Officer," said Defarge, getting down, and taking
him gravely apart, "these are the papers of
monsieur inside, with the white head. They were
consigned to me, with him, at the——" He
dropped his voice, there was a flutter among
the military lanterns, and one of them being
handed into the coach by an arm in uniform,
the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an
every day or an every night look, at monsieur
with the white head. "It is well. Forward!"
from the uniform. "Adieu!" from Defarge.
And so, under a short grove of feebler and
feebler overswinging lamps, out under the great
grove of stars.

Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal
lights: some, so remote from this little earth
that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether
their rays have even yet discovered it, as a point
in space where anything is suffered or done:
the shadows of the night were broad and black.
All through the cold and restless interval until
dawn, they once more whispered in the ears of
Mr. Jarvis Lorry—sitting opposite the buried
man who had been dug out, and wondering
what subtle powers were for ever lost to him,
and what were capable of restoration—the old
inquiry:

"I hope you care to be recalled to life?"

And the old answer:

"I can't say."

THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BUNGAREE, KING OF THE BLACKS.

I.

THERE are few old Australian colonists to
whom the name of Bungaree is not familiar;
but I conceive it right that the whole world
should know something of this departed
monarch, and of his habits and peculiarities.
Honoured, as I was, by his favour, politely
greeted, as I always was whenever I met his
Majesty in the streets of Sydney, flattered, as I
was, when he invited me occasionally to
accompany him in his boat to "go kedge fiss," I
consider myself as well qualified to become his
biographer as was Mr. Boswell to write the life
of Doctor Johnson, or Lord John Russell that
of Thomas Moore.

King Bungaree and myself were contemporaries;
but there was a vast difference between
our ages. When I first knew him, he was an old
man, over sixty, and I a boy of twelve. It would
be false to say that I cannot account for the
great liking the king always had for me: for, the
truth is, I was in the habit of lending him small
sums of money, bread and meat, and not
unfrequently a glass of rum. Many a time have I,
slyly, visited the larder, and the decanters on
the sideboard, to minister to the wants of the
monarch. I used the word "lend" because
the king never said "give." It was invariably
"len' it half a dump" (7½ d.), "len' it glass o'
grog," "len' it loaf o' bread," "len' it ole
shirt." It is needless, perhaps, to state that,
although in some respects the memory of King
Bungaree was as extraordinary as that of the
late King George the Third, he was utterly
oblivious to the extent of his obligations, so far
as repayment was concerned.

In person, King Bungaree was about five feet
eight inches high, not very stout and not very
thin, except as to his legs, which were mere
spindles. His countenance was benignant to
the last degree, and there was a kind and
humorous sparkle in his eye (especially when it
was lighted up by liquor), which was, to say the
least of it, very cheerful to behold.

King Bungaree's dress consisted of the cocked
hat and full dress-coat of a general officer or
colonel, an old shirt, and—that was all. I
never saw him in pantaloons, or shoes, or
stockings. Once, I remember he wore a worsted
sock on his left foot; but that was in consequence
of having wounded himself by treading
on a broken bottle.

As the king was a person of irregular habits,
he generally slept as well as fished in his clothes,
and his tailor's bill would have been enormous,
even if he had had a tailor; but, as he
"borrowed" his uniform, as well as his money,
bread, and rum, his finances were in no way
embarrassed. Every new governor, from Governor
Macquarie down to Governor Gipps (during
whose administration Bungaree died), supplied
him with an old cocked-hat and full dress-coat;
and almost every colonel commanding a
regiment instantly complied when his Majesty
pronounced these words: "Len' it cock-'at
—len' it coat—len' it ole shirt." Around his
neck was suspended, by a brass chain, a brass
plate. On this plate, which was shaped like a
half moon, were engraven, in large letters, the
words:

"BUNGAREE, KING OF THE BLACKS."

On the plate there was also engraven the arms
of the colony of New South Wales—an emu
and a kangaroo.

In point of intelligence and natural ability,
King Bungaree was far from deficient. He was,
in truth, a clever man; and not only did he
understand all that was said to him in English,
but he spoke the language so as to be completely
understood, except when his articulation
was impaired by the too copious use of ardent
spirits, or other fermented liquors.

His Majesty changed his manners every five
years; or rather, they were changed with
every administration. Bungaree, like many
of the aborigines of New South Wales, was
an amazing mimic. The action, the voice,
the bearing, the attitudes, the walk, of any man,
he could personate with astonishing
minuteness. It mattered not whether it was the
attorney-general stating a case to a jury,
the chief justice sentencing a culprit to be
hanged, a colonel drilling a regiment in the
barrack-square, a Jew bargaining for old
clothes, a drunken sailor resisting the efforts
of the police to quiet him—King Bungaree
could, in mere dumb show, act the scene in
such a way as to give you a perfect idea of it.