same word, virtus, to designate strength and virtue; for there can be no victory, in truth, without victory over ourselves; and to be victorious in virtue needs strength and courage. For the same reason, Temperance has always been included among the qualities of the true gentleman. For temperance tends to keep the head clear, the hands steady, the body healthful, and the morals pure. We may sometimes hear of a "drunken gentleman;" there is even the proverbial saying of "as drunk as a lord;" but, in either case, the gentleman is of an altogether spurious character.

The true Gentleman is cheerful, even while he is most in earnest. Cheerfulness is indispensable to true manly life; it is the very soul of all success. The spirit must be kept elastic, and all sickly fantasies abjured. As a bishop once said, "Temper is ninetenths of Christianity," so cheerfulness and diligence are nine-tenths of practical wisdom.

Riches and rank have no necessary connection with genuine gentlemanly qualities. The poor man may be a true gentleman,-in spirit and in daily life. He may be honest, truthful, upright, polite, temperate, courageous, self-respecting, and self-helping,-and that is, to be a true gentleman. The poor man with a rich spirit is in all ways superior to the rich man with a poor spirit. To borrow St. Paul's words, the former is as "having nothing, yet possessing all things,' while the other, though possessing all things, has nothing. The first hopes everything, and fears nothing; the last hopes nothing, and fears everything. Only the poor in spirit are really poor. the man who is rich in spirit, the world is, as it were, held in trust; and in freedom from the grosser cares, he alone is entitled to be called the true Gentleman.

For

The man who has even lost all, but still retains courage, cheerfulness, hope, industry, and virtue, is still rich. Though he may say, as Francis I. did to his mother, after the battle of Pavia, "All is lost but honour," he need not be dismayed. His motto may still be " Excelsior," in the face of whatever difficulties may stand in his way :

To thine own self be true,

And it must follow as the night the day, Thou cans't not then be false to any man. Occasionally, nay often, you find the true gentleman concealed under the humblest garb. Here is an old instance, but a beautiful one:

Once on a time, when the Adige suddenly overflowed its banks, the bridge of Verona was carried away, with the exception of the centre arch, on which stood a house, whose inhabitants supplicated help from the windows, while the foundations were visibly giving way. "I will give a hundred French louis," said the Count Spolverini, who stood by, "to any person who will venture to deliver these unfortunate people." A young peasant came forth from the crowd, seized a boat and pushed into the stream. He gained the pier, received the whole family into the boat, and made for the shore, where he landed them in safety. "Here is your money, my brave young fellow," said the count. "No," was the answer of the young man, "I do not sell my life; give the money to this poor family, who have need of it."

Here, indeed, spoke out the true spirit of the Gentleman, though he was in the garb of but a humble peasant!

PETTY ANNOYANCES.

The constant exercise of patience and forbearance is never more necessary or praiseworthy than in domestic life, but there is a species of endurance which, as it is quite superfluous, is not at all com

mendable; I mean, the putting up with such daily annoyances as the cost of a few shillings, or the labour of a few minutes, would effectually remove. Narrow means, an inconvenient house, a disagreeable situa tion, tiresome children, stupid servants, or, worse than even these, toothache and an ill-tempered husband, these are trials for which patience is the best and almost only remedy; and all who have patience enough, under such circumstances, are enti tled to our sympathy and admiration. But in addition to the unavoidable afflictions of their lot, how many go on, from day to day and year to year, with doors that never shut, windows and drawers that nobody can open, keys that will not lock, grates that never draw, blinds that won't keep up and curtains that won't come down, nails that tear their things and things that tear their nails; and, whilst professing to be above noticing such petty grievances, how many expend so much of their stock of patience upon these unnecessary evils that they have scarcely any left for inevitable annoyances! Could such persons calculate, at the year's end, the amount of time and strength expended in daily struggles with only one drawer "that always sticks, so that there is the greatest difficulty in pulling it out, and, when out, it is all that anybody can ever do to push it in again; "-and if they could recollect and believe the singular verbal manifestations of their indifference to "these trifles that no one should make a moment's fuss about in a world where there is so much real trouble," it is probable they would be quite as much surprised as those who have long wondered at the perversity which has cherished such needless causes of "botheration" to themselves and others. To ladies who do not perceive any harm in adding to the comforts, and diminishing the inconveniences, of our mortal life, I recommend the condensed philosophy of the following well-known but little-heeded rhymes :

For every evil under the sun

There is a remedy, or there's none;

If there is one, try and find it,

If there is none-never mind it.

Home Truths for Home Peace.

GREAT MEN.

Henry Taylor, in "Philip van Artevelde," says somewhat sadly,

The world knows nothing of its greatest men. We know absolutely nothing of the particulars of Homer's life; darkness has enveloped the whole, and not an incident or saying of his survives the lapse of time. And this is true of many great thinkers; they mix not in the noise of the crowd, and the world passes them by with somewhat of contempt. But we know enough of Homer's life to see that it was one of sorrow upon earth; he was blind, they say, and perhaps a beggar; and everywhere in his poems he manifestly feels at home in the dwellings of the poor. But this is not the case with all; there are some lives that are poetical in the highest degree, full of poiesis, or action. Such was Dante's, a life which they tell us is written in "colossal cypher" in his book. Such is Milton's; for the Satan, in Paradise Lost," is but a transcript of Milton's stern iron will, such as he felt himself to be-blind and despised as he was. Life is like books: there are dull books, and there are dull lives to keep them in countenance. Aulus Gellius and Sir W. Davenant are not half so dull as the lives of many wealthy citizens of England. But in the same way, there are some lives whose sublimity no books can equal, because their heroism is written in actions, and not merely in words. And such lives are those of Dante and Milton.

A FABLE.

IN ancient times, when the trees and flowers
And Fairies all talked together,

One fine summer's day, with the breezes at play,
Indeed, it was glorious weather,-

In a garden with flowers of every hue,
From the dark to the heavenly fair,
A Fairy most lovely, but giddy in mind,
And by nature to coquettish airs inclined,
Went sporting about in the air.

With a spirit all untroubled, the Fairy thus addressed
A Rose, who on her leafy couch was blissfully at rest :-
"If the sun is clouded, and storms come on,

Will you shelter and love me still?—
But my question is almost a needless one,
For, indeed, I am sure that you will."

Then the modest Rose, in sudden rage, with colour in her cheek,

Tossed up her blushing petals, and shortly thus did speak :— "Oh, cruel Fairy! where's your heart, and what are you about, That of my lasting faithfulness you entertain a doubt?"

Then the Fairy flew, on invisible wings,

To the Lily so pale and pure,

And looking all sorts of amiable things,
To a stalk of the beauty she playfully clings,

And says "Darling, are you quite sure

"If the sun is clouded, and storms come on,
That you'll shelter and love me still ?-"
But she stopped, for the Lily grew still more white,
And suddenly seemed quite ill.

Then the Lily replied, and she bowed and she sighed,
And her sorrow was heavy and strange,-
"Sweet Fairy," she cried, "I'd rather have died,
Than e'er be suspected of change."

Away skipped the Fairy, and glowing with joy,
That knew not a shadowing thought,

She rushed unawares in a Tulip's sweet arms,
And found herself smitten at sight of his charms,
Perhaps rather more than she ought.

"Oh, Sir Tulip!" said she, and she blushingly eyed
The magnificent painted young fellow,

As she saw with delight, and a portion of pride,
His scarlet emblazoned with yellow.

"Oh, Sir Tulip! if clouds should eclipse the fair sun,
And storms make the air damp and chill,
Would you love me and cherish me as you have done,
Would you shelter and care for me still?"

Then the Tulip, determined to do the polite,
With a ladylike playfulness pouted,
And looking so killing, as well he knew how,
Said, bending his stalk with an elegant bow,
"My constancy never was doubted."

So away the little fairy went and revelled for a time,
Like any idle wanderer in blooming summer prime;
And many happy moments the pretty creature spends
In thinking of the constancy of kind and loving friends.

No other thought was in her brain, when hastily she sped
Across the pale blue Violet, who, sleeping in her bed,
Exhaled such fragrant perfume that the Fairy thought she'd
stay,

And ask the little Violet this question by the way :

"Old comrade of my early days, you modest little dear, Now tell me if your precious love will always be sincere If clouds eclipse the golden sun, and storms assail and kill, Say that your leaves you will extend, and give me shelter still?"

"Sweet Fairy you've known me from earliest Spring,
When flowers were scanty and few,

And under my leaves from the blast you have crept,
Secure in my love firm and true.

"I will not make boast of unchangeable faith,
But if ever misfortune comes o'er thee,

Fly quick to my bank, seek a place in my heart,
Present your sweet features before me."

Then the Fairy, clapping her silvery wings,
Away on a sunbeam flitted,

With careless grace, and the loveliest face
That ever in sunshine skitted.

Yet hardly had the Fairy gone

When a cloud grew up at the north; The slashing rain like hail it fell, In volumes spouting forth.

In nervous alarm the Fairy flew

To the spot where the rose-tree flourished, Relying on friendship so faithfully true, To be kindly protected and nourished.

"Now Rose," says she, "the rain is come, And a drenching I shall get;

Oh! take me in, and shelter me,

For I am very wet!"

"Oh no," said the Rose, "I can scarcely give,

The shelter my own buds require;

But the Lily's deep cup will quite shut you up,
And provide you with all you desire."

Away to the Lily poor Fairy flew,

Again to prefer her petition;

Her gossamer wings were almost wet through,
She was quite in a damp condition.

"Oh, Lily! the storm has come pelting down,
And I am exposed to its power;

Oh! cover me up in your waterproof cup,
My dearest old Lily, sweet flower!"

"I am sorry," says Lily, "but were I to open

My cup for you to creep in it,

The rain would come in, my seed would be spoiled, And the beauty for which I have earnestly toiled Would all be undone in a minute."

Might give the shelter so desired, and to her she would go.

The darling flower with its eye of blue,

So mildly bright and clear,

Saw the Fairy coming, and spake not a word,
But opened her leaves and quietly stirred
Her stalks to make way for her dear.

To her bosom she took her, and dried her wings,
And breathing sweet perfume o'er her,
When the storm was over and earth was gay,
She whispered this word of advice by the way,
To the Fairy, her grateful adorer :-

"Oh! Fairy Queen, be ever sure flirtation is not right,
The love of one true heart for each is satisfaction quite;
Much better is the one old love than all that the fickle say,
For that will bloom in the World of Flowers when others fall
away."

FACES BY THE FIRE.

I PASS a window in the dusk of the evening. A broad stream of light flows across the darkening street, and shines against the opposite wall. The blaze flashes in my eyes, and, but for an instant, unconsciously I turn aside to meet it. I catch but a glimpse of the interior of a home, but it is enough. Through a screen of green leaves, I see a group of merry faces by the fire, the cheerful blaze making "a sunshine in the shady place." The light flashes upon the features of a beautiful girl, with a laughing child upon her knee; a little ruddy fellow is crouched at her feet, and a cheerful-looking old dame, in spectacles, busy at her knitting, from which for a moment she looks up to watch the gambols of the youngsters, occupies the. further side of the hearth. There is another figure, that of a man, with his back toward me, on the opposite side; doubtless the fire brightens his face, too, but the faces of the women and the children are enough. What is a cheerful fireside without them? they are the precious jewels which glitter and shine around the happy hearths, and make light and beauty there even in the saddest hours. Like white flowers in the dusk, they cheer and hallow it,they speak of the thousand hopes and joys which cluster about a home,-they are the emblems of virtue, cheerfulness, beauty, and divine comfort.

Burke has said that "to love the little platoon we belong to in society, is the germ of all public affections." Yes, unless the faces shine by the fire, they will shine nowhere else. If we feel not warmed by the fire which glows about the hearthstone,-we mean the affection and love which are its true moral glow,-how can we feel affection and sympathy for those who compass us about in ever-widening circles in the outer world? All genial warmth emanates from the home; it is there the affections are first moved, and there the heart is first attuned to human sympathy. You see that child laughing in the full glow of the firelight, -it is drinking in impressions which will last its life out. The little child is formed by love, its character is moulded by love, its future is determined by love

Ah! how skilful grows the hand
That obeyeth Love's command.
It is the heart, and not the brain,
That to the highest doth attain;
And he who followeth Love's behest,
Far exceedeth all the rest.

[PRICE 14d.

Have you seen the child's face by the fire, half concealed in his mother's lap, while, knelt there, he whispered out the faint accents of prayer which she had first taught him, and which he never after forgets? She it was who first told him of God and Heaven, and by her daily example inspired him with love of holiness. And even though the child, when grown up into manhood, has gone astray, and the chain of Love which bound him to the Home has been snapped, the links still drag at his heels, and he is never happy until they are bound together again.

The bright fire is the eye of the home; it bespeaks cheerfulness, peace, cleanliness, comfort. About it the small sweet courtesies of life, in which there is no parade nor affectation, which manifest themselves in kind words and affectionate looks,-cluster naturally and gracefully. The seeds of love are fostered by its genial warmth, and the faces by the fire look bright through affection and lively intercourse. The cheerful fire indicates domesticity, love of home, and humanity. Even though the circle be a small one, there are larger circles beyond; and still it is the centre of a congeries of rays which extend beyond the home, and warm the world without, even to far outer circles. The root is hid in the home, but the branches extend into the glad daylight of society and public life.

Faces by the Fire! how many pictures spring to view at the words; how the poets of England have revelled around the fireside and the home,-the great national temple of our race! Longfellow has written his delicious poems of "The Fireside." You remember his "Fire of Drift-wood:"

We sat and talked until the night,
Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight,

Our voices only broke the gloom.
Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
The flames would leap, and then expire.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
They were, indeed, too much akin!
The drift-wood fire without that burned,-
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
And there are his lines on the "Twilight" by the
Fireside, certainly the most luxurious point of time
which a fireside can present-the time when old recol-

lections are brought forth, and old stories told, and old poetry talked of, and old songs chanted,-music at such a time opening the windows of the soul, and letting heaven peep in. At such a time the feeling of snugness is delicious; perhaps the wind blows without, but all is warmth and comfort within :

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
The storm without might rair and rustle-
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.

"Tam

Or, more temperate than Burns in his O'Shanter," there is our genuine Home Poet, Cowper, who thus introduces one of his finest poems :

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round;
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,-
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Even the Italian poets, whose skies are in a glow, have been inspired by the Home Fire, and felt that human faces looked the brighter by its light. Alfieri makes a commodious fireplace the climax of his wishes with regard to lodging; and old Horace tempts his friends to visit him by the promise of a neat room and a sparkling fire :

Dissolve frigus, ligna super foco

Largè reponens.

Or, as Dryden translates it :

With well-heaped logs dissolve the cold,
And feed the genial hearth with fires.

Then there is this exquisite little cabinet picture, painted by Milton, a master of description, and a true lover of home and home joys:

Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still, removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the bellman's drowsy charm

To bless the doors from nightly harm.

Of course, as there are children about a family fireside, there will be lively prattle, mirth, and laughter, which comes of freedom. In the glad firelight the young heart rejoices; for the time, merriment suffices. Pleasantry in the home is like the flowers which often float around the margin of deep streams, beautifying the solemn waters of life. The heart will be free and will dance nowhere if not in the home. Young nature is ever happy

The young, they laugh: laughs not the sky?
The winds, they laugh as they pass by;
The sun, he laughs, and Nature's face
Beams with a joyous, laughing grace.
Yes, laughing, ever she renews

The verdant fields her morning dews.

"Yes," exclaims Theophilus Trinal, "we will sing, and we will laugh, and rejoice in the lily-work; but we will also be wise of heart' concerning the 'pillars' of the world,-the great truths of conscience, the peril and the worth of free beings, the saving and perfecting love, by which truths alone can our wellbeing, and the well-being of our race, be secured."

Speaking of the prattle of children about the fireside, reminds us of a touching passage in the life of Dr. Kitto, whom an accident in early life deprived of the faculty of hearing, wherein he says, in language of deep pathos, "I never heard the voices of any of my children. The reader, of course, knows this; but the fact, as stated in plain words, is almost shocking. Is there anything on earth so engaging to a parent as to catch the first lispings of his infant's tongue or so interesting as to listen to its dear prattle, and trace its gradual mastery of speech? If there be any one thing, arising out of my condition,

which more than another fills my heart with grief, it is THIS; it is to see their blessed lips in motion, and to hear them not; and to witness others moved to smiles and kisses by the sweet peculiarities of infantile speech which are incommunicable to me, and which pass by me like the idle wind."

Thus, how many of our richest blessings are unthought of until they have been taken away! Even the light of the sun is scarce valued, because it comes to us daily, and we regard it as a thing of course. And the sunshine of the heart is unnoticed and scarce felt until, alas! it has gone down in darkness, and then we awake to a sense of the blessing we have lost. And so with the Faces by the Fire; while we have them beside us, seated in their accustomed places,one by the mother's knee, another on her lap, and perhaps a third in "the old arm-chair," let us prize them dearly, and labour by our cheerfulness, our love, and our virtuous example, to make them fitted for the highest home happiness, and by necessary consequence, enable them to pass through the world usefully and honourably.

THE "RATTLESNAKE'S" SURVEY. WHO would have thought that in these days, when everybody is going, or trying to go, everywhere, that there was any part of the world having a seacoast which had not yet been visited by Englishmen? Yet such is the fact, as appears by two volumes now before us,* which not only in this, but in other particulars, is a more noteworthy book of travels than has appeared for some time past. The glory of discovery is no longer what it was in the days of Cook and the earlier navigators, who came home with such wonderful accounts of new-found countries, and the habits and manners of their inhabitants, as to create an excitement hardly exceeded by that of the great naval victories in the long French war. All this is past, and now what remains is, to fill up the detail, and very heavy work it is, cruising about in all sorts of climates, taking soundings here, and triangulations there; here erecting a beacon, there measuring a shoal or rock; here finding no bottom with 100 fathoms, there creeping through narrow reef channels, or tortuous mud creeks in the boats. But all this, and more, has to be done in order that the world's commerce may be facilitated, that the highways of the ocean may be rendered as safe as possible by marking down all their dangers on accurate maps; and many an officer of Her Majesty's navy has earned fame and promotion by undertaking such service, the results of which appear from time to time in admiralty charts and "surveying voyages."

The Rattlesnake sailed from England in December, 1846, and, after touching at Madeira, Rio Janeiro, the Cape, Mauritius, and Hobarton, arrived at Sydney in July of the following year, from whence several short cruises were made to the north and south. In April, 1848, a second northern cruise was commenced, the object being to complete the survey of parts of the "Inner Passage," as the rocky, and island-studded sea lying between the eastern coast of Australia and the great "Barrier Reef" is named, and terminate with an exploration of Cape York. This promontory lies on one side of the route frequented by ships sailing from Sydney to the islands of the Eastern

* Narrative of the voyage of H. M. S. Rattlesnake, commanded by Captain Owen Stanley, during the years 1846-50; including discoveries and surveys in New Guinea, the Louisiade Archipelago, &c. To which is added the account of Mr. E. B. Kennedy's expedition for the exploration of the Cape York Peninsula. By John Macgillivray, naturalist to the expedition.

Archipelago; and as the Port Essington colony was to be given up on account of its unhealthiness, it became desirable to find some other spot which might serve as a settlement, and a depôt for coals and stores required by steamers and merchantmen generally. And Port Albany, Cape York, is said to combine the requisite capabilities, there being good anchorage, fresh water, and enough of cultivable land to produce more than sufficient of the "few vegetables" deemed necessary by Long Tom Coffin.

This place became the head-quarters of the Rattlesnake during part of her three years' cruise; and, on one occasion, while lying here, a remarkable instance occurred of what seems a providential escape. Some of the ship's company were on shore, shooting, when they saw, coming towards them, an individual whom they took to be a gin, or native woman, presenting the usual uninviting appearance of the aboriginal females. They paid but little attention to her, and were passing on, when, to their surprise, she called out in English, "I am a white woman, why do you leave me?" She was taken off to the ship in the first boat, a deplorable object. Her appearance is thus described by Mr. Macgillivray :-"With the exception of a narrow fringe of leaves in front, she wore no clothing, and her skin was tanned and blistered with the sun, and showed the marks of several large burns which had been received from sleeping too near the fire on cold nights; besides, she was suffering from ophthalmia, which had previously deprived her of the sight of one eye.” As soon as the poor creature could tell her story, she related that, having left Sydney some four years before, with her husband, in a small cutter, of which he was owner, the vessel had been wrecked on a reef near the coast, and the three persons on board, besides herself, drowned. She was afterwards rescued by a party of natives on a turtling excursion, who, when the gale subsided, swam on board, and supported her on shore between two of their number. One of these blacks, Boroto by name, took possession of the woman as his share of the plunder; she was compelled to live with him, but was well treated by all the men, although many of the women, jealous of the attention shown her, for a long time evinced anything but kindness. A curious circumstance secured for her the protection of one of the principal men of the tribe, a party from which had been the fortunate means of rescuing her, and which she afterwards found to be the Kowrarega, chiefly inhabiting Muralug, or the western Prince of Wales Island. This person, named Piaquai, acting upon the belief (universal throughout Australia and the islands of Torres Strait, so far as hitherto known) that white people are the ghosts of the aborigines, fancied that, in the stranger, he recognized a long lost daughter of the name of Giom, and at once admitted her to the relationship which he thought had formerly subsisted between them. She was immediately acknowledged by the whole tribe as one of themselves, thus insuring an extensive connection in relatives of all denominations.

The natives, however, watched her very closely, to prevent escape, and she was often tantalized by the sight of vessels passing along the straits, and had heard of the former visit of the Rattlesnake and her tender. This second time, she had succeeded in persuading the blacks to let her go "to see the white people, and shake hands with them," and had promised to bring them back axes, knives, and tobacco. On these terms they gave her leave of absence; but repenting soon afterwards, a party started in pursuit of her, and had almost come up with her when she was rescued by the boat. Here we quote again from the narrative:-"Upon being

asked by Captain Stanley whether she really preferred remaining with us to accompanying the natives back to their island, as she would be allowed her free choice in the matter, she was so much agitated as to find difficulty in expressing her thankfulness, making use of scraps of English alternately with the Kowrarega language, and then, suddenly awaking to the recollection that she was not understood, the poor creature blushed all over, and, with downcast eyes, beat her forehead with her hand, as if to assist in collecting her scattered thoughts. At length, after a pause, she found words to say, 'Sir, I am a Christian, and would rather go back to my own friends.'"

Barbara Thompson-such was the woman's name -"was eventually handed over to her parents, in Sydney, in excellent condition." Notwithstanding her forced degradation, she had made good use of her powers of observation, and, by her means, Mr. Macgillivray, was enabled to correct and extend his vocabulary of native words, and to gather an amount of information respecting the aborigines, their traditions, habits and customs, not otherwise easily to be obtained. Perhaps in no other part of the world are the women so ill-treated as in Australia: the men forbid them to eat the best kinds of fish or of birds, and condemn them to the inferior; and if a husband quarrels with his wife, he does not consider a spear wound "through the hip or groin," as too severe a punishment; added to which, children are unfrequently buried alive. So repulsive, indeed, do the natives appear in the descriptions given of them, that it is a positive relief and pleasure to turn to the pages which contain particulars respecting what are often called the "inferior animals." Utter perversion of nature would appear to be peculiar to the human being only. Yet there are exceptions. The work under notice gives examples of one or two natives who have manifested an extraordinary spirit of intelligence and good conduct.

not

The system of medicine, as practised by the natives, is curious; we cite an instance or two: "One day,' writes Mr. Macgillivray, "some people from the ship saw our friend Tumagugo under treatment for ague. He was laid upon the ground, while several men, in succession, took his head between their knees and kneaded it with their hands. After this, they placed him close to a fire and sprinkled water over him, until a copious perspiration broke out, denoting the third and last stage of the attack." Another "mode of treating various complaints, consists in attaching one end of a string to the patient, while the other is held in the mouth of a second person, who scarifies his own gums, at the same time, till they bleed, which is supposed to indicate that the 'bad blood' has passed from the sick to the sound person."

The author was one day witness to a native fight of singular character. He had gone on shore, with others of his companions, to shoot, and in passing over the sandy beach, saw two groups of blacks, in considerable excitement, gesticulating, shouting, and forming into line about twenty-five yards apart. "The two parties," he states, "were pretty equally matched-about fifteen men in each. The noise became deafening; shouts of defiance, insulting expressions, and every other kind of abusive epithets were bandied about, and the women and children in the bush kept up a wailing cry all the while, rising and falling in cadence. The pantomimic movements were of various descriptions; besides the singular quivering motion given to the thighs, placed wide apart (common to all the Australian dances), they frequently invited each other to throw at them, turning the body half round and exposing the breech, or dropping on one knee or hand, as if to offer a fair