returning to his followers, he called them
off, bidding them not remove an atom from
the premises. Upon the information of the
man who had fired the gun, according to
his own statement, Jacky Jacky and his
friends were soon afterwards taken in the
Bush.  Many crimes having been laid to their
charge, they were condemned to death;  but
by the earnest representations of the lady,
who remembered gratefully the considerate
distinction he had made in practice between
burglary and murder, the sentence was
commuted to transportation for life to Norfolk
Island. But he was not born to die in his
bed.  He headed, as I before said, the
conspiracy of July, 1846.

Obnoxious constables were to be destroyed
and the island to be seized.  One morning,
immediately after inspection, as the various
gangs were being marched to their work,
the revolt was opened by a simultaneous
rush, and convicts scattered themselves over
the settlement in search of their victims;—
certain constables who lived in detached
cottages near the beach. Those who had been
on duty the preceding night, were in one
cottage barbarously murdered in their sleep.
The soldiery, after much exertion, got the
greater number of the convicts back within
the gaol; but some were scattered still
among the hills, and three or four had seized
a boat upon the beach, and made their escape
to Philip Island.  Philip Island is a lonely
rock, lying about six miles from the settlement,
inhabited by goats and rabbits, by the
sea-birds, and by a peculiar kind of green
parrot.  It is a place occasionally visited
by officers of the convict garrison, for a
day's shooting.  On Philip Island, these three
or four men were able for a long time to
elude the vigilance of those sent in pursuit;
at length, however, all but one were taken, or
had thought it prudent to surrender.  For
eighteen months that one man, hunted by his
fellows, lived on in his desolation, and escaped
from every one of the many searching parties
sent out to capture him;  who were to be
heard shouting about the rock from time
to time—the only human voices that
disturbed his solitude.  At length his lair was
discovered.  The desperate man then climbed
swiftly to the highest pinnacle of rock in
the small island.  There he quietly awaited
his pursuers.  With much toil they had
nearly scaled the height on which he stood:
he gave them a wild look of hatred and
defiance, covered his head with his jacket,
and leapt down, rebounding from rock to
rock, and falling a shattered mass into the
sea.  What was his mother doing then in
England?

For this outbreak, seventy convicts were
put on their trial; and of the seventy, thirteen,
including Jacky Jacky, were condemned to
death. They lie together in one grave, upon
unconsecrated ground outside the cemetery,
close to the rocky shore where the waves beat
upon the coral reef. They had been tried by
a commission sent from Sydney. Until then,
all persons charged with capital offences had
been shipped to Sydney for trial; but that
practice was dropped, in order that there
might no longer exist a motive which had
been a strange and frequent source of crime.
The old hardened convicts had amused
themselves by urging the new-comers into
conflict with each other;  and inciting them to
murder their companions, in order that they
—the instigators—might have evidence to
give, and thus get the relief of a voyage to
Sydney in the character of witnesses.

My talk has wandered from the cemetery;
but I must come back to it and read one
tombstone, sacred to the memory of Thomas
Salisbury Wright, who was transported from
Sydney at the age of one hundred and three
for the term of his natural life.  So here he
died, having completed his one hundred and
fifth year. To be sure he was a young man
when he committed the forgery for which he
was transported.  That occurred when he
was only eighty-three years old.

Through a cutting in the ledge of rock
which overhangs the sea, I come now upon
an amphitheatre of hills. These hills are all
richly dressed in a thick clothing of wildshrubs,
flowers, and grapery.  On one side is a mount
covered to the top with the gigantic Norfolk
Island pine;  on another side down goes a
ravine that seems to offer a short cut to the
interior of the earth: a short and a most
pleasant cut; for intricate dark foliage is
lighted up by lemon groves, where, here
and there, the sun is playing on their golden
fruit.  I descend by the path into the ravine.
Foliage shuts me out from the sun;
magnificent creepers (for in nature, as in society,
there are creepers which take rank as the
magnificent)  twist and twirl themselves
about my path.  The birds that perch upon
them glitter like their flowers:  lories,
parrots, parroquets, beautiful wood-pigeons.
But the forest is dark, and I ascend again,
and get among such quaint aspects of
vegetative life as are made by clusters of
large fern trees, rising with a lean—some to
this quarter and some to that—trees sadly
wanting in uprightness of character, but
carrying their crests fifteen or twenty feet above
the ground. These look like grass among the
Norfolk Island pines,  which pile one dark
feather-crown upon another—crown above
crown, to a height of some two hundred feet
above the soil.

From the summit of Mount Pitt, which
I have now reached, I have Norfolk Island
in complete subjection to one of my senses.
I can see it all.  Rock, forest, valley, cornfields,
islets, sunshine on sea, sunshine on
birds, no sun in gloomy glades, rays, darting
into darkness, and revealing parasites and
creepers exquisitely coloured, and the bright
green fans of the palmetto rising out of a
froth of white convolvulus; guava and lemon,