that's your particular kind of worship, is it,' he said, 'you make demi-gods of authors. 'No, I don't,' I said; 'I worship nothing human; I have little faith in humanity altogether. I only speak of this as a possibility.'Egad, Misswhat's your name?' Miss Marples,' said Mary. Miss Marples,' continued Mr. Smithson, 'you've the right sort of wisdom to begin life with. Distrust is said to be an ungracious thing, but it saves a great waste of feeling. Now, as you concede that authors are only men, I can come to the point at once with you. An author revelling in fame and wealth is not the sort of man to feel for destitution, though he can afford to say a deal about it in his books. A poor devil of an author, who can scarcely live himself from day to day, will be much more likely to sympathise and share his crust with you. James Graham, a writer of considerable power and a very voluminous writer, was little known, as his name seldom transpired. No one could gain any glory by helping him—another great drawback in this world, where people like to have their good deeds known. Besides, there are hundreds, and the few that will help cannot do much. Well, the fact is, a great many amongst us are born to a life of suffering, and we must fight through it as well as we can.'

Doubtless, in the last sentence, there is a world of truth. A great many amongst us are born to suffering. But, leaving the general for the particular illustration here set forth, we cannot help questioning whether our author has had much experience of the character and the conduct of the class here held up to contempt-when then, indeed, all this is little more than surmise. Now, our own impression is that, in the first place, such cases as that of James Graham are not to be counted by "hundreds "—not by ters-not even by units-that powerful and voluminous writers are seldom or ever condemned to see their wives and little ones starving before their eyes. The starving author, driven by want and suffering to Bedlam, is a fiction of the past. We do not believe that if we were to advertise to-morrow for such a case as is here said to be one of hundreds, we should be able to find one. In the next place, if there were such cases to be found, we would undertake, on the other hand, to find many authors, not, perhaps, revelling in wealth and fame, for very few are so blessed-but enjoying, as the result of their literary efforts, a decent competence, who would consider it the highest possible privilege to be suffered to administer to the wants of such a family as that of the Grahams. A powerful and voluminous writer of good character is seldom or ever in these straits. Powerful writers are not so plentiful that they cannot find employment, and, if they are industrious at the same time, they are pretty certain to be able to earn a comfortable independence, At all events they are not driven by want and suffering to Bedlam; and their wives and children are not carried off to the poor-law bastille. If such things have happened, the case has been an exceptional one. We know more of authors and authorship we suspect than the gifted writer of "Margaret;" and we assert in all sincerity that Mr. Smithson does not here enunciate the truth.

It is in the unvarying picture of the selfishness and heartlessness of the upper and middle classes that the untruthfulness of "Margaret" is to be found. If a few lights were thrown in here and there the picture would be more pleasant and more true.

It may be said that there are lights, and truly; but they are

thrown in the wrong places. They only increase the darkness of the portraiture of the rich. We had almost thought, indeed, at one time that the author was about to show that the depravity of the rich is confined to our own country, and that in others, as for instance, in France, a better state of things prevails. But Margaret's experiences in France do not differ much from her experiences in England. All the virtue and all the unselfishness of the nation are to be found among the Poor. The illustrations of French Society seem to be intended to show that there is less prejudice, less frigidity, less exclusiveness, less hauteur, among French aristocrats than among our own; but just as we are beginning to be charmed with the geniality of Margaret's new friends, we find that with all the pleasantness of their manners and their general attractiveness in externals, they are rotten to the very core. With the inherent tendency to put extreme cases, which is the besetting error of the present writer, a case of conjugal infidelity of the worst kind is represented resulting in the savage murder of the injured wife, a case, worse, indeed, than that which a few years ago obtained such melancholy celebrity throughout Europe, inasmuch as the paramour of the murderer is little more than a child, and one, too, affianced to an honourable, noble-hearted man; so that there is a too-sided wickedness about it which did not appear in the real-life tragedy, which, doubtless, was in the writer's mind. But then, as a set-off to this again, we have some charming little pictures illustrative of the homely virtues of the poorer classes in France-their kindness, their honesty, their fidelity-the general good feeling which flourishes amongst them. We should not have written thus gravely and reproachfully, if we had not entertained a very high opinion of the work before us, -not only as a promise, but as a performance. The promise, indeed, is of the highest order; the performance is faulty, but admirable. There is more good in the world than the author of "Margaret" is willing to admit. It was well said, the other day, by a pleasant and thoughtful writer, in that pleasant, thoughtful, periodical, the Household Words, that if a man does his best in life, whatever may be his misfortunes, he will find more people disposed to hold him up, than to knock him down. This we entirely believe. We trust that the author of "Margaret" will, ere long, believe it too.

"This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried 'Stand' to a true man." SHAKSPERE.

"TAKE my advice, dear Frank, and loiter as little as possible at Sydney; for you will spend there in a week as much money as would keep you in the Bush for six months, and would suffice to set you up in a moderate sheep-farm.

"Leave your heavy baggage with Messrs. Smith and Co., who will forward it with my annual stores to Norambla, and get to us as quickly, and as little encumbered, as you can.

"Lodge in the Bank such funds as you may possess over and above the sum requisite for your journey, and keep a bright look out on the road and at the taverns where you stop, for Black Bob, they say, is on the Mountain again, and a greenhorn, such as you, will be fair game not only for bush-rangers, but for others in this country who plunder passengers less roughly perhaps, but not less surely."

Such were the concluding sentences of a letter which I found awaiting me on my arrival at the capital of New South Wales. Let me now succinctly state the circumstances which carried me to that Colony.

Having in early boyhood lost both my parents, and, in my twenty-third year, an uncle, my last remaining relative resident in England-who had adopted and educated me-my mind recurred with a feeling of relief to a proposal I had received, some time previously, from a distant cousin and contemporary of my late father to join him in Australia, in case Fortune should frown on me at home, and, in that country, either to follow in one of the towns the profession I had studied-namely, Medicine-or to try a squatting adventure in the pastoral districts. My mind was soon made up. A letter was dispatched to Mr. Fellowes (for thus I shall designate my Australian cousin), announcing at once the demise of my kind uncle, and my determination to emigrate without delay to New South Wales. My preparations were simple enough; for I had no property to dispose of, no relatives to take leave of, no sweetheart to break my heart about or to weaken my resolve: neither had duns or bailiffs any terrors for one, who, if poor, had always been provident. Fifty pounds paid my debts, another fifty furnished a moderate outfit, a third a passage in a packet ship, and, with bills for 20001. in my strong box, and a good stock of health in my frame, I felt that I was about to commute my home with worldly prospects by no means contemptible.

It was precisely six months after the date of my letter of notice to Mr. Fellowes that I made good my landing at Sydney, and found there his epistle above mentioned. Having endured sixteen weeks

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of marine imprisonment on board the good ship "John Dobbs," I will not deny that to have both stretched and steadied my legs for a short space in the Australian metropolis would have suited my tastes exceedingly well; nor, indeed, was there wanting a hospitable invitation to that effect from the mercantile firm to which I had been recommended by my relative.

At this period the colony had well nigh attained the heyday of its prosperity. Its progress had been beyond example rapid, and considerable fortunes had been accumulated by almost every one possessing ordinary energy and capacity, with moderate capital for a foundation. Some persons, indeed, predicted that wild speculation and unrestricted credit might and ought to find a precipice, sooner or later, in their path; but "go ahead" was the watchword of the day, and there would be time enough to "hold hard" when the brink was in sight!

The Sydney streets were filled with dashing equipages. Riding parties and pic-nics, and dinners and dances, were daily occurrences. The shops and warehouses groaned with costly goods and expensive luxuries. The wharves were crowded with shipping.

While meditating on these evidences of the wealth of Sydney, youthful self-reliance suggested that here must be a favourable opening for me-whether as a medico or a man about town, and a mode of life, besides, much more amusing and agreeable than vegetating with the gum-trees in the Bush!

This was precisely the reflection which had ruined many an incipient immigrant before. With a strong effort, therefore, I threw it to the winds at once, and after three or four days of active preparation for my trip into the interior, I made a decisive start for Norambla, my cousin's remote homestead.

My plan of travel was to take the mail, a rough sort of car, as far as Bathurst, a town about 120 miles from Sydney, directly inland, carrying with me a portmanteau and saddle bags, and, having there purchased a horse, to deposit the former article, and to ride the rest of the long journey with the lightest possible luggage.

I have no desire to dwell upon the journey further than to say that two armed policemen accompanied the mail cart on this occasion, to guard against robbery in general, and more particularly against the possible attempts of the notorious Black Bob, who, some days previously, had made his appearance on the Blue Mountain Road, and had committed divers acts of spoliation, the last of which, on account of the obstinate resistance of his victim, had been accompanied with atrocious violence. No one appeared to know whether this dreaded delinquent was an Aboriginal Australian or a negro convict at large; but, as one of this latter class had not long before escaped from Van Diemen's Land, the black bravo of the Blue Mountains was generally believed to be identical with the African runaway.

We reached Bathurst, however, without accident of any kind more serious than that produced upon our osseous systems by the

jolting of our incommodious vehicle; and here, having published my want of a horse, the pick of fifty was given me by a neighbouring breeder for five pounds. This was cheap enough to all appearance-but not so in fact; for the beast selected, though it had been" handled" and "backed," and was "quiet as a lamb," belied its character so flatly before I got clear of the town, that I sold my new acquisition on the spot for thirty shillings, and purchased in its stead, for twenty pounds, a regular-going old "stock-horse," which, starting from the inn-door at a canter, would have kept it up for a week, if required, or even permitted, so to do.

The distance from Bathurst to my cousin's head-station may have been about one hundred miles, to perform which it took me four days-whereof one was wasted by losing my way in the Bush, and being compelled, therefore, to bivouac under the green gumtree. On this evening my old horse had been for some hours in a most obstinate humour; nor did it, until too late, occur to me that whilst my reason had been guiding me in the wrong course, the instinct of the quadruped had taught him the right one, and thus many previous hours had been spent, as precious hours often are, in a combat of opinion worse than useless. The comparative share of comfort by me enjoyed on this particular night was due, it must be owned, to my charger's better intelligence. The shades of evening were fast closing in; the forest around me seemed no less interminable than featureless; nor had I been able for some time to trace the faintest indication of a road. A truly cockney feeling of helplessness weighed upon my spirit, when I reflected that I knew no more than a child, and a child reared within the sound of Bow bells, how to "camp" for the night; nor had I ever made a fire, in or out of a grate, in the whole course of my life.

Abandoning my reins in despair to the will of my steed, he soon quickened his pace, and, taking a direction widely deviating from mine, in a few minutes his pointed ears drew my attention to a slender volume of smoke curling up among the distant trees. Approaching with caution, I found that no friendly cabin, as I had hoped, was there to receive me. The smoke ascended from a burning log, close to which stood a sloping "break-weather" of bark and branches, such as the blacks erect in their migrations, and beneath it lay a rude bed of rushes and leaves, which seemed to have been tenanted for a night or two, and but just deserted.

"Any port in a storm," and "Go further and fare worse,” were of course the familiar and appropriate proverbs that first suggested themselves to my mind; and the old stock-horse, whose countenance I consulted, having rubbed his head against a tree and given himself a good shake-thereby considering himself groomed and stabled, and having begun, with an air of perfect content, to nibble the grass-thereby announcing the source from which he expected his forage,-I felt that our home for the night was before me. Greenhorn as I had been deservedly styled with regard to Australian, and, indeed, to any rural experiences, I had, nevertheless, sought and profited by good council at Sydney as to the performance of my journey, and was, therefore, so far prepared for rough