as doth a wanton colt.' The summer leaves may fall, and that dreary season, the winter of age, come on apace, but Miss Bungate will be enshrined among the latest memories which Time permits this brain to register and recall.

The stock-riders of the past were a class of men to whom the earlier pastoralists were much indebted. Placed in positions of great trust and responsibility, they were, in the main, true to their salt and loyal to their employers. If they occasionally erred in the wild confusion of strayed cattle and unbranded yearlings, presumably the property of the Government (was there not a celebrity thus claiming all estrays humorously designated 'Unbranded Kelly'?), their temptations were great. Without their aid, living lonely lives on the remoter inland stations, the cattle herds, often menaced or decimated by the blacks, and roaming over vast areas of natural pasture, would never have enabled their owners to amass fortunes and create estates. They were, as a rule, fearless sons of the wilderness, having some of the vices but many of the virtues which have always honourably distinguished pioneers.

MOUNT MACEDON

In the later days of 1842 I paid my first visit to Macedon, beyond which mountain our sheep-station, Darlington, had been formed in 1838. The overseer, on a business visit to Melbourne, whether in recognition of personal merit, or as desiring to do the polite thing to his employer's son, invited me to return with him. I jumped at the proposal. The paternal permission being granted, the following day saw me mounted upon a clever cob named Budgeree, a survivor of the overland party from Sydney to Port Phillip in 1838, fully accoutred for my first journey into Bushland—the land of mystery, romance, and adventure, which I have well explored since that day—that Eldorado whence the once-eager traveller has returned war-worn and pecuniarily on a level with the majority of pilgrims and knights-errant.

And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot on ground That looked like Eldorado.

We reached Howie's Flat, spending the night at the solitary stock-rider's hut near Woodend. I still recall the keenness of the frost, which came through the open slabs and interrupted my repose. Macedon was the first mountain I had encountered in real life, familiar as I was with his compeers in books. I regarded his shaggy sides, his towering summit, with wonder and admiration, as we rode along the straggling dray-track of the period.

Walls of dark-stemmed eucalypti bounded the narrow road; shallow runlets trickled across the rock ledges; while the breeze, strangely chill even at mid-day, but rippled the ocean of leafage. Gloomy alike seemed the endless forest ways, the twilight defiles, the rough declivities. At one such place my companion remarked, 'This blinded gully is where Joe Burge capsized the wool dray last shearing.' I thought it would be a nice place for robbers. German stories of the _Bandit of the Black Forest_ and such-like thrilling romances, which ended in the travellers being carried off into caverns or tied up to trees, began to come into my head. I was glad when we sighted the open country again.

We arrived at Darlington next day, not without adventures, in that we lost one horse. He slipped his head out of the tether rope, so we had to double-bank old Budgeree, who proved himself a weight-carrier, equal to the emergency.

What a change has passed over the land since then! Mr. Ebden was at Carlsruhe; Mr. Jeffreys close by; the Messrs. Mollison at Pyalong; and Coliban, Riddell, and Hamilton at Gisborne. Hardly any one else in the direct line of road. What waving prairies of grass! what a land of promise! what a veritable Australia Felix, was the greater portion of the country we rode over!

* * * * *

A decade has almost rolled by. What motley band is this which faces outward, from Melbourne, along the selfsame road on which old Macedon looks grimly down, as they ramble, straggling past under his very throne? They are gold miners, actual or presumptive.

Both worlds, all nations, every land Had sent their conscripts forth to stand In the gold-seeker's ranks.

Mother Hertha has for once hidden her treasures so carelessly that the most unscientific scratching shall suffice to win them. A hundred deeply-rutted tracks now cross or run parallel with the once sole roadway. Wild oaths in strange tongues awaken the long-silent echoes. All ranks and orders of men are mingled as in the old crusades. Different they, alas, in purpose as in symbol! Watch-fires gleam on all sides. Night and day seem alike toilsome, troubled, vulgarised by noise and disorder, strangely incongruous with the solemn mountain shadows and the old stern solitude.

* * * * *

Again the years have passed. The lurid, early goldfields are no more. Order reigns where crime and lawless violence once were rife. Handsome towns have succeeded to the crowded, squalid encampments where dwelt the fierce toilers for gold, the harpies, the camp-followers, the victims. I am seated in a commodious stage coach, which behind a well-bred team bowls along at a creditable pace over a well-kept, macadamised road. We are _en route_ to Sandhurst, now a model town, with trees overshadowing the streets, a mayor and a corporation, gaols and hospitals, libraries and churches. Yet, as we pass Macedon, tales are told of mysterious disappearances of home-returning diggers, which recall my early association of brigands with the dark woods and lonely ravines.

* * * * *

'Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis.' Shade of Mr. Cape, is the quotation correct, or are we doing dishonour to that great man's memory,—'building better than he knew,'—and the careful heed of quantities, inculcated by personal application to our feelings, in the days of heedless boyhood? Times have changed with a vengeance. Again in Melbourne! It is changed, I trow. Great, famous, rich, one of the known and quoted cities of the earth. _We_ have helped to produce this triumph. But at what a price? Our youth has gone in the process. When we look at all the fine things that fill one's vision by day, by night, within its lofty halls, amid its crowded streets, we feel like the man in the old story, who for power and wealth sold himself to the Fiend. 'All that's very fine, my friend,' an unkind sprite whispers to us. 'You may or may not enjoy a part of this splendour, but you are not so young as you were. I won't mention the D—— in polite society, but the demon of Old Age will leave his card on you before long.'

Yes, we are still extant, not wholly invalided, in this year of grace 1884. Instead of sitting on the box of Cobb's coach in Bourke Street at 6 A.M., while the punctual Yankee driver is waiting for the Post-office clock to strike, my old friend and I, _en route_ for his well-known hospitable home on the spurs of Macedon, enter a comfortable railway carriage at mid-day. As we are whirled luxuriously through the grassy, undulating downs and wide-stretching plains which surround Melbourne on the north-east, we have ample leisure to enjoy the view. Macedon is visible from the outset, dimly shadowed, kingly as of old, raising his empurpled bulk athwart the summer sky. Passing the towers of Rupertswood, the thriving towns of Gisborne and Riddell's Creek—did I not know them in their earliest 'slab' or 'wattle-and-daub' infancy?—in two hours of extremely easy travelling, relieved by conversation and light literature, we see 'Macedon' on the board of the railway station, and find ourselves at the village so named, built on the actual mountain slope. Piles of timber of every variety, size, and shape, which can be reft from the _Eucalyptus obliqua_ or _amygdalina_, show that the ancient trade of the mountain foresters has not diminished. The chief difference I suppose to be that the splitters and sawyers are no longer compelled to lead a lonely, half-savage life, bringing the timber laboriously to Melbourne by bullock dray, and, one may well believe, indulging in a 'sdupendous and derrible shpree' after so rare a feat. They now forward their lumber by rail, live like Christians, go to church on Sundays, and read _The Argus_ daily for literary solace.

We relinquish here the aid of steam, and trust to less scientific means of locomotion. We are in the country in the sweet, true sense of the word—component portions of a company of wisely-judging town-dwellers, who by their choice of this elevated habitat have secured a weekly supply of purest mountain air, unfettered rural life, and transcendent scenery. Various vehicles are awaiting the home-returning contingent. Buggies and sociables, dog-carts, pony-carriages, and phaetons with handsome, well-matched pairs—the reins of the prize equipage in the latter division being artistically handled by a lady. Our party and luggage are swiftly deposited, a start is made along the rather steep incline—the lady with the brown horses giving us all the go-by after a while. Half an hour brings us to our destination. We leave the winding, gravelly road; turning westwards, a lodge gate admits us through the thick-ranked screen of forest trees. Conversation has somehow flagged. What is this? We have all in a moment quitted the outer world, with its still, rude furnishing—tree stumps, road metal, wood piles, and bullock teams—and entered into—shall I say it straight out?—an earthly paradise!

Prudence here nudges me. 'Come now, don't overdo it; you're really too imaginative.' Well, there may be just the least _soupçon_ of idealism, Prudence dear. I never was there, or if in a former state of existence, have forgotten details; but if aught mundane can furnish a partial presentment of Eve's favourite nook in that lost glory of our race, surely it is the dream-garden which now opens before our wondering vision.

On the lip of the forest hollow, taking studied advantage of every point of natural conformation, has been created a many-acred, garden landscape, absolutely perfect in growth, harmony, and sustained beauty of composition. The natural advantages, it must be admitted, are great, perhaps unequalled. 'The dark wall of the forest,' but partially invaded, forms a highly effective background to the cultured loveliness and delicate floral brilliancy which it overshadows. On either side, the sheltering primeval groves make effectual barrier against the withering north wind of summer, the winter's southern sea-blasts.

Cooler air and a lowered heat-register are consequent upon the altitude, when on the plain below, plant and animal nature alike suffer from the unpitying sun. Here rarely frost is seen or rude gales blow. Proudly and secure may the dwellers on Darraweit Heights look from their mountain home, across the unbroken stretch of plain and grassy down, relieved but by copses, around farm-steadings and cornfields, where the harvest sheaves are now standing in thick rows. In the dim distance are the gleaming waters of the Bay. That cluster of far-seen lights, when the shades of night have fallen, denotes the position of the metropolis. Can that misty, pale-blue apparition be a mountain-range—the austere outline of the Australian Alps? Westward lie the broad plains which stretch in unbroken level, well-nigh to the coast, two hundred miles from Melbourne. Around are companion heights and forest peaks. Still regal as of yore, though his woods have been rifled and his solitudes invaded, Macedon rears his majestic summit. The house—roomy, broad verandahed, luxuriously comfortable, more commodious than many a pretentious mansion—overlooks the 'pleasaunce,' to use the old Norman-French nomenclature, here so curiously appropriate. Grounds of pleasure they, in every sense of the word. More spacious than a garden, less extensive than a chase, the reclaimed wild is unique in form and design as in floral loveliness. It combines the colour-glories of the garden proper with the freedom, the 'fine, fresh, careless rapture,' of a mountain park.

Now for a closer description. We confess to have hung off, involuntarily, in despair of giving even a fairly accurate sketch of this adorable creation. What then does it comprise? Nearly all things that man has lacked since the primal fall. A collection of longed-for luxuries, for which the o'ertaxed heart of world-wise, world-wearied man so often sighs in vain. An abode of rest where, from morn till dewy eve, the eye lights on nought but 'things of beauty,' which are 'a joy for ever'; the ear is invaded by no sound but those of Nature's harmonies. Here, if anywhere on earth, may the soul be attuned to heavenly thoughts; here may this fallen nature of ours be purged from all save ennobling ideas, so truly Eden-like are the surroundings. Rare flowering shrubs developed by soil and irrigation into forest trees; masses of choice flowers, exhibiting in this our fiercest summer month a freshness and purity of bloom as astonishing as exquisitely beautiful.

The natural features of the locale have doubtless been exhaustively considered. Yet few horticultural artists would have seized so unerringly upon the difficult compromise between Art and Nature which has here been achieved. The winding walks through the mimic forests are lonely and sequestered as those of an enchanted wood. The sultry heat of the day's last lingering hour is effectually banished. The musical trickle and splash of the tiny waterfalls is in your ear as, book in hand, or lost in the rare luxury of an undisturbed day-dream, you saunter on. Half-hidden recesses appear, where great fronds of foreign ferns show strangely in the 'dim religious light'—'beautiful silence all around, save wood bird to wood bird calling.' Out of the sad, sordid, struggling world, far from its maddening discords and despair-tragedies, your soul seems to recognise a purer, more sublimated mental atmosphere, nearer in every sense to the empyrean, and freed from the lower needs of this house of clay. A half-sigh of regret tells of fair visions fled, even though you emerge on the lower, wider lawns gay with ribbon-borders and yet brighter flower-fantasies in newer unfolding beauty.

For lo! in this region of glamour and the long-lost kingdom of the sorcerer, the wandering knight has fallen upon a fresh enchantment. Proudest of all the engineering triumphs, the prize must be accorded to the lakelet which glitters in the lower grounds. How the calm water sleeps beneath the heavy foliage of the farther shore! How the shadows reflect the tracery of the willow tresses, the feathery shafts of the bamboo clump! How freshly green the bordering turf! There is even an island and a wooded promontory. More than all—or do my eyes deceive me?—a shallop, light as that in which

The maiden paused as if again She thought to catch the distant strain; With head upraised and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent.

By my halidome! stands she not therein—the 'Ladye of the Lake' herself,—fair as her prototype, though modernly arrayed, gracefully poising her light oar. With a smile that might lure an archangel she beckons us to embark with her on this magical mirrored water, under the charmed shadows of the golden summer eve.

Surely all this is a dream. It cannot be but illusion. We shall wake on the morrow, or next week at the farthest, to feel again the hot dust-blast as we ride across the desert plain at midnight, to mark the red moon glaring wrathfully upon the pale-hued, ghostly myall tree, that sighs despair amid the death-stricken waste.

Even so. Yet let us dream on and be happy, if but for a little space. Glide smoothly, O bark; shine tenderly, O stars, soft glimmering through the o'erhanging, rustling leafage; fan this sun-bronzed cheek, O whispering breeze, this careworn brow, till each fevered pulse be cooled. Short is our mortal span at most. How weary distant the ever-lengthening goal! But wherever Fate may guide, however stern the fray, how faint soe'er our footsteps in the onward march, this fair remembrance shall have power to refresh and reanimate our soul.

Yet another joy ere the evening, bright with songs and music, with cheerful converse and pleasant reminiscence, comes to an end. We sit amid the happy household group on the broad verandah-balcony, inhaling the cool night air, and watching the wondrous effects of light and shade produced by the late arisen moon. Masses of shrubbery stand picturesquely gloomed against the moonlit lawns; odours of invisible flowers pervade the still, pure atmosphere. Opaque as to their lower bulk, the turreted tree-tops stand in clearest illumination to their most delicate leafage against the cloudless firmament. There is no wind or any faintest breeze to stir the tenderest leaflet. All nature is so still that the tinkling murmur of the tiny rivulets, which thread the lawns and flower-beds, falls distinctly on the ear. In faint but rhythmic cadence they drip and ripple, gurgle and splash, the summer night through. The flowers in the near foreground alone border on individuality. Rose clusters and a few lily spikes are recognisable. Unlike their human kalotypes, they await the dawn to recommence their fascination. And then, in calmest contemplation, or enjoyment of low-toned interchange of thought, ends the restful, happy day. On the lower levels, in the country towns and around the metropolis, as we were subsequently assured, it was felt to be sultry and oppressively heated, while on these happy heights of Darraweit—the Simla of Victoria—the air was at once cool and fragrant, subtly exhilarating as the magic draught which renews the joys of youth.

WALKS ABROAD

Only a month to midsummer—A.D. 1883—when on this verge of the great north-western plain-ocean we fall across a section of the railway to Bourke in course of construction. Nature is here hard beset by Art. What a mighty avenue has the contractor's army cut through the primeval forest! The close-ranked trees taper, apparently, to nothingness until the horizon is reached. In the twelve miles that your sight reaches, there is not the smallest curve—no departure from the mathematically straight line. If you could see a hundred and twenty miles, you would find none greater than is visible now; for this avenue is something over that length, and is said by railway men to be one of the longest 'pieces of straight' in the world.

The still incompleted work is even now being ministered to with the strong, skilled hands of hundreds of men. All the same, the inspecting overseer is a necessary personage in the interests of the State. He it is who descries 'a bit of slumming,' however minute; who arrests progress, lest bolts be driven instead of screwed; who compels 'packing' and other minute but important details upon which the safety of the travelling public depends.

How efficiently is man aided by his humbler fellow-creatures, whom, for all that, he does by no means adequately respect or pity. See those two noble horses on their way to be hooked-on to a line of trucks! They are grand specimens of the Australian Clydesdale—immense creatures, highly fed, well groomed, and, it would appear, well trained.

They have no blinkers, and from the easy way in which, unled, they step along the edge of the embankment, where there is but a foot-wide path, lounging through the navvies without pausing or knocking against anybody, they seem fully to comprehend the peculiarities of railway life. They are attached by chains hooked to the axles of two of the six trucks, weighing some fifty or sixty tons, which require to be moved. Once in motion, of course, the draught is light, but the incline is against them, and the dead pull required to start the great weight is no joke. At the word they go into their collars with a will, the near horse, a magnificent dark bay, almost on his knees, and making the earth and metal fly at the side of the rails in his tremendous struggle to move the load. He strains every muscle in his powerful frame gallantly, unflinchingly, as if his life depended upon the task being performed and all at a word; he is neither touched nor guided.

He knew his duty a dead sure thing, And went for it then and there.

His comrade lacks apparently the same high tone of feeling, for his efforts are stimulated by an unjustifiable expression on the part of the driver, and a bang on the ribs with a stout wattle. The line of trucks moves, however; then glides easily along the rails. When the end of the 'tip' is reached both horses stop, are released, walk forward a few paces, and stand ready for the next feat of strength and handiness. This happens to be pay-day on the line, which agreeable performance takes place monthly. The manner of personal remuneration I observe to be this: the paymaster and his assistant, with portentous, ruled pay-sheets, take their seats in a trench. The executive official carries a black leather bag, out of which he produces a number of sealed envelopes variously endorsed.

Different sections are visited, and the men are called up one by one. Small delay is there in handing over the indispensable cash. 91. William Jones, £9: 12s.; 90. Thomas Robinson, £9: 4s., one day; 89. John Smith, £8: 16s., two days. Smith acquiesces with a nod, signifying that he is aware that the two days during which he was, let us say, indisposed after the last pay-day have been recorded against him, and the wage deducted. There is no question apparently as to accuracy of account. The envelopes are stuffed into trouser-pockets, mostly without being opened. A few only inspect their contents, and gaze for a second upon the crisp bank-notes and handful of silver. Some of the sums thus paid are not small—gangers and other minor officials receiving as much as twelve and thirteen shillings a day; the ordinary pick and shovel men, eight. Overtime is paid for extra, which swells the amount received. One payment for fencing subcontractors exceeded eighty pounds. Sixteen hundred pounds, all in cash, came out of the superintendent's wallet that day.

I noticed the men for the most part to be under thirty, many of them almost boyish in appearance. They were cleanly in person, well dressed and neat for the work they have to do, well fed, and not uncomfortably lodged considering the mildness of the climate. One and all they show grand 'condition,' as is evidenced by the spread of shoulder, the development of muscle, with the lightness of flank observable in all. As to nationality they are pretty evenly divided; the majority are British, but an increasing proportion of native-born Australians is observable, I am told. With regard to pre-eminence in strength and staying power the home-bred English navvy chiefly bears the palm, though I also hear that the 'ringer' in the pick and shovel brigade is a Hawkesbury man, of Cornish parents, a total abstainer, and an exemplary workman.

With such a monthly outflow of hard cash over a restricted area, it may be imagined what a trade is driven by boarding-house keepers and owners of small stores. The single men take their meals at these rude restaurants, paying from 18s. to £1 per week. The married men live in tents or roughly-constructed huts in the 'camps' nearest to their work.

I fear me that on the day following pay-day, and perhaps some others, there is gambling and often hard drinking. The money earned by strenuous labour and strict self-denial during the month is often dissipated in forty-eight hours. The boarding-house keepers are popularly accused, rightly or wrongly, of illegally selling spirits. Doubtless in many instances they do so, to the injury of public morals and the impoverishment of the families of those who are unable to resist the temptation. A heavy penalty is always enforced when proof is afforded to the satisfaction of justice; but reliable evidence of this peculiar infraction of the law is difficult to obtain, the men generally combining to shield the culprits and outswear the informer.

A few miles rearward is the terminus of this iron road that is stretching so swiftly across the 'lone Chorasmian waste.' Here converge caravans from the inmost deserts. Hence depart waggon-trains bearing merchandise in many different directions. What a medley of all the necessaries, luxuries, and superfluities of that unresting, insatiable toiler, man! They lie strewed upon the platform, or heaped in huge mounds and pyramids under the lofty goods sheds. Tea and sugar, flour and grain, hay and corn, chaff and bran, machines of a dark and doubtful character connected with dam-making and well-sinking; coils of wire, cans of nails, hogsheads of spirits, casks of wine, tar, paint, oil, clothing, books, rope, tools, windlasses, drums of winding gear, waggons, carts, and buggies all new and redolent of paint and varnish; also timber and woolpacks, and, as the auctioneer says, hundreds of articles too numerous to mention. What a good customer Mr. Squatter is, to be sure, while there is even the hope of grass, for to him are most of these miscellaneous values consigned, and by him or through him will they be paid for.

We are now outside of agriculture. The farmer, as such, has no abiding-place here. That broad, dusty trail leads, among other destinations, to the 'Never Never' country, where ploughs are not, and the husbandman is as impossible as the dodo.

Perhaps we are a little hasty in assuming that everything we see at the compendious depôt is pastorally requisitioned. That waggon that creaks wailingly as it slowly approaches, with ten horses, heavy laden though apparently empty, proclaims yet another important industry. Look into the bottom and you will see it covered with dark red bricks, a little different in shape from the ordinary article. On a closer view they have a metallic tinge. They are _ingots of copper_, of which some hundreds of tons come weekly from the three mines which send their output here. As for pastoral products, the line of high-piled, wool-loaded waggons is almost continuous. As they arrive they are swiftly unloaded into trucks, and sent along a special side-line reserved for their use. Flocks of fat sheep and droves of beeves, wildly staring and paralysed by the first blast of the steam-whistle, arrive, weary and wayworn. At break of day they are beguiled into trucks, and within six-and-thirty hours have their first (and last) sight of the metropolis.

In the meantime herds of team-horses, bell-adorned, make ceaseless, not inharmonious jangling; sunburnt, bearded teamsters, drovers, shepherds, mingled with navvies, travellers, trim officials, tradesfolk, and the usual horde of camp-followers, male and female, give one the idea of an annual fair held upon the border of an ancient kingdom before civilisation had rubbed the edges from humanity's coinage, and obliterated so much that was characteristic in the process.

I stood on the spot an hour before daybreak on the following morn. Hushed and voiceless was the great industrial host. Around and afar stretched the waste, broadly open to the moonbeams, which softened the harsh outline of forest thicket and arid plain. The stars, that mysterious array of the greater and the lesser lights of heaven, burned in the cloudless azure—each planet flashing and scintillating, each tiny point of light 'a patine of pure gold.' The low croon of the wild-fowl, as they swam and splashed in the river-reach, was the only sound that caught the ear. Glimmering watch-fires illumined the scattered encampment. For the moment one felt regretful that the grandeur of Night and Silence should be invaded by the vulgar turmoil of the coming day.

One of the aids to picturesque effect, though not generally regarded as artistic treatment, is the clearing and formation of roads through a highland district. Such a region is occasionally reached by me, and never traversed without admiration. The ways are surrounded by wooded hills, some of considerable altitude, on the sides and summits of which are high piled

rocks, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world.

But here the road-clearing, rarely supplemented by engineering disfigurement, produces the effect of a winding, thickly-grown avenue. On either side stand in close order the frenelas, casuarinas, and eucalypts of the forest primeval, with an occasional kurrajong or a red-foliaged, drought-slain callitris, 'like to a copper beech among the greens.' The floor of this forest-way is greenly carpeted with the thick-growing spring verdure, a stray tiny streamlet perhaps crossing at intervals, while leaflets of the severed saplings are bursting through in pink or dark-red bunches. In the far distance rises a dark-blue range, towering over the dim green ocean of forest, and marking the contrast sharply between the land of hill and dale and the monotonous levels of the lower country.

With all the capriciousness of Australian seasons the springtime of this year has shown a disposition to linger—waving back with grateful showers and dew-cooled nights and mornings the too impatient summer. Still is the grass brightly green of hue, the flower unfaded. The plague of dust has been stayed again and again by the welcome rainfall. There has never been more than one day when the winds have risen to a wintry bleakness. But who recks of so trifling a discomfort from such a cause, and will not King Sol be avenged upon us ere Christmastide be passed—ere the short, breezeless nights of January are ended?

What contrasts and discrepancies Dame Nature sanctions hereabouts in the formation of her feathered families! That soaring eagle, so far above us heavenward, in the blue empyrean, how true a monarch among birds is he! Now he stoops, circling lower and yet lower still, with moveless outstretched pinion and searching gaze that blenches not before the sun's fiercest rays. The tiny blue-throated wren perches fearlessly near, and hops with delicate feet from stone to stone amid the sheltering ferns. That downy white-breasted diver, a ball of feathers in the clear pool of the mountain streamlet, now with a ripple become invisible—the devoted pelican, with sword-like beak and pouch of portentous dimensions. Lo! there sits he with his fellows by the edge of a shallowing anabranch, or revels with them in the evil days of drought upon the dying fish which in hundreds are cast upon the shore. As I tread the homeward path, the skylark springs upward from the waving grass; trilling his simple lay, he mounts higher and yet higher, no unworthy congener, though inferior as a songster to his British namesake. In the adjacent leafless trees is a flight of gaunt, dark-hued, sickle-beaked birds. Travellers and pilgrims they, relatives of earth's oldest, most sacred bird races. Behold a company of the ibis from far far wilds. Their presence here is ominous and boding. They are popularly supposed to migrate coastwards only when the great lakes of the interior begin to fail. This, however, is not an unfailing test of a dry season, as in long-dead summers I have had occasion to note. They are not too dignified, in despite of their quasi-sacred hierophantic traditions, to eat grasshoppers. As these enemies alike of farmers and squatters are now despoiling every green thing, let us hope that the ibis contingent may have appetites proportioned to the length of their bills and the duration of their journey. A white variety of the species is occasionally noted, but he is rare in comparison with the darker kind.

By the creek bank, in the early morn, the well-remembered note of the kingfisher, so closely associated with our youth, sounds close and clear. Yonder he sits upon the dead limb of the overhanging tree—greenish blue, purple-breasted as of yore. Stonelike he plunges into the deep pool, reappearing with a small fish or allied water-dweller. More beautiful is his relative the lesser kingfisher, metallic in sheen, with crimson breast—flashing like a feathered gem through the river shades, or burning like a flame spot against the mouldering log on which he sits. Of palest fawn colour, with long black filament at the back of his head, that graceful heron, the 'nankeen bird' of the colonist, is also of the company; the white-necked, dark-blue crane, and that black-robed river pirate the cormorant. While on the bird question, surely none are more delicately bright, more exquisitely neat of plumage and flawless of tone, than the Columba tribe. Ancient of birth are they as 'the doves from the rocks,' and principally for their conjugal fidelity have been honoured, by the choice of Mr. Darwin, as exemplars in working out experiments connected with the origin of species. In western wanderings I find five varieties of the pigeon proper. The beautiful bronze-wing, the squatter, and the crested pigeon. Besides these, two varieties of the dove are among the most exquisitely lovely of feathered creatures. Both are very small—one scarcely larger than a sparrow. The 'bronze-wing' is too well known to need description. The 'squatter pigeon' is a plainer likeness, with a spot of white on either cheek, and, as its name implies, is unwilling to fly up, being struck down occasionally with the whip or a short throwing stick in the act of rising. The crested pigeon, the most graceful and attractive of the family, is from its tameness and extreme cleanliness of habit most suitable for the aviary. In colouring, the breast is a delicate slate-grey tinged with faintest pink as it rises towards the wing muscles, the front wings barred with dark, pencilled cross-lines, the larger feathers of the extremities a burnished green, and the last row having feathers of a vivid dark pink or crimson. A crest and elongated pointed tail give character and piquancy to the whole appearance. As they fly up, a whirring noise, not unlike that of the partridge, is heard. When the male bird swells his chest and lowers his wings in defiance or ostentation, he produces a sound not unlike that of his long-civilised congener. They will lay and hatch in captivity, and I observed in an aviary one of the females sitting on her eggs complacently in a herring tin.

FROM TUMUT TO TUMBERUMBA

It was rather too far to walk this time; besides, the days are shortening. From Tumut to Tumberumba is forty-five miles all out, and a bad road. At breakfast-time we had no earthly idea of how or where to get a horse. A friend in need tided over that difficulty. So, mounted upon a clever mountain-bred hackney, we cleared the town about 9.30 A.M., and headed for the Khyber Pass (in a small way), up which the road winds south-easterly. The time was short, but we meant going steadily, if not fast, all through, and trusted, as we have done 'with a squeeze' full many a time and oft before, to 'save the light.'

Buggies are comfortable vehicles when roads are good and horses fresh. You can carry your 'things' with you, and, in cases of entertainments, come out with more grandeur and effect than if on horseback. But give me the saddle, 'haud juventutis immemor.' It brings back old times; and certainly for people whose appearance is in danger of being compromised by a tendency to increased weight, riding is the more healthful exercise. Besides, one always feels as if adventures were possible to cavaliers. Wheels circumscribe one too narrowly. You must start early. You had better not drive late. Your stopping-places must be marked and labelled as it were. You are _affiché_, for good or evil.

Now, once started on a fine morning, on a good horse, a 'lazy ally' feeling seems to pervade the surroundings and the landscape. If you meet wayside flowers, you may linger to gather them. You may avail yourself of chance invitations, secure that you can 'pull up time' late or early. As you sail away, if your horse walks well and canters easily (as does this one), you insensibly think of 'A day's ride, a life's romance.' Is that romance yet over? It may be. We are 'old enough to know better.' But still we were quite sure when we started that we should meet with an adventure or two.

First of all, we saw two young people in a buggy, driving towards the mountain land which lay eastward in a cloud-world. There was something in the expression of their backs as they passed us which suggested an early stage of the Great Experiment. The bride was fair, with, of course, a delicate complexion—that goes without saying in this part of the world. The bridegroom was stalwart and manly looking. Presently we were overtaken by another young lady of prepossessing appearance, with two attendant cavaliers, well mounted and evidently belonging to the same party. Bound for some miles along the same lonely but picturesque road, we asked permission to join the party, and fared on amicably. Together we breasted the 'Six-Mile Hill,' and at length emerged upon the alpine plateau, which for many miles lies between the towns before mentioned.

Here the scene changed—the climate, the soil, the timber, the atmosphere. Eastward lay the darkly-brooding Titans of Kiandra, snow-capped and dazzling, the peaks contrasting with their darksome rugged sides, the blue and cloudless sky. Beneath our feet, beside and around us, lay the partially-thawed snow of Saturday's fall, in quantities which would have delighted the hearts of certain children of our acquaintance.

Snow in the abstract, 'beautiful snow,' is a lovely nature-wonder, concerning which many things have been sweetly sung and said. But in the concrete, after a forty-eight hours' thaw, it is injurious to roads, in that it causes them to be 'sloppy' and in a sense dangerous to horse and rider. Given a red, soapy soil, somewhat stony, sticky, and irregularly saturated, it must be a very clever steed, the ascents, descents, and sidelings being continuous, that doesn't make a mistake or two. All the same, the girl on the well-bred chestnut horse kept sailing away, up hill, down hill, and along sidelings steep as the roof of a house; the whole thing (to quote Whyte-Melville) 'done with the graceful ease of a person who is playing upon a favourite instrument while seated in an armchair.' We kept in sight the second detachment, coming up in time to bid farewell as they turned off to the residence of the bride's family, where there was to be a dance in celebration of the auspicious event. We separated with my unspoken benison upon so promising a pair.

The wedding guests having departed, we paced on for half-a-dozen miles until a break in the solemn forest, like a Canadian clearing, disclosed the welcome outline of the half-way hostelry. Here were there distinct traces of the austerity of the patriarch Winter, so mild of mien on the lower levels. Half a foot of snow lay on the roofs of barn and stable, while the remnant of a gigantic snow-image, reduced to the appearance of a quartz boulder, lay in front of the house.

A bare half-hour for refection was all that could be spared here, and as our steed ate his corn with apparently the same zest that characterised our consumption of lunch, it was time well spent. Boot and saddle again.

'But first, good mine host, what is the exact distance? The sun is low; the road indifferent rough; the night unfriendly for camping out.'

'Fifteen mile if you take the "cut"; eighteen by the road, every yard of it.'

'We mistrust short "cuts,"' say we, consulting the watch, which indicates 3.30 P.M.; 'they have lured us into difficulties ere now. But three miles make a tempting deduction from the weary end of the journey. We cannot miss it. Thanks; of that I am aware. Turn to the left, opposite the second house, cross the creek, turn to the right, and follow straight on.'

Of course. Just so. The old formula. How many a time have we cursed it and the well-intentioned giver, by all our gods, when stumbling, hours after, trackless, over an unknown country in darkness and despair. Reflected that by merely following the high road we should have been warmly housed, cheered, and fed long before. However, unusual enterprise or the mountain air induces us to try the short cut aforesaid; only this time, of course, we turn to the left, and immediately perceive ('facilis descensus Averni') that the path leads into a tremendous glen, with sides like the roof of a house. We dismount, as should all prudent riders not after cattle, and lead down our active steed. At the foot of the cañon is a hurrying, yellow-stained mountain stream. Dark-red bluffs, undermined and washed to the gravel, exposed in all directions. 'Worked and abandoned' is plainly visible to the eye of the initiated upon the greater portion of the locality; but still lingering last are miners' cottages and a garden here and there. Children, of course. Ruddy of hue and sturdy, they abound like the fruits of a colder clime in these sequestered vales.

'What is the name of this—place?' say we guardedly to a blue-eyed boy, good-humouredly nursing a fractious baby.

'Upper Tumberumba,' he returns answer proudly.

'And the road to the town?'

'Cross the creek and follow down for six mile, and there you are.'

The road on the far side of the violent little creek follows that watercourse, and is fairly made. Bridges are the main consideration, for there seem to be _trois cent milles_ water-races, some too deep to fall into scathless; and 'beauty born of murmuring sound' must be plentiful, judging from the rushing, gushing, leaping, and tumbling waters before and around us.

This is a land of sluices, of head-races and tail-races, evidently, where 'first water' and 'second,' dam sites, and creek claims, with all the unintelligible phraseology of 'water diverted from its natural course for gold-mining purposes,' were once in high fashion and acceptance. As the short winter day darkens without warning, we trust that the bridges are sound, more especially as we have just cantered over one with a hole in it as big as a frying-pan.

One advantage secured by our adoption of the 'cut' is patently that of drier footing, the which causes our steed to amble with cheerfulness and alacrity. The night comes on apace, but there is still sufficient light to distinguish the roadway from obstacles and pitfalls. When the well-known sound of the water-mill breaks the stillness, light and voices betray the proximity of a township, and Tumberumba proper is reached.

When we quit Tumberumba in the early morn for the return journey to Tumut, the air is charged with vapour, the mists lie heavily upon the hills. The low grey sky, the drizzle and the damp which pervade all nature, suggest 'The Lewis' or other Hebridean region. One can fully realise the sort of weather chiefly prevailing when the King of Bora uttered his pathetic farewell 'to his little Sheilah,' returning to his desolate dwelling alone, to distract himself as best he might with the company of the simple (but not vulgar) fishermen and a reasonable consumption of alcohol.

This opens up to the contemplative mind the whole vast 'Grief Question, and how people bear it.' What volumes might be written about the sorrows of the bereaved, the forsaken men or women!—'all the dull, deep sorrow, the constant anguish of patience.' How the slow torture drags on, varied only by pangs of acute mental pain—the throbs, the rackings, the utterly unendurable torment—what time the agonised spirit elects to quit its earthly tenement and face the dread unknown, rather than longer suffer the too dreadful present! So the soldier, captured by Indians, shoots himself to escape the inevitable torture. Also in this connection regarding anodynes, distractions, solaces, and medicaments, the which can be used harmlessly by one class of patients, but in no wise by others.

'An early start makes easy stages,' saith the seer. So it comes to pass that soon after mid-day we find ourselves at the Bago Cabaret, after which we incontinently dismount, fully minded to bait, after four or five hours' battling with the stony, sticky, slippery sidelings of the track. The good horse well deserves a feed. Also, thanks to the keenness of the atmosphere, we experience a steady prompting towards luncheon.

The horse is led away, and in the parlour we find a fire, a welcome, and agreeable society. We learn that the wedding dance duly took place, well attended, and a great success—our fair informants having been there and danced till daylight, after which they walked home a trifle of five miles, which, with snow still on the ground, showed, in our opinion, praiseworthy pluck and determination; a convincing proof, were any needed, that the Anglo-Saxon race has not degenerated in this part of the world. 'The reverse if anything,' as the irascible old gentleman in the hunting-field made answer after a fall, when it was politely inquired of him 'whether he was hurt.'

But pleasures are like poppies spread—

fair yet fleeting in the very constitution of them; so an hour having quickly passed, much refreshed in sense and spirit, we tackle the twenty-six very long miles, in our estimation, which divide us from the fair Tumut Valley. Still lowers the day. The mists shut out the snow-crowned peaks. The forest is saturated with moisture, which ever and anon drops down like a shower-bath when the breeze stirs the leaves briskly. It is not a gala day, exactly. But oh, how good for the country!

What beneficent phenomena are the early and the latter rain! As we look downwards we can see thousands of tiny clover leaflets, none of your _Medicago sativa_, with its yellow flower and deadly burr, but the true, sweet-scented English meadow plant, fragrant in spring, harmless, fattening, and sustaining to a wonderful degree, whenever it can command the moisture which is its fundamental necessity of growth. In days to come, every yard of this grand primeval woodland will be matted with it and the best English grasses, not forgetting that prime exotic the prairie grass (_Bromus unioloides_).

We are not aware whether there has been an extensive forest reserve proclaimed hereabouts, but in the interests of the State there should be. These grand, pillar-like timber trees, straight as gun-barrels, a hundred feet to the lowest branch, the growth of centuries, should not be abandoned to the bark-stripper, the ring-barker, the indiscriminate feller of good and bad timber alike. There is material here—gum, messmate, mountain ash, every variety of eucalyptus—to serve for the sawpits, the railway bridges, and sleepers of centuries to come, if properly guarded and supervised. And it behoves the elected guardians of the public rights to permit no private monopoly or forestalling; to see to the matter in time. For many an unremembered year have these glorious groves been slowly maturing. The carelessness of a comparatively short period may permit their destruction.

The eucalypts, as a family, have been subjected to undeserved contumely and scorn as trees which produce leaves but do not furnish shade, which are 'withered and wild in their attire' as regards umbrageous covering. All depends upon the locality, the altitude, the consequent rainfall. Here the frondage is thick yet delicate in the older trees, while among the younger growth the habit is almost as dense and drooping as that of the _Acmena pendula_, which many of them resemble in the mass of pink-grey leafage. I notice, too, the beautiful blackwood or hickory of the colonists (_Acacia melanoxylon_), though not in great abundance nor of unusual size. Nothing, for instance, like the specimens near Colac, Western Victoria, or between Port Fairy and Portland. And scrutinising closely the different genera, we discovered a tree which bore a curious resemblance to a hybrid between the eucalyptus and the said blackwood. The leaves were thick, blunt-edged, and singularly like the blackwood. The bark was like that of the mimosa on the stem and branches, but roughened towards the butt. The blossom—for it was just out—was unmistakably that of the eucalyptus tribe. We had never met with the specimen before and it puzzled us. It is locally known as the 'water gum.' The true mimosa and the wild cherry (_Exocarpus cupressiformis_) were common—this last of no great size; the wild hop occasionally. The English briar was not absent—as to which we foresee, for this rich soil, trouble in the future.

Lonely and hushed—in a sense awful—is this elevated region. The solitude becomes oppressive as one rides mile after mile along the silent highway, nor sees nor hears a sign of life save the note of the infrequent wood-thrush or the cry of the soaring eagle. But lo! the ruins of an ancient stock-yard! Easily recognised as belonging to the hoar antiquity of a purely pastoral _régime_. The selector-farmers do not put up such massive corner posts or cyclopean gateways. Not for them and their slight enclosures is the rush of a hundred wild six-year-old bullocks, with a due complement of 'ragers,' given every now and again to carry a whole side of the yard away. This was the station stock-yard, doubtless, what time 'Bago Jemmy' and other stock-riders of the period acquired a colony-wide reputation for desperate riding (and equally hard drinking) amid these break-neck gullies and hillsides. They are gone; the wild riders, the wild cattle. Even the rails of the stock-yard have been utilised for purposes wide of their original intention. 'Their memorial is perished with them,' all save the huge corner and gate-posts, which, embedded four feet in the ground, are regarded as difficult and expensive to remove, and of no particular use, ornament, or value when uprooted. So they remain, possibly to puzzle future antiquarians, like the round towers of the Green Isle.

IN THE THROES OF A DROUGHT

This is my last ramble for a while through the plains and forests of the North-West; would that it had been made under more pleasing circumstances. 'How shall I endure to behold the destruction of my kindred?' The quotation is apposite. All pastoralists are akin to me by reason of old memories; and if Rain comes not in this month of March, or even in April, their destruction, financially, seems imminent.

What a weary time it is in the 'plains dry country,' whither my wandering steps have strayed at present. Far as eye can see, there is no herb nor grass nor living plant amid the death-stricken waste; not even the hard-visaged shrub—the attenuated, closely-pruned twigs of the salsolaceous plant. Earlier in the season a large proportion of the stock were removed, and were agisted at a high cost. The remainder were left to live or die as the season may turn out. The station-holders have at length become reckless, and have ceased to take trouble about the matter.

How hard it seems! For years the energetic, sanguine pastoralist shall invest every pound he has made, and more besides, in stud animals of high value, in judicious improvements, from which he is reasonably certain in a few years to receive splendid interest for the capital invested. When his plans are matured, when the improvement of his stock is demonstrated, will not his fame redound to the furthest limits of Australia? Eventually he will be able to revisit or for the first time behold Europe. All imaginable triumphs will be his. Rich, fortunate, envied, he will be amply repaid for the toils, the sacrifices, the privations of his earlier years.

'Then comes a frost, a killing frost.' Well, not exactly that, though frosts of considerable severity do occur, hot as is the climate; but it 'sets in dry.' No rain comes after spring; none during summer; none in autumn; curious to remark, none even in winter—except, of course, insignificant or partial showers. That seems strange, does it not? Instead of from sixteen to twenty-six inches of rain in twelve months, there fall but six—even less perhaps. What is the consequence of all this? The creeks, the dams, the rivers dry up; the grass perishes; what little pasturage there may be, is eaten up by the famishing flocks.

During the summer it does not appear that the evil will be of such magnitude. The stock look pretty well. There is water; and the diet of dust, leaves, and sticks, with unlimited range, and no shepherds to bother, does not seem to disagree with them. Then the autumn comes, with shorter days; longer, colder nights. Still no rain! The sheep, the cattle, even the wild horses, begin now to feel the cruel pinch of famine. The weakest perish; the strong become weak; day by day numbers of the enfeebled victims are unable to rise after the weakening influences of the chilly night. The water-holes become muddy; defiled and poisoned with the carcases of animals which have had barely strength to drag themselves to the tempting water, over many a weary mile, have drunk their fill, and then lacked power to ascend the steep bank or extricate themselves from the clinging mud.

What a time of misery and despair is this for the luckless proprietor! He sees before his eyes the thousands and tens of thousands of delicately woolled sheep, in whose breeding and multiplication he has taken so much pains,—on behalf of which he has studied treatises, and gone into all the history of the merino family since the days of ancient Spanish Cabanas, Infantados, Escurials, what not,—converted into a crowd of feeble skeletons, perishing in thousands before his eyes without hope or remedy, save in the advent of rain, which, as far as appearances go, may come next year or the year after that.

Is it possible to imagine a condition more melancholy, more hopeless, more calculated to drive to suicide the hapless victim of circumstances, beyond his—beyond any man's control? It has had the effect ere now. The torturing doubt, the hope deferred, _has_ resulted in the dread, irrevocable step. And who can find it in his heart to condemn?

In a season like this, every one can realise the benefit of railways. How would these inland wastes be supplied were it not for the all-powerful steam-king? The dwellers hereabouts would scarcely have bread to eat; the necessaries of life would be enhanced in price; forage would be unattainable, except at prices which would resemble feeding them upon half-crowns. Talking to a teamster the other day about the signs of the times, I remarked that he and his comrades were compelled to carry quantities of forage with which to support their horses, while delivering loading.

'We'll have to carry a tank soon,' replied the tall, sun-bronzed Australian, 'if the season holds on this way. The water-holes are getting that low and choked up with dead stock as they're neither fit for man or beast to drink; and we lose horses too.'

'How is that?'

'Well, the heat, or the dust, or the rubbish in the chaff kills 'em. I can't rightly tell what it is; but these three teams lost five horses in one day—dropped down dead on that terrible hot Sunday.'

I did not wonder. There were the upstanding, well-conditioned Clydesdales walking along with their loads, gamely enough, but in a perfect cloud of dust. Above them the burning sun; around, the sandy, herbless waste. Different surroundings from those of the misty Northern Isles, from which their ancestors, near or remote, had come! Ponderous, heavy of hoof and hair, it seemed wonderful that they can do the work and travel the immense distances they do, under conditions so alien to their natural state. I inquired of their driver, himself an example of gradual adaptation to foreign habitude, whether the medium-sized, lighter-boned draught horses did not stand the eternal sun and drought better than their larger brethren. He thought they did. 'Wanted less food, and not so liable to inflammation or leg weariness.' I should be disposed to think that the Percheron horse, of which valuable breed several sires have lately been imported to Melbourne from Normandy, would be suitable for the long, hot, waggon journeys of the interior—a clean-limbed, active, spirited horse, immensely powerful for his size, easily kept, and more likely 'to come again' after exceptional fatigue. But I know from experience that the Australian horse in _every class_, from the Shetland pony to the Shire, is the strongest, most active, and most enduring animal that the world can show. And I hesitate in the assertion that by any other horse can he be profitably superseded.

As one traverses the arid waste, from time to time a whirlwind starts up within sight; a sand-pillar raises itself, contrasting strangely with the clear blue ether. Darkly smoke-coloured, furiously plunging about the base, it gradually fines off into the upper sky if you follow it sufficiently long.

'People doubt,' said the Eastern traveller to his guide, 'what produces those sand-pillars which so suddenly appear before us.'

'There is _no doubt_ about the matter, praise be to Allah!' quoth the Bedouin. 'It is perfectly well known, say our holy men, that they are (_Djinns_) evil spirits.'

Is it so? and do they come to dance exultingly amid the stricken waste, over ruined hopes, dying herds and flocks—to mock at the vain adventurer who deemed that he could alter natural conditions and wrest fame and fortune from the ungenial wilds? Who may tell? They can scarcely afford a good omen. The unimaginative boundary-rider regards them as a 'sign of a dry season.' More likely, one would say, they are its result. In a long-continued drought the production of dust must needs be favourable to the action of whirlwinds.

The oppressiveness of the summer is more felt in March, perhaps, than in any other month of the year. The hot weather has tired out the bodily power of resistance. One yearns and pines for a change; if it comes not, an intolerable weariness, a painful languor, renders life for all not in robust health hard indeed to bear. Gradually relief arrives in the added length and coolness of the nights. Rain does not come, but the mosquitoes disappear. The dawn is almost chilly; the system is refreshed and invigorated. With the first heavy fall of rain a decided change of temperature takes place. In those happier sections of the continent, where this is the first cool month, the weather is all that can be wished. 'Ces jours cristals d'automne,' so much beloved by Madame de Sevigné at Petits Rochets, are reproduced. The friendly fireside—emblem of domestic happiness—awaits but the first week of April to be once more kindled. The plough is seen again upon the fallow fields. The birds chirp, as if with fresh hope, from the reviving woodlands. Nothing is needed but a rainfall for the full happiness of man and his humbler fellow-creatures. May His mercy, so often shown at sorest need, not fail us now!

From what road-reports come across me, I gather that typhoid fever is no infrequent visitor when the water becomes scarce, when sources are polluted, and the carcases of the rotting stock lie strewed over larger areas. Medical men seem to be at odds about the generation of this dire disease. Fever germs, bacilli, bacteria, water pollution, direct contagion,—all seem to have their advocates. It seems probable that towards the end of a drought the very air, uncleansed by shower and storm, becomes charged with disease germs. As to water pollutions, sometimes the disease is at its fiercest before a heavy fall of rain, to disappear almost magically afterwards. At other times the rain seems to intensify the epidemic. The dry air of the interior, however hot, has always been thought to be antagonistic to the disease. It has not proved so of late years. Occasionally there is an outbreak of exceptional virulence in some particular locality; but nothing has hitherto been elicited as to the special conditions tending to produce or to aggravate the disease.

At and around Bourke matters seem approaching a crisis. Much of the 'made' water on the back blocks has failed of late, and the stock have been brought into the 'frontage,' there to drink their fill, doubtless, but to be utterly deprived of food as represented by the ordinary herbage. If rain does not come within a month, dire destruction, worse and more extensive than in any previous drought, _must_ take place; and yet since 1866 I have so often heard the same prediction, and it was _never_ fulfilled. In the meantime man can do nought but hope and pray, if faith be his in the Divine Disposer of events. In days to come, a comprehensive system of water supply may alleviate much suffering and prevent misfortune; but though water may be secured and stored, the sparse herbage of the boundless plain, the red-soiled forest, cannot be so treated. Unless the rainfall be timely in these far solitudes, no human energy or forecast can avert disaster.

A SPRING SKETCH

In the saddle once more, and away for a week's journeying o'er the wide Australian Waste! The springtime is again with us. The clouds have dispensed their priceless moisture, albeit not all too generously. The level sun-rays shine clear over leagues of bright-hued turf and greenwood free. The pale, dawn-streaked azure was cloudless; the morning air keenly crisp. All nature is now jubilant. The voice of Spring, faint in tone but wildly sweet, is audible to the lover of nature. The cry of birds, the rustling leaves in the tall trees that shade the winding river, and the green waste of dew-besprinkled herbage, awaken thoughts of long-dead years—of the season of youth—of the lost Aïdenn of the heart's freshness.

That Paradise we shall regain nevermore, ah me! But we must do our devoir as best we may in these days of the aftertime. Many a mile must be passed before nightfall, and we are a little short of time as usual; but our steed is fleet and free, the livelong day is before us, and the experienced cavalier can cover a long long stretch of woodland and plain before latest twilight without distressing the good horse either.

So we follow the winding waggon-tracks at only a moderate pace; observing as we go, in plant-and bird-life, floweret and herb, visible signs of development since our last acquaintance with them. The beautiful bronze-winged pigeon flits shyly through the thickets to her nest with its two white eggs, not unlike those of the tame congener. In the brook-ponds or marshy shallows the blue heron, the pied ibis, and the white spoonbill are wading or lounging, with the listless elegance of their tribe. The gigantic 'brolgan' or 'Native Companion,' tallest of Australian cranes, is to be seen in companies, ever and anon mirthfully conversing or 'dancing high and disposedly' before his ranked-up comrades.

For all manner of wild-fowl this is the 'close season.' Marauding teamsters, and others who should know better, now and then disregard the law; but on the whole the statute is enforced. A season of rest permits the black duck and the wood-duck, that smallest and most elegant of geese (for such is the _Anas boscha_ in scientific nomenclature), the shoveller, the teal, the imposing mountain-duck, to rear their broods in peace.

While we are environed by that darksome eucalyptus, the sombre 'iron-bark' of the colonists, the mournful balāh, and the cypress-seeming pine, no token of the advancing spring greets us. 'A fringe of softer green' may brighten the pine wood, but as yet the touch of the magician's wand is unheeded. But as we speed towards the noonday, and the great plains of the North-West spread limitless before us, the frondage changes. The monotony of the endless champaign is broken by clumps and belts of timber. And amid these welcome oases of leafage might a botanist hold revel and delight his inmost soul. There is a sprinkling of casuarina and pine, but these copses are crowded with new and strangely-beautiful shrubs. First in pride of place comes the wilgah, or native willow, a brightly-green umbrageous tree, with a short upright stem and drooping salicene festoons, evenly cropped at the precise distance that the stock can reach from the ground. There are few lawns or meadows in Britain that would not be improved by the transplantation of the wilgah from these untended gardens of the wild. The mogil (native orange) is a dense-growing shrub, not wholly unlike the prince of fruit- and flower-bearers; to complete the resemblance, it is possessed of a fruit resembling in appearance only, faintly perhaps in perfume, the European original. The leopard-tree, with spotted bark, has for a comrade the beef-wood, with blood-red timber, almost bleeding to the remorseless axe. The glaucous-foliaged myall, 'intense and soulful-eyed,' with its swaying arms and drooping habit, looks like a tree out of its mind. It boasts, with its more sturdy cousin, the yarran, a strangely-powerful violet perfume. These, with thorn acacias and delicate fringed-leaved mimosas, seem ready to burst into flower with the next calm tropical day. An early-blooming acacia has made a commencement; a shower of fresh, golden sprays illumines its tender greenery.

Here our pretty, pink-legged, pink-eyed flock-pigeons, with their crests raised, and their pointed tails elevated as they perch, rejoin us. The grey and crimson galāh parrots are still numerous. They have surely delegated their nursery duties. They must pair and multiply, but, like fashionable parents, manage to enjoy the pleasures of society notwithstanding.

The day is still young. The great flocks of merino sheep, running loose in paddocks enclosed only by wire fences, have not arisen to commence their daily round of nibbling. About five thousand are encamped near the corner of an intersecting gate. Near them are the remnants of a leading aboriginal family, in the shape of twenty or thirty 'red forester' kangaroos, popularly called 'soldiers.' These curiously-coloured marsupials are so bright of hue that one wonders whether they gradually acquired the colour (_pace_ Darwin) so as to assimilate with the red earth of the plains over which they bound. They do not trouble themselves to go far out of my way—they simply depart from the road; and in calmly crossing a track one of the flying does 'takes off' a yard before she comes to it, and clearing the whole breadth without an effort, sends herself over about twenty feet without disturbing her balance.

Early as the season is, long trains of wool-waggons, drawn by bullocks or horses, are slowly crossing the plains. They carry from thirty to fifty bales each, much skill of its kind being required to secure the high-piled loads in position. At one rude hostelry I counted not less than twelve bullock-waggons so laden. The teams—at that moment unyoked, and feeding in a bend of the creek, from fourteen to eighteen in each—made up a drove of nearly two hundred head. Their bells sound like the chimes of a dozen belfries, pealing in contest. On the waggons, drawn up with shafts towards the railway terminus, were, say, four hundred bales of wool, representing a value of not less than six thousand pounds. Each bale bore in neat legend the brand of the station, with the weight, number, and class thereon imprinted, as 'J.R., Swan Creek—No. 1120—First combing.'

The last month enjoyed at least one sufficing fall of rain, not less than two inches by the rain-gauge. It is hard to cause these salsiferous wastes 'to blossom like the rose'; but a result closely analogous invariably follows rainfall. Along the watercourses, the alluvial flats and horseshoe 'bends' are ankle high with wild trefoil and quick-springing grasses. The cotton-bush and salt-bush, perennial fodder plants often most 'wild and withered' of attire even when fairly nutritious to the flocks, put forth shoots and spikelets of a tender appearance. All Nature, strange as her vestments may be, under a southern sky, is full of the beauty and tenderness of the earth's jubilee, joyous Spring.

But surely we are impinging on the domain of the giant Blunderbore, falsely alleged to have been slain by the irreverent Jack, prototype of the modern 'larrikin' in his turbulent denial of authority. Yea, and yonder plain is his poultry-yard. Hither come his cochins and dark brahmas to be fed on corn as large as bullets, with tenpenny nails by way of tonic. They walk softly along, lowering their lofty heads to the earth, running too, occasionally, like dame Partlet, after a grasshopper, and diversifying their attitudes like Chanticleer. We count them, twenty-six in all, gigantic fowls able to pick the hat from your head. They are emus! See the quarry, and neither hound nor hunter! When, lo! from out the further belt of timber rides forth a band of horsemen. They are shearers, bound on a holiday excursion. The preceding day has been wet, and the supply of sheep consequently short. All are well mounted, and look picturesque as they burst into a sudden gallop, and every horse does its best to overtake the (figuratively) flying troop, now setting to for real work. The pace is too good for the majority; but one light weight, mounted on a long-striding chestnut, that probably has ere now carried off provincial prizes, is closing on the apteryx contingent. Another quarter of a mile—yes—no—by George!—yes. He has collared the leader; he crosses and recrosses the troop. Had he but a stockwhip or lasso he could wind either round one of the long necks so invitingly stretched. But he has proved the superior speed of his horse. Such a trial was said in old days to have sent to the training-stable one of Sydney's still quoted race-horses. There is no need to kill aimlessly one of the inoffensive creatures; and he pays an unconscious tribute to the modern doctrine of mercy by drawing off and rejoining his comrades.

Further still our roving commission has carried us; we have halted at the homestead of a great pastoral estate. A cattle-station in the days when small outlay in huts and yards was fitting and fashionable, now it has been 'turned into sheep,' as the phrase goes. A proprietor of advanced views has purchased the place, less for the stock than for the broad acres, and the improvement Genie has worked his will upon the erstwhile somnolent wilderness.

The change has been sweeping and comprehensive. The vast area of nearly half a million of acres has been enclosed and subdivided by the all-pervading wire-fencing. A couple of hundred thousand merinos, with a trifle of forty thousand half-grown lambs, now graze at large, without a shepherd nearer than Queensland. A handsome, well-finished house stands by the artificial sheet of water, formed by the big dam which spans the once meagre 'cowall' or anabranch of the main stream.

A windmill-pump irrigates the well-kept garden, where oranges are in blossom and ripening their golden globes at the same time. Green peas and cauliflowers, maturing early, appeal to a lower æstheticism. The stables, the smithy, the store, the men's huts, the carpenter's shop, form a village of themselves; not a small one either.

A quarter of a mile northward, backed up by a dense clump of pines, stands the woolshed, an immense building with apparently acres of roofing and miles of battened floors, £5000 to £6000 representing the cost. It is now in full blast. We walk over with the centurion to whom that particularly delicate commission, the captaincy of 'the shed,' has been entrusted. It is by no means an ordinary sight. We ascend a few steps at the 'top' of the shed, and look down the centre aisle, where sixty men are working best pace, as men will only do when the pay is high, and each man receives all he can earn by superior skill or strength.

They are chiefly young men, though some are verging on middle age, and an old man here and there is to be seen. Scarcely any but born Australians are on the 'board,' as the section devoted to the actual shearing operation is termed. Though an occasional Briton or foreigner enters the lists, the son of the soil has long since demonstrated his superior adaptation to this task, wherein skill and strength are so curiously blended.

Watch that tall shearer half-way down the line. A native-born Australian, probably of the second or third generation, he stands six feet and half an inch, good measurement, in his stockings. His brawny fore-arm is bare to the elbow. Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, light-flanked, he would have delighted the eye of Guy Livingstone. You cannot find any man out of Australia who can shear a hundred and fifty full-grown sheep in a day—as he can—closely, evenly, with wonderful seeming ease and rapidity. Like his horsemanship—a marvel in its way—it has been practised from boyhood, and, as with arts learned early in life, a perfection almost instinctive has resulted.

The shearers proper are all white men. The pickers-up and sorters of the fleece are a trifle mixed, the former being chiefly aboriginal blacks, some of the latter Chinamen. In the pressing demand for labour which obtains when a thousand sheds are at work, or preparing to shear, in the early spring months, over the length and breadth of the land, the inferior races find their opportunity.

A pound a week, lodging, and a liberal diet-scale, render the shearing season a kind of carnival for the proletariat, from the first fierce gleam of the desert sun in July, till the mountain snow-plains are cleared in January and February.

There are eight men at the wool-table—a broad, battened platform—on which the fleeces are spread, skirted, rolled up, and self-tied by an ingenious infolding knack, thrown into the wool-sorter's narrow pathway, and by him transferred to the separate bins of first and second combing, clothing, super, etc. The next stage carries them to the wool-presses, which somewhat complicated machinery, aided by skilled and experienced labourers, turns out daily fifty to sixty neatest, compactest bales. Thence on trucks propelled to the dumping-press, an hydraulic ram-driven monster, which reduces them to less than half their former size, and hoops them with iron bands.

Waggon teams are in attendance at the dumping-sheds, and before sundown much of the wool that was on the sheep's backs at sunrise will be loaded up, or on the road to the railway terminus.

Even that bourne of the weary wayfarer by coach, and the dusty, bearded teamster, is shifting its position nearer and nearer annually to the great central wilderness. As I ride homeward, the tents of navvy gangs appear suddenly through the darkening twilight, in the midst of pine-wood and wilgah brakes. The muffled thunder of blasts is borne ever and anon through the rarely-vexed atmosphere, as the sandstone hills are riven. But the central plain once reached, no work but the shallow trench and the low embankment will be required for hundreds of miles.

In a few years the great pastoral estates will have their own railway platforms, within easy distance of the 'shed,' when possibly a tramway thence to the dumping-room will be a recognised and necessary 'improvement.' When that day comes, shearers and washers will arrive by train from the coast-range, or the 'Never Never' country; King Cobb will be deposed or exiled; 'Sundowners' will be abolished; and much of the romance and adventure of pastoral life will have fled for ever.

NEW YEAR'S DAY 1886

In the list of rambles, possible in the event of certain undefined conditions coming to pass, one fairly-original project has always commended itself to me. An overland tramp from Sydney to Melbourne in the garb and character of a swagman seemed to offer special inducements. Inexpensive as to wearing apparel and including a position not difficult to keep up, the idea suggested health, variety, and adventure. From such a standpoint all grades of society might be observed in new and striking lights.

Circumstances prevented me, during the present holiday season, from carrying out this plan in its entirety. Nevertheless I found myself, in company with the usual midsummer contingent of strangers and pilgrims, in the metropolis of the southern colony; like them in quest of the rare anodyne which deadens care and allays regret. And what a blessed and salutary change is this from the inner wastes, the sun-scorched deserts, whence some of us have emerged but recently! I am not going to cry down the Bush, the good land of spur and saddle, of manly endeavour and steadfast endurance, which has done so much for many of us; but after a long cruise it is conceded that every sailor-man, from foremost Jack to the Captain bold, needs a 'run ashore.' His health demands it; his morale is, in the long run, not deteriorated thereby. For analogous reasons those of us who dwell afar from the green coast-fringe, having perhaps more than our share of sunshine, require a sea change. Every bushman, gentle or simple, should compass an annual holiday, which I recommend him to pass, if possible, in the colony where he does _not_ habitually reside.

'Home-keeping youth have ever homely wit' is an aphorism which has been variously garbed. I endorse the dictum, with limitations. For the removal of that insidious mental fungus, provincial prejudice, there is no remedy like a moderate dose of travel.

Chief among the luxuries in the nature of Christmas gifts with which the wayfarer is presented on arrival in Melbourne may be reckoned an almost total immunity from the heat tyranny. The thermometer registers a scale usually associated with personal discomfort, but oppressiveness is neutralised by certain adjuncts of civilisation—lofty houses, cool halls, and shady trees. The ever-sighing sea-breeze—fair Calypso of the desert-worn Ulysses—invites to soft repose; while the prevalence of ice, as applied to the manufacture of comforting beverages, transforms thirst into a disguised blessing. The glare of the noonday sun, so harmful to the precious gift of sight, even to reason's throne, is here 'blocked,' to use the prevailing idiom of the week, by a hundred cunning devices. The marvels of capitalised industry, the results of science, the miracles of art, are daily displayed. Old friends, new books, freshly-coined ideas, strange sights, wonder-signs of all shades and hues, press closely the flying hours. The tired reveller sinks into dreamless rest each night, only to enter upon a fresh course of enjoyment and adventure with the opening morn.

I find myself following a multitude on one of the first days after arrival, not 'to do evil,' it may be humbly asserted, but to behold the Inter-Colonial Cricket Match. We step out past the Treasury and enter a side alley of Eden. The broad, asphalted walk leads through an avenue of over-arching elms—a close, embowered shade over which our enemy, the sun, has scant power. Anon we cross a winding streamlet, rippling through a gloom of fern-trees and a miniature tropical forest. There the thrush and blackbird flit unharmed, the moss velvet carpets the dark mould, and but a slanting sun-ray flecks the shadows from the close-ranked lofty exotics—'a place for pleading swain and whispering lovers made.' But the order of the day for all sorts and conditions of men and maids is plainly Richmond Park. Only a few deserters are seen from the ranks of the holiday-seeking army as we thread the leafy defiles. Presently we emerge upon the unshaded road which, through the Jolimont estate—erstwhile a Viceregal residence—conducts us to the Melbourne cricket-ground.

Here, truly, is a sight for unaccustomed eyes. The great enclosure encircled by ornamental iron railings, larrikin proof, as I am informed, its level, close-shaved green a turf triumph and species of enlarged billiard-table as applied to cricket purposes. It is girdled by a ring of well-grown oaks and elms, through which the glossy-leaved Norfolk Island fig-trees, pushing their more lavish and intense foliage, communicate a southern tone.

I stand invested with the privileges of the pavilion, an imposing three-storeyed edifice, containing all necessary conveniences for the comfort of the athletes of the contest, as well as of their friends and well-wishers, who are in the proud position of members. The arrangements are liberal and comprehensive. Refreshment bars and luncheon tables, lavatories, dressing-rooms, billiards, and other palliatives are here provided, while on the western side are asphalted grounds, defended by wire netting, where the votaries of the racquet and tennis-ball display their skill. From the graduated tiers of seats in the lower or upper rooms, as well as from the roof itself, a perfect view of the game may be obtained; while on either side of the lawn, under cover or otherwise, full provision is made for the comfort of the gentler sex, always liberal in patronage of these popular contests. Around the remaining portions of the enclosure, and protected from the _profanum vulgus_ by a high iron fence, accommodation is provided for the rank and file of the spectators, who, at a small cost, are admitted.

The hour is come and the man. Twelve o'clock has struck. New South Wales has won the toss. From the pavilion gate the manly form of Murdoch is seen to issue, cricket-armoured, with trusty bat in hand. He enters the arena amid general plaudits, followed by Alec Bannerman. Then forth file the eleven champions of Victoria, who spread themselves variously over the field. Palmer gives the ball a preliminary spin; Blackham stretches his limbs and stands ready and remorseless—a cricketer's fate—behind the wicket. The first ball is catapulted—swift speeding, with dangerous break. Murdoch 'pokes it to the off' or 'puts it to leg,' and the great encounter has commenced.

Wonderful and chiefly comprehensible must it be to the uninitiated or the foreigner to mark the rapt attention with which the performance is viewed by the thousands of all classes and ages who are now gathered around. Ten thousand people watch every flight of ball or stroke of bat with eager interest, with prompt, instructed criticism. Wonderful order, indeed a curious silence, for the most part, prevails. It is too serious a matter for light converse. The interchange of opinion is conveyed with bated breath; a narrow escape, to be sure, is noted with a sigh of relief; a hit with cheers and clapping of hands. When the fatal ball scatters the stumps, or drops into the hands of the watchful adversary, one unanimous burst of applause breaks from the vast assemblage. His Lordship the Bishop of Melbourne, who sits in one of the front seats watching the scene with an air compounded of interest and toleration, doubtless wishes that he could secure a congregation on great occasions so large, so deeply observant, so closely critical, so sincerely aroused. Doubtless his Lordship, conceding, with the kindly wisdom that distinguishes him, that the people must have their recreations, would admit that from no other spectacle could so many persons of all ranks and ages, and both sexes, derive so large an amount of innocent gratification.

The 'cricket is so good' that several days elapse before the perhaps somewhat too-protracted match is over. Heavy scoring on both sides in the first innings. An exciting finish on the fifth day wrests the chaplet temporarily from New South Wales. Victoria wins with three wickets to go down. But those who are willow-wise aver that if—ah me! those ifs—Spofforth and Massie had been there, the latter with the advantage of the matchless wicket, another tale might have been told—

From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, And Flodden had been Bannockbourne.

* * * * *

The bells have chimed on that fateful midnight when died the old year; the radiant stranger is a crowned king. In the forenoon we turn our steps westwards, and enter another of the parks with which this city has been generously endowed. A holiday-loving race, certes, are we Australians. Had Victoria been a Roman province, her populace would have been regally furnished with _panem et circenses_, or known the reason why. With the eight hours' system, high wages, and frequent holidays, the working-man of the period, compared with his European brother, is an aristocrat. But here we are once more on the Flemington race-course, and of it, as of the Melbourne cricket-ground, we feel inclined to assert (_pace_ Trollope) that it must be, in its way, the best in the world.

Much thoughtful care has been bestowed upon the grounds, the buildings, the adjuncts; much money spent since the old days, when it differed little from an ordinary cattle-paddock. And the results are bewildering. Whence this lovely lawn 'with verdure clad,' where, amid flowers and fountains, crowds of well-dressed people stroll and linger, protected as in their own gardens from inconvenient sound or sight? this broad, smooth terrace-promenade below the Stand? this immense edifice, where in sheltered comfort every stride of the race can be seen? these perfect arrangements for the protagonists—brute and human—in the Olympian games we have come to witness? Is this the place where often amid heat and dust, not infrequently under soaking showers, the same sports have been witnessed by the much-enduring crowd? or has the Eastern enchanter of our boyhood carried off the ancient race-course bodily, and replaced it with this garden of Armida?

If the surroundings are complete, and the concomitants exhilarating, the weather is delicious. All things have combined to make this first-born of the opening year a day of days. The unobtrusive sun is merely warm; the bright, blue sky softly toned by fleeting clouds; the sea-breeze whispers of the wave's cool marge and ocean caves.

'On such a day it were a joy to die,' and as in the first race—the 'Hurdle'—one beholds Sparke's rider pulling desperately at the chain-bit in his horse's mouth, as he fights madly for the lead, it appears but too probable that he is destined for the sacrifice. The violent chestnut, however, contrary to an established theory, does not run himself out, or smash his jockey. He retains the lead gallantly, and, with the exception of a perilous bang over the last hurdle, touches nothing. He wins the race from end to end, confounding the backers of Lady Hampden and Vanguard, the latter horse having carried a hurdle on his hocks for some distance, and so lost his very good show in the race.

Archie wins the Bagot Plate, confirming his friends in their previous good opinion. Those, however, who backed him for 'the Standish' on the strength of it, are doomed to furnish another example of the 'you never can tell' theory, as he is therein beaten by Mr. Charles Lloyd's Chuckster. The remaining races are well contested, and many a good horse extends himself ere the Criterion Stakes, the last race on the programme, are won; but, curious to relate, one feels more interested in the people nowadays than in the horses. The pleasant walks and talks, which are possible in this equine paradise, detract from the keen interest with which formerly the possible winners were regarded. Even the luncheon at a friend's table (one of a series provided by the Management), with its accompaniments of smiles, champagne, and lightsome converse, takes its place as a principal event. Afternoon tea, not less pleasant in its way, succeeds; after which function the mass of handsomely-appointed equipages in the carriage enclosure begins to disintegrate, driving up singly to the side entrance. Whether the beer, presumably imbibed by the coachman, has got into the horses' heads, I am unable to state; but the latter prefer the use of their hind-legs temporarily. This effervescence, however, soon subsides. The four-in-hands depart. Carriage after carriage rolls away; their daintily-attired occupants are whirled off safely. _Nous autres_ take the Flemington road, or fight for a railway seat; and a day of pleasure, marked with a white stone for some of us, comes cheerily to an end.

A DRY TIME

As I ride, as I ride, With a full heart for my guide.

BROWNING.

The moon has waxed and waned, yet one may not, in 1883, recall with the poet

The lonesome October Of a most immemorial year,

inasmuch as that month in these Southern wilds is for the most part a gleesome, companionable time, rich in flower-birth and fruit-promise. None the less, if the windows of heaven be not the sooner opened, the present year of our Lord will be aught but immemorial in the chronicles of the land.

Surely the blessed dews of heaven, the rain for which in these arid wastes all Nature cries aloud, will not long be denied. How clearly can we realise the force of the strong Saxon of the Vulgate, 'And the famine was sore in the land.'

Here now exists the same hopeless, long-protracted absence of all moisture which drove the Patriarch to 'travel' with his flocks and herds, viz. camels and she-asses, his sons and their families, from dried-out Canaan to the rich 'frontage' of the Nile. Here, as then, in that far historic dawn, is dust where grass grew and water ran. Strange birds crowd the scanty pools, while among the great hordes of live stock, reared in plenteous seasons, the strong are lean and sad-eyed, the weak are perishing daily with increasing rapidity.

The hand of man, which has done so much to reclaim these wondrous wastes, is powerless against Nature's cruel fiat. None can do more than wait and pray; for the end must come, when the days shorten and the nights grow cold, even in this summer land; and utter, unredeemed ruin is the goal towards which many of the proprietors have perforce turned their eyes these many weary months past.

The fair but fleeting promise of the bygone month has been unredeemed. Only a few days of the threatening sun have sufficed to wither the tender herbage, the springing plantlets which essayed to cover the baked soil. The broad road seems that veritable way to Avernus, so bare, sun-scorched, adust is it, for hundreds of leagues. Far away one may note its swaying deflections, and hold a parallel course, guided solely by the well-nigh continuous dust-line of the waggon-trains.

Yet, maugre the terrors of the time, certain feathered inhabitants have their provision secured to them. How else trip and flit from myall twig to pine bough, bright-eyed and fearless, this pair of delicious tiny doves? The most exquisitely formed and delicately lovely of all the Columba family, they are, perhaps, the smallest—not larger than the brown bush-quail. Not half the size of the crested pigeon, there is a family resemblance in the fairy pink legs, the pointed tail, the bronze bars of the wing-feathers, the tones of the soft, azure breast. By no means a shy bird, as if conscious that few fowlers could be cruel to the hurt of so delicate a thing of beauty, so rare a feathered gem, in these stern solitudes.

Not that all the tribes of the air can be described as beautiful and harmless. Riding slowly through a belt of timber, musing, it may be, on the undeserved sorrows of the lower animals, I am suddenly and violently assaulted—'bonneted,' as the humorous youth of the period has it. I clutch my hat just in time to save it from being knocked off. There are two round holes near the brim, which I had not previously observed, and a cock magpie is flying back to his station on a tree hard by, much satisfied in his mind. It is a well-known habit of this bold, aggressive bird in the breeding season. He keeps watch, apparently, the livelong day, hard by the nest, and, pledged to drive away intruders, is no respecter of persons. Long years since, the present writer was similarly attacked; when essaying to lift his hat some hours afterwards, and finding resistance, he discovered that the bird's beak had penetrated the felt and inflicted a smart cut. Blood had actually been shed, and, having dried, caused adhesion. The 'piping crow,' as ornithologically the magpie of the colonies is designated, is not truly a magpie at all. He is carnivorous and insectivorous. Withal a handsome bird, with glossy raven breast and back, and most melodious, flute-like carol, at earliest morn and eve. He is easily tamed, and in captivity learns to talk, to whistle, and even to swear with clearness and accuracy—more particularly the last accomplishment. As a member of the household, he exhibits great powers of adaptation, has the strongest conviction as to his rank and position, despises children, whose undefended legs he pecks, and will engage in desperate combat with dog or cat, turkey or gamecock. An Australian naturalist of eminence gives his testimony to the courage with which a tame bird of the species relieved the tedium of a homeward-bound voyage by its constant duels with such gamecocks as the coops produced.

Feeding in the open plain, and in a leisurely way inspecting the sparse vegetation with an eye to grasshoppers, strolls a bustard with his mate. This noble game-bird, the wild turkey of the colonists, is fully equal, perhaps superior, in flavour to his tame congener. Longer in neck and limb, crane-like of head, the plumage presents several points of resemblance which justifies his title to the name. He has also the trick of strutting with drooped wings and outspread tail before the female. Shy and difficult of approach by the sportsman on foot, he is easily circumvented by riding or driving around in circles, gradually narrowing, when an easy shot is gained.

A reminiscence arises here of the regal sport of hawking enjoyed in connection with a bird of this species. Hard hit with double B, he found it difficult to rise above the tall grass of the marshy plain where he had been stalked, though gradually gaining strength. As he cleared the reed-tops, a wedge-tailed eagle (the eagle-hawk of the colonists) swooped down from airy heights and dashed at the huge bird like a merlin at a thrush. Very nearly did the 'lammergeier' make prize of him, but the long sweep of the bustard's wing kept him ahead. Presently he got 'way on,' assisted by a slight breeze. Down the wind went hawk and quarry, neck and neck, so to speak, while the sportsman put his horse to speed, going straight across country, with head up and eyes fixed on the pair, as they gradually rose higher in the sky. Ever and anon the eagle would make a dash at the wounded bird, but whether the temporary shock had only staggered him, or that it was nature's last effort, the edible one soared away far and fast, eventually disappearing from our gaze.

While on the subject of hawking, there is little doubt that the 'aguila' referred to might be trained to fly at the larger game—turkeys, geese, kangaroo, and emu—while the smaller falcons, which are sufficiently plentiful, might be equally effective in pursuit of the traditional heron. The beautiful blue crane of the colonists (_Ardea Australis_) is found in every streamlet and marsh, as also the spoonbill, the white crane (snowy of hue, and with curious fringing wing-feathers), not forgetting the bittern.

Young Australia, gentle or simple, might find worse employment than riding forth in the fresh morn of the early summer, with hawk on wrist, inhaling even this faintest flavour of the romance of the great days of chivalry.

On the broad, still reaches of the river, or the wide sheets of water artificially conserved, behold we the pelican, in no wise differing in appearance from the traditional dweller in the wilderness. Whether the Australian is unselfishly prodigal in the matter of heart's blood in favour of her young is difficult of proof, forasmuch as no living man, apparently, ever sets eyes on a youthful pelican. In the untrodden deserts which surround the heart of the continent is popularly deemed to lie the haunt of the brooding bird; and an Australian poetess has mourned the fate of the gallant brothers—bold and practised explorers—last seen on their way to the unknown, half-mystic region, 'where the pelican builds her nest.'

As the hot breath of the fast-coming summer proves yet more deadly to every green thing, the pelican flocks sail coastward in great numbers from their failing streams and marshes. With them comes the beautiful black swan—'rara avis in terra,' but here an everyday sight—graceful, with scarlet beak, wreathed neck, and 'pure cold webs'; the wild, musical note clanging from the soaring, swaying files cleaving the empyrean. Rarely-seen waders and swimmers are of the contingent if the 'weather holds dry'—a wayworn, far-travelled host, priceless to the naturalist could he but observe them.

Let but the stern drought continue unbroken, all-heedless of man and his great army of dependants, through the brief spring, the long summer—till the days shorten and (even here) the nights grow cold—unprecedented losses must occur in certain localities. Still, hope is not dead. The dry zone is restricted in area. Outside and around it, what the shepherds term 'fine storms' have refreshed the pastures. Even yet there is corn in Egypt.[4] There is grass and to spare beyond the Queensland border. Thither will many a sorely-oppressed proprietor send a section of flock or herd, availing himself of the time-honoured institution of 'travelling for feed.' Such, neither more nor less, was the last resort of those grand historic sheiks of the desert, even Abraham and Lot, when 'the land was not able to bear them'; and to such an alternative must the latter-day, salt-bush sheik turn in his need, or see his live stock perish before his eyes, in thousands and ten thousands.

Footnote 4:

There is no corn in Egypt now (as far as Queensland is referred to) it must be admitted with deep regret. The famine in the land has reached the biblical record of 'seven years of drouth.'

He will improvise a nomadic establishment with dray and tent, shepherds and cooks, stock-riders and bullock-drivers, horses and cattle, everything save camels, needed in a patriarchal migration. Even these last ungainly thirst-defiers are now bred in Australia. Hard by the tropic he will pass into a land of grass prairies and flooded streams—the promised land of the desert-worn hosts. He will here find himself—'most ingenious paradox'—in a region where live stock are high-priced, but where 'country' is cheap. He will rent, perhaps purchase another run. The drought which drove him forth may so and in such manner make his fortune yet. Let us hope so, in all sympathy and good fellowship. There he will reach his haven of rest. He may sell out again, or decide to cast in his fortunes with the newer colony, but in any case he will remain there until, as far as King Sol is concerned, 'this tyranny be over-past.'

AUSTRALIAN COLLIES

In the stage of the early history of New South Wales, when her increasing herds bid fair to overspread the waste, the dog, his ancient and faithful servant, came to the aid of man. The Scotch collie, friend of the lonely hill-shepherd in North Britain from time immemorial, was unanimously elected to fill the responsible position—not, however, as being the only available canine connected with stock management, for the Smithfield drover's dog had also emigrated, that wonderful stump-tailed animal, which managed to keep his master's cattle separate at the great London mart, though thousands of beeves be around, unfenced and unyarded. Matchless in his own department, he was gradually superseded by the collie, which came to the front as a better all-round dog, more intelligent, faithful, and companionable; when trained, equally suitable for the 'working' of sheep or cattle.

The breed, at first pure as imported, became crossed with other varieties of the multiform genus _Canis_, and so suffered partial deterioration. Still, such was the original potency of the collie proper, that many of the mongrels, even the product of the ovicidal 'dingo,' were excellent workers, in some instances even superior to their pure-bred comrades. The climate, too, appeared to be favourable to the breed. The Australian offspring of the imported collies were handsome, vigorous animals, with correct 'flag and feather,' yet reproducing the traits of fidelity and human attachment concerning which so many a tale was told, poem written, and picture painted in the old land. The 'harder' or fiercer animals were chosen for cattle work, and being bred for the qualities of 'heeling,' and even doing a mild imitation of bull-baiting on occasions, became almost a distinct breed. In the old-fashioned cattle districts, like Monaro and the Abercrombie River, where in early days a sheep was never seen, the cattle dogs—true collies in appearance and extraction—were very different in their manners and customs from their sheep-guiding relatives of the settled districts, whose 'bark was (so much) worse than their bite.'

It was quite the other way with the cattle dogs. They were encouraged to 'heel' or bite the fetlocks of the stubborn, half-wild cattle, in a way which bustled them along as crack or cut of stockwhip could never effect. In the case of a breaking beast they would hang on to his tail, and perhaps, when bringing back a wild yearling to the yard, assault tail, heels, nose, and ears impartially, with dire results. They ran their chance of being kicked or horned at this rough-and-tumble game, but from practice became exceeding wary of these and other dangers. A cattle dog has been seen to 'work' (or help drive) a drove of horses, heeling when desired to do so most impartially, and yet managing to keep clear of the dangerous kicks which the half-wild colts aimed at him. Every man of experience with stock will bear testimony to the admirable service which a good cattle dog will perform. Wearied and low-conditioned droves they will 'move' in a way which no amount of whip and shouting will effect. On the other hand, where caution and diplomacy are required, their sagacity is astonishing.

I once had occasion, 'in the forties,' to drive a small lot of fat cattle some days' journey to a coast town in Western Victoria. They had come to me in a deal, and I wished to turn them into cash. It was a good way from home. The vendors simply 'cut them out' from the camp, accompanied me to the Run boundary, and gave me their blessing. I had no mate but an ancient cattle dog. It may be surmised by the experienced how many times the home-bred cattle tried to break back. Again and again I thought they would have beaten me. I kept one side, the dog Peter the other, necessarily. Had either rashly caused a separation the game was up. It was beautiful to see the old dog's generalship. If a beast diverged on his side, he would walk solemnly out, keep wide and dodge him in with the smallest expenditure of voice or emotion. By this time some of the others would be looking back, preparatory to a dash homeward. These he would hustle up promptly, just sufficiently and no more. That I was watchful on my side needs no telling; an occasional tap or whipcrack kept them going. Even fat cattle know when the stockwhip is absent. We—I say it advisedly—yarded them safely that night, when a well-managed hostelry consoled me for the frightful anxiety I had undergone. Next day they travelled more resignedly, and the third night saw them delivered to 'the man of flesh and blood' in Portland, and, what was better still, paid for.

In the Port Fairy district, then chiefly devoted to cattle, were many famous cattle collies. Old Mr. Teviot at Dunmore had three I remember, their peculiarity being that they understood nothing but Lowland Scotch, in which dialect they had, though Australian by birth, been trained. 'Far yaud' (as Dandie Dinmont says), and other mysterious commands, wholly unintelligible to us youngsters, they understood and obeyed promptly. But it was amusing to watch the air of surprise or indifference with which they regarded the stock-riders, who sometimes in time of need suggested 'Fetch 'em along, boy!' or 'Go on outside.' Like most people to whom dogs are wildly attached, Mr. Teviot was austere of manner towards them, feeding regularly, but permitting no familiarity. How they loved him in consequence! If returning from a trip to the township after dark, they would listen for the footfall of his horse, and long before human ear caught the far, faint sound, would rise up solemnly and walk half a mile or more along the road to greet him. These dogs were popularly credited with being able to do anything but talk, and were renowned throughout the country-side for their obedience and thorough comprehension of their owner's wishes.

I once owned a cattle collie of great intelligence, by name Clara, the daughter of a one-eyed female of the species, celebrated for her 'heeling' propensities. The mother was uncertain as to temper, and was often soundly chastised by her owner for erratic work or short-comings. After a good flogging she jumped up and fawned upon him with the fondest affection, thus verifying the ancient adage. But Clara was a gentle and kindly creature though a good driver, and in all respects strangely intelligent, a handsome black and tan as to colour. In yard work she showed out to the greatest advantage. Always keenly observant at such times, and curiously eager to assist—leaving a very young family on one occasion. One day in particular a panel of the stock-yard was broken; there was no time for repairs. But Clara was on guard, and there she stayed, never letting a beast through till the drafting was over.

Poor Clara! she met with an early death. Coming back from a muster, she was forgotten in the hurry and bustle. The weather was hot; the distance greater than usual. It was supposed that she died of thirst, or was killed by the dingoes, for she was never seen alive afterwards.

Peter, a Sydney-side dog, brought down by his owner before 1840 or thereabouts, with some of the early herds, was probably one of the cleverest animals in his way that ever followed a beast. His owner was a Sydney native of the 'flash gully-raking sort,' from whom probably Peter had received his education in indifferent company. We judged this from the cautious and unobtrusive way in which he went about his work. He was a medium-sized, dark-coloured dog, wiry and active. He was not fond of working for any one but his master, who could make him do all sorts of queer things. When he came into the kitchen and the maidservants chaffed him, he had only to whisper 'Heel 'em, Peter!' and the next minute the girls would be screaming and scampering, with Peter's teeth very close to their ankles. When tired—and they often travelled far and fast—he would come to the horse's fore-leg and beg to be taken up. Pulled up to the pommel of the saddle, he would sit upright, quite gravely, leaning against his master until he was sufficiently rested; then, when dropped to earth, he would go to work with amazing vigour. If any particular beast kicked him, he would wait till there was a crush at a gate, and 'heel' that very animal to a certainty at a time when it was impossible to retaliate.

The collie, on the other hand, whom fate had destined to a less romantic association with sheep, was trained and exercised differently. He was expected to guide and intimidate his timorous, delicate, though often frantic and obstinate charge chiefly by the sound of his voice and a threatening manner. Biting was forbidden under severe penalties. 'Working wide'—that is, continually running beyond, ahead, outside of the flock, which was therefore turned, stopped, or directed—was inculcated in every possible way. It is to be noted that the fashion is chiefly inherited, the untrained puppy of pure blood doing most of it as naturally as the pointer puppy lifts his fore-leg. A slight nip now and then in driving weary or obstinate sheep is permitted, but nothing approaching injury to the easily-hurt flock. It is an interesting sight to mark a trained collie walking back and forward in the rear of a large flock, intimating to them as plainly as possible without speech that they are to move along steadily in a given path, and, though permitted to nibble as they go, by no means to straggle unduly.

Then observe that shepherd with his flock of, say, two or three thousand. If strong and in good order, the 'head' will string out fully half a mile in advance of the 'body' and 'tail.' If left alone they will soon be out of sight at the rear-guard. Then a division would follow, and once away, after nightfall, wild dogs and dangers are on every side of them. Nor could the shepherd on foot, as he is always, run round ahead and turn them. By the time he reached the head, the tail would be marching in a different direction. When he turned them, the head would be gone again, etc. etc.

But mark the dog! Despatched by a wave of the hand, he races off at full speed. He flies round the scattered sheep, keeping wide, however, and so consolidating them, until he reaches the leaders, which, directly they see him, scurry back to the centre of the flock. Returning, he walks dutifully behind, with the air of one who has fulfilled his mission. In half an hour perhaps the same performance is repeated. In the middle of the day, if warm, the flock indulges in a 'camp' by a water-hole or other suitable locality. As it feeds home to the yard, very little of the morning activity is observed. Our collie, while watchful and ready for a lightning dash at a moment's notice, walks soberly behind, evidently contented with the day's work.

As the New Zealand shepherd, a man in his best years of strength and activity, is a different man from the elderly and often feeble shepherd of Australia, so the collie of Maoriland, having to climb rock-strewn defiles, and search amid glacier plateaux and savage solitudes, for the scattered, half-wild flocks, has an air of seriousness and responsibility. There is but little frolic and gamesomeness about _him_. The dogs of Ettrick and Yarrow, accustomed to snow and the blasts of an iron winter, claim kinship with him. Compelled to act on his own discretion, he tracks outliers, finds and collects his flock in all weathers.

'Sirrah, ma mon, they're awa!' says James Hogg to his wonderful collie, the 'dark-grey puppy' that he bought for a pound, if I mistake not. The dog, in the drear darkness of a snowstorm, goes forth, and hours afterwards is found guarding the four hundred lost lambs, not one being missing.

So when muster-day comes, the New Zealand collie makes for the mountain peaks: on the lonely plain far above the snow-line, where in severe seasons a hundred sheep may be found dead and frozen, he beats and quarters his country, till he finds and brings down to the appointed place all the straggling lots that may have summered there.

Independently of the qualities necessary for the successful mobilisation of sheep, the collie is, perhaps, of all the sub-varieties of the canine race, the most faithful and sympathetic. Time after time has one observed the tramping shepherd or swagman and his dog. Poor and despised, 'remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,' the forlorn wayfarer had one staunch friend—one faithful ally—that regarded not his poverty, his lowly condition, his lack of self-denial. Who has not marked the tramp asleep _sub Jove_ at daylight, with scant shelter or covering, his watchful dog sitting near, prepared to show his teeth, or indeed do something more, at the nearer approach of the stranger? The dog of the imprisoned shepherd, immured by Sir Hugo de Pentonville for inebriety, lies stretched disconsolately before the prison gate, howling at intervals, apparently in deepest despair, betraying on the other hand the most frantic joy at his release. The railway favourite goes heavily, mourning as unmistakably as a Christian—more sincerely than some—in abstracted gloom, melancholy gait, and aimless daily search for his master, untimely slain by the remorseless Juggernaut. A hundred times has one caught the watchful eye of affection with which the collie regards his ragged owner, as if fearing to lose the least word or gesture.

And though the recipients of this unstinted devotion rarely appear to appreciate the gift so lavishly bestowed, it must be recorded, for the honour of human nature, that instances of the contrary _do_ occur. But the other day, a lonely pilgrim, who had been ailing few weeks past, was found by the good Samaritan, cold in death, with his arm _round his dog's neck_. A shepherd will carry the young family of his (female) collie, born during a journey, tied in a handkerchief, at much expenditure of toil and trouble. In many an instance blood feuds, savage conflicts ending in manslaughter—suicides even—have occurred, connected with injustice, real or fancied, to the 'dawg.' 'Love me, love my dog,' is an ancient adage by no means without force in Australia. But recently a farmer deliberately shot a neighbour whom he accused, wrongfully or otherwise, of killing his dog. Prior to that occurrence a shepherd, noticed to be despondent for days past, telling one inquirer that some one had poisoned his dog, _hanged himself_.

Touching the price of a really good dog, it may range from two pounds to twenty—an owner often declaring that he would not part with his dog for the last-named sum. Within the present month, indeed, two legal processes, to the writer's knowledge, have been put in force in the collie interest. In one case £10 was sued for as being the value of a cattle dog, alleged to have been illegally poisoned. The other was nothing less than a 'Search-warrant for stolen goods and chattels,' commanding the Sergeant of Police and all constables of Bundabah to make diligent search, in the daytime, at the residence of the man referred to, whose name is not known, but who can be identified, for the said black collie slut, named in the information as 'feloniously stolen, taken, and carried away as aforesaid, and if you find the same, that you secure the said black collie slut, and bring the person in whose custody you find the same before me, or some other justice of the peace.—(Signed) JOHN JONES, J.P.'

At the annual pastoral and agricultural shows, the trial of sheep dogs has never-failing interest for the spectators. Most curious is it to note the gravity with which each competing collie essays to drive three wildish paddocked sheep into a very small fold of hurdles.

The free exhibition of strychnine, rendered necessary by the incursions of the dingo, and, 'sorrow it were and shame to tell,' by the increase of foxes, has led to the death of many a valued collie. But good animals are now carefully looked after. Greater attention is paid to breeding. Dogs of the best strains are annually imported. And as the ranks of Australian collies are thus recruited with pure blood and high-class animals, it is not too much to assert, that as a stock dog, our Australian collie is not inferior to his British ancestors, while he may claim even a wider range of accomplishments and experience.

IN THE BLOOM OF THE YEAR

The first week of December! And seeing that we are in the realm of Australia, in the district of Riverina, where the season has been wet, which is 'dry country' English for triumphantly prosperous, also that vegetable growth is at its acme, we regard our title as fully justified.

All plant-life is now profusely, riotously luxuriant. A drenching winter, following a wet autumn, preceded a late, showery spring; thus, and because of which, the pastures and cornfields, the orchards and gardens, are rich with verdure and promise to a degree unknown since the proverbial year of 1870.

Some few sultry days have we had, but the true Australian summer has not, so far, appeared in its lurid, wasting splendour. Hardly a ripening tinge is yet visible on the wide-waving prairies, the bespangled meadows, the shaded forest lawns. Wild flowers of every shape and hue—blue and scarlet, pink and orange, white and yellow, perfumed or scentless—glorify the landscape.

As we drive along, this balmy, breezy, sun-bright day, through the champaign, which lies anear and around an inland country town, let us (if haply it may tend to dispel some small portion of the ignorance of our British friends as to the 'bush of Australia') put on record the 'scenes and sounds of a far clime' in this season of the year.

The wheat crops, standing strong and level for leagues around, as high, generally, as the rail fence which protects them, have not as yet been assailed; but the reaper and binder has made many a foray into the hayfields. Here we notice one of the results of machinery. In the majority of instances the oats, though green of hue, are in sheaves and stooks. The time-honoured spring romance of fragrant haycocks is hastening to its doom, inasmuch as the greater portion of the oat-crop saved is intended to be reduced into chaff, as being more portable or saleable in that form. It is obviously better economy, by using the reaper and string-binder, to have it arranged mechanically in sheaves and hand-placed in stooks. It is then more convenient for loading, stacking, and the final operation of the chaff-cutter. Most of these sheaves are six feet and over in height. Heavy-headed, too, withal. We were informed that four tons of chaff to the acre is not an uncommon yield this year. The lambs, which are running with their mothers in the great enclosures, wire-fenced and ring-barked as to timber, through which the high road passes, are wonderfully well-grown and healthy-looking. The percentage, averaging from eighty to ninety, is exceptionally high, when it is considered that the expense of tendance is nominal. From five to seven thousand ewes—even more sometimes—are running in each paddock, unwatched and untended till marking-time, thence to the shearing, which is also the weaning period. This year the shepherd-kings have a right royal time of it, though not more than sufficient to compensate them for the losses and crosses of the last decade. Apropos of this woolly people, here approaches an aged shepherd. He is mounted, so that he has received his cheque. Solvent and resolved, he is journeying to the town, on pleasure bent, of a rational nature let us hope. The flies of mid-day are troublesome, but he has a net-veil round his weather-beaten face; so has the steady veteran steed. The collie, following dutifully, is unprotected from flies, but accoutred with a wire muzzle—not, as the young lady from the city supposed, to prevent his biting the sheep, but lest he should swallow the innocent-seeming morsel of meat by the wayside, intended for vagrom canines, and containing the deadly crystals of strychnine. Certes, with plenteousness the land runs o'er, this gracious year of our Lord 1887. The cattle lounging about the roads—the roads, like the fields, knee-deep in thick green grass—with their shining coats and plump bodies, testify to the bounty of the season. The birds call and twitter. The skylark, faint reflex as he is of his English compeer, yet mounts skyward and sings his shorter lay rejoicingly. The wild-duck, gladsome and unharmed, swims in the meres which here and there divide the river meadows. The fat beeves in the paddock ruminate contemplatively, or recline around some patriarchal tree. All nature is joyous; the animated portion 'rich in spirits and health,' the vegetable contingent spreading forth and burgeoning in unchecked development. As we pass Bungāwannāh, one of the large estates, formerly squattages, which alternate with the farms and smaller pastoral holdings, a fallow doe with her fawn starts up from the long grass, gazing at us with startled but mildly-timid eye. They are outliers from a herd of nearly a hundred, which have increased from a few head placed there by a former proprietor.

In this our Centennial year it must be conceded that Australia is a land of varied products. We pass orchards where the apples are reddening fast, where apricots are turning pink, and the green fig slowly filling its luscious sphere. We note the vivid green of the many-acred vineyards, now in long rows, giving an air of formal regularity to the cultivated portion of the foreground. Then we descry the dark green and gold of an orangery, hard by the river-bank—in this year a most profitable possession to the proprietor.

Amid this abundance we miss one figure sufficiently familiar to the traveller in other lands, or the European resident, viz. 'the poor man.' He may be somewhere about, but we do not encounter him. He does not solicit alms, at any rate. His nearest counterpart is the swagman or pedestrian labourer. He is differentiated from the shearer and the 'rouseabout' (the shearing-shed casual labourer), who travel, the former invariably, the latter occasionally, on horseback. But the humble dependant upon the aristocratic squatter or prosperous farmer is a well-fed, fairly well-dressed personage, who affords himself an unlimited allowance of tobacco. Say that he elects to journey afoot in an equestrian country, he needs pity or charity from no man.

When one thinks of England, with its three hundred souls to the square mile, one cannot but be thankful, in spite of the ignorant, insolent diatribes of the Ben Tillett agitator class, for the condition of the labouring classes in this favoured country. They are at a premium, and will be for years to come, while tens of thousands of acres of arable land are awaiting the hands which shall clear and plant them. Meanwhile, a small annual rent is obtained for the State by means of purely pastoral possession—a form of occupation destined to be surely, if slowly, superseded by agriculture, when demanded by the needs of a more developed epoch and a denser population.

This particular district has for many years been settled after a fashion which permits of moderate-sized holdings. For a lengthened period, therefore, have the exotic trees and shrubs, which even the humblest farms boast, grown and flourished. The tall, columnar poplars, the wavy, tremulous aspens, the umbrageous elms, are large of girth, stately of height, and broad of shade. They are to be seen around the farm-house, or near the mansion which peeps out amid wood and meadow. Here a row of stately elms borders the roadside, affording a grateful shade to the weary wayfarer. The season has been exceptionally humid, as when

Low thunders bring the mellow rain Which makes thee broad and deep.

Yet the oak is not so common. Slow of growth, he does not seem to assimilate himself to all soils, although in a few localities he may be observed doing no discredit to his British comrades. The lime, the Oriental plane, the ash, the willow, and the sycamore proclaim the generous nature of the soil and climate which they have reached, so far across the foam. Besides these are the noble _Paulownia imperialis_, majestic with gigantic leaves and purple-scented flowers; the catalpa and even the magnolia, beauteous and fragrant—a botanic miracle. The olive grows rapidly, forgetting oft in eagerness to add branch to branch to mature the fruit, which will one day furnish a valuable export.

All these with others in this last season are spreading their green pennants to the summer breeze—grateful in shade to the traveller wearied and adust; beautiful to the eye of the lover of all plant-life; 'things of beauty and of joy for ever,' even to those whose sense of harmonious landscape-arrangement is rudimentary and undeveloped.

We halt for an instant on the verdant level, hard by the little creek whose waters, this gracious year, run yet with musical monotone, to watch the drivers of these high-piled waggons, who are even now unloosing their teams. There are five waggons, which, with wheels of the adamantine iron-bark eucalyptus, are warranted to carry the heaviest loads procurable; and heavy loads they are. Forty bales of wool in each, or thereabouts. Sixty or seventy horses in the five teams, all 'grade' Clydesdales or Suffolks, and averaging in value from £25 to £35 each. The 200 bales of wool are worth, say at £20 each, £4000; £1500 for the team horses; £300 for the waggons. A not inconsiderable total of values. Stay! In haste we have forgotten the sixty sets of harness and the tarpaulins,—£5000 or £6000 in all. A large property to be in the hands of five young fellows hardly known to the proprietor of the freight. It is fortunate that there are no robber barons at this time of day to demand tribute, or land pirates and buccaneers, _except those who collect the intercolonial protective duties_.

The hare which runs across the road in front of us is an introduced, imported animal, like the deer we saw a while back. He is becoming numerous, but, unlike his cousin and comrade, 'Brer Rabbit,' has not been disastrously destructive. The settlers eat him at present. 'Brer Rabbit' in some districts has commenced to reverse the process.

Among the manifold natural beauties of the season we must by no means omit the hedgerows; in beauteous blossom these, and though, perhaps, chiefly too wild and luxuriant, yet affording pleasing contrast to the bare utilitarianism of rail and wire fence, and the monotony of the barked, murdered woods. Various are they, ranging from the dark green of the hawthorn, lovely with sweet souvenir bloom of long-past English springs, to the pink flower-masses of the quince, the crimson showers of the rose-hedges, and the yellow hair of the _Acacia armata_; while high, towering, thorny, impervious, with brightest glittering greenery, grows the Osage orange—a transatlantic importation, which in some respects is the most effective green wall known, being a species of live barbed wire, with an agreeable appearance of leafage, yet exuding a bitter juice, which prevents its mutilation by live stock. All these, interspersed occasionally with the sweetbriar, the scent and wild-rose flower of which almost atone for its predatory habits, its illegal occupation of Crown Lands. In one instance an economical or patriotic farmer had permitted the fast-growing eucalyptus saplings to interlace his 'drop' fence—an effective and not wholly unpicturesque road border.

From time to time amid the larger enclosures we came across a half-forlorn, half-picturesque patch 'where once a garden smiled.' A roofless cottage, a score of elms and poplars, with straggling rose-bushes abloom among the thistles, mark the abandoned homestead. In the 'distressful country' these would be the signs of an eviction. Here, when Michael or Patrick unhouses himself, he does so with a comfortable cheque in his pocket and the wherewithal to 'take up' a larger holding, perhaps six hundred and forty acres, or even in the central district, two thousand five hundred, by the payment in cash to the Crown—of how much does the reader unlearned in the New South Wales land laws believe? Two shillings per acre! The remaining balance of eighteen shillings per acre to be paid in twenty years, with interest at five per cent, or _ninepence_ per acre annually! The neighbouring landholder has bought out honest Pat or Donald, or François or Wilhelm, as the case may be—several nationalities being here represented—giving him a handsome profit in cash for his labour and outlay. The fences are then pulled down, the roof falls in, the elms, the poplars, with a few peach-trees and roses, alone remain to tell the tale of the deserted homestead. As we pass one of these, a grand cloth-of-gold bush, six feet and more in height, hanging over a fence, tempts us with its fragrant clusters. We choose a lovely bud and an opening flower, with its curiously-blended shades of gold and faintest pink, and, much moralising, go our way.

In the good old days, when there was no salvation outside of vast pastoral holdings, when small freeholds were considered not only inexpedient but immoral, this was held to be a waterless region, unfit for the habitation of man, away from the river frontage. Now near every farm appears a dam or other successful method of conserving water. The homesteads, too, are well built, and substantial for the most part, standing in neatly-kept gardens and fruitful orchards. Milch kine graze in the fields or stroll about the grassy roadways, sleek-skinned, well-bred, and profitable-looking.

No indications save those of comfortable living and easy-going rural prosperity present themselves. Buggies or tax-carts with active horses, driven mostly by farmers' wives or daughters, trot briskly along the high-road to the town, going to or returning from their marketing. Occasionally a girl on horseback canters by, sometimes escorted, often without cavalier or attendant. The road-maintenance man jogs by in his covered cart, filling up ruts with metal here and there, or clearing a drain where the storm-water runs too impetuously. In all this savage land which I have described in detail, there are no lions or tigers, no bushrangers, no Indians. In fact, but for a few varieties of vegetation, one might fancy oneself back again in rural England.

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES

In the spring of 1867 I had occasion to travel from my station, Bundidgaree, near Narandera, on the Murrumbidgee River, to the historic town of Wagga Wagga, the residence of Mr. Arthur Orton, whose claim to the Tichborne title and estates was then agitating Britain and her Colonies. An elderly nurse returning to her home was to accompany me in an American buggy. The roads were good; the weather fine; the horse high in condition, exceptional as to pace and courage. Yet was the situation doubtful, even complicated. The road was risky, the head-station lonely and unprotected. A gang of bushrangers, under a leader popularly known as 'Blue-cap,' was at the time I mention within twenty or thirty miles of Narandera. There was a strong probability that I should encounter them, or that they would visit the station during my absence. Either hap was disagreeable, not to say dangerous. I left home with mingled feelings. But circumstances were obdurate. I had to go. The outlaws, five in number, were 'back-block natives,' all young men with the exception of a middle-aged personage known as 'The Doctor.' He was credited with having 'done time,' that is, served a sentence of imprisonment, which apparently had not led to reformation, as he was looked upon as the most dangerous member of the band. Not as yet committed to acts of bloodshed, they had exchanged shots with Mr. Waller of Kooba—a station below Narandera—who had surprised them while encamped upon his Run. He was a determined man and a well-known sportsman. The story was that he nearly shot 'Blue-cap,' that gentleman having slipped behind a stock-yard post, which received the breast-high bullet. The honours of war remained with the squatter, however, whose party forced the robbers to retreat across the river, leaving (like the Boers) horses, saddles, and swags behind. It was not known when I started whether they had gone up or down the river. Meanwhile, the pair of police troopers who _protected_ the district of Narandera, a region about a hundred miles square, were 'in pursuit.'

The question of carrying arms had to be dealt with. I thought at first of a double-barrelled gun and revolver. But the idea of an effective defence against five well-mounted, well-armed men, the while embarrassed with a frightened woman and two spirited horses, did not seem feasible. I finally decided to trust to the probability of not meeting the evil-doers at all, and to go unarmed rather than to carry arms which I could not use effectively. The journey to Wagga, about fifty-five miles, was accomplished safely. Making an early start next day, about three-fourths of the return trip was over when I came opposite to Berrembed, the homestead of my neighbour Mr. Lupton. I was walking the horses over a curious formation of small mounds, provincially known as 'dead men's graves,' when I became aware of three horsemen coming along the road towards me.

My first thought was, 'Here they are-bushrangers!' my second, 'It cannot be the gang—these are too young; and I don't see the "Doctor."' The foremost rider, enveloped in a poncho, decided the question by throwing it back and presenting a revolver, at the same time calling out in what he meant to be a tone of intimidation, 'Bail up. Stop and get out. If yer move to get a pistol I'll blow yer brains out.' By the time he had come to the end of this unlawful demand, he had ridden close up, and held the revolver, into the barrel of which I could see, and also that it was on full cock, unpleasantly close to my head. He was a bush-bred cub, hardly of age, who had but little practice, evidently, in the highwayman line, for his hand trembled and his face was pale under the sun-bronzed skin.

Thus I felt (like Mickey Free's father) somewhat perturbed, as, if I tried to bolt, he might shoot me on purpose, and if I stayed where I was, he might shoot me by accident. Meanwhile, I secured the reins to the lamp iron, and got down in a leisurely manner. 'I have no arms,' I said, as I stood by the off-side horse—the celebrated Steamer; 'there's no hurry. I can't well run away.'

'Give up yer money,' he said gruffly.

'I haven't any.'

'That be hanged! A man like you don't travel without money.'

'I generally have some, but I paid a bill at Martin's (naming an inn a few miles nearer Wagga) and it cleaned me out.'

'Hand out them watches, then!'

He saw by the appearance of my waistcoat that I had more than one. I had brought back a watch belonging to a relative from Wagga, where it had been sent for repair. They were both gold watches of some value.

As he sat on his horse, I being on foot, he kept his bridle-reins and the levelled revolver in one hand, and reached down to me for the spoil. As he did so, I looked him in the eye, thinking that a strong, active man might have pulled him off his horse, grabbed the revolver, and shot one if not both of his comrades. I had no intention of trying the double event myself, but I know a man or two who would have chanced it with such a youthful depredator.

What I said was, 'You don't often get two gold watches from one man.'

'No. I know we don't. Turn out that portmanteau.'

'There's only a suit of clothes and my hair brushes. You don't want them.'

At this stage of the intercourse, old Steamer, an impatient though singularly good-tempered animal, moved on, as of one proclaiming, 'This foolery has lasted long enough.' I walked to his head and soothed him, upon which one of the subordinates said civilly, 'I'll hold your horse, Mr. Boldrewood.'

I looked at him with surprise, and saw for the first time that he was Mr. Lupton's stock-rider, and the other 'road agent' the son of that gentleman. The mystery was explained. They were _pressed men_. We were within sight of the home station. The rest of the gang were helping themselves to the proprietor's best horses in the stock-yard when they saw me coming along the road. So they had detailed this youth for my capture, and ordered the two others to go with him to 'make a show' in case of the traveller resisting.

However, the interview was nearly at an end. The first robber dismissed me with a brief 'You may go now.' I drove off slowly, not desiring to show haste, in case the capricious devil which abides in this particular breed might prompt him to call me back. He did so indeed, but it was only to say, 'Show us yer pipe. You might have a good 'un.' I exhibited an old briar-root, at which he waved his hand disdainfully, and going off at a gallop, made for the homestead with his attendants on either side, like the wicked Landgrave in Burger's ballad.

I drove in leisurely fashion until they were out of sight, when I let my horses out at their usual 'travelling' pace of twelve miles an hour, or a trifle over, and was not long before I 'reached my cattle-gate.'

While the 'momentous question' was in the stage of discussion I had been anxious and troubled—so to speak, afraid. Not for my personal safety. I did not think any bushranger in the district would slay me in cold blood. We were popular in our neighbourhood, for though I was the Chairman of the Narandera Bench when the Police Magistrate of Wagga, Mr. Baylis, was absent, and as such officially a terror to evil-doers, my wife had endeared herself to our humbler neighbours by acts of charity and womanly sympathy in cases of sickness or other sore need. But what I _was_ afraid of, tremulously indeed, was lest the outlaws should 'commandeer' one or both of my horses. Eumeralla, a fine upstanding grey, bred at Squattlesea Mere, good in saddle and harness, and carried a lady, was most valuable, while Steamer, who died after twenty years of priceless service, was simply invaluable. I was only saved from this disastrous loss by the fact that Mr. Lupton's stock-yard (he was absent from home—perhaps fortunately) was full of good station hacks, and as his stud was of high reputation in the district, his loss on that occasion proved my salvation. What had happened at Berrembed was simply this. The bushrangers, with Mr. 'Blue-cap' in command, arrived in the early afternoon unexpectedly. There were few men about the place. The overseer and Mr. Lupton were away. Mrs. Lupton, the governess and the children, with the eldest son, a boy of sixteen, and the stock-rider, were at home. The master of the house had firmly expressed his intention to defend his home, and to that end had sent to Melbourne for a magazine-rifle, capable (it was said) of discharging sixteen cartridges in quick-firing time. The gang, hearing of this preparation, had sworn to pay him out for it at an early visit. In his absence they behaved well, assuring the lady of the house that 'she need not be apprehensive; they only wanted horses and the new repeating-rifle,' which last they demanded at once. She was not frightened—a native-born Australian, come of a Border family, she was not timorous, and had presence of mind enough to deny knowledge of the rifle. The leader was better informed. 'That won't do, Mrs. Lupton. Master Johnnie shot a bullock with it last Saturday. Better give it up. These chaps might turn rusty. They're quiet enough now.' The lady yielded to _force majeure_. The governess was sent to bring the rifle from the shower-bath, where it had been placed, and the bushrangers rode off. One of the men, after roaming through the house, appeared with the baby in his arms, which he had taken from the nurse, alleging that 'it reminded him of his happy home.' This was intended as a joke, and no harm came to the infant, who did not seem to object to a change of nurses. No pillage took place other than that of the rifle and a remount all round. Besides losing their horses and saddles at Kooba, and being reduced to an infantry force, having to cross the river ignominiously upon a sheep-wash temporary bridge, they had another mischance. They called at Brookong Station on Mr. Cuthbert Fetherstonhaugh. Here they treated themselves to grog, in which they vainly tried to make Mr. Fetherstonhaugh join them, and finally went off across country. Near the Urangeline Creek they were startled by the galloping of a body of horsemen in pursuit (as they thought), and racing desperately away, rode into the Urangeline, then in half flood. The others got out, but the 'Doctor,' parting company with his horse, was unfortunately drowned, thus cheating the hangman, and not improbably preventing the commission of bloodshed, into which his evil influence might have led his less-hardened comrades. They were next heard of near Narandera, as to which my wife had a sensational visit from a person in the confidence of the police.

On the morning of my departure she was told by the maidservant that a man outside wished to speak to her. He would not come in, or dismount from his horse. Rather surprised, but being, like our neighbour Mrs. Lupton, Australian born, and not afraid of men or horses or anything in a general way, she walked up to the horseman, who sat in his saddle in the middle of the courtyard, formed by a dining-room and kitchen on one side and store on the other. He was not anxious to be overheard, as he leaned forward and in an agitated voice said that he had been sent by the Senior Constable of Police at Narandera to inform her that the bushrangers had recrossed the river, and might be expected to visit the station on that or the following day. If there were arms in the house she was advised to conceal them for fear of irritating the bushrangers; that the police could not come themselves, as they were following up the tracks in another direction.

This was not cheering news. But action was taken promptly. The armoury consisted of a two-grooved rifle, carrying a bullet of such size that, unlike the 'Mauser,' there was no fear of its penetrating a vital organ without causing instant death. I used to make good practice from an upper chamber at any mark within a hundred and twenty or thirty yards' distance. There was also an effective double-barrel, with a couple of revolvers. A young relative of the family lived with us and helped with the management. We could have made a decent defence probably after warning given. But in nineteen out of twenty cases no warning is given, or, as in this case, too late to be of service.

It so happened that a wool-bale had been suspended in an outer room, into which broken fleece, pieces picked up on the Run, was placed from time to time. Under the wool, therefore, the guns were hidden for the present.

When I returned from Wagga after my adventure I was naturally anxious to hear if the bushrangers had called in my absence. My first words to the châtelaine were, 'Have you seen the bushrangers?'

Answer—'No. Have you?'

'Well—ahem—I—have!'

Then the story was told in full.

This band, compared with the career and exploits of other gentlemen of the road, hardly rose above the amateur level. They were taken by a sergeant of police and his troopers on the Lachlan. He came unexpectedly one morning, and marching towards them with a determined air, called upon them in the Queen's name to surrender. 'Blue-cap' levelled his rifle. 'What!' roared the sergeant in a voice of thunder. He had known of him when he was a stock-rider, indifferently honest. 'You d—d scoundrel! Would you shoot _me_?'

Whether the idea of the awful crime in the provincial mind, implied in resisting much less attempting the life of such a magnate, overbore the remains of his courage (they were pretty sick of the outlaw business), or that he shrank from deliberate murder, cannot be told; at any rate, they were disarmed, handcuffed, and conducted to the nearest lock-up—magazine-rifle and all. Brought in due course before a bench of magistrates, they were committed to take their trial at the next ensuing Court of Assize, to be holden at Wagga Wagga.

I had occasion to visit the 'Place of Crows' (aboriginal name of Wagga Wagga) some weeks after. The Assizes were coming on, and armed with the police magistrate's order, I interviewed the captives.

When the cell door was opened, and my friend of the poncho and revolver stood revealed, 'quanto mutatus ab illo Hectore!'—'the plume, the helm, the charger gone'—we looked on each other with very different expressions.

'Well, young man,' said I with careless raillery.

He grinned, as who should say 'Met afore.'

'Better have stuck to the mail-driving,' I continued.

'It's too late to think of that now,' he made answer; 'but I wish I'd broken my leg the day I started this bloomin' racket. It was all through the "Doctor" as they called him. He led us chaps into it, simple, with those yarns of his. Anyway, he's dead and gone now. Serve him dashed well right—and me too for being a fool! I was earning good money, and had no call to turn out. And this is what it's done for me. What d'yer think we're goin' to get? They won't hang us?'

'No,' said I; 'you'll get a dozen years' gaol. Luckily you didn't kill any one, so the chief can let you off light. If you behave yourselves you'll be all out again before the end of your sentence.'

'I'll behave all right—no fear!' he replied. 'I'm full up of this "cross" work.'

With the leader, 'Captain Blue-cap,' I had a more lengthened interview. Not a bad-looking young fellow, of the stock-rider type, it seemed inexplicable that he should have preferred the life of a hunted outlaw to that of the well-paid, well-fed, easy-going life of a stock-rider. A gentleman's life, so to speak: independent, with change and variety in fair proportion, three or four good horses always at command, and receiving an amount of consideration far above that of any other _employé_ under the rank of overseer; to whose orders, if the proprietor of the station was resident, he did not always hold himself bound to attend. And now—here he was, a fettered captive in the dungeon of the period, awaiting trial, certain of ten years' penal servitude, and not without fear of five years additional, before he walked out a free man again.

We had an amicable conversation, there being 'no animosity' on either side, apparently. It has always struck me as a favourable trait in human nature, that criminals in a general way rarely harbour revengeful feeling against magistrates and others, who are, officially, their natural enemies. Nothing is more common than to hear them say, of the police or higher officials, 'Oh, they're paid for it; it's all in the day's work. I don't blame 'em for doin' their duty.' But the amateur they _do_ hate with an exceeding bitter hatred, as having 'gone out of his way' to do them injury. For which interference with the natural order of affairs they are ready to exact, and have before now exacted, memorable revenge.

However that may be, we chatted away, without the introduction of moral axioms on my side or anarchical references on his. It was a lovely, early summer day, without a solitary cloud in the bright blue sky, and he _may_, as he watched the sunlight fleck the elm-tree within sight of the barred window of his cell, have had a spasm of regret. For this is what he said, gloomily: 'They call it a short life and a merry one. I didn't see nothen jolly about it.'

'Many a man's found that out, but you're a young man. If you give no trouble in gaol you'll not have to serve all your time. Face it, and look forward to coming out again.'

'God knows!' he said. 'I might be dead before then; but it's the only thing to do, I suppose.'

'Did you ever get hit,' I said, 'in a scrimmage with the police?'

'That near done for me,' he explained, pulling back his singlet and showing a large, ragged cicatrice over the region of the heart. 'I wish to God it had. But it wasn't the police.'

'How then?'

'Goin' up to a hut at night; the feller waited for me. Them marks are slugs.'

'Wonder it didn't kill you,' I said. 'Must have been a good handful of them.'

'Well, I crawled off, and some chaps I knowed nursed me till I got round. But it was a near thing. "Born to be hanged," they say, "save you a lot." But it won't run to _that_, d'ye think, sir, when we haven't killed any one?'

'Not quite,' I said, 'though you fired at Mr. Waller and his men with intent, as the Act says, to do serious bodily harm. You'll get a term of imprisonment of course.'

'A long "stretch," I expect,' he said. 'Well; it's no use cryin'. Good-bye, sir, and thanks very much.'

Then we parted. He went on his way and I saw him no more; circumstances prevented that. I never met him or his companions again. They were sentenced to twelve years' imprisonment, and as all this happened thirty odd years ago, they must be out years and years since. Let us hope that they reformed. It is on the cards, also, that they may have 'struck it rich' on a Queensland or West Australian goldfield.

After this capture and disposal of our highwaymen, the land had rest for a season. One of the consequences of the outbreak might have had an ending calculated to surprise the European wool-buyer. Just before the bale of broken fleece referred to was filled up and put into the press, Mrs. Boldrewood recollected that she had never seen the box of ammunition since the day they were huddled into the wool-bale. It was hastily examined and the explosives hauled out, just as the press was being put down; great was the laughter in the shed, as the men thought of the faces of the wool-brokers in a London saleroom when the 'mixed pieces' were turned out for inspection.

I never got my watch back, though my cousin recovered his. The police heard that the bushrangers had, holding out a hatful of watches, invited the stock-rider to choose one, for his noble conduct and 'moral support' in my affair. He chose my young friend's, which he afterwards returned to him. But mine I saw never again, having to content me with a silver one of small value for the next decade.

A TRANSFORMATION SCENE

'Look alive, boys,' said Hugh Tressider; 'we must slog on for the next hour or two. Pitch dark, and going to be a wet night; but if we don't lose the road we shall pull Barallan before bedtime. There we're sure of a yard and a welcome. A night's sleep won't do us any harm.'

'A night's sleep? Dashed if I've had any for a week,' growled the head stock-rider. 'I'm fit to drop off my bloomin' moke this minute; and he's just the size to kick me for falling. Them blessed B.R. cattle's like a mob of kangaroos for breaking and rushin' if so much as a 'possum squeals or a stick breaks. But I know Mr. Bayard's is a regular stunning place to stop at. Gentle or simple, it's all one to him. He's a gentleman as _is_ a gentleman; and every workin' man in the district 'll say the same.'

'All right, Joe; then stir up those lads and the blackfellow a bit; don't let the tail cattle struggle, whatever you do. I'll go on with the lead; my old horse will keep the track.'

'What a thundering wild night it's going to be,' said the drover to himself as he threaded his way through the thick-growing timber, skirting the half-seen wildish herd, which, but a week from the pastures where they had been bred, were still troublesome and prone to break back at the smallest opportunity. The rain, which had held off during the gusty, stormy day, now came down in driving sleety showers, ice-cold, and wetting to the skin the dogged, silent horsemen, who, by the nature of things, were incompletely clothed for resisting so serious a downfall. The cattle, beginning to low with discomfort and uneasiness, were with difficulty restrained from facing towards the opposite point of the compass, away from the blinding storm, which now drove full in their teeth. To those unacquainted with the skill, acquired by long experience in this particular occupation, it would have seemed little short of a miracle that four men and a black boy, who had also the special care of a pack-horse, could guide six hundred head of unwilling, half-wild cattle through a thickly-timbered country on so dark a night, with rain and storm to complicate matters withal.

But it _was_ possible. It was done well and effectively. The leader's horse, an Arab-looking grey, visible from time to time, denoted each turn and direction of the road. The quick eyes of the stock-riders were seldom at fault, and detecting each straggling animal, they were instant to urge a wheel before separation from the main body took place. The gregarious habit of cattle was in their favour, as also their indisposition to straggle overmuch in the darkness. When they were doubtful, the piercing organ of the man of the woods was called into play. His decision was prompt and unerring.

It was, 'Me see 'um two fellows cow and that one red bullock yan along a gully, likit picaninny way. You hold 'em, this one pack-horse, me fetch 'um.' And back they came accordingly. One hour, then another, had slowly passed. The rain had ceased, but the heavens were ebon black and murky. Still rode the man, who had first spoken, at the head of the great drove, which, lowing from time to time, kept plodding monotonously forward, at other times silent and all but soundless as a procession of ghostly beeves, escorted by a company of spectre horsemen.

Wet and weary, chilled to the bone, too dispirited to speak—indeed conversation would have been difficult under the circumstances of compulsory separation—the jaded stock-riders moved on; the rain-drops showering from the leaves as they brushed from time to time under the low-growing shrubs and sapling eucalyptus, the horses' feet sinking deeply in the clay and decomposed gravel of the forest; or splashing shoulder-deep through the mountain streams that crossed their track; their watchful outlook strained and concentrated to the fullest, each man at his allotted station. It was a phase of Australian backwoods life not always credited to the much-enduring bushman.

'By George! this is a hard life,' soliloquised the weary pioneer, for such he had been in more than one colony, as he sat, stiff, sore, and aching in every limb, upon his game but over-tired horse. 'Hold up, old man, you haven't had the saddle off your back nor I my clothes for the last six-and-thirty hours; but another half-hour will see you in a good paddock and me in Barallan parlour, with the cattle safe inside of post and rails, if we haven't taken a wrong track. Only for Bandah we should have followed the old Bundoorah road, a mile back, and found ourselves in the middle of a howling scrub, with a strong chance of losing these confounded B.R. cattle, the worst herd to drive in the district, and no more likelihood of bed or supper than if we were afloat on a raft.'

And here the travel-worn bushman, sodden and soaked, splashed and sleepy as he was, laughed aloud at the absurdity of the conceit.

Managing to light his pipe again by sheltering the match with his shut hand against the night-wind, in a manner peculiar to backwoods Australians, he was silent for a while. Then recommenced: 'Yes, a hard life, this of mine; work and anxiety by day and by night, wet and dry, hot or cold, burnt up and scorched in the summer, half drowned and starved with cold in the winter, and all for what? Just for a decent living, with little enough chance of putting by anything for a rainy day—I mean for a dry season,' he added, with another laugh. 'Well, though it is a hard life, I wouldn't exchange it for everyday work in a merchant's office, in a bank, or a Government department. These may be very well for some people, but they wouldn't suit Hugh Tressider at all. Give me the open air for it! And then, hard as the occasional rubs are, you have the benefit of contrast, and enjoy it all the more, as I shall a good supper and a good bed, which I'm morally certain to drop in for to-night. What a trump that Arnold Bayard is! If all squatters were like him, travelling would be a luxury and a privilege. Besides, I have the comfort of thinking—and it does keep me from being a peg too low at times—that all my hard work has not been for my own advantage, and that I have benefited others. Bless all their hearts! How I wish I could do more for them. Was that a dog's bark? Yes, by Jove! and there's the Barallan paddock fence on the left; it makes a wing to the stock-yard. Right you are, old man' (to his horse); 'we can't go wrong now; we'll go back, and help a bit with the tail.'

Making back to the next horseman, Tressider shook up the leg-weary but still game and willing hackney, and finding his way to the rear, informed all hands of the change in their immediate prospects, with the certainty of a speedy entrance into a haven of rest and refection. The intelligence had a distinctly stimulating effect. The pace of the drove was perceptibly quickened. Men, dogs, and horses seemed to have acquired new life and spirit. In less than half an hour the cattle were safely bestowed in a capacious stock-yard, the gates carefully secured, and the whole party dismounted before the outbuildings of Barallan Station.

Though it had been dark for four hours by the watches of the night, it was not more than half-past ten by the clock. Lights were still visible in the principal building, and a glowing fire in the men's kitchen showed that the cook was all alive, or had very lately retired.

A tall man with an abundant beard now advanced, and looked earnestly in the face of Tressider as he advanced to meet him. 'Oh, it's you, old man!' he said, in a voice every intonation of which bespoke kindly, unequivocal welcome. 'I expected you yesterday. What a drenching you must have had this miserable day. Mrs. Bayard has gone to bed, but there's nothing to prevent you and me from being comfortable for another hour. Of course the cattle are in the yard?'

'Yes.'

'Well, look here, you fellows, put your horses through that wicket-gate. Capital feed inside, and not too big a paddock. Joe hasn't turned in yet. He'll soon have supper ready for you. And, hold on, when you've turned out your horses, come up to the back door of the house. A glass of grog all round won't hurt any of you this cold night.'

'Thank you, Mr. Bayard,' was the reply from the oldest stock-rider.

In fifteen minutes at the outside Hugh Tressider was enabled to realise the justice of his proposition, that from the great contrasts of existence the essence of pleasure is extracted. His waterproof valise had furnished a complete change of dry garments, arrayed in which he was seated before a blazing fire, subsequent to the absorption of a glass of hot grog. A substantial meal was imminent, and as he watched the neat-handed Phyllis deftly covering that hospitable board, he was confirmed in the opinion that life had but few avenues of higher enjoyment open to him.

Arnold Bayard, the owner of the station, a wealthy and much-respected magnate in the land, had a particular fancy for this young fellow, whom he watched enjoying himself after his day, or indeed days, of toil and travail, with paternal benevolence.

'A deuced hard-working, honourable, well-principled young fellow,' he was wont to say. 'Every one ought to do him a good turn. I wish all the young ones were like him. His father, Captain Tressider, an old Waterloo veteran, bought that farm of theirs, on the Upper Hunter, instead of a station in the old days, and ruined himself trying to grow oranges and olives, and all that rot, instead of sheep and cattle. When he died, Hugh was left with his mother and the little brothers and sisters to look after. Quite a boy himself, too. He buckled to it then, and it has been all against collar with him ever since. Working like a nigger, and living like one, too, sometimes, but he has managed to keep them going, and pay for their education, though he came off rather short himself. Never mind that; I say he is as true a gentleman as ever stepped, and some day he must come out right. The Tressiders are high enough in point of birth. There's a title, too, in the family, I'm told, if the next heir at home were cleared off, but of course Hugh's too practical a fellow ever to bother his head about that.'

Thus far, Mr. Bayard. But this was only to strangers. Most of the people in the district knew so much, and honoured Hugh Tressider accordingly. Nobody could be poorer; no one could work harder. But curious as it may seem to those people who persist in manufacturing a stage Australia for themselves,—which is as like the country as the English milord of the Porte St. Martin, with his _boule-dogue_, his top-coat, and the ever-present 'god-dam,' to the real aristocrat,—there are few places where gentle birth and the manners which chiefly accompany that accidental circumstance are more truly honoured. So it will not be considered as anything very wonderful by Australians that Hugh Tressider, though only a drover by occupation, who received a certain sum per head for the conveying of large lots of cattle from one part of the colonies to another, known to be the son of a retired military officer, to be proverbially just, true, and self-respecting in all his dealings, was held in high estimation accordingly, and took rank socially with the best people, many of whom could have counted a thousand pounds to his every ten.

Hugh slept the sleep of the just that night, it may be confidently stated—the delicious, dreamless, utter repose of the fatigued worker; a luxury which the dwellers in high places of the earth very seldom taste. The dawn of a winter's morning had, however, but faintly commenced to tinge the lowering sky when he instinctively arose, and dressing with expedition proceeded to stir up his men and make preparations for an early start. The hut cook, an official whose position rarely permits of morning slumbers, was already up, and had the fire lighted which was to boil the huge breakfast-kettle. A restricted toilette suffices for road-hands in winter time. In half an hour the horses were saddled, a breakfast of beefsteak, damper, and hot tea disposed of, the packer fully accoutred, and all was ready for the road.

'Now boys,' says Tressider, 'I'll count the cattle out of the yard. There won't be another chance for a while. We've had a good night of it, thanks to Mr. Bayard. Let them feed for an hour or two, as soon as they steady to the road, and I'll overtake you somewhere about the Burnt Hut Flat.'

Having counted out his herd, which he was gratified to find turned out the correct number of six hundred and twenty-three—a matter which might well have otherwise resulted after the darkling difficulties of the previous night—and seen them straggle out over the wet green grass, the young man betook himself with a light heart back to the 'big house,' which he reached just in time for the family breakfast.

Here were assembled all the olive branches—from Melanie, aged sixteen, and giving promise of general captivation, to a roly-poly three-year-old boy, who ruled the household despotically, and sat on Hugh's knee, with wide wondering eyes scanning his features, as if seriously considering whether they had met in a former state of existence.

'Very glad to see you, Mr. Tressider,' said the lady of the house, a handsome, hospitable matron, as became the châtelaine of Barallan and the wife of Arnold Bayard; she couldn't well have been otherwise. 'We were afraid that you were going to be one of the mysterious guests who come after every one is in bed, and go away before they get up.'

'Like the avenger of blood in _Anne of Geierstein_, mother,' put in Melanie, with her hand on her parent's arm. 'There is something so weird about cattle-men. They always seem to be doing their work at unearthly hours, or beside watch-fires, like the people in the German legends.'

'And don't they have to light fires when they travel with sheep?' asked Jack, aged fourteen. 'Girls don't know anything about stock, do they, father?'

'They know as much as some boys who forget to fasten gates, and let the weaners "box" after a day's hard drafting,' returned Mr. Bayard with mildly reproachful emphasis. Here Mr. Jack subsided, while a certain tremulous movement of the lip showed the effect of the reminder.

'Never mind, poor old man! he'll remember next time. I'm sure he was as sorry as any one,' said the tender mother, giving a squeeze to the boy's hand. 'And now, breakfast is quite ready. You had better sit here, Mr. Tressider, and you can tell me how they all were at Rimandah, and who won the tennis match.'

'By the way,' said the Master, seating himself in a contemplative way before a noble round of beef, 'there is an English newspaper and a letter for you in the smoking-room; came yesterday. We were so busy yarning over the fire last night that I forgot to tell you.'

'They'll keep till after breakfast,' said Hugh calmly. 'There isn't a soul out of Australia that I care two straws about. I suppose some one has sent me a _Times_ with nothing in it that can possibly concern me. Thanks; I will take some chicken-pie. I can fall back upon corned beef on the road, though one never seems to tire of it.'

'How are they all on the Allyn?' said Mr. Bayard. 'Have you heard from home lately?'

'Oh, doing quite splendidly,' said the young man, his face lighting up with an expression of tenderness which transfigured the weather-beaten features and imparted a pathetic lustre to his dark-grey eyes. 'Elinor was improving in her drawing—going to be quite an artist. Fairy was taking lessons in singing; she always had a wonderful voice. Bob was head of his class at school, and was safe for a scholarship if he kept up the pace. Mother was stronger than she had been for years. I shall get back there at Christmas time if I've luck on this journey, and we're going to be no end jolly. The Armordens are coming over from Braidwood, and we shall be as happy as kings—much happier, indeed, by late accounts.'

'I'm sure you deserve it,' said Mrs. Bayard half-unconsciously to herself. 'But what a terrible day you must have had of it yesterday. It never ceased raining here. It is perishing weather even now. However you can endure your life in such a season as this, astonishes me.'

'We get used to it, Mrs. Bayard, like the eels, you know. Somebody must do it, or who would buy the Barallan cattle, and get them to market?'

'Yes, I see; but I can't bear to think of nice people—of one's friends, you know—sitting in the saddle through these long, dismal, bitter nights, or watching by fires in the forest, like demons or ghosts.'

'That's the pleasantest part of it, I assure you. When the virtuous drover has eaten his supper, made up his fire, and lighted his pipe, he feels—well, nearly as comfortable as Mr. Bayard here when he has locked up the house and put out the lamp for the night. It doesn't always rain, either.'

'Here are your letters and paper, Mr. Tressider,' said Melanie, who had quietly arisen from the breakfast-table; 'I was afraid dad would forget them again. Hadn't you better open them? I would if I had letters from England.'

'You have my permission,' said the lady of the house. 'Some people are dreadfully cold-blooded about letters. Fancy a woman leaving her letters unread all this time!'

'Theirs are pleasanter than ours,' murmured the recipient. 'That is, generally speaking. Ha! This seems a different hand from the last correspondent. I thought I knew the old fellow's writing well.'

With the sleepless curiosity of youth, Melanie and Jack had kept their eyes fixed upon their friend's face. To their great and unaffected surprise they observed him to flush all over, bronzed cheek and forehead, and afterwards to turn deadly pale. The letter slipped from his nerveless hand, and his eyes assumed such a fixed and strange expression, that the young people were alarmed. Mr. and Mrs. Bayard, with averted heads, were discussing matters of family interest, and so had escaped the bit of melodrama.

Mr. Bayard was recalled by Melanie's eager tones—

'Oh, father! Mr. Tressider's taken ill. He's had some bad news in his letter.'

'Why, old fellow, what is it?' inquired Bayard, turning to him with a face of sincere concern. 'Anything gone wrong at home? I didn't know you heard from relatives in the old country.'

Hugh Tressider stood up and looked at his good friend with a staid and serious expression, not by any means habitual. 'All is well; better than well, my dear Mr. Bayard. I know it will rejoice your kind heart. But it _was_ rather sudden, and as unexpected as an order to become Governor-General. I'm Lord Trewartha, that's all; and there's Trewartha Castle, with not much of an income yet, but a fair sum in cash at my credit to support the dignity. More will fall in when another relative dies. It rather knocked me over at first. The thought of all I could do for the girls and Bob, and the poor Mother who has slaved her soul out all these years for us, was too much for me—my heart struck work for a minute or so. I nearly fainted. There's the letter.'

'And you're a lord?—Lord Trewartha—a real live lord!' said Melanie and Jack, each taking hold of a hand, and jumping up and down with wild excitement and the exuberant, unselfish joy of youth. 'Oh, what fun! Isn't it splendid? And will people have to say, "Yes, my lord," and "No, my lord," and "If your lordship please"? Of course you will send these crawling B.R. cattle to Jericho.' This last was Master Jack's suggestion.

'I shall carry out my engagements, even if I were made a marquis,' said Hugh, recovering his spirits, 'which I read somewhere is ever so much higher than a baron. And you are all to call me Hugh, without Mr. or anything. That is all the difference. Otherwise I shall leave you nothing in my will. And now I must go and have a smoke with your father, or I shall have a fit.'

It was all true. Is true. For the matter of that, something very like it happened only the other day under nearly similar circumstances. Hugh Tressider will never more need to undertake to drive cattle from Kiandra (let us say) to the Paroo, or from Mount Cornish to Adelaide, at per head. Elinor and Fairy will have _such_ private lessons and masters and general embellishment that they will do more than pass muster among their European kinsfolk. Bob will graduate at Oxford or Cambridge, and if ever he revisits Australia—as being a younger brother he probably will—it will be impossible to tell him, at first sight, from the imported Anglo-Saxon aristocrat.

And Hugh Tressider, what of him? As he smokes his pipe that evening by the camp-fire—one of the last of the series he is likely to warm himself by—what avenues of enjoyment, hitherto undreamed of, seem lengthening out into vast and endless grandeur, like the Sphinx-guarded paths of Egyptian cities, all ending in wondrous palaces, purple-draped and gold-illumined! The hard and homely present nearly faded out of sight; only by an effort could he recall himself to the rude primeval surroundings he was so soon to quit for ever. A peer of England! A man of fortune! The heir of an ancient name! Free to meet and mingle with the world's best and fairest, bravest and most exalted, on terms of freedom and equality. His foot slipped into a pool of ice-cold water amid the tussocks of frosted grass as he thought of all this, and with a light laugh at the incongruity of his situation and prospects, he resumed his walk around the recumbent drove.

At no distant date the Tressider family sailed for England, when doubtless most of the good things in keeping with their altered fortunes were duly dispensed to and appreciated by them.

IN BUSHRANGING DAYS

The practice of 'intromitting with the lieges travelling on their lawful business'—as Captain Dugald Dalgetty (sometime of Marischal College, Aberdeen) hath it—is an ancient and fascinating, if irregular mode of financial reconstruction. It has always commended itself as a combination of business and pleasure to those bolder spirits who chafe at the restriction of an over-timorous social system.

From the days of the mad Prince and Poins there were those 'for sport sake content to do the profession some grace.' Risks of death and dishonour were thus taken in countries boasting a high civilisation—a short shrift and a high gallows constituting the accepted termination of a period of riot and revelry; and though the strong hand of the law rarely failed to bring the bold outlaw to his doom, certain alleviations always served to cast a glamour around the pleasant and profitable, if perilous career of the highwayman.

Brigand or bandit, pirate or smuggler, bushranger or buccaneer, as might be, he rarely failed to enlist the feminine sympathy, which has flowed forth in all ages towards the doer of bold deeds—the scorner of gold save for revel and gift—the fearless withstander of the law.

The feats of these heroes of Alsatia have been sung and their valour vaunted in the ballads of all lands and ages; indeed they have formed no inconsiderable portion of the material. 'Yo Soy Contrabandista' never fails to evoke a storm of applause from every Spanish audience.

They have flourished alike under the rule of kings and the co-operative coercion of democracy. Monarchies fail to extirpate, republics to suppress them. They apparently owe their existence to some unexplained ordinance of Dame Nature, whose _enfans gatés_ they are. Her forest children they. Lords of the Waste, roamers through wood and wold, formulating thus a world-old protest against the dulness of respectability, the greed of industrialism, the selfishness of property.

Products as well of the careless ordering of new countries as of the stern discipline of older communities, small wonder that they should have arisen in this brand-new, scarce century-old Austral land of ours, hugging the South Pole and dissevered from many of the formalities of civilisation. Small wonder, I say, that amid our pathless woods and sea-like plains, with every natural advantage and conceivable aid from the habits of a migratory, restless, centaur-like population, these unlicensed tax-gatherers should have appeared. Thus the profession and practice of what is now called 'Bushranging' occurred at a very early period of Australian history. The term easily grew out of the natural desire of the escaped felon, desperate from harsh treatment, or perhaps merely averse to toil, to hide himself in the woods which then surrounded the settlements.

The old English words 'wood' and 'forest,' 'copse' and 'thicket,' had been superseded by the comprehensive colonial term 'bush,' doubtless suggested by the close approximation to 'scrub' or 'jungle,' which the interminable eucalyptus wilderness then presented to the first emigrant Britons. 'The bush' came next, as more fully comprehensive and explanatory, signifying something analogous to the Dutch-African 'veldt,' not necessarily woodland, but the waste lands of the Crown generally. This nomenclature must have mystified later arrivals considerably, much of the so-called 'bush' being composed of plains nearly, and in some cases altogether, without timber of any description.

The wandering robber, necessarily 'a burgher of that desert city,' came then, by general consent, to be described as a 'bushranger.' The term was even Latinised, as the philologist may discover by reading the description in St. James's Church, Sydney, on the tablet placed there to commemorate the death of Dr. Wardell, of 'Wardell's Bush,' Petersham, slain in the early thirties, 'latrone vagante' (_sic_). The first robbers were in all cases convicts. For the small proportion of free men employed as guards and warders, overseers and head workmen, there was obviously no temptation to leave recognised positions, to ramble through the terrible foodless wastes, with a price on their heads, as was the stern usage of the period.

But in the case of the reckless felon the conditions were different. He had been flogged—he was worked in irons for bad conduct. If returned by his employer to the authorities as useless or stubborn, no prospect lay before him but that of ending a wretched life in the severer penal settlements, where incorrigibles were doomed to chains and slavery. He declared for the open sky, the free forest. The toll levied on the drays of the squatter, the homestead of the farmer, or the wayfarer on the high-road, was necessarily the chief, almost the only support of outlaws. For a time they lived and flourished. Having secured arms—the fowling-piece, musket, or pistol of the period—they entrapped or intimidated the unwary traveller. They made stubborn defence against the minions of the law, unless the odds were too great. In some instances, having discovered retreats known only to the aboriginal tribes or outlying shepherds, mostly sympathisers, their evasion of justice was prolonged for years. The end, however, was but delayed. Tracked down, betrayed, slain in fair fight with police, with soldiers, with settlers combining for self-defence, the same fate awaited all.

Found with arms in their hands, they were hanged as a matter of course. No sentence of imprisonment afforded them hope of escape, with further possibilities of crime. They had played the great hazard, and the forfeit was duly paid.

Living in this condition of continual warfare—their hand against all men, and, with rare exceptions, all men against them, the gallows or the bullet their certain doom—it is not to be wondered at that crimes of violence shocked and aroused the community. 'As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,' was the familiar proverb quoted in reference to deeds of blood and rapine. With fancied wrongs and years of oppression to avenge, they showed no mercy. They had received none. Fighting with the rope round their necks, they were reckless and ruthless. And when the last act of the grim tragedy was played, with the hangman for stage manager and a quasi-criminal crowd for audience, the leading actor had more than once boasted of a score of murders and kindred outrages.

At the first outbreaks the highwaymen of the period had neither horses nor arms worthy of the name. Revolvers were unknown; pistols were far from being 'arms of precision.' Rifles even were rare; only the fowling-piece and the Tower musket were in common use. Horses, too, were scarce. So that the colonial summons of 'Bail up,' or even the old-fashioned British demand, 'Your money or your life,' came mostly from a ragged Robinson Crusoe-like individual behind a tree, with a rusty gun-barrel protruding therefrom.

* * * * *

Of course after the 'breaking out' of Port Phillip—as the earliest colonisation of Victoria was disrespectfully termed—in 1837, persons of darksome record hasted to the new settlement to hide from the law or prey on the public. Among them were three escaped Tasmanian felons, named Williams, Jepps, and Fogarty.

This worthy triumvirate raided the wilds of the Upper Plenty, robbing and holding to ransom the lieges, terrorising a line of farm-houses. They took prisoners my good friend Charles Ryan and the late Mr. Alick Hunter, adding insult to injury by eating the breakfast prepared for the latter gentleman and his friends. What the fashionables of the day wanted on the banks of the Plenty Rivulet I never could make out. But it was considered 'the thing' apparently to have a farm in that locality; it was even surmised that these aristocratic amateurs might make money by the practice of agriculture—a delusion long dispelled. What the solid fact amounted to _re_ Jepps and Co. was that, like the footpads in _Don Juan_, their first accost was 'D—— your eyes, your money or life.' So much for the 'first robbers' in Victoria.

To them enter four gentlemen—volunteers, squatters of the period and overlanders at that—Mr. Henry Fowler, of Fowler's Flat, near Albury; Mr. Peter Snodgrass, M.L.A., son of the Colonel and Lieutenant-Governor of that name, historically known as commanding the 13th Portuguese Regiment, when on August 31, 1813, he mounted the 'imminent deadly breach' at the siege of St. Sebastian; Lieutenant Robert Chamberlain, a retired military man; and Mr. Gourlay, squatter. Arming in haste, they followed hard on the tracks of the spoilers, and, as they crossed the creek flat, discovered the bushrangers entrenched in a slab hut, fully prepared for battle. The outlaws had the best of the position, having cover, behind which they could fire through windows and other openings. The attacking force did not stop to weigh probabilities, but charged up to the fortress, the besieged returning fire with effect. Mr. Chamberlain was slightly wounded; Mr. Fowler was shot through the jaw. But 'blood will tell.' The volunteers were cool and determined. One of the robbers was shot dead, and the others captured before the smoke had well cleared from the tiny battle scene, which compared favourably as to killed and wounded with more pretentious engagements. The prisoners were conveyed to Melbourne, there to await trial, sentence, and execution. Their captives, I may mention, finding themselves neglected, promptly quitted the field, their position between two fires being eminently unsafe.

It were tedious to follow the calendar of crime more or less connected with the highway in old colonial days. In many instances the records testify not less to the unflinching courage of the settlers than to the recklessness of the robbers.

Among memorable incidents that of Mr. Charles Fisher Shepherd, of Monaro, deserves to be recorded. On the 14th of December 1835, being attacked by bushrangers at night, also deserted or betrayed by other inmates of the station, he shot one robber dead and kept up a fight against odds in the most gallant manner, until, being wounded in the head and half-a-dozen other places, he was left for dead. He recovered, however, as if by a miracle, and gave evidence at the trial and conviction of the chief criminal and his abettors.

As far back as 1830 this evil, so far from being stamped out by chain-gang and gallows, assumed alarming proportions, as may be judged by a newspaper extract containing a letter from Mr. George Suttor to Mr. E. B. Suttor, of Baulkam Hills. On the 27th of October in that year, a meeting of the magistrates and inhabitants of Bathurst was called at the Court-house to consider what steps should be taken as to a band of bushrangers. They were led by a desperate convict, said to have been flogged unjustly; and numbering at times from twenty to thirty, kept the district in a state of alarm. Murder, as well as serious depredations, was laid to their charge. A body of volunteers numbering twelve, well armed and mounted, was at once formed, Mr. W. H. Suttor being nominated commander by Major Macpherson.

They started at five o'clock P.M., after hearing of a fresh robbery committed at the house of one Arkell. Mr. Suttor, always a friend of the aboriginal race, met two aboriginal natives who knew him, and enlisted them as guides. They ran the tracks until the robbers were descried in a rocky glen near the Warragamba River, about an hour before sunset. The volunteers dismounted and prepared to take them by a _coup de main_, but a stone falling, alarmed the gang. They instantly took to the trees for cover, and kept up an incessant fire. The volunteers stood their ground and returned the fire. While Mr. Suttor was on the rock giving orders, a bullet passed through his hat. The firing was kept up for about an hour. Two bushrangers were wounded and fell, but were got to the rear. Mr. Suttor made a feint to charge, which caused the robbers to run from their position, though he had but an empty carbine to threaten with. He then effected a retreat, none of his men being wounded. Mr. Charles Suttor was the last to leave the glen. All remounted their horses, which they had left in charge of the two blacks and a lad they had taken from the bushrangers.

The night after the skirmish was stormy, and Mr. Suttor was vexed to find that most of the horses had strayed; while seeking them the mounted police were met with, eager to overtake the bushrangers. Had they but come up sooner, their united force would have been sufficient to take or shoot the whole gang. In the encounter which took place, two of the troopers were shot and five of the horses lost. Lieutenant Brown did all that a brave officer could, even carrying off the wounded men on the back of his own horse.

The number of the robber band was between fourteen and twenty. They escaped at that time, but were pursued by Captain Walpole and Lieutenant Moore with separate detachments, to whom they surrendered. 'Major Macpherson was much pleased with the brothers Suttor for going forward in the prompt manner they did' (_sic_).

There was talk of a 'rising' at Mudgee, which did not come off; and doubtless all the 'banditti,' by which term they are referred to in this interesting letter signed G. Suttor, under date October 27, 1830, were shot or taken in usual course. Let us trust that our country may never fall short of sons of the soil ready to act with the courage and loyalty of the Messrs. Suttor and the other Australian volunteers in the 'battle' described.

* * * * *

Although gold-mining on a large scale practically commenced in New South Wales in the month of May 1851, when Mr. John Richard Hardy was appointed the first Goldfields Commissioner, and, with a body of mounted police, commenced to issue licenses and to administer the law at Ophir, where a large number of diggers had already collected, and where an eighteen-ounce nugget was found a day or two after their arrival, no robberies of consequence were committed. Still, tent thefts were frequent. Mysterious disappearances from time to time took place, while drunken brawls, horse-stealing, unlicensed liquor selling, and such-like, kept the police fully employed.

But no organised road robbery on a large scale occurred until 1862. Then all Australia was thrilled by an announcement of the gold escort robbery by Gardiner's gang, near Forbes in New South Wales. A peculiar significance attached to this daring crime, from the fact of the perpetrators being chiefly native-born Australians. It shook the general belief, long held, that the sons of the soil were free from the reproach attached to their progenitors. The New South Wales natives were proverbially sober. Not prone to the graver crimes, reared amid favourable surroundings, the type had developed few of the faults of former generations. Much might be expected of the coming race. This optimistic opinion was now unrooted. The details of the crime left but little hope for the philanthropist, while it confirmed the cynic's mockery of his kind.

On the 15th of June 1862, the gold escort coach from Forbes was stopped and robbed by Gardiner's gang, eight or ten men in all, with blackened faces, and wearing red shirts. Bullock drays had been placed across the narrow road, and a rude breastwork constructed, at a place locally known as 'Eugowra Rocks.' Behind this an armed band suddenly appeared. No challenge was given, but at the word 'Fire' from the leader, a volley was poured into the coach, on which sat the police in charge of the gold. The sergeant and the trooper were hit. The sergeant fell, wounded in the side. The police, taken by surprise, made no effectual defence. The horses, left to themselves, bolted and overturned the coach. The robbers then took possession of the escort gold and notes, packed in four iron boxes, amounting to about fourteen thousand pounds in value. It is in evidence that a division was made, which gave about twenty-two pounds weight of gold to each man besides his share of the notes—roughly, one thousand pounds or more each—a tempting booty enough even in those days of universal plenty and comparative wealth, enjoyed by all sorts and conditions of men throughout Australia—those colonies which had not as yet produced gold, sharing almost equally in enhanced profits and heightened wages with those which had.

Very soon after the robbers had packed their ill-gotten gold upon the coach leaders and ridden hard for the gullies of the Weddin mountainland, which had many a time and oft sheltered fugitives from justice, the police, with that indispensable sleuth-hound the black tracker, were on their trail.

So hot was the pursuit, that on the Thursday following, Superintendent Saunderson's division came up with part of the gang, in one of the fastnesses of 'the Weddin'—discovered their camp and the scales with which the gold had been weighed and divided. They caught sight of the outlaws, but, on their tired horses, failed to overtake them, splendidly mounted as they appeared to be. However, they were forced to abandon a pack-horse, which the police found to be richly laden, having in four bags, secured to the saddle, about fifteen hundred ounces of gold.

Sir Frederick Pottinger, Mr. Mitchell, C.P.S., and Detective Lyons also arrested two men near Narandera, one of whom had with him two hundred and thirteen ounces of gold and one hundred and fifty pounds in notes. These were doubtless accessories or confederates. A reward per head was offered by the Government for information leading to capture of any of the gang. Thus ran the proclamation:—

* * * * *

'MAIL AND ESCORT ROBBERY

'_£1000 Reward, and Pardon to an Accomplice_

'Whereas it has been represented to the Government that on the afternoon of the 15th inst. the gold escort from the Lachlan was attacked on the road between Forbes and Orange by a band of armed men, said to be ten in number, and described as dressed in red shirts and caps, with their faces blackened, who fired on and wounded the police forming the guard, opened the mail-bags and letters, and carried off a large amount of gold dust and money: Notice is hereby given that a reward of one thousand pounds will be given by Government for such information as shall lead to the apprehension and conviction, within six months from this date, of each of the guilty parties; and a pardon will also be granted to any accomplice in the above outrage who shall first give such information.

CHARLES COWPER.

'COLONIAL SECRETARY'S OFFICE, SYDNEY, _June 17, 1862_.'

* * * * *

The great gold robbery having been accomplished, the actors in which were for a time uncaptured and unpunished, other enterprises of the same nature disturbed the land.

* * * * *

More than one gang had apparently been formed, whose doings were heard of, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another.

Well armed and admirably mounted, they were not easily overtaken or overpowered by the police force of the day, then recently organised on the centralising system, which has since proved so efficacious. Before the advent of Captain Mayne, Captain M'Lerie, and Inspector-General Fosbery, the police in New South Wales were under the control of the magistrates of the district, much as obtained formerly in the rural parts of England. The system did not work well: one police magistrate might be alert and courageous, likely to keep his men in good order; another might be easy-going, slack of discipline—mentally even in near resemblance to Justice Shallow. It was evident that there would be little _esprit de corps_, each division working for its own hand.

But when the new régime came into force all was changed. The force became at once semi-military in discipline, in prestige, in general organisation. The officers, each in graduated rank, responsible for a district, maintained a high standard of efficiency, while the inspector-general at headquarters enjoyed much the same power and rank as the military commandant of a colony. From that time forth the bush outlaws were more easily traced, more often captured, and more invariably punished than had been the case in former years.

Still, the circumstances of the country were so much in favour of this particular class of offender, that from time to time society waxed impatient at the protracted immunity of known criminals fresh from the scene of notorious outrage. Outlying stations were attacked, and more than one household had reason to rejoice at their narrow escape from capture and ill-treatment. Perhaps one of the most daring outrages of Hall and Gilbert's gang was the attack on the house of Mr. David Campbell, of Goimbla. The story of the siege and of his memorable defence I had from his own lips in the summer of 1869. He was then living at Cunningham Plains, where I visited him _en route_ from Narandera to Goulburn.

Mr. Campbell was Scottish by descent, though born in India. A keen sportsman, a high-couraged, chivalrous gentleman, he was justly indignant that he should be menaced by the lawless men who were then terrorising the country. In expectation of an attack, he made more than usual provision in the way of arms; a double supply of which were at hand in places of concealment.

Thus his story ran:—

It was the time of the evening meal. Mrs. Campbell was a refined, delicately-nurtured woman, but none the less fearless in time of trial, as the event proved. Hearing a noise, Mr. Campbell went out into a passage, at the end of which he saw an armed man, who at once fired at him. He returned fire without effect, retiring upon his base of operations. A volley from the front of the house crashed through the windows. The siege had begun.

Mr. Campbell returned fire so accurately and repeatedly, having several rifles and fowling-pieces, that the robbers believed more than one man to be behind the defences. Mrs. Campbell carried ammunition and helped to load. On one occasion, when crossing the line of fire, a bullet grazed her neck. All this time the firing was kept up briskly, though more than once a proposal came to harm nothing if the garrison surrendered, but with ruffianly threats if the defence was continued. One only reply was made, 'Come and take us.'

After half an hour's incessant fusillade, a new idea struck the attacking party. The outbuildings were composed of 'pisé,' a preparation of rammed earth, as its name implies, much favoured by Mr. Campbell, and singularly adapted for dwellings in an arid land. Now came a lull with fresh disposition of forces.

The stable immediately in the rear of the cottage was discovered to be in flames. A favourite horse of Mr. Campbell's, unable to escape, was burnt alive. As the screams of the tortured animal pierced the night air, his owner (he confessed) felt uncommonly wolfish. 'I will have one of you for poor Highflyer,' said he, as he ground his teeth. The burning stable would have caused the roof of the cottage to catch fire, as there was a dray loaded with hay standing between it and the back of the house, had not Mrs. Campbell and the servant maid courageously covered the hay with a tarpaulin.

During the pause in the firing which took place, after the flames lighted up the scene, Mrs. Campbell made an important reconnaissance. Stealing to the corner of the verandah, she examined a high paling fence, from behind which the assailants had commenced the attack. 'I saw,' she told her husband on returning, 'a man jumping up from time to time, and looking over towards the house.'

Mr. Campbell awaited the next appearance, and, taking a snap-shot, sent a bullet through the outlaw's throat. A final volley was fired and returned. Then silence ensued. Half an hour afterwards the 'besieged resident' walked down to the men's hut and brought up the station-hands, who had preserved a strict neutrality during the engagement. They found O'Malley lying dead under a tree, whither he had been dragged by his companions through the standing oats. The siege of Goimbla had been raised.

* * * * *

Mr. Keightley's experiences as a 'besieged resident' were not dissimilar from those of Mr. Campbell. A Goldfields Commissioner, a sportsman, and a determined man, he was attacked in his own house at Dunn's Plains, near Bathurst, while the robbers of the escort were still at large.

Like Mr. Campbell, he was prepared, was a dead shot, and killed one of his assailants. I may mention that I knew Mr. Keightley well for many years, and had the account of the affair from himself. The gang surrounded the house at mid-day, and finding such cover as they might, commenced firing, after calling upon the garrison to surrender. Mr. Keightley, on his part, kept up a brisk fire from time to time, and dislodged several of the besiegers from their hiding-places. He himself narrowly escaped being hit on several occasions, as his position was not completely protected. Bourke had been the most daring and aggressive of the party, and in gaining a nearer position, he partially exposed himself and was laid low by a snap-shot.

Up to this stage of the affair the conditions were not unlike those of the Goimbla siege. The robbers lost a man in each case. But here the circumstances varied materially. The attack on Mr. Keightley's household was during daylight—the one on Mr. Campbell's after nightfall. On the death of O'Malley, the robbers decided upon a retreat; but soon after Bourke fell, a discovery was made that Mr. Keightley's ammunition had been expended. He was therefore at their mercy, and had no alternative but to yield.

The four persons then in the house—Mr. and Mrs. Keightley, Dr. Pechey, a relative of the lady of the house, and a servant woman—surrendered themselves to the bushrangers, who announced their intention of shooting Mr. Keightley in requital for their comrade's death. To this end he was marched to some distance by two of the bushrangers, while the others were holding a colloquy with Mrs. Keightley and the servant, who passionately implored them to spare Mr. Keightley's life.

They retorted that he had not spared Bourke's, and also that 'he had boasted that he would have the reward which the Government had offered for their capture.'

Mrs. Keightley replied that he had never dreamed of a reward: he was the last man to take blood-money; if he had shot Bourke it was in defence of his home, which any man would do. Furthermore, if they would allow her to ride to Bathurst, she would undertake to bring them five hundred pounds in notes on the following day.

'How could you get that?' asked Ben Hall.

'From my father. You know that he is a wealthy man, and would gladly give it to me for such a purpose. Surely you will not kill my husband in cold blood before my face?'

The lady was young and beautiful. Her tears and entreaties in this dread position were such as to have moved the sternest heart. She was a native-born Australian, like themselves.

They had shed blood, but it had been in fair fight. They had never been accused of inhumanity otherwise. They relented, finally agreeing to take the five hundred pounds if brought to a certain tree, visible for a considerable distance, by a specified hour on the next day. The messenger was to come alone. They would hold her husband as a hostage for the performance of the bond.

The two men told off as executioners had by this time called upon their prisoner to turn his back towards them for the fatal shot.

'I have never done that to any man living, and will not now,' returned he; 'fire away!'

As he folded his arms and looked his captors in the face, a voice was heard from below—

'Hold on! There's to be no shooting; we've agreed to take the money.'

Mrs. Keightley was then suffered to depart in company with Dr. Pechey for Bathurst, while her husband remained in the custody of the gang, pending the arrival of the ransom. It may be imagined that his feelings were of a mingled nature. He was assured of the safety of his wife. Still, he could not be free from anxiety as to his own, in case of default of payment or pursuit by the police.

But the brave woman well performed her part. As the appointed hour on the next day drew perilously near, a horseman was seen from afar to approach the track to the well-known fire-scathed tree. He reached it, and throwing down a package, returned as he came. It was speedily taken possession of, and found to contain one hundred five-pound notes.

Then Mr. Keightley was released.

Many years have elapsed since these events took place. Few of the actors are now living. The hand of time and the Nemesis of the law have thinned the ranks of the combatants. Their deeds and adventures are passing into the domain of legend and tradition. In a few decades they may take rank with Dick Turpin and Claude Duval, while the feats of Gardiner's 'Darkie' may be quoted by the 'coming race' as in rivalry with those of Black Bess of sainted memory.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_

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_WORLD._—"Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, in the colour and play of life.... The pith of the book lies in its singularly fresh and vivid pictures of the humours of the goldfields—tragic humours enough they are, too, here and again."

=THE SQUATTER'S DREAM.=

_FIELD._—"The details are filled in by a hand evidently well conversant with his subject, and everything is _ben trovato_, if not actually true. A perusal of these cheerfully-written pages will probably give a better idea of realities of Australian life than could be obtained from many more pretentious works."

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=MY RUN HOME.=

_ATHENÆUM._—"Rolf Boldrewood's last story is a racy volume. It has many of the best qualities of Whyte-Melville, the breezy freshness and vigour of Frank Smedley, with the dash and something of the abandon of Lever.... His last volume is one of his best."

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=THE CROOKED STICK; or, Pollie's Probation.=

_ACADEMY._—"A charming picture of Australian station life."

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors. 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.