still believed to be squeezable, and were therefore
subjected to the attentions of the vat-press:
a machine whose energies forced out of us every
drop of superfluous water. We were finally
dipped in size, hung up to dry, rolled flat and
smooth, and the—result I speak for myself—
was THIS SHEET OF PAPER.

Bound up with my predecessors in a work to
which we have all willingly lent ourselves, I
now hope, if not for rest, at all events for
consideration: happy at its having so chanced that
the first utterance of the pages I have formed
should be a congratulation to the public on the
removal of an oppressive duty, and a manifest
improvement in an article whose utility can
scarcely be limited.

                          UNREST.

SLEEP visits not these eyes, or draws anear
Coyly and mockingly, like tricksy sprite,
Then, as my eyelids droop, my thoughts grow dim
Beneath her numbing fingers, forth she flits
And leaves me longing.
                                    Oh the summer night
In all her awful stillness! Only those
Resigned to a familiar suffering know
How still she is and awful, note each phase
She undergoes 'twixt twilight and the dawn's
Celestial conflagration, making earth
All glorious as though GOD'S "Fiat Lux"
Were newly spoke to Nature, who obeyed,
While man, false man, unworthy to take part
In the great colloquy, lies steeped and stilled
In slumber's present death.
                                              Then as I lie
And through the open casement watch the moon
That steals along my bed, like luminous ghost,
Peopling my chamber with weird lights and shades
That come and go and shift and fade and change
In silence ere my vision can define
One perfect outline,—lying thus I seize
Some whisper of her mysteries, and all
My being thrills with a great nameless awe,
And trembling come upon me, and I feel
Like one who walking in his sleep awakes
And finds his erring steps have led him on
He knows not whither, and he hardly dares
To breathe or move, lest 'mid the unknown shades
There lurks some fearful secret, which should he
Unwittingly surprise, his doom is sealed.
    Anon the moon drops down and darkness falls,
And one immeasurable blot engrosses all.
    Then through the tree- tops coming from afar
A sound is borne along. Can Night herself
Be taking slumber, that her mighty breast
Emits this audible breathing? Faint and dim,
But regular it comes, with rise and fall
Like Titan pulses: imperceptibly
It swells and swells, and as it nearer draws
My own unresting heart can recognise
The unresting heart of Ocean in the throbs
That fill the dark with motion and a sense
Of an eternal sorrow, and a power
To conquer all except that mighty grief
That gnaws his heart, forbidding it to rest.
    I listen still: my answering heart takes note
Of his advances: now I know he comes
To where the brown rocks thwart him, for his moan
Changes to awful anger, whose slow roar
And backward trailing rush are borne along
O'er inland valleys, whence no voice responds
But those of rippling streams which hurry on
With reckless, desperate love, to lose themselves
In Ocean's hungering breast, who has no love
Nor thanks nor heed for them.
                                                 Thus as I lie,
My brief, pale, little life, my puny pains
Fade into nothingness. To-night I live,
To-night I suffer: millions on the earth
To-night, too, live and suffer. One by one
We drop into our quiet little graves,
And there's an end of life and suffering
For us, we buried millions; while the Sea
We cannot tame nor conquer nor console,
The Sea who in that mighty power and mighty grief
Seems the connecting link 'twixt GOD and man,
Betwixt the finite and the infinite,
Still to the end of time shall speak those woes,
And countless generations still shall hear
And bow the knee and say, "GOD'S will be done!"

         FOOTPRINTS HERE AND THERE.

         AUSTRALIAN MILK, AND WATER.

"I'VE brought your breakfast, ma'am," said
my landlady, as she entered the room with a large
tray full of things, and placed it on a box which
was to serve for a table until we got our luggage
from the ship. "I've fried some chops, and I've
brought you some of my tea and sugar for this
morning; here's a loaf, too. I've no butter,
can't get none in Collingwood; maybe you'll
get some yourself when you goes to Melbourne;
it's three-and-sixpence a pound, I know. You
don't want milk, I s'pose? People here mostly
takes tea without; them as doesn't, drinks goat's.
I doesn't though, for I think they are the most
stinkingest annimals in all creation."

Not liking tea without milk, coarse brown
sugar, bread without butter, or fried mutton
chops, my two little daughters and I quickly
finished our breakfast, and made ourselves ready
to go a marketing: not doubting for a moment
that we should be able to obtain all we
required, watercresses included.

After our long voyage, the idea of a walk in
the country was delightful, so we decided on
going first to the woman who kept goats.

"Them bits of parasoles won't be of any
use this 'ot day," said our landlady, as we were
leaving the cottage. "You'd better take your
humbrellas."

The sun was blazing forth with immense
power, so we followed her advice, but we soon
found that umbrellas were as useless as parasols,
for every now and then a strong wind that
seemed to have passed over a hot furnace, came
clearing all before it—we had to cling together
to keep our footing—while clouds of dust
enveloped us. The sandy ground was hot and
uneven; bare rock, in many places, peeped out;
and gnarled roots of trees stuck out of the
earth, not having sufficient depth of soil to
hide in. There was no grass, no herbage of any
kind; the sight of a green field would have
been inexpressibly refreshing to our bloodshot
eyes. The trees looked old dry and shrivelled,
having scanty foliage on their tops, and huge
leafless limbs sticking forth, with strips of bark
hanging like rags about them, and trunks hollow