One forenoon, about ten o'clock, while we were busy, peacefully digging and puddling, we heard a sound like the rumbling of distant thunder from the direction of Bendigo flat. The thunder grew louder until it became like the bellowing of ten thousand bulls. It was the welcome accorded by the diggers to our "trusty and well-beloved" Government when it came forth on a digger hunt. It was swelled by the roars, and cooeys, and curses of every man above ground and below, in the shafts and drives on the flats, and in the tunnels of the White Hills, from Golden Gully and Sheep's Head, to Job's Gully and Eaglehawk, until the warning that "Joey's out" had reached to the utmost bounds of the goldfield.

There was a strong feeling amongst the diggers that the license fee of thirty shillings per month was excessive, and this feeling was intensified by the report that it was the intention of the Government to double the amount. As a matter of fact, by far the larger number of claims yielded no gold at all, or not enough to pay the fee. The hatred of the hunted diggers made it quite unsafe to send out a small number of police and soldiers, so there came forth at irregular intervals a formidable body of horse and foot, armed with carbines, swords, and pistols.

This morning they marched rapidly along the track towards the White Hills, but wheeling to the left up the bluff they suddenly appeared at the head of Picaninny Gully. Mounted men rode down each side of the gully as fast as the nature of the ground would permit, for it was then honeycombed with holes, and encumbered with the trunks and stumps of trees, especially on the eastern side. They thus managed to hem us in like prisoners of war, and they also overtook some stragglers hurrying away to right and left. Some of these had licenses in their pockets, and refused to stop or show them until they were actually arrested. It was a ruse of war. They ran away as far as possible among the holes and logs, in order to draw off the cavalry, make them break their ranks, and thus to give a chance to the unlicensed to escape or to hide themselves. The police on foot, armed with carbines and accompanied by officers, next came down the centre of the gully, and every digger was asked to show his license. I showed that of William Matthews.

It was not that the policy of William Patterson was tried and found wanting. He was at work on his claim a little below mine, and knowing he had no license, I looked at him to see how he would behave in the face of the enemy. He had stopped working, and was walking in the direction of his tent, with head bowed down as ifin search of something he had lost. He disappeared in his tent, which was a large one, and had, near the opening, a chimney built up with ironstone boulders and clay. But the police had seen him; he was followed, found hiding in the corner of his chimney, arrested, and placed among the prisoners who were then halted near my tub. Immediately behind Patterson, and carrying a carbine on his shoulder, stood a well-known shipmate named Joynt, whom poverty had compelled to join the enemy. He would willingly have allowed his friend and prisoner to escape, but no chance of doing so occurred, and long after dark Patterson approached our camp fire, a free man, but hungry, tired, and full of bitterness. He had been forced to march along the whole day like a convicted felon, with an ever-increasing crowd of prisoners, had been taken to the camp at nightfall and made to pay 6 pounds 10s.—viz., a fine of 5 pounds and 1 pound 10s. for a license.

The feelings of William Patterson, and of thousands of other diggers, were outraged, and they burned for revenge. A roll-up was called, and three public meetings were held on three successive Saturday afternoons, on a slight eminence near the Government camp. The speakers addressed the diggers from a wagon. Some advocated armed resistance. It was well known that many men, French, German, and even English, were on the diggings who had taken part in the revolutionary outbreak of '48, and that they were eager to have recourse to arms once more in the cause of liberty. But the majority advocated the trial of a policy of peace, at least to begin with. A final resolution was passed by acclamation that a fee of ten shillings a month should be offered, and if not accepted, no fee whatever was to be paid.

It was argued that if the diggers stood firm, it would be impossible for the few hundreds of soldiers and police to arrest and keep in custody nearly twenty thousand men. If an attempt was made to take us all to gaol, digger-hunting would have to be suspended, the revenue would dwindle to nothing, and Government would be starved out. It was, in fact, no Government at all; it was a mere assemblage of armed men sent to rob us, not to protect us; each digger had to do that for himself.

Next day, Sunday, I walked through the diggings, and observed the words "No License Here" pinned or pasted outside every tent, and during the next month only about three hundred licenses were taken out, instead of the fourteen or fifteen thousand previously issued, the digger-hunting was stopped, and a license-fee of forty shillings for three months was substituted for that of thirty shillings per month.

II.

As no man who had a good claim would be willing to run the risk of losing it, the number of licenses taken out after the last meeting would probably represent the number of really lucky diggers then at work on Bendigo, viz., three hundred more or less, and of the three hundred I don't think our gully could boast of one. All were finding a little gold, but even the most fortunate were not making more than "tucker." By puddling eight tubs of washdirt I found that we could obtain about one pound's worth of gold each per day; but this was hardly enough to keep hope alive. The golden hours flew over us, but they did not send down any golden showers. I put the little that fell to my share into a wooden match-box, which I carried in my pocket. I knew it would hold twelve ounces—if I could get so much —and looked into it daily and shook the gold about to see if I were growing rich.

It was impossible to feel jolly, and I could see that Philip was discontented. He had never been accustomed to manual labour; he did not like being exposed to the cold winds, to the frost or rain, with no shelter except that afforded by our small tent. While at work we were always dirty, and often wet; and after we had passed a miserable night, daylight found us shivering, until warmth came with hard work. One morning Philip lost his temper; his only hat was soaked with rain, and his trousers, shirt, and boots were stiff with clay. He put a woollen comforter on his head in lieu of the hat. The comforter was of gaudy colours, and soon attracted public attention. A man down the gully said:

"I obsarved yesterday we had young Ireland puddling up here, and I persave this morning we have an Italian bandit or a Sallee rover at work among us."

Every digger looked at Philip, and he fell into a sudden fury; you might have heard him at the first White Hill.

"Yesterday I heard a donkey braying down the gully, and this morning he is braying again."

"Oh! I see," replied the Donkey. "We are in a bad temper this morning."

Father Backhaus was often seen walking with long strides among the holes and hillocks on Bendigo Flat or up and down the gullies, on a visit to some dying digger, for Death would not wait until we had all made our pile. His messengers were going around all the time; dysentery, scurvy, or fever; and the priest hurried after them. Sometimes he was too late; Death had entered the tent before him.

He celebrated Mass every Sunday in a tent made of drugget, and covered with a calico fly. His presbytery, sacristy, confessional, and school were all of similar materials, and of small dimensions. There was not room in the church for more than thirty or forty persons; there were no pews, benches, or chairs. Part of the congregation consisted of soldiers from the camp, who had come up from Melbourne to shoot us if occasion required. Six days of the week we hated them and called "Joey" after them, but on the seventh day we merely glared at them, and let them pass in silence. They were sleek and clean, and we were gaunt as wolves, with scarcely a clean shirt among us. Philip, especially hated them as enemies of his country, and the more so because they were his countrymen, all but one, who was a black man.

The people in and around the church were not all Catholics. I saw a man kneeling near me reading the Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England; there was also a strict Presbyterian, to whom I spoke after Mass. He said the priest did not preach with as much energy as the ministers in Scotland. And yet I thought Father Backhaus' sermon had that day been "powerful," as the Yankees would say. He preached from the top of a packing case in front of the tent. The audience was very numerous, standing in close order to the distance of twenty-five or thirty yards under a large gum tree.

The preacher spoke with a German accent, but his meaning was plain.

He said:

"My dear brethren' 'Beatus ille qui post aurum non abiit'. Blessed is the man who has not gone after gold, nor put his trust in money or treasures. You will never earn that blessing, my dear brethren. Why are you here? You have come from every corner of the world to look for gold. You think it is a blessing, but when you get it, it is often a curse. You go what you call 'on the spree'; you find the 'sly grog'; you get drunk and are robbed of your gold; sometimes you are murdered; or you fall into a hole and are killed, and you go to hell dead drunk. Patrick Doyle was here at Mass last Sunday; he was then a poor digger. Next day he found gold, 'struck it rich,' as you say; then he found the grog also and brought it to his tent. Yesterday he was found dead at the bottom of his golden shaft, and he was buried in the graveyard over there near the Government camp."

My conscience was quite easy when the sermon was finished. It would be time enough for me to take warning from the fate of Paddy Doyle when I had made my pile. Let the lucky diggers beware! I was not one of them.

After we had been at work a few weeks, Father Backhaus, before stepping down from the packing-case, said:

"I want someone to teach in a school; if there is anyone here willing to do so, I should like to see him after Mass."

I was looking round for Philip among the crowd when he came up, eager and excited.

"I am thinking of going in to speak to the priest about that school," he said. "Would you have any objection? You know we are doing no good in the gully, but I won't leave itif you think I had better not."

Philip was honourable; he would not dissolve our short partnership, and leave me alone unless I was quite willing to let him go.

"Have you ever kept school before?"

"No, never. But I don't think the teaching will give me much trouble. There can't be many children around here, and I can surely teach them A B C and the Catechism."

Although I thought he had not given fortune a fair chance to bless us, he looked so wistful and anxious that I had not the heart to say no. Philip went into the tent, spoke to the priest, and became a schoolmaster. I was then a solitary "hatter."

Next day a man came up the gully with a sack on his back with something in it which he had found in a shaft. He thought the shaft had not been dug down to the bedrock, and he would bottom it. He bottomed on a corpse. The claim had been worked during the previous summer by two men. One morning there was only one man on it; he said his mate had gone to Melbourne, but he had in fact killed him during the night, and dropped him down the hole. The police never hunted out that murderer; they were too busy hunting us.

I was not long alone. A beggarly looking young man came a few days later, and said:

"I hear you have lost your mate Philip, and my mates have all gone away and taken the tent with them; so I want to ask you to let me stay in your tent until I can look round a bit."

This young man's name was David Beswick, but he was known simply as "Bez." He was a harmonious tailor from Manchester; he played the violoncello, also the violin; had a good tenor voice, and a talent for the drama. He, and a man named Santley from Liverpool, had taken leading parts in our plays and concerts on shipboard. Scott, the artist, admired Bez; he said he had the head, the features, and the talent of a Shakespeare. He had a sketch of Bez in his portfolio, which he was filling with crooked trees, common diggers, and ugly blackamoors. I could see no Shakespeare in Bez; he was nothing but a dissipated tailor who had come out in the steerage, while I had voyaged in the house on deck. I was, therefore, a superior person, and looked down on the young man, who was seated on a log near the fire, one leg crossed over the other, and slowly stroking his Elizabethan beard. I said:

"Yes, Philip has left me, but I don't want any partner. I understand you are a tailor by trade, and I don't think much of a tailor."

"Well," replied Bez, "I don't think much of him myself, so I have dropped the business. I am now a sailor. You know yourself I sailed from Liverpool to Melbourne, and, anyhow, there's only the difference of a letter between a tailor and a sailor."

There was a flaw somewhere in the argument, but I only said, "'Valeat quantum valere potest.'" Bez looked solemn; a little Latin goes a long way with some people. He was an object of charity, and I made him feel it.

"In the first place this tent is teetotal. No grog is to come inside it. There is to be no mining partnership. You can keep all the gold you get, and I shall do the same. You must keep all trade secrets, and never confess you are a tailor. I could never hold up my head among the diggers if they should discover that my mate was only the ninth part of a man. You must carry to the tent a quantity of clay and rocks sufficient to build a chimney, of which I shall be the architect. You will also pay for your own tucker, chop wood, make the fire, fetch water, and boil the billy." Bez promised solemnly to abide by these conditions, and then I allowed him to deposit his swag in the tent.

The chimney was built in three days, and we could then defy the weather, and dispense with the umbrella. Bez performed his part of the contract well. He adopted a rolling gait and the frown of a pirate; he swore naval oaths strong enough to still a hurricane. Among his digging outfit was a huge pick; it was a two-man pick, and he carried it on his shoulder to suggest his enormous strength. He threw tailordom to the winds; when a rent appeared in his trousers he closed it with pins, disdaining the use of the needle, until he became so ragged that I ordered him into dock for repairs.

One day in passing Philip's school I peeped in at the flap of the tent. He had already acquired the awe-inspiring look of the schoolmaster. He was teaching a class of little boys, whose wandering eyes were soon fixed on my face, and then Philip saw me. He smiled and blushed, and came outside. He said he was getting along capitally, and did not want to try digging any more. He had obtained a small treatise called "The Twelve Virtues of a Good Master," and he was studying it daily in order to qualify himself for his new calling. He had undertaken to demonstrate one of Euclid's propositions every night by way of exercising his reasoning faculties. He was also making new acquaintances amongst men who were not diggers—doctors, storekeepers, and the useful blacksmiths who pointed our picks with steel. He had also two or three friends at the Governmnt camp, and I felt inclined to look upon him as a traitor to the diggers' cause but although he had been a member of the party of Young Irelanders, he was the most innocent traitor and the poorest conspirator I ever heard of. He could keep nothing from me. If he had been a member of some secret society, he would have burst up the secret, or the secret would have burst him.

He had some friends among the diggers. The big gum tree in front of the church tent soon became a kind of trysting place on Sundays, at which men could meet with old acquaintances and shipmates, and convicts could find old pals. Amongst the crowd one Sunday were five men belonging to a party of six from Nyalong; the sixth man was at home guarding the tent. Four of the six were Irish Catholics, and they came regularly to Mass every Sunday; the other two were Englishmen, both convicts, of no particular religion, but they had married Catholic immigrants, and sometimes went to church, but more out of pastime than piety. One of these men, known as John Barton— he had another name in the indents—stood under the gum tree, but not praying; I don't think he ever thought of praying except the need of it was extreme. He was of medium height, had a broad face, snub nose, stood erect like a soldier, and was strongly built. His small ferrety eyes were glancing quickly among the faces around him until they were arrested by another pair of eyes at a short distance. The owner of the second pair of eyes nudged two other men standing by, and then three pairs of eyes were fixed on Barton. He was not a coward, but something in the expression of the three men cowed him completely. He turned his head and lowered it, and began to push his way among the crowd to hide himself. After Mass, Philip found him in his tent, and suspecting that he was a thief put his hand on a medium-sized Colt's revolver, which he had exchanged for his duelling pistols, and said:

"Well, my friend, and what are you doing here?"

"For God's sake speak low," whispered Barton. "I came in here to hide. There are three men outside who want to kill me."

"Three men who want to kill you, eh? Do you expect me to believe that anybody among the crowd there would murder you in broad daylight? My impression is, my friend, that you are a sneaking thief, and that you came here to look for gold. I'll send a man to the police to come and fetch you, and if you stir a step I'll shoot you."

"For goodness' sake, mate, keep quiet. I am not a burglar, not now at any rate. I'll tell you the truth. I was a Government flagellator, a flogger, you know, on the Sydney side, and I flogged those three men. Couldn't help it, it was my business to do it. I know they are looking for me, and they will follow me and take the first chance to murder me. They are most desperate characters. One of them was insubordinate when he was assigned servant to a squatter, and the squatter, who was on horseback, gave him a cut with his stockwhip. Then this man jumped at his master, pulled him off his horse, dragged him to the wood-heap, held his head on the block, seized the axe, and was just going to chop his master's head off, when another man stopped him. That is what I had to flog him for, and then he was sent back to Sydney. So you can just think what a man like that would do. When my time was up I went as a trooper to the Nyalong district under Captain Foster, the Commissioner, and after a while I settled down and married an immigrant woman from Tipperary, a Catholic. That's the way I happened to be here at Mass with my mates, who are Catholics; but I'll never do it again; it's as much as my life is worth. I daresay there are lots of men about Bendigo whom I flogged while I was in the business, and every single man-jack of them would kill me if he got the chance. And so for goodness' sake let me stay here till dark. I suppose you are an honest man; you look like it anyway, and you would not want to see me murdered, now, would you?"

Barton was, in fact, as great a liar and rogue as you would meet with anywhere, but in extreme cases he would tell the truth, and the present case was an extreme one. Philip was merciful; he allowed Barton to remain in his tent all day, and gave him his dinner. When darkness came he escorted him to the tent of the men from Nyalong, and was introduced to them by his new friend. Their names were Gleeson, Poynton, Lyons, and two brothers McCarthy. One of these men was brother-in-law to Barton, and had been a fellow-trooper with him under Captain Foster. Barton had entered into family relations as an honest man; he could give himself any character he chose until he was found out. He was too frightened to stay another night on Bendigo, and he began at once to bundle up his swag. Gleeson and Poynton accompanied him for some distance beyond the pillar of white quartz on Specimen Hill, and then he left the track and struck into the bush. Fear winged his feet' he arrived safely at Nyalong, and never went to another rush. The other five then stayed on Bendigo for several weeks longer, and when they returned home their gold was sufficient for a dividend of 700 pounds for each man. Four of them bought farms, one kept a store, and Barton rented some land. Philip met them again when he was promoted to the school at Nyalong, and they were his firm friends as long as he lived there.

I went to various rushes to improve my circumstances. Once I was nearly shot. A bullet whizzed past my head, and lodged in the trunk of a stringy bark a little further on. That was the only time in my life I was under fire, and I got from under it as quickly as possible. Once I went to a rush of Maoris, near Job's Gully, and Scott came along with his portfolio, a small pick, pan, and shovel. He did not dig any, but got the ugliest Maori he could find to sit on a pile of dirt while he took his portrait and sketched the tattoos. That spoiled the rush; every man, black and white, crowded around Scott while he was at work with his pencil, and then every single savage shook hands with him, and made signs to have his tattoos taken, they were so proud of their ugliness. They were all naked to the waist.

Near the head of Sheep's Head Gully, Jack Moore and I found the cap of a quartz reef with visible gold in it. We broke up some of it, but could not make it pay, having no quartz-crushing machinery. Golden Gully was already nearly worked out, but I got a little gold in it which was flaky, and sticking on edge in the pipeclay bottom. I found some gold also in Sheep's Head, and then we heard of a rush on the Goulburn River. Next day we offered our spare mining plant for sale on the roadside opposite Specimen Hill, placing the tubs, cradles, picks and spades all in a row. Bez was the auctioneer. He called out aloud, and soon gathered a crowd, which he fascinated by his eloquence. The bidding was spirited, and every article was sold, even Bez's own two-man pick, which would break the heart of a Samson to wield it.

When we left Bendigo, Bez, Birnie, Dan, Scott, and Moses were of the party, and a one-horse cart carried our baggage. When we came to a swamp we carried the baggage over it on our backs, and then helped the horse to draw the empty cart along. Our party increased in number by the way, especially after we met with a dray carrying kegs of rum.

Before reaching the new rush, afterwards known as Waranga, we prospected some country about twenty miles from the Goulburn river. Here Scott left us. Before starting he called me aside, and told me he was going to the Melbourne Hospital to undergo an operation. He had a tumour on one leg above the knee, for which he had been treated in Dublin, and had been advised to come to Australia, in the hope that a change of climate and occupation might be of benefit, but he had already walked once from Bendigo to Melbourne, and now he was obliged to go again. He did not like to start without letting someone know his reason for leaving us. I felt full of pity for Scott, for I thought he was going to his death alone in the bush, and I asked him if he felt sure that he could find his way. He showed me his pocket compass and a map, and said he could make a straight course for Melbourne. He had always lived and worked alone, but whenever we moved he accompanied us not wishing to be quite lost amongst strangers. He arrived at the hospital, but he never came out of it alive.

Dan gave me his money to take care of while he and Bez were living on rum from the dray, and I gave out as little cash as possible in order to promote peace and sobriety. One night Dan set fire to my tent in order to rouse his banker. I dragged Bez outside the tent and extinguished the fire. There was bloodshed afterwards—from Dan's nose—and his account was closed. After a while some policemen in plain clothes came along and examined the dray. They found fourteen kegs of rum in it, which they seized, together with four horses and the dray.

I worked for seven months in various parts of the Ovens district until I had acquired the value in gold of my vanished twenty-dollar pieces; that was all my luck. During this time some of us paid the L2 license fee for three months. We were not hunted by the military. Four or five troopers and officials rode slowly about the diggings and the cry of "Joey" was never raised, while a single unarmed constable on foot went amongst the claims to inspect licenses. He stayed with us awhile, talking about digging matters. He said the police were not allowed to carry carbines now, because a digger had been accidentally shot. He was a very civil fellow, and his price, if I remember rightly was half-a-crown. Yet the digger hunting was continued at Ballarat until it ended in the massacre of December 3rd 1854.

At that time I was at Colac, and while Dr. Ignatius was absent, I had the charge of his household, which consisted of one old convict known as "Specs," who acted in the capacity of generally useless, received orders most respectfully, but forgot them as much as possible. He was a man of education who had gone astray in London, and had fallen on evil days in Queensland and Sydney. When alone in the kitchen he consoled himself with curses. I could hear his voice from the other side of the slabs. He cursed me, he cursed the Doctor, he cursed the horses, the cat, the dog, and the whole world and everything in it. It was impossible to feel anything but pity for the man, for his life was ruined, and he had ruined it himself. I had also under my care a vegetable garden, a paddock of Cape barley, two horses, some guinea fowls, and a potato patch. One night the potatoes had been bandicooted. To all the early settlers in the bush the bandicoot is well known. It is a marsupial quadruped which lives on bulbs, and ravages potato patches. It is about eighteen inches in length from the origin of its tail to the point of its nose. It has the habits of a pickpocket. It inserts its delicate fore paws under the stalks of the potato, and pulls out the tubers. That morning I had endeavoured to dig some potatoes; the stalks were there, but the potatoes were gone. I stopped to think, and examined the ground. I soon discovered tracks of the bandicoot, but they had taken the shape of a small human foot. We had no small human feet about our premises, but at the other side of the fence there was a bark hut full of them. I turned toward the hut suspiciously, and saw the bandicoot sitting on a top-rail, watching me, and dangling her feet to and fro. She wore towzled red hair, a short print frock, and a look of defiance. I went nearer to inspect her bandicoot feet. Then she openly defied me, and said:

"You need not look so fierce, mister. I have as much right to sit on this rail as you have."

"Lilias," I replied, "you won't sit there long. You bandicooted my potatoes last night, and you've left the marks of your dirty feet on the ground. The police are coming to measure your feet, and then they will take you to the lock-up."

I gazed across the barley paddock for the police, and Lilias looked as well. There was a strange man approaching rapidly, and the bandicoot's courage collapsed. She slid from the fence, took to flight, and disappeared among the tussocks near the creek.

The stranger did not go to the garden gate, but stood looking over the fence. He said: "Is Dr. Ignatius at home?"

"No, he is away somewhere about Fiery Creek, and I don't think he'll return until Saturday."

The stranger hung down his head and was silent. He was a young man of small frame, well dressed for those days, but he had o luggage. He looked so miserable that I pitied him. He was like a hunted animal. I said:

"Are you a friend of Dr. Ignatius?"

"Yes, he knows me well. My name is Carr; I have come from Ballarat."

"I knew various men had left Ballarat. One had arrived in Geelong on December 4th, and had consulted Dr. Walshe about a bullet between his knuckles, another was hiding in a house at Chilwell.* He had lost one arm, and the Government were offering 400 pounds for him, so he took outdoor exercise only by night, disguised in an Inverness cape.

"There was a chance for me to hear exciting news from the lips of a warrior fresh from the field of battle, so I said:

"If you would like to stay here until the doctor returns you will be welcome."

*[Footnote] Peter Lalor.

He was my guest for four days. He said that he went out with the military on the morning of December 3rd, and was the first surgeon who entered the Eureka Stockade after the fight was over. He found twelve men dead in it, and twelve more mortally wounded. This was about all the information he vouchsafed to give me. I was anxious for particulars. I wanted to know what arms he carried to the fray, whether he touched up his sword on the grind-stone before sallying forth, how many men or women he had called upon to stand in the name of her gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, how many skulls he had cloven, how many diggers he had "slewed," and how many peaceful prisoners he had brought back to the Government camp. On all these points he was silent, and during his stay with me he spoke as little as possible, neither reading, writing, nor walking about. But there was something to be learned from the papers. He had been a witness at the inquest on Scobie, killed by Bentley and two others, and principally on his evidence Bentley was discharged, but was afterwards re-arrested and condemned to three years' imprisonment. Dr. Carr was regarded as a "colluding associate" with Bentley and Dewes, the magistrate, and the official condemnation of Dewes confirmed the popular denunciation of them. At a dinner given to Mr. Tarleton, the American Consul, Dr. Otway, the Chairman said:

"While I and my fellow-colonists are thoroughly loyal to our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, we do not, and will not, respect her men servants, her maid servants, her oxen, or her asses."

A Commission was coming to Ballarat to report on wrong doings there, and they were looking for witnesses. On Friday, December 8th, the camp surgeon and Dr. Carr had a narrow escape from being shot. While the former gentleman was entering the hospital he was fired at by one of the sentries. The ball passed close to the shoulder of Dr. Carr, who was reading inside, went through the lid of the open medicine chest, and some splinters struck him on the side. There were in the hospital at that time seven diggers seriously wounded and six soldiers, including the drummer boy. Troubles were coming in crowds, and the bullet, the splinters, and the Commission put the little doctor to flight. He left the seven diggers, the five soldiers, and the drummer boy in the hospital, and made straight for Colac. Fear dogged his footsteps wherever he went, and the mere sight of him had sent the impudent thief Lilias to hide behind the tussocks.

I always hate a man who won't talk to me and tell me things, and the doctor was so silent and unsociable, that, by way of revenge, I left him to the care and curses of old "Specs."

After four days he departed, and he appeared again at Ballarat on January 15th, giving evidence at an inquest on one Hardy, killed by a gunshot wound. In the meantime a total change had taken place among the occupants of the Government camp. Commissioner Rede had retired, Dr. Williams, the coroner, and the district surgeons had received notice to quit in twenty-four hours, and they left behind them twenty-four patients in and around the camp hospital.

Dr. Carr left the colony, and the next report about him was from Manchester, where he made a wild and incoherent speech to the crowd at the Exchange. His last public appearance was in a police-court on a charge of lunacy. He was taken away by his friends, and what became of him afterwards is not recorded.

Doctors, when there is a dearth of patients, sometimes take to war, and thus succeed in creating a "practice." Occasionally they meet with disaster, of which we can easily call to mind instances, both ancient and modern.

III.

Diggers do not often turn their eyes heavenwards; their treasure does not lie in that direction. But one night I saw Bez star-gazing.

"Do you know the names of any of the stars in this part of the roof?" I asked.

"I can't make out many of the Manchester stars," he replied. "I knew a few when I was a boy, but there was a good deal of fog and smoke, and latterly I have not looked up that way much; but I can spot a few of them yet, I think."

Bez was a rather prosy poet, and his eye was not in a fine frenzy rolling.

"Let me see," he said; "that's the north; Charles' Wain and the North Pole ought to be there, but they have gone down somewhere. There are the Seven Stars—I never could make 'em seven; if there ever were that number one of 'em has dropped out. And there's Orion; he has somehow slipped up to the north, and is standing on his head, heels uppermost. There are the two stars in his heels, two on his shoulders, three in his belt, and three in his sword. There is the Southern Cross; we could never see that in our part of England, nor those two silvery clouds, nor the two black holes. They look curious, don't they? I suppose the two clouds are the Gates of Heaven, and the two black spots the Gates of Hell, the doors of eternity. Which way shall we go? That's the question."

The old adage is still quite true—'coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt'. When a young gentleman in England takes to idleness and grog, and disgraces his family, he is provided with a passage to Australia, in order that he may become a reformed prodigal; but the change of climate does not effect a reform; it requires something else.

Dan in Glasgow and Bez in Manchester had both been given to drink too much. They came to Victoria to acquire the virtue of temperance, and they were sober enough when they had no money.

Dan told me that when he awoke after his first week at sea, he sat every day on the topgallant forecastle thinking over his past wickedness, watching the foam go by, and continually tempted to plunge into it.

After the rum, the dray, and the four horses were seized by the police. Dan and Bez grew sober, and went to Reid's Creek, passing me at work on Spring Creek. They came back as separate items. Dan called at my tent, and I gave him a meal of damper, tea, and jam. He ate the whole of the jam, which cost me 2s. 6d. per pound. He then humped his swag and started for Melbourne. On his way through the township, since named Beechworth, he took a drink of liquor which disabled him, and he lay down by the roadside using an ant-hill for a pillow. He awoke at daylight covered with ants, which were stinging and eating him alive.

Some days later Bez came along, passed my tent for a mile, and then came back. He said he was ashamed of himself. I gave him also a feed of damper, tea, and jam limited. Dan had made me cautious in the matter of lavish hospitality. The Earl of Lonsdale lately spent fifty thousand pounds in entertaining the Emperor of Germany, but it was money thrown away. The next time the Kaiser comes to Westmoreland he will have to pay for his board and buy his preserves. Bez made a start for Melbourne, met an old convict, and with him took a job at foot-rotting sheep on a station owned by a widow lady. Here he passed as an engraver in reduced circumstances. He told lies so well, that the convict was filled with admiration, and said, "I'm sure, mate, you're a flash covey wot's done his time in the island."

The two chums foot-rotted until they had earned thirty shillings each, then they went away and got drunk at a roadside shanty; at least, Bez did, and when the convict picked his pockets, he kindly put back three shillings and sixpence, saying, "That will give him another start on the wallaby track."

Bez at last arrived at Flagstaff Hill, which was then bare, with a sand-hole on one side of it. He had had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours, and had only one shilling and sixpence in his pocket, which he was loath to spend for fear of arriving in Melbourne a complete beggar. He lay down famishing and weary on the top of the hill near Flagstaff, and surveyed the city, the bay, and the shipping. He had hoped by this time to have been ready to take a passage in one of those ships to Liverpool, and to return home a lucky digger. But he had only eighteen pence, so he said, "I am afraid, Bez, you will never see Manchester again."

There was at that time a small frame building at the west end of Flinders Street, with a hill behind it, on which goats were browsing; the railway viaduct runs now over the exact spot. Many parties of hopeful diggers from England and California had slept there on the floor the night before they started for Ballarat, Mount Alexander, or Bendigo. We called it a house of refuge, and Bez now looked for refuge in it. There he met Dan and Moran, who had both found employment in the city, and they fed the hungry Bez. Dan was labouring at his trade in the building business, and he set Bez to work roofing houses with corrugated iron. They soon earned more money than they had ever earned by digging for gold, but on Saturday nights and Sundays they took their pleasure in the old style, and so they went to the dogs. I don't know how Dan's life ended (his real name was Donald Fraser), but Bez died suddenly in the bar of a public-house, and he was honoured with an inquest and a short paragraph in the papers.

Moran had saved a hundred pounds by digging in Picaninny Gully, and he was soon afterwards admitted to serve Her Majesty again in the police department. On the Sunday after Price was murdered by the convicts at Williamstown I met Moran after Mass in the middle of Lonsdale Street. I reproached him for his baseness in deserting to the enemy—Her Majesty, no less—and in self-defence he nearly argued my head off. At last I threatened to denounce him as a "Joey" —he was in plain clothes—and have him killed by the crowd in the street. Nothing but death could silence Moran. The rest of his history is engraved on a monument in the Melbourne Cemetery; he, his wife, and all his children died many years ago.—R.I.P. He was really a good man, with only one defect—most of us have many—he was always trying to divide a hair 'twixt West and South-West side.

I met Santley after thirty years, sitting on a bench in front of the "Travellers' Rest" at Alberton, in Gippsland. He had a wrinkled old face, and did not recognise my beautiful countenance until he heard my name. He had half-a-dozen little boys and girls around him—his grandchildren, I believe—and was as happy as a king teaching them to sing hymns. I don't think Santley had grown rich, but he always carried a fortune about with him wherever he went, viz., a kind heart and a cheerful disposition. Nobody could ever think of quarrelling with Santlay any more than with George Coppin, or with that benevolent bandmaster, Herr Plock. He told me that he was now related to the highest family in the world, his daughter having married the Chinese giant, whose brothers and sisters were all of the race of Anak.

My mate, Philip, was so successful with his little school in the tent that he was promoted to another at the Rocky Waterholes, and then he went to the township at Lake Nyalong. Philip had never travelled as far as Lake Nyalong, but Picaninny Jack told him that he had once been there, and that it was a beautiful country. He tried to find it at another time, but got bushed on the wrong side of the lake; now he believed there was a regular track that way if Philip could only find it. The settlers and other inhabitants ought to be well off; if not, it was their own fault, for they had the best land in the whole of Australia.

Philip felt sure that he would find at least one friend at Nyalong— viz., Mr. Barton, whom he had harboured in his tent at Bendigo, and had sheltered from the pursuit of the three bloodthirsty convicts. Some people might be too proud to look forward to the friendship of a flagellator, but in those days we could not pick and choose our chums; Barton might not be clubable, but he might be useful, and the social ladder requires a first step.

Thanks to such men as Dan and Bez, in Melbourne, and to other enterprising builders in various places, habitable dwellings of wood, brick, and bluestone began to be used, instead of the handy but uncomfortable tent, and, at the Rocky Waterholes, Philip had for some time been lodging in a weatherboard house with the respectable Mrs. Martin. Before going to look for Nyalong he introduced his successor to her, and also to the scholars. Her name was Miss Edgeworth.

The first virtue of a good master is gravity, and Philip had begun at the beginning. He was now graver even than usual while he briefly addressed his youthful auditors.

"My dear children," he said, "I am going away, and have to leave you in the care of this young lady, Miss Edgeworth. I am sure you will find her to be a better teacher than myself, because she has been trained in the schools of the great city of Dublin, and I, unfortunately, had no training at all; she is highly educated, and will be, I doubt not, a perfect blessing to the rising generation of the Rocky Waterholes. I hope you will be diligent, obedient, and respectful to her. Good-bye, and God bless you all."

These words were spoken in the tone of a judge passing sentence of death on a criminal, and Miss Edgeworth was in doubt whether it would be becoming under the circumstances to laugh or to cry, so she made no speech in reply. She said afterwards to Mrs. Martin, "Mr. Philip must have been a most severe master; I can see sternness on his brow." Moreover, she was secretly aware that she did not deserve his compliments, and that her learning was limited, especially in arithmetic; she had often to blame the figures for not adding up correctly. For this reason she had a horror of examinations, and every time the inspector came round she was in a state of mortal fear. His name was Bonwick. He was a little man, but he was so learned that the teachers looked forward to his visits with awe. A happy idea came into Miss Edgeworth's mind. She was, it is true, not very learned, nor was she perfect in the practice of the twelve virtues, but she had some instinctive knowledge of the weakness of the male man. Mr. Bonwick was an author, a learned author who had written books—among others a school treatise on geography. Miss Edgeworth bought two copies of this work, and took care to place them on her table in the school every morning with the name of the author in full view. On his next visit Mr. Bonwick's searching eyes soon detected the presence of his little treatise, and he took it up with a pleased smile. This was Miss Edgeworth's opportunity; she said, in her opinion, the work was a must excellent one, and extremely well adapted for the use of schools.

The inspector was more than satisfied; a young lady of so much judgment and discrimination was a peerless teacher, and Miss Edgeworth's work was henceforward beyond all question.

There were no coaches running to Nyalong, and, as Philip's poverty did not permit him to purchase a horse, and he had scruples about stealing one, he packed up his swag and set out on foot. It may be mentioned as bearing on nothing in particular that, after Philip had taken leave of Miss Edgeworth, she stood at a window, flattened her little nose against one of the panes, and watched him trudging away as long as he was in sight. Then she said to Mrs. Martin:

"Ain't it a pity that so respectable a young man should be tramping through the bush like a pedlar with a pack?"

"No, indeed, miss, not a bit of it," replied Mrs. Martin; "nearly every man in the country has had to travel with his swag one time or another. We are all used to it; and it ain't no use of your looking after him that way, for most likely you'll never see him again." But she did.

About two miles from the Waterholes Philip overtook another swagman, a man of middle age, who was going to Nyalong to look for work. He had tried the diggings, and left them for want of luck, and Philip, having himself been an unlucky digger, had a fellow feeling for the stranger. He was an old soldier named Summers.

"I am three and fifty years old," he said, "and I 'listed when I was twenty. I was in all the wars in India for nineteen years, and never was hit but once, and that was on the top of my head. Look here," he took off his hat and pointed to a ridge made by the track of a bullet, "if I had been an inch taller I shouldn't be here now. And maybe it would have been all the better. I have been too long at the fighting to learn another trade now. When I 'listed I was told my pay would be a shilling a day and everything found. A shilling a day is seven shillings a week, and I thought I should live like a fighting cock, plenty to eat and a shilling a day for drink or sport. But I found out the difference when it was too late. They kept a strict account against every man; it was full of what they called deductions, and we had to pay for so many things out of that shilling that sometimes for months together I hadn't the price of a pint o' threepenny with a trop o' porter through it."

"What was the biggest battle you ever were in?" enquired Philip.

"Well, I had some close shaves, but the worst was when we took a stockade from the Burmans. My regiment was the 47th, and one company of ours, sixty-five, rank and file, and two companies from other regiments were ordered to attack it. Our officers were all shot down before we reached the stockade, but we got in, and went at the Burmans with the bayonet. But such a crowd came at us from the rear of the stockade that we had to go out again, and we ran down the hill. Our ranks were broken, and we had no time to rally before a lot of horsemen were among us. My bayonet was broken, and I had nothing but my empty musket to fight with. I warded off the sabre cuts with it right and left, so, dodging among the horses, and I was not once wounded. It was all over in a hot minute or two, but, when the supports came up, and we were afterwards mustered, only five men of our company answered the roll-call. Of course I was one of them, and the barrel of my musket was notched like a saw by all the strokes I had parried with it." The last time Philip saw Summers he was hammering bluestone by the roadside. The pomp and circumstance of glorious war had left him in hisold age little better than a beggar.

Philip found Nyalong without much trouble, and renewed the acquaintance begun at Bendigo with Mr. Barton and the other diggers. To all appearance his promotion was not worth much; he might as well have stayed at the Waterholes. Mr. McCarthy acted as school director —an honorary office—and he showed Philip the school. He said:

"It is not of much account, I must acknowledge; we were short of funds, and had to put it up cheap. Most of the wall, you see, is only half a brick thick, and, during the sudden gusts that come across the lake, the north side bulges inward a good deal; so, when you hear the wind coming you had better send the children outside until the gale is over. That is what Mr. Foy, the last teacher did. And, I must tell you also this school has gone to the dogs; there are some very bad boys here—the Boyles and the Blakes. When they saw Mr. Foy was going to use his cane on them they would dart out of the school, the master after them. Then there was a regular steeplechase across the paddocks, and every boy and girl came outside to watch it, screaming and yelling. It was great fun, but it was not school-teaching. I am afraid you will never manage the Boyles and the Blakes. Mr. McLaggan, the minister, once found six of them sitting at the foot of a gum tree, drinking a bottle of rum. He spoke to them, told them that they were young reprobates, and were going straight to hell. Hugh Boyle held out the bottle, and said, 'Here, Mr. McLaggan, wouldn't you like a nip yourself?' The minister was on horseback, and always carried a whip with a heavy lash, and it was a beautiful sight the way he laid the lash on those Boyles and Blakes. I really think you had better turn them out of the school, Mr. Philip, or else they will turn you out."

Mr. Philip's lips closed with a snap. He said, "It is my duty to educate them; turning them out of school is not education. We will see what can be done."

As everyone knows, the twelve virtues of a good master are Gravity, Silence, Humility, Prudence, Wisdom, Patience, Discretion, Meekness, Zeal, Vigilance, Piety, and Generosity. I don't suppose any teacher was ever quite perfect in the practice of them, but a sincere endeavour is often useful. On reflection, Philip thought it best to add two other virtues to the catalogue—viz., Firmness, and a Strap of Sole-Leather.

There was a full attendance of scholars the first morning, and when all the names had been entered on the roll, Philip observed that the Boyles and the Blakes were all there; they were expecting some new kind of fun with the new master. In order that the fun might be inside the school and not all over the paddocks, Philip placed his chair near the door, and locked it. Then education began; the scholars were all repeating their lessons, talking to one another aloud and quarrelling.

"Please, sir, Josh Blake's a-pinching me." "Please, sir, Hugh Boyle is a-scroodgin." "Please, sir, Nancy Toomey is making faces at me."

It was a pandemonium of little devils, to be changed, if possible, into little angels. The master rose from the chair, put up one hand, and said: "Silence!"

Every eye was on him, every tongue was silent, and every ear was listening, "Joseph Blake and Hugh Boyle, come this way." They did so.

"No one here is to shout or talk, or read in a loud voice. If any of you want to speak to me you must hold up your hand, so. When I nod you can come to me. If you don't do everything I tell you, you will be slapped on the hand, or somewhere else, with this strap."

He held it up to view. It was eighteen inches long, three inches broad, heavy, and pliant. The sight of it made Tommy Traddles and many other little boys and girls good all at once; but Joseph and Hugh went back to their seats grinning at one another. Mr. Foy had often talked that way, but it always came to nothing.

Hugh was the hero of the school, or rather the leading villain. In about two minutes he called out, "Please, sir, Josh Blake is a-shoving me with his elbow."

"Hugh Boyle, come this way." He came.

"Now, Hugh, I told you that there must be no speaking or reading aloud. Of course you forgot what I said; you should have put up your hand."

In the course of the day Hugh received two slaps, then three, then four. He began to fear the strap as well as to feel it. That was the beginning of wisdom.

Nancy Toomey was naughty, and was sent into a corner. She was sulky and rebellious when told to return to her seat. She said, in the hearing of Tommy Traddles, "The master is a carroty-headed crawler."

It is as well to remark that Philip's hair was red; a man with red hair is apt to be of a hasty temper, and, as a matter of fact, I had seen Philip's fist fly out very rapidly on several occasions before he began to practise the twelve virtues.

Tommy put up his hand, and, at a nod, went up to the master.

"Well, Tommy, what is the matter?"

"Please, sir, Nancy Toomey has been calling you a carroty-headed crawler."

Tommy's eyebrows were raised, his eyes and mouth wide open. Philip looked over his head at Nancy, whose face was on fire. He slowly repeated:

"Nancy Toomey has been calling me a carroty-headed crawler, has she?"

"Yes, sir. That's what she called you. I heard her."

"Well, Tommy, go to your seat like a good boy. Nancy won't call names any more."

In a little more than a week perfect discipline and good order prevailed in the school.

A BUSH HERMIT.

It is not good for man to be alone, but Philip became a hermit. Half a mile from the school and the main road there was an empty slab hut roofed with shingles. It was on the top of a long sloping hill, which afforded a beautiful view over the lake and the distant hills. Half an acre of garden ground was fenced in with the hut, and it was part of the farm of a man from Hampshire, England, who lived with his wife near the main road. A man from Hampshire is an Englishman, and should speak English; but, when Philip tried to make a bargain about the hut, he could not understand the Hampshire language, and the farmer's wife had to interpret. And that farmer lived to the age of eighty years, and never learned to speak English. He was not a fool by any means; knew all about farming; worked twelve or fourteen hours a day all the year round, having never heard of the eight hours system; but he talked, and prayed, and swore all his life in the Hampshire dialect. Whenever he spoke to the neighbours a look of pain and misery came over them. Sometimes he went to meetings, and made a speech, but he was told to go and fetch a Chinaman to interpret.

Philip entered into possession of the hut. It had two rooms, and the furniture did not cost much. At Adams' store he bought a camp oven, an earthenware stew-pot, a milk pan, a billy, two pannikins, two spoons, a whittle, and a fork. The extra pannikin and spoon were for the use of visitors, for Philip's idea was that a hermit, if not holy, should be at least hospitable. With an axe and saw he made his own furniture—viz., two hardwood stools, one of which would seat two men; for a table he sawed off the butt end of a messmate, rolled it inside the hut, and nailed on the top of it a piece of a pine packing case. His bedstead was a frame of saplings, with strong canvas nailed over it, and his mattress was a sheet of stringy bark, which soon curled up at the sides and fitted him like a coffin. His pillow was a linen bag filled with spare shirts and socks, and under it he placed his revolver, in case he might want it for unwelcome visitors.

Patrick Duggan's wife did the laundry work, and refused to take payment in cash. But she made a curious bargain about it. A priest visited Nyalong only once a month; he lived fifty miles away; when Mrs. Duggan was in her last sickness he might be unable to administer to her the rites of the church. So her bargain was, that in case the priest should be absent, the schoolmaster, as next best man, was to read prayers over her grave. Philip thought there was something strange, perhaps simoniacal, about the bargain. Twice Mrs. Duggan, thinking she was on the point of death, sent a messenger to remind him of his duty; and when at last she did die, he was present at the funeral, and read the prayers for the dead over her grave.

Avarice is a vice so base that I never heard of any man who would confess that he had ever been guilty of it. Philip was my best friend, and I was always loath to think unkindly of him, but at this time I really think he began to be rather penurious—not avaricious, certainly not. But he was not a hermit of the holiest kind. He began to save money and acquire stock. He had not been long on the hill before he owned a horse, two dogs, a cat, a native bear, a magpie, and a parrot, and he paid nothing for any of them except the horse. One day he met Mr. McCarthy talking to Bob Atkins, a station hand, who had a horse to sell—a filly, rising three. McCarthy was a good judge of horses, and after inspecting the filly, he said: "She will just suit you, Mr. Philip, you ought to buy her." So the bargain was made; the price was ten pounds, Bob giving in the saddle, bridle, a pair of hobbles, and a tether rope. He was proud of his deal.

Two years afterwards, when Philip was riding through the bush, Bob rode up alongside, and after a while said:

"Well, Mister, how do you like that filly I sold you?"

"Very well indeed. She is a capital roadster and stockhorse."

"Does she ever throw you?"

"Never. What makes you ask?"

"Well, that's queer. The fact is I sold her to you because I could not ride her. Every time I mounted, she slung me a buster."

"I see, Bob, you meant well, didn't you? But she never yet slung me a buster; she is quieter than a lamb, and she will come to me whenever I whistle, and follow me like a dog."

Philip's first dog was named Sam. He was half collie and half bull dog, and was therefore both brave and full of sagacity. He guarded the hut and the other domestics during school hours, and when he saw Philip coming up the hill, he ran to meet him, smiling and wagging his tail, and reported all well. The other dog was only a small pup, a Skye terrier, like a bunch of tow, a present from Tommy Traddles. Pup's early days were made very miserable by Maggie, the magpie. That wicked bird used to strut around Philip while he was digging in the garden, and after filling her crop with worms and grubs, she flapped away on one wing and went round the hut looking for amusement. She jumped on Pup's back, scratched him with her claws, pecked at his skull, and pulled locks of wool out of it, the poor innocent all the while yelping and howling for mercy. Sam never helped Pup, or drove Maggie away; he was actually afraid of her, and believed she was a dangerous witch. Sometimes she pecked at his tail, and he dared not say a word, but sneaked away, looking sideways at her, hanging down his ears, and afraid to say his tail was his own. Joey, the parrot, watched all that was going on from his cage, which was hung on a hook outside the hut door. Philip tried to teach Joey to whistle a tune: "There is na luck aboot the hoose, There is na luck at a'," but the parrot had so many things to attend to that he never had time to finish the tune. He was, indeed, very vain and flighty, sidling along his perch and saying: "Sweet pretty Joey, who are you, who are you? Ha! Ha! Ha!" wanting everybody to take notice and admire him. When Maggie first attacked poor Pup, scratched his back, pecked at his head, and tore locks of wool out of him, and Pup screamed pitifully to all the world for help, Joey poked his head between the wires of his cage, turned one eye downwards, listened to the language, and watched the new performance with silent ecstacy. He had never heard or seen anything like it in the whole course of his life. Philip used to drive Maggie away, take up poor Pup and stroke him, while Maggie, the villain, hopped around, flapping her wings and giving the greatest impudence.

It really gave Philip a great deal of trouble to keep order among his domestics. One day, while hoeing in the garden, he heard the Pup screaming miserably. He said, "There's that villain, Maggie, at him again," and he ran up to the hut to drive her away. But when he reached it there was neither Pup nor Maggie to be seen, only Joey in his cage, and he was bobbing his head up and down, yelping exactly like the Pup, and then he began laughing at Philip ready to burst, "Ha! Ha! Ha! Who are you? Who are you? There is no luck aboot the hoose, There is na luck at a'."

The native bear resided in a packing case, nailed on the top of a stump nearly opposite the hut door. He had a strap round his waist, and was fastened to the stump by a piece of clothes line. The boys called him a monkey-bear, but though his face was like that of a bear he was neither a monkey nor a bear. He was in fact a sloth; his legs were not made for walking, but for climbing, and although he had strong claws and a very muscular forearm, he was always slow in his movements. He was very silent and unsociable, never joined in the amusements of the other domestics, and when Philip brought him a bunch of tender young gum-tree shoots for his breakfast in the morning, he did not even say "thanks" or smile, or show the least gratitude. He never spoke except at dead of night, when he was exchanging compliments with some other bear up a gum tree in the forty-acre paddock. And such compliments! Their voices were frightful, something between a roar and a groan, and although Philip was a great linguist he was never quite sure what they were saying. But the bear was always scheming to get away; he was like the Boers, and could not abide British rule. Philip would not have kept him at all, but as he had taken him into the family circle when a cub he did not like to be cruel and turn him out along in a heartless world. Twice Bruin managed to untie the clothes line and started for the forty-acre. He crawled along very slowly, and when he saw Philip coming after him, he stopped, looked behind him, and said, "Hoo," showing his disgust. Then Philip took hold of the end of the clothes line and brought him back, scolding all the time.

"You miserable Bruin, you don't know what's good for you; you can't tell a light-wood from a gum-tree, and you'll die of starvation, or else the boys will find you, and they will kill you, thinking you are a wild bush bear, for you don't show any signs of good education, after all the trouble I have taken to teach you manners. I am afraid you will come to a bad end."

And so he did. The third time Bruin loosed the clothes line he had a six hours' start before he was missed, and sure enough he hid himself in a lightwood for want of sense, and that very night the boys saw him by the light of the moon, and Hugh Boyle climbed up the tree and knocked him down with a waddy.

Pussy, Philip's sixth domestic, had attained her majority; she had never gone after snakes in her youth, and had always avoided bad company. She did her duty in the house as a good mouser, and when mice grew scarce she went hunting for game; she had a hole under the eaves near the chimney, through which she could enter the hut at any time of the night or day. While Philip was musing after tea on the "Pons Asinorum" by the light of a tallow candle, Pussy was out poaching for quail, and as soon as she caught one she brought it home, dropped it on the floor, rubbed her side against Philip's boot, and said, "I have brought a little game for breakfast." Then Philip stroked her along the back, after which she lay down before the fire, tucked in her paws and fell asleep, with a good conscience.

But many bush cats come to an unhappy and untimely end by giving way to the vice of curiosity. When Dinah, the vain kitten, takes her first walk abroad in spring time, she observes something smooth and shiny gliding gently along. She pricks up her ears, and gazes at the interesting stranger; then she goes a little nearer, softly lifting first one paw and then another.

The stranger is more intelligent than Dinah. He says to himself, "I know her sort well, the silly thing. Saw her ages ago in the Garden. She wants mice and frogs and such things—takes the bread out of my mouth. Native industry must be protected." so the stranger brings his head round under the grass and waits for Dinah, who is watching his tail. The tail moves a little and then a little more. Dinah says, "It will be gone if I don't mind," and she jumps for it. At that instant the snake strikes her on the nose with his fangs. Dinah's fur rises on end with sudden fright, she shakes her head, and the snake drops off. She turns away, and says, "This is frightful; what a deceitful world! Life is not worth living." Her head feels queer, and being sleepy she lies down, and is soon a dead cat.

That summer was very hot at Nyalong, one hundred and ten degrees in the shade. Philip began to find his bed of stringy bark very hard, and as it grew older it curled together so much that he could scarcely turn in it from one side to the other. So he made a mattress which he stuffed with straw, and he found it much softer than the stringy bark. But after a while the mattress grew flat, and the stuffing lumpy. Sometimes on hot days he took out his bed, and after shaking it, he laid it down on the grass; his blankets he hung on the fence for many reasons which he wanted to get rid of.

The water in the forty-acre to the south was all dried up. An old black snake with a streak of orange along his ribs grew thirsty. His last meal was a mouse, and he said, "That was a dry mouthful, and wants something to wash it down." He knew his way to the water-hole at the end of the garden, but he had to pass the hut, which when he travelled that way the summer before was unoccupied. After creeping under the bottom rail of the fence, he raised his head a little, and looked round. He said, "I see there's another tenant here"—Bruin was then alive and was sitting on the top of his stump eating gum leaves—"I never saw that fellow so low down in the world before; I wonder what he is doing here; been lagged, I suppose for something or other. He is a stupid, anyway, and won't take any notice even if he sees me."

Sam and Puss were both blinking their eyes in the shade of the lightwood, and whisking the flies from their ears. Maggie was walking about with beak open, showing her parched tongue; the heat made her low-spirited.

The snake had crept as far as Philip's mattress, which was lying on the grass, when Maggie saw him. She instantly gave the alarm, "A snake, a snake!" for she knew he was a bad character. Sam and Puss jumped up and began to bark; Joey said, "There is na luck aboot the hoose." Bruin was too stupid to say anything. The snake said, "Here is a terrible row all at once, I must make for a hole." He had a keen eye for a hole, and he soon saw one. It was a small one, in Philip's mattress, almost hidden by the seam, and had been made most likely by a splinter or a nail. The snake put his head in it, saying, "Any port in a storm," then drew in his whole length, and settled himself comfortably among the straw.

Beasts and birds have instincts, and a certain amount of will and understanding, but no memory worth mentioning. For that reason the domestics never told Philip about the snake in his mattress, they had forgotten all about it. If Sam had buried a bone, he would have remembered it a week afterwards, if he was hungry; but as for snakes, it was, "out of sight, out of mind."

Philip took in his mattress and blanket before sundown and made his bed. The snake was still in the straw; he had been badly scared, and thought it would be best to keep quiet until he saw a chance to creep out, and continue his journey down the garden. But it was awfully dark inside the mattress, and although he went round and round amongst the straw he could not find any way out of it, so at last he said: "I must wait till morning," and went to sleep.

When Philip went to bed the snake was disturbed, and woke up. There was so heavy a weight on him that he could scarcely move, and he was almost suffocated. He said: "This is dreadful; I have been in many a tight place in my time, but never in one so tight as this. Whatever am I to do? I shall be squeezed to death if I don't get away from this horrid monster on top of me."

Philip fell asleep as usual, and by-and-by the snake began to flatten his ribs, and draw himself from under the load, until at last he was clear of it; then, heaving a deep sigh of relief he lay quiet for awhile to recover his breath. He knew there was a hole somewhere if he could only find it and he kept poking his nose here and there against the mattress.

After sleeping an hour or two, Philip turned on his other side, and the snake had to move out of the way in a hurry for fear of being squeezed to death. There was a noise as of something rustling in the straw, and after listening awhile, Philip said: "I suppose it's a mouse," and soon fell fast asleep again, because he was not afraid of mice even when they ran across his nose.

In the morning he took his blankets out again, and hung them on the fence, shook up his mattress and pillow, and then spread the sheets over them, tucking them in all round, and then he got ready his breakfast.

The whole of that day was spent by the snake in trying to find a way out. The sheets being tucked in he was still in the dark, and he kept going round and round, feeling for the hole with his nose until he went completely out of his mind, just as a man does when he is lost in the bush. So the day wore on, night and bedtime came again, and Philip lay down to rest once more right over the imprisoned snake. Then that snake went raving mad, lost all control of himself, and rolled about recklessly. Philip sat up in bed, and a cold sweat began to trickle down his face, and his hair stood on end. He whispered to himself as if afraid the snake might hear him. "The Lord preserve us, that's no mouse; it's a snake right under me. What shall I do?"

The first thing to do was to strike a light; the matches and candle were on a box at his bedside, and he slowly put out his hand to reach them, expecting every moment to feel the fangs in his wrist. But he found the match-box, struck a light, carefully examined the floor as far as he could see it, jumped out of bed at one bound, and took refuge in the other room. There he looked in every corner, and along every rafter for the other snake, for he knew that at this season snakes are often found in pairs, but he could not see the mate of the one he had left in bed.

There was no sleep for Philip that night, and, by the light of the candle, he sat waiting for the coming day, and planning dire vengeance. At sunrise he examined closely every hole, and crevice, and corner, and crack in both rooms, floor and floor, slabs, rafters, and shingles. He said, at last: "I think there is only one snake, and he is in the bed."

Then he went outside, and cut a stick about five feet long, one end of which he pointed with his knife. Returning to the bedroom, he lifted up with the point of his stick the sheets, blankets, and pillows, took them outside, and hung them on the fence. Next he turned over the mattress slowly, but there was nothing to be seen under it. He poked the mattress with the blunt end of his stick here and there, and he soon saw that something was moving inside. "Ah!" he said, "there you are, my friend." The thought of having slept two nights on a live snake made him shudder a little, but he was bent on vengeance. He took hold of one end of the mattress with one hand, and holding the stick in the other, he carried it outside and laid it on the grass. Looking carefully at every side of the mattress he discovered the hole through which the snake had entered. It was so small that he could scarcely believe that a snake had gone through it, but no other hole was anywhere visible. Philip said, "If the beast comes out it shall be through fire," so he picked up a few pieces of bark which he placed over the hole, and set on fire. The straw inside was soon in a blaze, and the snake was lively. His situation was desperate, and his movements could be traced by the rising and falling of the ticking. Philip said, "My friend, you are looking for a hole, but when you find it it will be a hot one." The snake at last made a dash for life through the fire, and actually came out into the open air. But he was dazed and blinded, and his skin was wet and shining with oil, or perspiration, or something.

Philip gave him a finishing stroke with his stick, and tossed him back into the fire. Of course a new mattress was necessary, and a keen eye for snakes ever afterwards.

The teaching in the school went on with regularity and success. There was, however, an occasional interruption. Once a furious squall came over the lake, and shook the frail building so much that Philip threw open the door and sent out all the children, the little ones and girls first, and then the boys, remaining himself to the last like the captain of a sinking ship; but he was not so much of a fool to stay inside and brave destruction; he went out to a safe distance until the squall was over.

Sometimes a visitor interfered with the work of the school, and Philip for that reason hated visitors; but it was his duty to be civil and patient. Two inspectors called on two different occasions to examine the scholars. One of them was scarcely sober, and he behaved in a manner so eccentric that the master had a strong temptation to kick him out. However, he at last succeeded in seeing the inspector outside the door peaceably, and soon afterwards the department dispensed with that gentleman's services.

He had obtained his office by favour of a minister at home for services rendered at an election. His salary was 900 pounds per annum. The next inspector received the same salary. He was brother or brother-in-law to a bishop, and had many ancestors and relatives of high degree. Philip foolishly showed him a few nuggets which he had picked up in Picaninny Gully, and the inspector showed Philip the letter by which he had obtained his appointment and 900 pounds a year. It was only a couple of lines written and signed by a certain lord in London, but it was equivalent to an order for a billet on the government of Victoria. Then the inspector said he would feel extremely obliged to Philip if he would give him one of his little nuggets that he might send it to my lord as a present, and Philip at once handed over his biggest nugget. Little amenities of this kind make life so pleasant. My lord would be pleased to receive the nugget, the inspector was pleased to send it, and Philip said "it cannot be bribery and corruption, but this inspector being a gentleman will be friendly. When he mentions me and my school in his report he cannot possibly forget the nugget."

Barney, the boozer, one day visited the school. He opened the door and stood on the threshold. His eyes seemed close together, and there was a long red scar on his bare neck, where he had on a former occasion cut his throat. All the scholars were afraid of Barney, and the girls climbed up on the benches and began to scream.

Philip went up to the Boozer and said:

"Well, my friend, what do you want here?"

"The devil knows," replied Barney.

"Very likely, but he is not here, he has gone down the road."

Then taking Barney by the arm he turned him round and guided him to the road. Barney went about twenty yards until he came to a pool of water. He stepped on to the fence and sat on the top rail gazing into the pool. At last he threw his hat into it, then his boots, coat, shirt, and trousers. When he was quite naked, he stamped on his clothes until they were thoroughly soaked and buried in mud. Barney then resumed his search for the devil, swinging his arms to and fro in a free and defiant manner.

The school was also visited by a bishop, a priest, a squatter, and a judge. The dress and demeanour of the judge were very impressive at so great a distance from any centre of civilization, for he wore a tall beaver hat, a suit of black broadcloth, and a white necktie. Philip received him with reverence, thinking he could not be anything less than a lord spiritual, such is the power of broadcloth and fine linen. Nosey, the shepherd, was then living at Nyalong, having murdered the other shepherd, Baldy, about six months before, and this judge sent Nosey to the gallows seventeen years afterwards; but neither Nosey nor the judge knew what was to happen after seventeen years. This is the story of Nosey and Baldy.

THE TWO SHEPHERDS.

By the men on the run they were known as Nosey and Baldy, but in a former stage of their existence, in the days of the Emperor Augustus Caesar, they were known as Naso and Balbus. They were then rivals in love and song, and accused each other of doing things that were mean. And now, after undergoing for their sins various transmigrations into the forms of inferior animals, during two thousand years, as soon as shepherds are required in Australia Felix, they appear once more following their flocks and herds. But they are entirely forgetful of all Greek and Roman civilization; their morals have not improved, and their quarrels are more bitter than ever. In the old times they tootled on the tuneful reed, and sang in purest Latin the sweetest ditties ever heard, in praise of Galatea and Amyntas, Delia and Iolla. But they never tootle now, and never sing, and when they speak, their tongue is that of the unmusical barbarians. In their pagan days they stained their rustic altars with the blood of a kid, a sacrifice to Jupiter, and poured out libations of generous wine; but they offer up neither prayer nor sacrifice now, and they pour libations of gin down their throats.

The Italian rustic is yet musical, and the Roman citizen has not lost the genius of his race. He is still unrivalled in sculpture and architecture, in painting, in poetry, and philosophy; and in every handicraft his fingers are as deft as ever. But empire has slipped from his grasp, and empire once lost, like time, never returns. Who can rebuild Ninevah or Babylon, put new life into the mummies of the Pharoahs, and recrown them; raise armies from the dust of the warriors of Sesostris, and send them forth once more to victory and slaughter? Julian the Apostate tried to rebuild the Holy City and Temple of Israel, to make prophecy void—apparently a small enterprise for a Roman Emperor—but all his labours were vain. Modern Julians have been trying to resuscitate old Rome, and to found for her a new empire, and have only made Italy another Ireland, with a starving people and a bankrupt government. 'Nos patriae fines, nos dulcia linquimus arva'. The Italians are emigrating year after year to avoid starvation in the Garden of Europe. In every city of the great empire on which the sun never sets they wander through the streets, clad in faded garments of olive green—the toga long since discarded and forgotten—making sweet music from the harp and violin, their melancholy eyes wandering after the passing crowd, hoping for the pitiful penny that is so seldom given.

The two shepherds were employed on a station north of Lake Nyalong. It is a country full of dead volcanoes, whose craters have been turned into salt lakes, and their rolling floods of lava have been stiffened into barriers of black rocks; where the ashes belched forth in fiery blasts from the deep furnaces of a burning world have covered the hills and plains with perennial fertility.

Baldy had been entrusted with a fattening flock, and Nosey had in his care a lambing flock. From time to time the sheep were counted, and it was found that the fattening flock was decreasing in numbers. The squatter wanted to know what had become of his missing sheep, but Baldy could give no account of them. His suspicions, however, soon fell on Nosey. The latter was his nearest neighbour, and although he had only the same wages—viz., thirty pounds a year and rations— he seemed to be unaccountably prosperous, and was the owner of a wife and two horses. He had been transported for larceny when he was only fifteen years of age, and at twenty-eight he was suspected of being still a thief. Girls of the same age were sent from Great Britain to Botany Bay and Van Diemen's Land for stealing one bit of finery, worth a shilling, and became the consorts of criminals of the deepest dye. You may read their names in the Indents to this day, together with their height, age, complexion, birthplace, and other important particulars.

Baldy went over to Nosey's hut one evening when the blue smoke was curling over the chimney, and the long shadows of the Wombat Hills were creeping over the Stoney Rises. Julia was boiling the billy for tea, and her husband was chopping firewood outside.

"Good evening, Julia," said Baldy; "fine evening."

"Same to you, Baldy. Any news to-day?" asked Julia.

"Well, there is," said Baldy, "and it's bad news for me; there's ten more of my fatteners missing" (Nosey stopped chopping and listened) "and the master says I'll have to hump my swag if I can't find out what has become of them. I say, Nosey, you don't happen to have seen any dingoes or blacks about here lately?"

"I ain't seen e'er a one, neither dingo nor blackfellow. But, you know, if they were after mischief they'd take care not to make a show. There might be stacks of them about and we never to see one of them."

Nosey was proud of his cunning.

"Well," said Baldy, "I can hear of nobody having seen any strangers about the Rises, nor dingoes, nor black fellows. And the dingoes, anyhow, would have left some of the carcases behind; but the thieves, whoever they are, have not left me as much as a lock of the wool of my sheep. I have been talking about 'em with old Sharp; he is the longest here of any shepherd in the country, and knows all the blacks, and he says it's his opinion the man who took the sheep is not far away from the flock now. What do you think about it, Nosey?"

"What the——should I know about your sheep?" said Nosey. "Do you mean to insinivate that I took 'em? I'll tell you what it is, Baldy; it'll be just as well for you to keep your blasted tongue quiet about your sheep, for if I hear any more about 'em, I'll see you for it; do you hear?"

"Oh, yes, I hear. All right, Nosey, we'll see about it," said Baldy.

There would have been a fight perhaps, but Baldy was a smaller man than the other and was growing old, while Nosey was in the prime of life.

Baldy went to Nyalong next day. His rations did not include gin, and he wanted some badly, the more so because he was in trouble about his lost sheep. Gin, known then as "Old Tom," was his favourite remedy for all ailments, both of mind and body. If he could not find out what had become of his sheep, his master might dismiss him without a character. There was not much good character running to waste on the stations, but still no squatter would like to entrust a flock to a shepherd who was suspected of having stolen and sold his last master's sheep.

Baldy walked to Nyalong along the banks of the lake. The country was then all open, unfenced, except the paddocks at the home stations. The boundary between two of the runs was merely marked by a ploughed furrow, not very straight, which started near the lake, and went eastward along the plains. In the Rises no plough could make a line through the rocks, and the boundaries there were imaginary. Stray cattle were roaming over the country, eating the grass, and the main resource of the squatters was the Pounds Act. Hay was then sold at 80 pounds per ton at Bendigo; a draft of fat bullocks was worth a mine of gold at Ballarat, and, therefore, grass was everywhere precious. No wonder if the hardy bullock-driver became a cattle lifter after his team had been impounded by the station stockman when found only four hundred yards from the bush track. Money, in the shape of fat stock, was running loose, as it were, on every run, and why should not the sagacious Nosey do a little business when Baldy's fat sheep were tempting him, and a market for mutton could be found no farther away than the Nyalong butcher's shop.

Baldy left the township happier than usual, carrying under his arm two bottles of Old Tom. He was seen by a man who knew him entering the Rises, and going away in the direction of Nosey's hut, and then for fifteen years he was a lost shepherd. In course of time it was ascertained that he had called at Nosey's hut on his way home. He had the lost sheep on his mind, and he could not resist the impulse to have another word or two with Nosey about them. He put down the two bottles of gin outside the door of the hut, near an axe whose handle leaned against the wall. Nosey and his wife, Julia, were inside, and he bade them good evening. Then he took a piece of tobacco out of his pocket, and began cutting it with his knife. He always carried his knife tied to his belt by a string which went through a hole bored in the handle. It was a generally useful knife, and with it he foot-rotted sheep, stirred the tea in his billy, and cut beef and damper, sticks, and tobacco.

"I have been to Nyalong," he said, "and I heern something about my sheep; they went to the township all right, strayed away, you know, followed one another's tails, and never came back, the O. K. bullocks go just the same way. Curious, isn't it?"

Nosey listened with keen interest. "Well, Baldy," he said, "and what did you hear? Did you find out who took 'em?"

"Oh, yes," said Baldy; "I know pretty well all about 'em now, both sheep and bullocks. Old Sharp was right about the sheep, anyway. The thief is not far from the flock, and it's not me." Baldy was brewing mischief for himself, but he did not know how much.