length, after emerging from a pretty thick
shrub, they were gratified by the sight of
numerous fires in a hollow about a mile off. On a
dark night the fires of a camp of black fellows
have an imposing effect. Each family have a
number of small fire-sticks placed around them.
When nearly extinguished, they can fan these
up in a moment. I have often seen nothing
but tiny sparks here and there, and in less than
a minute have seen a mile of blazing lights.

The party tied their fasting horses up, and
gave them a few bunches of herbage. They
themselves took cold meat and "damper;"
they could make no tea, as a fire would be
discovered by the enemy.

Half an hour before dawn every man was on
his horse, and moving towards the silent camp.
Two went round by the right, and two by the
left, the rest went straight onward. Very
quickly they advanced, and halted for a space,
the blacks giving no sign; but at length, the
day having now broken, the dogs of the
savages began to bark, the blacks bounded to
their feet, and found themselves confronted by
foes in three directions. With a loud "whoop!"
avengers were among them, shooting them
down from the distance of a yard. One squatter
saw a huge fellow with a map of Queensland
(it had belonged to poor Miska) hanging down
from his shoulders like an apron. He shot
him through "Port Denison," which covered
the region of the heart. The savages, seeing
there was little chance of escape, whirled
their weapons in grim silence. They never
think of submitting by word or question,
any more than they expect that the "wallabies,"
on which they feed, will submit to
them in the chase. Boomerangs, waddies,
spears, flew thickly, but with little effect. A
savage, seeing a rider about to cover him
with a revolver, rushed forward, and dodged
on either side of the horse's head in so
surprisingly active a manner, that the rider, who
was almost disabled in the left arm, could not
fire without danger to the horse. Another
squatter, seeing this, rushed forward to decide
the affair, when the black suddenly sprang to
the horse's tail, and dodged about there, in like
manner. It was not without great trouble that
he was killed. Another squatter, having pushed
a savage hard, the savage suddenly wheeled round
and sent a waddy against his enemy's head
with such violence as to knock him off his
horse. In a moment the tomahawk was raised
above the prostrate man; but, with the speed of
lightning, the double-trigger "Tranter" was
raised too, and with a guttural "owgh!" the
savage fell dead.

Meanwhile the gins and the piccaninnies were
flying about, shouting their shrill "e—e—e's,"
and "ow—ow—ow's," but it was over in a
few minutes, and then the avengers began to
reckon up their work. Eighteen blacks lay
dead, and one piccaninny. Fierce gleams flashed
from the white men's eyes when they came upon
the dead child.

"Who killed this boy?" exclaimed one.

Of course no one had killed him, and, in fact,
no one had meant to kill him. The boy
had perished by a stray shot in the mêlée.
Very few hurts had been received by the whites.
On examining the blacks' camp, almost all of poor
Miska's property was found; among other
things, his cheque-book, but all the money he
had had about him was gone. The piccaninnies
were taken prisoners by the squatters, and
shared among them: certainly a fate for the
better in respect of the boys.

From one of these—some months afterwards,
when he could speak a little English—I received
a mimetic description of Miska's death. The
blacks of Queensland generally are perfect
mimics. He described Miska walking along with
his erect, military bearing; then a sudden stop,
and a peering look into the neighbouring scrub,
as though he had heard a noise, or seen
something suspicious. Then he described the walk
renewed, another stop, and a rather frightened
look around; then, the sudden consciousness of
being "circumvented" by the blacks, who now
begin to appear from among the trees; then,
the quick but bewildered turn to fly; then, a
whir-r-r-r-r-r, and a boomerang strikes him on
the temple; he reels, puts up his hand to wipe
off the blinding blood, and sinks slowly to the
ground. Then, the rush of the savages (silent
as Fate) towards him. He struggles to his
feet, and joins his two hands together. Then,
came the halt of the wretches about ten
yards from him; then, the poising of the spear,
the hurtling of the missile through the air,
the death-cry of my poor friend as it grided
through his frame; his falling back, and the
protruding spear supporting him for an instant;
his rolling half round, and tearing up the grass;
then, the blow on the head with a nullah-nullah.
All this was shown to me with appalling effect,
and, I have no doubt, with perfect accuracy.

THIS AND THAT.

THOUGH often receiving the histrionic
invitation to "look on this picture and on that,"
from the stage, from journals, public orators,
and others, I have seldom had an opportunity
of contrasting the two generic portraits in
so favourable a manner as lately. "This"
which I went to "look on," was lying in a fair-
sized harbour, close to a leading Irish port.
Why should I affect mysteriousness in the
business, and not say Kingstown? "That"
was in the leading Irish port itself. Again, why
mystery, and not say boldly Dublin?

At Kingstown, lay one of the finest ships of
our passenger navy now afloat. She was fresh
from the builder, lying there with a vast and
solemn dignity, a dark serviceable rudeness,
with a plain air of simplicity and work, now
the correct tone for our ocean-going vessels.
She had upon her a dreamy air of power; a
sense that she could move herself with little
exertion—a look conveyed mainly by the easy
motion of the screw, the perfection of graceful