CHAPTER VI.

"He lives!--thank God, he lives!--and it was all my fault!" were the

first words I heard in returning consciousness. I felt very faint and

weak, but the tones sounded sweetly in my ears. I then heard some

directions to keep me "perfectly quiet."

But I need not detail the progress of my recovery. I was in

Violet-Bank, near to which the accident had occurred. My brother soon

after came to see me; and even my worthy aunt, in her anxiety,

ventured into "that horrid country." Pleasant, indeed, were the hours

I passed in the period of my convalescence.

As soon as was permitted by the doctor, I had a visit from Felworth.

"Thank Providence," said he, "all is right with you now, but it was a

very doubtful matter for some hours. It was a bad business altogether.

Units was killed, and you nearly so."

"But tell me exactly how you got off yourself: I perceive your

forehead cut, and your arm in a sling."

"You see the whole of the injuries I received; but the mare is much

cut and bruised; both shafts of the gig were broken. I have preserved,

as a sad memorial of the day, the stone against which your head came

when you were pitched out. Fortunately, for me, I fell in a soft

place; and I was on my legs before the quarry-men gathered about you,

and carried you into the house. What presence of mind Alice had! She

sent for the doctor without a moment's delay; but women always act

best in such circumstances."

"But Units, what of him?"

"Why, one trace broke in his attempt to leap into the field; and,

fortunately for Tens, the other soon gave way; and then he galloped

home."

"I thought you said he was killed."

"And so he was, but not by fair play. My father, unfortunately, met

the man who was leading home the mare; and when he heard what had

occurred, he brought down his own pistols, and had the horse led out,

and shot on the spot. It was not out of vengeance that he did so, for

he was not aware at the time of the dangerous state you were in; but

he said that the horse would be the cause of death to some one yet. It

was from a kind motive he did so, but it was a sad blow to me. I will

never see the like of Units again."

It was arranged that Alice and I were to be married in the following

September.

"You were a sad truant," said my aunt, "to go from Dublin after the

cautions I gave you; but I give my full pardon under the

circumstances."

I had a silent but powerful, advocate near me.

Shortly after my recovery, I went to London, for the purpose of making

necessary arrangements for my marriage. When there, I called upon

Thomson, and narrated to him the entire events.

"You are a very lucky fellow!" he said. "I look upon this horse

'Units' as having been your guardian angel. I told you you were

deficient in 'Constructiveness,' and your story proves it. Had it not

been that you got your head broken, or some other fortuitous event

occurred, you would have remained a bachelor to the end of your

days."

RESEARCH AND ADVENTURE IN AUSTRALIA.[15]

The confident mariner, spreading his canvass to the fickle gale, and

launching forth upon unknown seas in search of uncertain shores, to

combat the kraken and fish the pearl, scarcely exhibits more daring,

or braves greater perils, than the hardy landsman, who, on horse's

back or dromedary's hump, or his own mocassined feet, plunges into

tangled jungle and pathless prairie, adventuring himself, a solitary

pioneer, thousands of miles from the abodes of civilisation. If shoal

and squall and treacherous reef, pirates and storms, and tropical

calms scarce less terrible, when parched lips blacken for thirst in

the midst of boundless waters, await the seaman, dangers equally

imminent and inevitable, and more incessant beset the path of the

wanderer in the desert. The sailor has his days and weeks of safety

and repose and rude luxury, whilst the stately ship scuds merrily

before favouring breezes over a summer sea, and the light routine of

duty is but sufficient to give zest to the junk ration, the grog kid,

and the tobacco pipe. The storm over, he swings easily in his hammock,

recruiting strength for fresh exertion; and even when the winds howl

their worst, give him a tight ship and sea-room, and he holds himself

safe and laughs at the tempest. The explorer of trackless plain and

aboriginal forest is in a very different predicament. He is never

safe; his toils and tribulations are unceasing; danger may not exist,

but he must ever guard against it, for he knows not where it may lurk.

With him, security is temerity and eventual destruction. The ambushed

savage, the crouching beast of prey, the silent and deadly reptile,

the verdant swamp, flower-strewn and fathomless, wooing to

destruction, the rushing torrent and resistless hurricane, are but a

few of the dangers through which he threads his way. And when, at

close of day, weary and hungry, foot-sore or saddle-galled, he halts

for refreshment and repose, it seems but the beginning of his labours.

Wood must be cut and collected, the fire lit, the meal prepared, often

its very materials must be sought in pool and thicket, before the

wanderer can be at rest, and the cravings of appetite appeased. The

hardly-won repast concluded, the ground offers a comfortless couch to

his stiffened and jaded limbs, where to snatch such sleep as the

necessity of strict guard, and the ominous and mysterious noises of a

night in the desert, allow to descend upon his eyelids.

With a thorough knowledge and appreciation of the many difficulties,

dangers, and discomforts, inseparable from such an expedition, Dr

Ludwig Leichhardt, a German gentleman, remarkable for enterprising

spirit and scientific zeal, left Moreton Bay, upon the east coast of

Australia, in September 1844, to proceed overland in a north-westerly

direction to Port Essington, on the north coast, a distance of more

than three thousand miles. The Doctor was no novice in such

wanderings; he had already devoted two years to exploring the district

north of Moreton Bay; undaunted by hardship, his thirst for knowledge

unappeased, he had scarcely returned when he was ready to start again.

Many dissuaded him, pointing out the vast field of research afforded

within the limits of New South Wales, urging innumerable dangers--some

imaginary, but more real--taxing him with overstrained enthusiasm, and

inordinate lust of fame; even blaming him as a madman and a suicide.

He was neither to be deterred nor cajoled from his expedition, but

made his preparations, limiting as much as possible the amount of

provisions and stores, in consideration of the difficulties of the

route and encumbrance of baggage. He was also compelled, in conformity

with the plan he had formed, and with the smallness of his means, to

restrict the number of his companions, and reject the offers of many

adventurous young men eager to accompany him. His party, at first

composed of six persons, had swelled to ten, when, upon the 30th

September, it left Jimba, the advanced post of the white man. The

stores consisted of sixteen head of cattle, twelve hundred pounds of

flour, two hundred pounds of sugar, eighty pounds of tea, and twenty

of gelatine, eight bags of shot, and thirty pounds of powder. Each man

had two pairs of strong trousers, three shirts, and two pairs of

shoes,--certainly no very sumptuous equipment for a journey expected

to last seven months, but which occupied fifteen. Fortunately, as they

advanced, game and wild animals, at first rare, became more plentiful;

and although the flour was expended at the end of the eighth month,

they managed, with the aid of kangaroos, emus, waterfowl, and other

beasts and birds, to protract their beef till their arrival at Port

Essington. The party comprised (besides Dr Leichhardt) Messrs Calvert,

Roper, Hodgson and Gilbert, John Murphy, a lad of sixteen, a convict

of the name of William Phillips, Caleb, an American negro, and

Messieurs Harry Brown and Charley, Australian aborigines, mutinous but

useful, of whose character and propensities we learn more than of

those of any other member of the party. The Doctor is, indeed,

remarkably silent with respect to his fellow-labourers in the vineyard

of Tasmanian discovery. Eight men of the adventurous disposition

implied by their engaging in such an expedition, could hardly be

thrown together for a year or more without displaying flashes of

character, and greater or less eccentricity, the result of their

exceptional position, of the many shifts and devices they had to

resort to. Of characteristic traits, however, we obtain few hints from

Dr Leichhardt, the most amiable, but the most matter-of-fact of

travellers. His sympathies and attention are engrossed by the stocks

and stones, the beasts, birds, trees and flowers around him. In them

he finds tongues and books, and with and of them he loves to

discourse. Although evidently a good comrade and considerate chief,

his enthusiasm as a naturalist and man of science preclude much heed

of his companions' peculiarities--if such they had. Enough that they

are at hand, ready to aid him in catering for a meal, in chasing stray

bullocks, replacing fallen baggage, and in the many other toils and

labours in which he manfully bears his share. Nothing less than the

departure of one, and the death of another, can elicit a passing hint

of their character and qualities. Mr Hodgson shot a kangaroo; Mr Roper

brought in eight cockatoos; Mr Phillips found a flesh-coloured

drupaceous fruit; Mr Calvert shot a native companion--not one of the

aborigines, but a bird so called; and thus the book goes on, every

thing put down with the dry brevity of a seaman's log. Hence Dr

Leichhardt's volume, though highly valuable and interesting to

naturalists and emigrants, will scarcely be appreciated by the general

reader. Learned and well written, the amusing element, which readers

of the present day are apt to make a condition for their favour, is

but scantily scattered through its pages. But it is a work of

unquestionable merit and utility, and its author's name will justly

stand high upon the honourable list of able and enterprising men,

whose courage, perseverance, and literary abilities, have contributed

so largely to our knowledge of the geography and productions of our

distant southern colonies.

The first start of the expedition could hardly be called a good one;

at least, it was not such as to encourage the faint-hearted, or

falsify anticipations of extreme hardships and difficulties. A light

spring-cart, which the doctor had fondly hoped to take with him

through the wilderness, was broken the very first day. He was

fortunate enough to exchange it for three bullocks, and proceeded to

break in five of those animals for the pack-saddle, finding he could

not depend upon his horses for carrying baggage. But the bullocks gave

a deal of trouble, and were most unsatisfactory beasts of burthen. The

weight they could carry without injury and exhaustion, was very small

in comparison with their known strength,--not more than a hundred and

fifty pounds, Dr Leichhardt found, for a constancy--without the

advantage of roads. Mules would have been the proper carriers; and

troublesome, kicking, contrary demons as they often are, under a hot

sun and with the aggravation of flies, they could hardly have been

more refractory than their bovine substitutes. Persons whose whole

experience of bullocks, as beasts of draught and burthen, consists in

having seen a pair of them tugging, with painful docility and

resignation, at a heavy continental cart--a ponderous yoke across

their necks, or their heads attached with multitudinous thongs to the

extremity of a massive pole--can form but a faint idea of the

tribulations of the Doctor and his friends, who had to lead the

beasts, as best they might, with iron nose-rings, and who, moreover,

being wholly unused to cattle of that description, had at first a not

unnatural dislike of the horns. Then the pack-saddles did not fit, and

the immediate result was sore backs; the cargo would get loose and

fall off, to the fracture and destruction of straps; or the hornets,

whose nests, suspended from the branches, were disturbed by the

passage of the caravan, would drive the unlucky oxen nearly mad, by a

stinging assault upon their hind quarters. Finally, both horses and

bullocks had a singular propensity to stray back during the night to

the previous halting place, whence they had to be fetched in the

morning, causing great delay, and often postponing the start till

mid-day. Here is a significant little entry in the log, comprising the

entire proceedings of one day, which gives an idea of the difficulty

of progress. "Oct. 2--Bullocks astray, but found at last by Charley,

and a start attempted at one o'clock: the greater part of the bullocks

with sore backs. The native tobacco in blossom. One of the bullocks

broke his pack-saddle, and compelled us to halt." Only one small plug

of tobacco to all that peck of troubles! The nicotian flower the sole

object in the scene of disaster, on which the eye can rest with a

sensation of relief. Stray cattle, sore backs, broken saddles! The

combination of calamities can only be appreciated by those who have

encountered it, in the desert, and when anxious to prosecute their

march. For some time, these pleasant incidents were of daily

occurrence; added to which, the bullocks, in forcing their way through

tangled thickets, frequently tore the sacks, and wasted large

quantities of flour. And towards the latter part of the journey, when

Dr Leichhardt, owing to the death of three horses, unfortunately

drowned in a creek, had been forced to abandon, with tears in his

eyes, a large portion of his valuable botanical collection, he had the

intense mortification of seeing a reckless ox, foot-sore and heated by

a long day's march, plunge deliberately into a deep pond, where the

remainder of the dried plants, seeds, and the like, carefully packed

upon the animal's back, underwent a thorough and disastrous soaking.

As some amends for the trouble they gave, the bullocks proved useful

in an unexpected capacity, namely, as guards. They conceived an

antipathy to the natives, whom they charged in warlike style, whenever

they had the chance. The aborigines held them in great respect, took

them for large dogs (bull-dogs of course), and had a wholesome fear of

their bite. These notions the travellers did not deem it advisable to

dispel.

Opossums and flying squirrels, kangaroos, (some standing nine feet

high,) and kangaroo rats, emus, ducks, and bronze-winged pigeons, were

the principal beasts and birds encountered during the journey.

Crocodiles were met with, and a few buffaloes. Fish of many kinds, now

and then turtles, were seen and caught in the pools, rivers, and

lagoons. Sand-flies, mosquitoes, and hornets, were very annoying, but

the cool night-breeze usually swept them away. The melodious note of

the glucking-bird, so named from the sound resembling "gluck, gluck,"

the noisy call of the "laughing jackass," the hoot of the barking owl,

the howlings of native dogs, and the screech of the opossum, were the

principal sounds that broke the stillness of the bush. Kangaroos were

a great article of provender; the travellers chased them with dogs, so

long as the dogs lasted, but these perished, little by little, until

at last only one remained,--Spring by name,--a useful and valiant

brute, covered with honourable scars. He was of the breed known as the

kangaroo-dog, was exceedingly stanch and valuable, and the means of

obtaining a vast deal of game. Of course, he was an immense

favourite, and his masters had reckoned on his accompanying them to

the end of their journey. They carried a calabash of water for his

private use, as they were frequently very long without meeting with

any, and this precaution more than once saved Spring's life. At last,

during the latter part of a toilsome day's march, poor Spring lagged

in rear and was forgotten. The next day two of the party returned to

seek him, and found him almost dead, "stretched out in the deep cattle

track, which he seemed not to have quitted even to find a shady place.

They brought him to the camp; and I put his whole body, with the

exception of his head, under water, and bled him; he lived six hours

longer, when he began to bark, as if raving." And Spring gave up the

ghost, to the great comfort and relief of the emus and kangaroos, and

to the deep distress of the worthy Doctor and his biped companions.

The party had been out but one month, when the scarcity of game, far

less abundant than had been expected, and the rapid shrinking of the

flour-sacks, rendered it necessary to diminish its numbers, lest

famine should be added to the many dangers of the journey. Mr Hodgson

and Caleb the negro accordingly returned to Moreton bay, the remaining

eight persons continuing their route. Two of these eight, as we have

already mentioned, were Australian aborigines, indebted to Christian

god-fathers for the baptismal names of Charley and Harry. Early in the

expedition, these two gentlemen became exceedingly troublesome; not

more so, however, than might reasonably be expected from the very

sullen and brutish expression of their uncomely physiognomies. Dr

Leichhardt favours us with a portrait of the pair, and notwithstanding

the embellishments of clean frocks, flowing neck-kerchiefs, and a

comb, we have seldom set eyes upon more unprepossessing countenances.

Any more hirsute we certainly never beheld, and their whole aspect

gives the idea of men who, in the natural state, would deem a tender

infant the most delicious of luncheons, and look upon a deceased

relative with the one absorbing idea of a juicy roast. We may be doing

injustice to the creatures, but appearances are not in their favour,

however British missionaries and mutton may have weaned them from

aboriginal barbarity and cannibal cravings. After they had been about

four months out, they began to play truant, to desert Dr Leichhardt

when reconnoitring, taking the provisions with them, and to wander

away without permission in quest of honey and opossums. At first the

Doctor overlooked their transgressions, or let them pass with a

reprimand; but he soon found occasion to regret his leniency, and that

he had not inflicted a severe and decided punishment. On the 19th

February the travellers, who had halted two days for the purpose of

jerking the beef of a bullock, were busy greasing their straps and

saddles, an operation rendered very necessary by the dust and

scorching heat, when Master Charley, thirsting after honeycomb and

greedy of opossum, left the camp, and was absent several hours. On his

return the Doctor reprimanded him, and threatened to stop his rations,

but was met with threats and abuse. "Finding it, therefore, necessary

to exercise my authority, I approached to show him out of the camp,

when the fellow gave me a violent blow upon the face, which severely

injured me, displacing two of my lower teeth." In return for which

brutal assault we expected to find that the Doctor and his friends

removed the surcingle and baggage-straps from the jaw-breaker's horse,

tied him to a tree with the latter, and with the former flogged his

black shoulders till he cried _peccavi_, and promised reform. Nothing

of the sort appears to have taken place, the good Doctor contenting

himself, as sole revenge for the injury done to his masticators, with

expelling the delinquent, who was accompanied from the camp by his

countryman and ally, Harry Brown. They soon got tired, however, of

going afoot and shifting for themselves, returned submissive and

sorry, and were allowed to rejoin the caravan. And though they

subsequently again gave cause of complaint, upon the whole they were

tolerably manageable during the rest of the expedition.

The travellers were out a long time before falling in with natives,

although they saw signs of their vicinity, and ascertained that they

were objects of curious observation and some anxiety to the timid

Australians. They stumbled upon various native camps, recently

vacated, and occasionally took the liberty of helping themselves to

kangaroo nets and cordage, leaving in exchange fish hooks,

handkerchiefs, and other European articles. On the 6th of December,

upon rousing from his bivouac, Dr Leichhardt found "the horses had

gone back to Ruined Castle Creek, about twenty-one miles distant (!),

and the bullocks to the last camp, which, according to Charley, had

been visited by the Blackfellows, who had apparently examined it very

minutely. It was evident they kept an eye upon us, although they never

made their appearance." The Doctor's coolness in recording his

disasters is quite provoking. If he exhibited the same laudable calm

and resignation when he arose from his bed of reeds on the banks of

the finch-haunted water-hole, and found his cattle had gone back a

day's journey or more, as he does in writing down the fact, he is

certainly the most Job-like of travellers. We could sometimes quarrel

with him for making so very light of heavy inconveniences and positive

misfortunes. It is necessary to pause and reflect in order to

appreciate what he endured. The hasty reader, skimming the page

without allowing his imagination to dwell on the Doctor's brief

indications of the many sufferings, the wounds and sickness (the

latter often caused by unwholesome diet), the hunger and thirst, the

daily and nightly exposure, for fifteen months, to scorching suns and

drenching rains, undergone by himself and his companions, might

complete the perusal with the impression on his mind that the whole

affair was rather pleasant than otherwise--a sort of prolonged

pic-nic, varied by kangaroo hunts, fishing parties, and shooting

excursions. Bread stuffs, he would have to admit, were scarce in that

cornless land: but hard exercise and fresh air sharpen the appetite

and strengthen the digestion; and a keen woodsman will not heed

bannocks when he can get beef, varied by such an exotic viand as

kangaroo venison, and by such delicate and fantastical volatiles as

harlequin pigeons and rose-breasted cockatoos. Nay, so easy is it to

fight battles in one's back parlour, and to endure hardships with

one's feet on the fender, that this same imaginary and hastily-judging

reader, whose flippant conclusions we now quote, may think lightly of

the necessity in which our travellers found themselves of eating a

horse, as recorded in the Leichhardtian journal, p. 247. A horse broke

its thigh, and it was resolved to make the best of the meat. It proved

tolerably palatable, especially the liver and kidneys, pronounced

equal to those of a bullock. When the flour was gone, the only relief

from the monotony of a carnivorous diet was obtained by

experimentalising on seeds, fruits, and roots, of which many unknown

species were met with. How the party escaped death by poison is a

wonder, for they were very venturesome in their essays, and not

unfrequently were punished for their boldness by severe vomitings and

other unpleasant symptoms. The jerked meat they carried with them

often became musty and tainted, having been imperfectly dried, or from

the effects of rain. But their greatest difficulty was the frequent

scarcity of water, which sadly afflicted their horses, and prolonged

their route, compelling them to deviate from the direct course to

encamp near pools or lagoons. These were not always to be found; and

they often remained for very many hours, even for days, without other

water than they could carry in their scanty kettles. Then the bullocks

were allowed to stray in search of drink, and it was sometimes

necessary, in order to save the horses' lives, to take them back to

the previous night's camping place. The fatigues thus encountered

might well have exhausted the endurance and physical energies of the

strongest man. "I had been in a state of the most anxious suspense,"

says Dr Leichhardt on one of these occasions, "about the fate of our

bullocks, and was deeply thankful to the Almighty when I heard they

were all safe. I had suffered much from thirst, having been

forty-eight hours without water, and which had been increased by a

run of two miles after my horse, which attempted to follow the others;

and also from a severe pain in the head, produced by the impatient

brute's _jumping with its hobbled fore-feet on my forehead_, as I lay

asleep with the bridle in my hand; but after drinking three quarts of

cold tea, which John had brought with him, I soon recovered, and

assisted to load our horses with the remainder of our luggage, when we

returned to join our companions. The weather was very hot during the

day, but a cool breeze moved over the plains, and the night, as usual,

was very cold." It needed men of iron frame to endure, without serious

and frequent indisposition, such terrible privations and sudden

contrasts of temperature. Nevertheless, none of the party seem to have

suffered from illness produced by other causes than irregular and

hazardous diet, except in the case of the Doctor, who once or twice

had a touch of lumbago. These violent transitions from heat to cold

were felt during only a portion of their journey. Towards the middle

of the time, in the month of June, they were greatly favoured by

climate. "The state of our health showed how congenial it was to the

human constitution; for, without the comforts which the civilised man

thinks essentially necessary to life, without flour, without salt, and

miserably clothed, we were yet all in health, although at times

suffering much from weakness and fatigue. At night we stretched

ourselves upon the ground, almost as naked as the natives; and though

most of my companions still used their tents, it was amply proved

afterwards that the want of this luxury was attended with no ill

consequences." All things are comparative; and to the Doctor, whose

sole canopy during the whole expedition was the vault of heaven, the

canvass covering enjoyed by his comrades evidently appeared a

Sybaritical indulgence.

To return to the savages. The day after the retrograde movement of the

cattle to Ruined Castle Creek, and just as Dr Leichhardt was about to

start on a reconnoissance, the Blackfellows came down to where the

horses were grazing, and speared one of them in the shoulder. This was

the first act of hostility. The Australian aborigines are very

cowardly, and the aggressors hastily retreated into the bush on the

appearance of two or three white men. After this, in February, some

friendly and respectable barbarians were met with, and there was an

interchange of courtesy and presents. Generally the natives were shy,

entertaining feelings of mingled fear, aversion, and contempt for the

pale-skinned intruders upon their forest domain. Mr Roper and Charley,

out in search of water, fell in with a Blackfellow and his gin or

squaw. Like a brace of opossums, they were up a gum-tree in no time,

although the lady was in an advanced state of pregnancy. "As Mr Roper

moved round the base of the tree, in order to look the Blackfellow in

the face, and to speak with him, the latter studiously avoided looking

at Mr Roper, by shifting round and round the trunk like an iguana. The

woman also kept her face averted." A day or two afterwards, Mr Gilbert

and Charley met some more natives. "Two gins were so horror-struck at

the unwonted sight, that they immediately fled into the scrub; the men

commenced talking to them, but occasionally interrupted their speeches

by spitting and uttering a noise like pooh! pooh! apparently

expressive of their disgust." Meetings with the natives now became of

common occurrence; but as they showed much timidity, and, when ill

disposed, confined their hostile demonstrations to expectoration and

grimaces, the travellers entertained little apprehension of attack.

The night watch, regularly kept at the commencement of the expedition,

was now little more than nominal, and although each man was supposed

to take his turn of sentry, the guard was usually a sleepy one, and a

mere matter of form. They had reason to repent their negligence.

Encamped one evening in the dry bed of a lagoon, some in their tents,

others platting palm-leaf hats, the Doctor himself dozing near the

fire, a shower of spears fell amongst them, and the savages followed

up the treacherous attack by a charge with their waddies or clubs. The

Europeans were so completely off their guard that they did not know

where to find percussion caps for their guns. When the Doctor had

procured these, two or three shots sent the assailants to the right

about, with one of their number killed or wounded, for bloodstains

were on their track, and they were heard next morning wailing in the

woods. But the little caravan had suffered heavy loss. Gilbert was

killed; Roper and Calvert were severely injured and disfigured by

spear-wounds and blows from the waddies. It was a melancholy and

untoward event, but time could ill be spared to mourn. The dead man

was buried, a large fire made over his grave to prevent the natives

from detecting and disinterring the body, and with sad hearts the

little caravan prosecuted their march. The Doctor allows us to infer

that the wounded would gladly have prolonged the halt, but, although

feeling for their suffering state, he had duties to perform to himself

and his other companions; and being of opinion that motion would not

interfere with cure, he overruled objections, and insisted on

proceeding. The event proved he was right; the sick men, although

inconvenienced, were not injured by the march. Calvert was soon able

to resume his share in the labours of the camp and the hunting-field,

and Roper, although longer disabled, also eventually recovered.

The eighth chapter of Dr Leichhardt's journal will be esteemed by the

general reader the most interesting in the book, for in it he deviates

somewhat from his usual track, is more sparing than his wont of

botanical and geographical details, and gives a few brief but

interesting particulars of the daily life and habits of his party. "I

usually rise," he says, "when I hear the merry laugh of the

laughing-jackass (a bird) which, from its regularity, has been not

unaptly named the settler's clock; a loud _cooee_ then rouses my

companions, Brown to make tea, Mr Calvert to season the stew with salt

and marjoram, and myself and the others to wash, and to prepare our

breakfast, which, for the party, consists of two pounds and a half of

meat, stewed over night; and to each a quart pot of tea. Mr Calvert

then gives to each his portion, and, by the time this important duty

is performed, Charley generally arrives with the horses, which are

then prepared for their day's duty." Towards eight o'clock the caravan

usually started, and after travelling about four hours, selected a

spot for that night's camp, which being pitched, the horses and

bullocks unloaded, the fire lighted, and the dried beef put on to stew

for the late dinner, the remainder of the afternoon was devoted to

washing and repairing clothes, mending saddles, shooting, fishing,

botanizing and writing up the log. The Doctor, who was of course

provided with sextant, chronometer, compass, and the other instruments

necessary to ascertain their whereabout in the wide desert, would take

his observations, calculate the latitude, ride out reconnoitring, and

plan the next day's route. Towards sunset came dinner, and soon after

nightfall all retired to their beds. "The two Blackfellows and myself

spread out each our own under the canopy of heaven, whilst Messrs

Roper, Calvert, Gilbert, Murphy, and Phillips, have their tents. Mr

Calvert entertains Roper with his conversation; John amuses Gilbert;

Brown tunes up his corrobori songs, in which Charley, until their late

quarrel, generally joined. Brown sings well, and his melodious

plaintive voice lulls me to sleep, when otherwise I am not disposed.

Mr Phillips is rather singular in his habits; he erects his tent

generally at a distance from the rest, under a shady tree, or in a

green bower of shrubs, where he makes himself as comfortable as the

place will allow, by spreading branches and grass under his couch, and

covering his tent with them, to keep it shady and cool, and even

planting lilies in blossom (crinum) before his tent, to enjoy their

sight during the short time of our stay." We would fain have heard

something more of this Phillips, whose love of solitude and flowers

contrast with his quality of a convict, and inspire interest and

curiosity. Whatever his crime, his companions apparently did not

repulse him, but he himself voluntarily avoided their society, perhaps

from a feeling of unworthiness and humiliation. Dr Leichhardt casually

mentions him here and there in his volume, and he seems to have

behaved steadily and well, for he was pardoned on returning to Sydney,

and received a portion of the thousand pounds appropriated from the

crown revenue to reward the adventurous party. Why he was originally

selected to form part of it, when numbers of young men of enterprising

spirit and untainted reputation were refused the privilege, the Doctor

does not think it necessary to inform us.

To men far removed from the pleasures and luxuries of civilisation,

isolated in a desert, and leading a life of unceasing hardship and

privation, small treats afford great enjoyment. The pleasures of the

palate, especially, acquire unusual importance, and the discovery of

some fragrant fruit or succulent vegetable, the addition to the daily

stew of a bird or beast unusually flavorous, causes amongst these

grown children as much jubilation as a giant cake amongst a horde of

holiday urchins. "I had naturally," says the Doctor, "a great

antipathy against comfort-hunting and gourmandising, particularly on

an expedition like ours.... This antipathy I expressed, often perhaps,

too harshly, which caused discontent; but, on these occasions, my

patience was sorely tried." Notwithstanding his anti-epicurean

principles, the chief of the expedition good-humouredly gave in to the

fancies of his followers, who loved a feast now and then, and were

partial to celebrate notable days by such modest _hors-d'oeuvres_ and

supplementary condiments as the niggard forest and their indifferently

provided saddle-bags would afford. Homely indeed were the additions

thus made to their daily ration of _charqui_ beef, horse-flesh or

kangaroo. Let us dwell a moment upon the magnificent preparation for a

banquet on the natal day of her Majesty Queen Victoria.

"May 24. It was the Queen's birth-day, and we celebrated it with

what--as our only remaining luxury--we were accustomed to call a fat

cake, made of four pounds of flour and some suet, which we had saved

for the express purpose, and with a pot of sugared tea. We had for

several months been without sugar, with the exception of about ten

pounds, which were reserved for cases of illness and for festivals."

Assuredly no sumptuary laws were needed to restrain such revels as

these. "On another occasion, in consequence of the additional fatigues

of the day, I allowed some pieces of fat to be fried with our meat."

Horrible gluttony! After they had been some months out, an

extraordinary desire for fat diet took possession of the wanderers. At

first they felt disgust for it, and rejected it contemptuously, but

suddenly a total change occurred. "The relish continued to increase as

our bullocks grew poorer; and we became as eager to examine the

condition of a slaughtered beast as the natives, whose practice in

that respect we had formerly ridiculed." When they caught an emu,

their first and eager care was to pluck the feathers and cut into the

flesh, "to see how thick the fat was, and whether it was a _rich

yellow_." The Spartan Doctor himself was not proof against the greasy

fascination. Hear his confession of a frailty, and record of its

quick-succeeding punishment. 'Tis _à propos_ of kites, which filthy

feeders, unaccustomed in the lonely bush to the sight of man, become

exceedingly daring and impudent. "Yesterday, I cleaned the fat gizzard

of a bustard to grill it on the embers, and the idea of the fat

dainty-bit made my mouth water. But, alas! whilst holding it in my

hand, a kite pounced down and carried it off, pursued by a dozen of

his comrades, eager to seize the booty." It needs no great stretch of

fancy to picture the Doctor, bereaved of his gizzard, sitting

open-mouthed and aghast at the foot of a gum-tree, his fingers still

shining from the unctuous contact, the moisture of anticipation oozing

from his lips, his eyes watching the flight of the felon kite, whilst

the 'possum on the branch above grins at his mishap. The loss was the

more serious, that game was not abundant just then. They had got into

a flat, sandy, uninteresting country; all box-trees and ant-hills, as

Australian Charley described it, with no cover, and nothing to shoot

at. Bad enough for the sportsman, but highly eligible squatting

ground, where the settler would have few trees to fell and abundant

grass for his cattle. As for the game, it came in tracts and

districts. Sometimes they thought themselves fortunate could they

secure a few pigeons, at others, they revelled in pinguid

plenty,--kangaroos roasted whole, fat ibis, flying foxes in scores,

and ducks by the dozen. The atmosphere of these latitudes must be

particularly favourable to the appetite, judging from the following

passage.--"Charley Brown and John, who had been left at the lagoon to

shoot waterfowl, returned with twenty ducks for luncheon, and went out

again during the afternoon to procure more for dinner and breakfast.

They succeeded in shooting thirty-one ducks and two geese; so that we

had fifty-one ducks and two geese for the three meals; and they were

all eaten, with the exception of a few bony remains, which some of the

party carried to the next camp. If we had had a hundred ducks, they

would have been eaten quite as readily, if such an extravagant feast

had been permitted." A century of the web-footed for one day's

consumption! And they were seven--no more! Surely this was playing at

ducks and drakes with their resources. Fourteen ducks, a leg, a wing,

and a bit of the breast, entombed, within twenty-four hours, in the

stomach of each of these seven men! The very feathers in their pillows

(had they had any) would have cried out against such voracity. Truly

it is without a spark of compassion that we read of their reduction,

precisely one week afterwards, to short and less palatable commons.

"Oct. 26. We enjoyed most gratefully our two wallabies, which were

stewed, and to which I had added some green hide, to render the broth

more substantial. This hide was _almost five months old_, and had

served as a case to my botanical collection, which, unfortunately, I

had been compelled to leave behind. It required, however, a little

longer stewing than a fresh hide, and was rather tasteless." We avow

total unacquaintance with wallabies, their size and edible qualities,

but, whatever their dimensions, the fact of a five-months'-old hide

having been stewed with them to ameliorate the broth, says very little

for their succulence. The sweetness, as well as the greenness of the

"case to the botanical collection," may fairly be doubted. We should

have an ill opinion of the pottage that needed an old portmanteau to

improve its consistency, and strongly mistrust the nutritious

qualities of the meagre wallabi-broth, which followed so closely on

the heels of the Feast of Ducks.

It was very fortunate for Dr Leichhardt and his companions--who

certainly had abundance of difficulties to encounter--that the country

they traversed was nearly free from ferocious beasts and noxious

reptiles. They had plenty to do without combating such formidable

enemies. Throughout the whole journal there is no mention of any

dangerous animal, except crocodiles and alligators,--easily avoided,

and not much to be dreaded. On the 19th June, "Charley and Brown, who

had gone to the river, returned at a late hour, when they told us they

had seen the tracks of a large animal on the sands of the river, which

they judged to be about the size of a big dog, trailing a long tail

like a snake. Charley said, that when Brown fired his gun, a deep

noise like the bellowing of a bull was heard, which frightened both so

much that they immediately decamped. This was the first time we became

aware of the existence of the crocodile in the waters of the gulf."

Afterwards they not unfrequently fell in with them. Near the banks of

a magnificent salt-water river--named by Dr Leichhardt the "Robinson,"

in honour of one of the promoters of the expedition--they came upon a

native well. "When Charley first discovered it, he saw a crocodile

leaning its long head over the clay-wall, enjoying a drink of fresh

water." Of venomous snakes and insects, we also find little or no

account in the Doctor's diary. Once only there was a suspicion of the

kind. Upon leaving a camp on the river Lynd, the lad Murphy's pony was

missing, and Charley went back to look for it. "He brought us the

melancholy news that he had found the poor beast on the sands of the

Lynd, with its body blown up, and bleeding from the nostrils. It had

either been bitten by a snake or had eaten some noxious herb, which

had fortunately been avoided by the other horses." Sand-flies and

mosquitoes were very troublesome, large yellow hornets savage in their

attacks, and ants every where. Of these, the species called the

funnel-ant is worthy of notice for the peculiarity of its nest. It

digs a perpendicular hole in the ground, and surrounds the opening

with an elevated wall, sloping outwards like a funnel; a style of

architecture of which, upon a rainy day, the tenant of the dwelling

must feel the disadvantage. The white ant is also met with, and builds

itself massive hills of enormous size. "I followed the Casuarina Creek

up to its head, and called it 'Big Ant-Hill Creek,' in consequence of

numerous gigantic strangely-buttressed structures of the white ant,

which I had never seen of such a form, and of so large a size." Within

three days' journey of the gulf of Carpentaria, the box-tree flat was

studded with turreted ant-hills, either single sharp cones, three to

five feet high, or united in rows and forming piles of remarkable

appearance.

Their arrival at the gulf of Carpentaria, which occurred on the 5th

July, was a joyful event to the wanderers. From the map accompanying

Dr Leichhardt's journal, it appears they did not take the most direct

track from Moreton Bay to Port Essington, but inclined too much to the

right, reaching the gulf on its eastern instead of its southern shore,

and having consequently, as they were proceeding north-west, to strike

off at right angles in a S.S.W. direction. For this deviation from the

direct line, there may have been good reason in the nature of the

ground, the forests, mountains, and other difficulties to be avoided,

and in the necessity of preserving the vicinity of water. Hitherto the

progress of the expedition was most satisfactory, the only important

drawback being the death of poor Gilbert. A line of land communication

between the eastern and northern coasts of Australia had been

discovered and carefully mapped; it was well supplied with water, and

the country was excellent--available almost throughout for pastoral

purposes. The Doctor had special reason to rejoice at having got so

far on his expedition, for the time occupied in reaching the gulf

exceeded the period in which he had expected to arrive at Port

Essington, and his companions had begun to despond, and even to

question his abilities as a guide and leader. "We shall never come to

Port Essington,"--the melancholy cry that too often reached

Leichhardt's ears,--was exchanged for a joyful hurra at sight of salt

water. Fatigues and privations were for the time forgotten as though

the goal, instead of the half-way-house, had been attained. The

caravan had been nine months out; they had still nearly six to pass

before reaching their journey's end; and for various reasons, the

latter portion was the most painful and difficult. They got amongst

the salt creeks and lagoons, and fresh water was often very difficult

to find. Then the little stock of comforts they had brought from

Moreton Bay, became gradually exhausted. The flour was gone before

they reached the gulf; the sugar was finished up, even to the boiling

of the bags, that none of the saccharine particles might be lost--and

at length they came to their last pot of tea. This was a great

deprivation, for tea had been found most refreshing and restorative.

Their diet now was dry beef and water. They tried various substitutes

for the latter, but with no very good result. The M'Kenzie bean served

as coffee, and although disagreeing at first, was finally relished. Mr

Phillips, who discovered and adopted it, subsequently tried a similar

preparation of acacia seeds, whose effects, however, were such as not

to encourage consumers. To vary their edibles, they ate vine-beans in

porridge, and the young leaves of bullrushes--coming, in fact, as near

to grazing as human beings well can. Their animal food was not always

of the choicest, as the following passage testifies: "During the night

a great number of flying foxes came to revel in the honey of the

blossoms of the gum-trees. Charley shot three, and we made a late but

welcome supper of them. They were not so fat as those we had eaten

before, and tasted a little strong; but in messes made, at night, it

was always difficult to find out the cause of any particular taste,

as Master Brown wished to get as quickly as possible over his work,

and was not over particular in cleaning them." A negligence deserving

of the bastinado. The notion of any animal, bearing the name of fox,

being served up with the trail, is too full-flavoured to be agreeable,

and the dish might cause a revolt in the stomach of the least

particular of Australian bush-rangers. By this time, however, Dr

Leichhardt and his party were inured to every sort of abomination in

the way of food, and were not difficult to please. Other troubles they

had, more sensibly felt than the coarse quality of the vivers. Their

scanty wardrobe threatened to fail them; and, already reduced to the

produce of the forest for their daily food, it appeared by no means

improbable they would have to resort to the same primitive source for

raiment to cover their nakedness. "The few shirts we had with us

became so worn and threadbare, that the slightest tension would tear

them. To find materials for mending the body, we had to cut off the

sleeves; and when these were used, pieces were taken from the lower

part of the shirt to mend the upper. Our trousers became equally

patched, and the want of soap prevented us from washing them clean."

Worse than this, inflammation, boils, and prickly heat, tormented the

travellers, and their cattle showed symptoms of breaking down. At

first, there were plenty of spare horses, but these had perished from

accidents and disease; those which remained became daily weaker from

over-work and want of water, and were sore-footed and tired from

travelling over rocky ranges, their shoes, useless in the grass-land,

having been long since removed. Leichhardt, who, on reaching the gulf,

had sanguinely hoped the worst of the journey over, soon found his

mistake. Bad enough before, it was far worse now, and too much praise

can hardly be accorded to the cheerful courage with which the Doctor

endured hardships, wrestled with difficulties, sustained the spirits

of his companions, and pressed on over all obstacles, to the

termination of his long and weary pilgrimage. It was now (at the

beginning of December) not very distant. "Whilst we, were waiting for

our bullock," (they were reduced to their last, which they were

unwilling to kill, and took to Port Essington) "which had returned to

the running brook, a fine native stepped out of the forest with the

ease and grace of an Apollo, with a smiling countenance, and with the

confidence of a man to whom the whiteface was perfectly familiar. He

was unarmed, but a great number of his companions were keeping back to

watch the reception he should meet with. We received him, of course,

most cordially; and upon being joined by another good-looking little

man, we heard him utter distinctly, the words '_Commandant_!' '_Come

here!_' 'Very _good!_' '_What's your name?_' If my readers have at all

identified themselves with my feelings throughout this trying journey,

if they have imagined only a tithe of the difficulties we have

encountered, they will readily imagine the startling effect which

these, as it were, magic words produced; we were electrified--our joy

knew no limits, and I was ready to embrace the fellows, who, seeing

the happiness with which they inspired us, joined with a most merry

grin in the loud expression of our feelings." The party were within a

fortnight's march of Port Essington, where they arrived on the 17th

day of December, and received a kind welcome and needful supplies from

Captain MacArthur, commandant of the place. After a month's stay, they

took ship, and reached Sydney at the end of March.

We have already referred to the strong feeling prevailing at Sydney

against the practicability of Dr Leichhardt's projected expedition, to

the numerous efforts made to induce him to abandon it, and to the

confident predictions of its failure, and of the destruction of all

engaged in it. It will be remembered, also, that about a month after

the departure of the adventurers from Moreton Bay, it had been found

necessary, in consequence of loss of stores and scarcity of game, to

send back some of the party, and that Mr Hodgson, suffering and

disheartened, had volunteered to return. His reappearance in the

colony strengthened the doubts already entertained, and little

surprise was excited when, a month or two afterwards, news came

through a party of natives, that the adventurous band had been

attacked, and its members murdered, by a tribe to the northward. There

could be small doubt of the catastrophe, which elicited from Mr Lynd

of Sydney, a bosom friend of Leichhardt, and to whom the Journal is

inscribed, some very beautiful stanzas. They were addressed to a party

formed to proceed, under guidance of Mr Hodgson, in the footsteps of

Dr Leichhardt, and to ascertain his fate. By favour of a near relative

of Mr Lynd, resident in the environs of Edinburgh, we are enabled here

to introduce them.

Ye who prepare, with pilgrim feet,

Your long and doubtful path to wend,

If--whitening on the waste--ye meet

The relies of my murdered friend,

Collect them, and with reverence bear

To where some mountain streamlet flows,

There, by its mossy bank, prepare

The pillow of his long repose.

It shall be by a stream, whose tides

Are drank by birds of every wing;

Where every lovelier flower abides

The earliest wakening touch of spring;

O meet that he, who so caress'd

All beauteous Nature's varied charms,

That he--her martyred son--should rest

Within his mother's fondest arms.

When ye have made his narrow bed,

And laid the good man's ashes there,

Ye shall kneel down around the dead,

And wait upon your God in prayer;

What though no reverend man be near,

No anthem pour its solemn breath,

No holy walls invest his bier,

With all the hallowed pomp of death,

Yet humble minds shall find the grace,

Devoutly bowed upon the sod,

To call that blessing round the place,

Which consecrates the soul to God:

And ye,--the wilds and wastes,--shall tell

How, faithful to the hopes of men,

The Mighty Power he served so well,

Shall breathe upon his bones again!

When ye your gracious task have done,

Heap not the rock upon his dust!

The Angel of the Lord alone

Shall guard the ashes of the just!

But ye shall heed, with pious care,

The memory of that spot to keep;

And note the marks that guide me where

My venturous friend is laid in sleep.

For oh, bethink,--in other times,

And be those happier times at hand,

When science, like the smile of God,

Comes bright'ning o'er that weary land,

How will her pilgrims hail the power,

Beneath the drooping miall's gloom,

To sit at eve, and mourn an hour,

And pluck a leaf on Leichhardt's tomb.

These charming verses were dated the 2d of July 1845. It was not till

the close of the following March, that the cloud suspended over the

destiny of the expedition was suddenly dispelled by the appearance of

Leichhardt himself. As may be supposed, an enthusiastic welcome

awaited the pilgrim, whose bones were long since supposed to be

bleaching in the wilderness. Subscriptions were set on foot, and soon

amounted to fifteen hundred pounds, which, with another thousand

pounds voted by the Legislative Council, were divided amongst the

seven persons composing the expedition. Dr Leichhardt, to whom the

lion's share was with justice awarded, received it at a meeting held

in the School of Arts at Sydney, of which an account is given in

the _Sydney Herald_ under the head of "The Leichhardt Testimonial," and

where Dr Nicholson, speaker of the Legislative Council, addressed the

intrepid traveller, in a strain of high and well-merited eulogium. "It

would be difficult," he said, "to employ any terms that might be

considered as exaggerated, in acknowledging the enthusiasm, the

perseverance, and the talent, which prompted you to undertake, and

enabled you successfully to prosecute, your late perilous journey

through a portion of the hitherto untrodden wilds of Australia." A

flattering letter from the Colonial Secretary at Sydney, announcing

the government grant, a gold medal from the Royal Geographical Society

of London, and another from that of Paris, have further rewarded Dr

Leichhardt's meritorious labours. Unflinching in pursuit of science,

he again set forth, in December 1845, on an overland journey to Swan

River, expected to occupy two years and a half. This time he is better

provided. His party consists of only eight persons, but he has mules

for the stores, fourteen horses, forty oxen, and two hundred and

seventy goats. And he further takes with him--light but pleasant

baggage--the warm sympathy and hearty good wishes of all to whom his

amiable character and previous labours are known, a class which the

publication of the present Journal will doubtless tend largely to

increase.

FOOTNOTE:

[15]_Journal of an Overland Expedition in Australia, from Moreton Bay

to Port Essington_. By Dr LUDWIG LEICHHARDT. London: Boone, 1847.

MAGUS MUIR.

The subject of the following ballad is the atrocious and dastardly

assassination of James Sharp, Archbishop of St Andrews and Primate of

Scotland.

More than one attempt was made upon the life of that eminent prelate.

On the 11th of July, 1668, a shot was fired into his carriage in the

High Street of Edinburgh, by one James Mitchell, a fanatical field

preacher, and an associate of the infamous Major Weir. The primate

escaped unharmed, but his colleague Honyman, Bishop of Orkney,

received a severe wound, from the effects of which he died in the

following year. The assassin Mitchell fled to Holland, but

subsequently returned, and was arrested in the midst of his

preparations for another diabolical attempt. This man, who afterwards

suffered for his crimes, and who in consequence has obtained a place

in the book of "Covenanting Martyrology," described his motive "as an

impulse of the Holy Spirit, and justified it from Phinehas killing

Cosbi and Zimri, and from that law in Deuteronomy commanding to kill

false prophets!" This is no matter of surprise, when it is recollected

that the "principles of assassination," as Mr C. K. Sharp observes,

"were strongly recommended in _Naphthali, Jus Populi Vindicatum_, and

afterwards in _The Hind let Loose_, which books were in almost as much

esteem with the Presbyterians as their Bibles." Sir George Mackenzie

states, "These irreligious and heterodox books, called _Naphthali_ and

_Jus Populi_, had made the killing of all dissenters from Presbytery

seem not only lawful, but a duty among many of that profession: and in

a postscript to _Jus Populi_, it was told that the sending of the

Archbishop of St Andrews' head to the king would be the best present

that could be made to Jesus Christ."[16]

These principles, at first received with doubt, were afterwards

carried out to the utmost extent by the more violent of the insurgent

party. Murder and assault, frequently perpetrated upon unoffending and

defenceless persons, became so common, that the ordinary course of the

law was suspended, and its execution devolved upon the military.

Scotland was indeed in a complete state of terrorism. Gangs of armed

fanatics, who had openly renounced their allegiance, perambulated the

country, committing every sort of atrocity, and directing their

attacks promiscuously against the clerical incumbents and the civil

magistracy.

But the crowning act of guilt was the murder of the unfortunate

Archbishop. On the 3d of May 1679, a party of the Fife non-conformists

were prowling near the village of Ceres, on the outlook, it is said,

for Carmichael the Sheriff-substitute of the county, against whom they

had sworn vengeance if he should ever fall into their hands. This

party consisted of twelve persons, at the head of whom were John

Balfour of Kinloch, better known by his _soubriquet_ of Burley, and

his brother-in-law, David Hackstoun of Rathillet. Balfour, whose moral

character had never stood high, though his religious fanaticism was

undoubted, had been at one time chamberlain to the Archbishop, and had

failed to account for a considerable portion of the rents, which it

was his official duty to levy. Hackstoun, whose earlier life had been

in little accordance with the ostensible tenets of his party, was also

in debt to the Archbishop, and had been arrested by the new

chamberlain. "These two persons," says Mr Lawson, "had most

substantial reasons for their rancour and hatred towards the

Archbishop, apart from their religious animosities."

It does not seem to be clearly ascertained, whether Carmichael was the

real object of their search, or whether their design from the first

had been directed against the person of the Primate. It would appear,

however, from the depositions taken shortly after the murder, that the

deed had been long premeditated, and that three days previously some

of the assassins had met at a house in Ceres and concerted their

plans. The incumbent of Ceres, the Rev. Alexander Leslie, was also to

have been made a victim if found in company with the Prelate.

Fortunately for himself, Carmichael eluded their search, but towards

evening the carriage of the Archbishop was seen approaching the waste

ground near St Andrews, which is still known by the name of Magus

Muir. A hurried council was then held. Hackstoun, probably from some

remnant of compunction, declined to take the lead; but Balfour, whose

bloodthirsty disposition was noted even in those unhappy times,

assumed the command, and called upon the others to follow him. The

consummation of the tragedy can best be told in the words of the

historian already quoted.

"When the Primate's servants saw their master followed by a band of

men on horseback, they drove rapidly, but they were overtaken on the

muir about three miles west of St Andrews; the murderers having

previously satisfied themselves, by asking a female domestic of the

neighbouring farmer, who refused to inform them himself, that it was

really the Archbishop's coach.

"Russell first came up, and recognised the Primate sitting with his

daughter. The Archbishop looked out of the coach, and Russell cast his

cloak from him, exclaiming,--'Judas, be taken!' The Primate ordered

the postilion to drive, at which Russell fired at the man, and called

to his associates to join him. With the exception of Hackstoun, they

threw off their cloaks, and continued firing at the coach for nearly

half a mile. A domestic of the Archbishop presented a carbine, but was

seized by the neck, and it was pulled out of his hands. One of the

assassins outrun the coach, and struck one of the horses on the head

with a sword. The postilion was ordered to stop, and for refusing he

was cut on the face and ankle. They soon rendered it impossible to

proceed further with the coach. Disregarding the screams, entreaties,

and tears of his daughter, a pistol was discharged at the Primate

beneath his left arm, and the young lady was seen removing the smoking

combustibles from her father's black gown. Another shot was fired,

and James Russell seized a sword from one of his associates,

dismounted, and at the coach-door called to the Archbishop, whom he

designated _Judas_, to come forth." Sir William Sharp's account of

what now occurred, which would be doubtless related to him by his

sister, is as follows:--"They fired several shots at the coach, and

commanded my dearest father to come out, which he said he would.--When

he had come out, not being yet wounded, he said,--'Gentlemen, I beg my

life!' 'No--bloody villain, betrayer of the cause of Christ--no

mercy!' Then said he,--'I ask none for myself, but have mercy on my

poor child!' and, holding up his hand to one of them to get his, that

he would spare his child, he cut him on the wrist. Then falling down

upon his knees, and holding up his hands, he prayed that God would

forgive them; and begging mercy for his sins from his Saviour, they

murdered him by sixteen great wounds in his back, head, and one above

his left eye, three in his left hand when he was holding it up, with a

shot above his left breast, which was found to be powder. After this

damnable deed they took the papers out of his pocket, robbed my sister

and their servants of all their papers, gold, and money, and one of

these hellish rascals cut my sister on the thumb, when she had him by

the bridle begging her father's life."

So died with the calmness and intrepidity of a martyr this reverend

and learned prelate, maligned indeed by the fanatics of his own and

succeeding ages, but reverenced and beloved by those who best knew his

innate worth, unostentatious charity, and pure piety of soul. In the

words of a worthy Presbyterian divine of last century,--"His

inveterate enemies are agreed in ascribing to him the high praise of a

beneficent and humane disposition. He bestowed a considerable part of

his income in ministering to pressing indigence, and relieving the

wants of private distress. In the exercise of his charity, he had no

contracted views. The widows and orphans of the Presbyterian brethren

richly shared his bounty without knowing whence it came. He died with

the intrepidity of a hero, and the piety of a Christian, praying for

the assassins with his latest breath."

Gently ye fall, ye summer showers,

On blade, and leaf, and tree;

Ye bring a blessing to the earth,

But nane--O nane, to me!

Ye cannot wash this red right hand

Free from its deadly stain,

Ye cannot cool the burning ban

That lies within my brain.

O be ye still, ye blithesome birds,

Within the woodland spray,

And keep your songs within your hearts

Until another day:

And cease to fill the blooming brae

With warblings light and clear,

For there's a sweeter song than yours

That I maun never hear.

It was upon the Magus Muir

Within the lanesome glen,

That in the gloaming hour I met

Wi' Burley and his men.

Our hearts were hard as was the steel

We bore within the hand;

But harder was the heart of him

That led that bluidy band.

Dark lay the clouds upon the west

Like mountains huge and still:

And fast the summer lightning leaped

Behind the distant hill.

It shone on grim Rathillet's brow

With pale and ghastly glare:

I caught the glimpse of his cold gray eye--

There was MURDER glittering there!

* * * * *

Away, away! o'er bent and hill,

Through moss and muir we sped:

Around us roared the midnight storm,

Behind us lay the dead.

We spoke no word, we made no sign

But blindly rade we on,

For an angry voice was in our ears

That bade us to begone,

We were brothers all baptised in blood,

Yet sought to be alone!

Away, away! with headlong speed

We rade through wind and rain,

And never more upon the earth

Did we all meet again.

There's some have died upon the field,

And some upon the tree,

And some are bent and broken men

Within a far countrie,

But the heaviest curse hath lighted down

On him that tempted me!

O hame, hame, hame!--that holy place--

There is nae hame for me!

There's not a child that sees my face

But runs to its mither's knee.

There's not a man of woman born

That dares to call me kin--

O grave! wert thou but deep enough

To hide me and my sin!

I wander east, I wander west,

I neither can stop nor stay,

But I dread the night when all men rest

Far more than the glint of day.

O weary night, wi' all its stars

Sae clear, and pure, and hie!

Like the eyes of angels up in heaven

That will not weep for me!

O weary night, when the silence lies

Around me, broad and deep,

And dreams of earth, and dreams of heaven,

That vex me in my sleep.

For aye I see the murdered man,

As on the muir he lay,

With his pale white face, and reverend head,

And his locks sae thin and gray;

And my hand grows red with the holy blude

I shed that bitter day!

O were I but a water drop

To melt into the sea--

But never water yet came down

Could wash that blude from me!

And O! to dream of that dear heaven

That I had hoped to win--

And the heavy gates o' the burning gowd

That will not let me in!

I hear the psalm that's sung in heaven,

When the morning breaks sae fair,

And my soul is sick wi' the melodie

Of the angels quiring there.

I feel the breath of God's ain flowers

From out that happy land,

But the fairest flower o' Paradise

Would wither in my hand.

And aye before me gapes a pit

Far deeper than the sea,

And waefn' sounds rise up below,

And deid men call on me.

O that I never had been born,

And ne'er the light had seen!

Dear God--to look on yonder gates

And this dark gulf between!

O that a wee wee bird wad come

Though 'twere but ance a-year!

And bring but sae much mool and earth

As its sma' feet could bear,

And drap it in the ugsome hole

That lies 'twixt heaven and me,

I yet might hope, ere the warld were dune,

My soul might saved be!

W. E. A.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] LAWSON'S _History of the Episcopal Church of Scotland_.

A NOVEMBER MORNING'S REVERIE.

BY DELTA.

Hast thou a chamber in the utter West,

A cave of shelter from the glare of day,

Oh radiant Star of Morning! whose pure eye,

Like an archangel's, over the dim Earth,

With such ineffable effulgence shines?

Emblem of Sanctity and Peace art thou!

Thou leavest man, what time to daily toil

His steps are bent--what time the bustling world

Usurps his thought; and, through the sunny hours,

Unseen, forgot, art like the things that were;

But Twilight weeps for joy at thy return,

With brighter blaze the faggots on the hearth

Sparkle, and home records its happiest hour!

Hark! 'tis the Robin's shrill yet mellow pipe,

That in the voiceless calm of the young morn,

Commingles with my dreams:--lo! as I draw

Aside the curtains of my couch, he sits,

Deep over-bower'd by broad geranium leaves,

(Leaves trembling 'neath the touch of sere decay,)

Upon the dewy window-sill, and perks

His restless black eye here and there, in search

Of crumbs, or shelter from the icy breath

Of wild winds rushing from the Polar sea:

For now November, with a brumal robe,

Mantles the moist and desolated earth;

Dim sullen clouds hang o'er the cheerless sky,

And yellow leaves bestrew the undergrove.

'Tis earliest sunrise. Through the hazy mass

Of vapours moving on like shadowy isles,

Athwart the pale, gray, spectral cope of heaven,

With what a feeble, inefficient glow

Looks out the Day; all things are still and calm,

Half wreathed in azure mist the skeleton woods,

And as a picture silent. Little bird!

Why with unnatural tameness comest thou thus,

Offering in fealty thy sweet simple songs

To the abode of man? Hath the rude wind

Chilled thy sweet woodland home, now quite despoiled

Of all its summer greenery, and swept

The bright, close, sheltering bowers, where merrily

Rang out thy notes--as of a haunting sprite,

There domiciled--the long blue summer through?

Moulders untenanted thy trim-built nest,

And do the unpropitious fates deny

Food for thy little wants, and Penury,

With tiny grip, drive thee to dubious walls,--

Though terrors flutter at thy panting heart,--

To stay the pangs which must be satisfied?

Alas! the dire sway of Necessity

Oft makes the darkest, most repugnant things

Familiar to us; links us to the feet

Of all we feared, or hated, or despised;

And, mingling poison with our daily food,

Yet asks the willing heart and smiling cheek:

Yea! to our subtlest and most tyrannous foes,

May we be driven for shelter, and in such

May our sole refuge lie, when all the joys,

That, iris-like, wantoned around our paths

Of prosperous fortune, one by one have died;

When day shuts in upon our hopes, and night

Ushers blank darkness only. Therefore we

Should pity thee, and have compassion on

Thy helpless state, poor bird, whose loveliness

Is yet unscathed, and whose melodious notes,

(Sweeter by melancholy rendered,) steal

With a deep supplication to the heart,

Telling that thou wert happy once--that now

Thou art most destitute; and yet, and yet--

Only were thy small pinching wants supplied

By Charity--couldst be most happy still!--

Is it not so?

Out on unfeeling man!

Will he who drives the beggar from his gates,

And to the moan of fellow-man shuts up

Each avenue of feeling--will he deign

To think that such as Thou deserve his aid?

No! when the gust raves, and the floods descend,

Or the frost pinches, Thou may'st, at dim eve,

With forced and fearful love approach his home,

What time, 'mid western mists, the broad, red sun,

Sinking, calls out from heaven the earliest star;

And the crisp blazing of the dry Yule-log

Flickers upon the pictured walls, and lights

By fits the unshutter'd lattice; but, in vain,

Thy chirp repeated earnestly; the flap,

Against the obdurate pane, of thy small wing;--

He hears thee not--he heeds not--but, at morn,

The ice-enamoured schoolboy, early afoot,

Finds thy small bulk beneath the alder stump,

Thy bright eyes closed, and tiny talons clench'd,

Stiff in the gripe of death.

The floating plume

Tells how the wind blows, with a certainty

As great as doth the vessel's full-swoln sheets;

So doth the winged seed; 'tis not alone

In mighty things that we may truliest read

The heart, but in its temper and its tone:--

Thus true Benevolence we ever find

Forgiving, gentle, tremblingly alive

To pity, and unweariedly intent

On all the little, thousand charities,

Which day by day calls forth. Oh! as we hope

Forgiveness of our earthly trespasses,--

Of all our erring deeds and wayward thoughts,--

When Time's dread reckoning comes,--oh! as we hope

Mercy, who need it much, let us, away

From kindness never turning, mould our hearts

To sympathy, and from all withering blight

Preserve them, and all deadening influences:--

So 'twill be best for us. The All-seeing Eye,

Which numbers each particular hair, and notes

From heaven the sparrow's fall, shall pass not o'er

Without approval deeds unmarked by man--

Deeds, which the right hand from the left conceals--

Nor overlook the well-timed clemency,

That soothed and stilled the murmurs of distress.

Enamour'd of all mysteries, in love

With doubt itself, and fond to disbelieve,

We ask not, "if realities be real?"

With Plato, or with Berkeley; but we know

Life comes not of itself, and what hath life,--

However insignificant it seem

To us, whose noblest standard is ourselves,--

Hath been by the Almighty's finger touch'd,

Or ne'er had been at all--it must be so.

Therefore 'tis by comparison alone

That things seem great or small; and noblest they

Whose sympathies, with a capacious range,

Would own no limit to their fond embrace.

Yea, there, as in all else, doth Duty dwell

With happiness: for far the happiest he,

Who through the roughnesses of life preserves

His boyish feelings, and who sees the world,

Not as it is in cold reality,

A motley scene of struggle and of strife,

But tinted with the glow of bright romance:

For him the morning has its star; the sun,

Rising or setting, fires for him the clouds

With glory; flowers for him have tales,

Like those which, for a thousand nights and one,

Enchained the East; each season as it rolls

Strikes in his bosom its peculiar chord,

Yet each alike harmonious, to a heart

That vibrates ever in sweet unison:

Each scene hath its own influence, nor less

The frost that mimics each on pool or pane:

Delight flows in alike from calm or storm:

Delight flows in to him from nature's shows

Of hill and dale, swift river, or still lake:

To him the very winds are musical--

Have harmony Æolian, wild and sweet;

The stream sings to its banks, and the wild birds

To Echo--viewless tell-tale of the rocks--

Who in the wantonness of love responds.

Gifts, in the eye of Heaven, not always bear

The marketable value stamped by man

Upon them,--else the poor were truly poor,

The willing spirit destitute indeed.

In other balance are our actions weighed

By Him who sees the heart in all its thoughts;

Both what it wills and cannot, what it tries

And doth,--and with what motive, for what end.

Clouds clothe them like realities, and shine

Even so to human eyes; yet, not the less

Are only mockeries of the things they seem,

And melt as we survey them. Let us not

The shadow for the substance take, the Jay

For the true Bird of Paradise. A crust

Dealt, by the poor man, from his daily loaf,

To the wayfarer, poorer than himself--

A cup of water, in the Saviour's name

Proffered, with ready hand, to thirsting lips,--

Seem trifles in themselves, yet weigh for wine,

And gems, and gold, and frankincense. The mite,--

The widow's offering, and her all, put in

With grief, because she had no more to give,

Yet given although her all,--was in the sight

Of Heaven a sumless treasury bestowed,

And reckoned such in her account above:--

When Nineveh, through all her myriad streets,

Lay blackened with idolatry and crime,

God had preserved her--would have saved her whole--

Had but the Prophet, as a leaven, found

His righteous ten!

Therefore, Oh never deem

Thoughts, deeds, or feelings valueless, that bear

The balance of the heart to Virtue's side!

The coral worm seems nought, but coral worms

Combined heave up a reef, where mightiest keels

Are stranded, and the powers of man put down.

The water-drop wears out the stone; and cares

Trifling, if ceaseless, form an aggregate,

Whose burden weighs the buoyant heart to earth.

Think not the right path may be safely left,

Though 'twere but for one moment, and one step;

That one departure, slight howe'er it be,

From Innocence is nought. The young peach-bloom,

Rudely brushed off, can be restored no more,

By all the cunning of the painter's art;

Nor to the sered heart comes, in after life

Again,--however longed for, or bewailed,--

Youth's early dews, the pure and delicate!

VALEDICTORY VISITS AT ROME.

Andiamo a Napoli; and so we will, in accordance with the repeated

suggestions we have received during the last ten days from all the

vetturini in Rome. Easter is gone by, the Girandola went off last

week, the English are going, and so is our bell, tinkle! tinkle!

tinkle!--as if its wire had a touch of vernal ague--while the old delf

plate in the hall is filled and running with cards, every pasteboard

parallelogram among them with two P's and a C in the corner; for we

are becoming too polite, it seems, to take leave of each other in our

own tongue. As the English quit Rome, the swallows arrive, and may be

seen in great muster flitting up and down the streets, looking at the

affiches of vacancies before fixing on a lodging. Unlike us, these

callow tourists--though many of them on their first visit to Rome--are

no sooner within the walls, than they find, without assistance, their

way to the Forum, and proceed to build and twitter in that very Temple

of Concord where Juvenal's storks of old made their nidus and their

noise! Andiamo a Napoli; yes, but not yet; we are sure at this season

to have an impatient patient or two to visit in the Babuino, or at

Serny's; who, labouring under incipient fever which has not yet tamed

them into submission, tell us they would--optative mood--be at

Florence in a week, and add--in the imperative--that they must be in

London in three! _Vedremmo!_ These cases--may they end well--are sure,

meanwhile, to be somewhat tedious in their progress; and besides, were

there none such, two motives have we for always lingering the last in

Rome: the one, to avoid the importunity of many indiscreet

acquaintance, who would else be sure at this season to plague us with

some trifling commission, on purpose to open a sudden correspondence,

in the hope of learning all about the heat, the fever, the mosquitoes,

the fare and the accommodation of Castellamare and Sorrento, thinking

themselves, meanwhile, perfect Talleyrands in diplomacy, in employing

a ruse which it is impossible not to see through; the other and more

important, to secure the necessary quiet while we linger about

favourite haunts, and refresh our memory with sites and scenes

endeared by long and intimate acquaintance. To describe people or

places accurately, requires a long and attentive familiarity, but to

do so feelingly and with effect, we should trust principally to first

and last impressions: either will be more likely to furnish a lively

representation, as far as it goes, than when too great intimacy with

details leads us to forget what is characteristic, and to dwell

without emphasis, or with equal and tedious emphasis, upon all alike.

New scenes, owing, perhaps, part of their charm to that circumstance,

may occasionally betray us into exaggeration; but the records of a

last _coup-d'oeil_, when we dwell with sad complacency upon every

feature, as upon those of a friend from whom we are about to part, are

characterised at once by an equal freshness, and by more truth,

feeling, and discrimination. We might proceed to exemplify this, from

a long series of first and last views in Italy: with some of them the

reader may be familiar, for we have frequently met in Maga's pages;

with others he will--should it so please him--become acquainted, when,

leaving the company of our present agreeable associates, we stand

forth an author of "Travels," and have more ample scope for our

egotism. We confine ourselves now to a few valedictory visits in and

about Rome.

THE VILLA BORGHESE.

It was on 15th April, 1843, seven A. M., when we went to take farewell

of the Borghese. In passing up the Via Babuino on our way thither, our

ears catch some of the well-known street cries. These generally

attract a momentary attention, even amidst all the bustle, activity,

and din of a great commercial city: how much more, then, in the

comparative stillness of Rome, particularly in the morning, when few

people are stirring, and we are most alive to sounds? Some of these

cries are not unpleasing: the first to greet us, plaintive and

melancholy in its character, is that of "_Aqua acetosa_," which

announces the water of a mineral spring in the neighbourhood, brought

in at sunrise for those who are too idle or too ill to drink it at its

source. Another kind of water--also very matutinal in its

delivery,--the "_Aqua vita_," is intonated by the _Aquavitario_, in a

sharp kestrel key,--hear him! Now, list to two men carrying a large

deep tub of honey between them, and bellowing in rapid alternation,

"_Miele_, _miele_," and say if their accents are mellifluous! Next,

comes a loud-tongued salesman, who out-brays Lablache, but confines

his singing to "_Che vuole_, _che vuole_!" and oranges and lemons are

his commodity. From an itinerant green-grocer, who passes with his

panniered donkey, suddenly bursts forth, "_Cimaroli, cimaroli_!" The

last cry we hear is that of "_Tutti vivi_, _tutti vivi_!" from the

_asparagaro_, who is bringing frogs and wild asparagus into Rome. Now

we are in the Piazza del Popolo, and having glanced a moment at those

buxom goddesses, at the foot of the Pincian hill, who look right well

this morning in their flowing robes, turn out of the Popolo Gate, just

as a large drove of lean turkeys, driven in from the Campagna, besiege

the entrance on their way to the bird-market, where they are to be

presently slaughtered, drawn, and quartered; their "disjecta membra"

exposed to sale at so many _baiocchi_ a pound; and their blood, which

is more esteemed than their flesh, hawked about the streets in cakes:

of course we are too humane to hint to them their coming destiny. In

front of the elegant Borghese entrance, and round the Park lodge, all

strewn about in picturesque disarray, we behold one of those numerous

herds of goats, which come in every morning, to be milked at the

different houseouse doors: their udders at present are brimful, and almost

touch the lintel of the gate where they are standing--"gravido

superant vix ubere limen;" and though they are emptied continually,

soon fill again,--