thought of myself. Had a good deal of talk
with Isaac about Australian wool, and the
state of agriculture there. A few words
passed as to the rivers. Waits never uttered a
syllable about gold. Tried hard to lead him
into it, without exactly committing myself,
but he sat like a post. I was determined not
to open the subject. He went away early.
Could not sleep all night for thinking of those
stupid Diggings.

May 12th.—Wrote a note to Waits, to say
I should be glad to see him on Sunday to
dinner at my lodgings. I was so restless
about Australia—not that I had the least
thought of going there myself—that I determined
to have a good talk with him about it,
and have done with it. The subject was now
a general topic of conversation, and all I
wanted was to understand the question once
for all.

Intermediate days feverish and seedy.
Dreamt two successive nights of Peckham
being Peru—that is to say, "each seemed
either," and that I was walking about the
country all day in yellow spectacles, with a
screw wrench in my hand, and the philosopher's
stone in my pocket. Quite ashamed of
myself when I awoke, though singularly
happy and exhilarated while dreaming.
Wondered what had come to me. Afraid I
had caught a fever from the grating of an
open sewer nearly in front of our principal
window—épergne and candelabra
department.

Sunday, May 16th.—A capital brill. Waits
very silent, eating immensely. Fish slice
never out of my hand till the bones lay bare.
Same with the lamb and mint. Little or no
conversation. A roast duck was a fool before
him; and if ever a merchant's clerk punished
a marrow pudding, Isaac Waits was the clerk
to do it that day. Table cleared, and the
first glass of wine inverted. Waits pushed
the decanter into the middle of the table, and
began to talk in a careless, drawling, steady-
going way, and all about the gold diggings in
Australia. What a field did he open before
me!

"Mr. William Dixon," said he, in a rather
formal, but impressive tone, "you are nearly
out of your time—you are over one-and-twenty
—and you don't expect to come into a
fortune. Your aunt does the handsome thing
by you, as far as the old lady can, you tell me
—but she can't leave you very much. In
short, you are not born with a silver spoon in
your mouth—you must polish 'em up for the
use of others—an't it true? You can't expect
to set up for yourself, because yours is a
business that needs a goodish capital. To be
sure, silver articles an't worth much—"

"What do you mean!" said I.

"Silver articles an't worth much," repeated
he, imperturbably, "by comparison with
gold. I don't wish to undervalue silver, it is a
nice clean wholesome thing to eat out of; but
for brilliant beauty, what claim has your most
polished dish-cover by the side of a fine steel
sword blade, or a new bowie knife; and, for
utility, what chance has it beside a good iron
pick?"

"What sort of pick do you refer to?"
said I.

"The whole family," said he, "in all its
varieties, except that of the toothpick. Pick,
pickaxe, mattock, hammer-pick, and so forth
—all iron, of course. Whether in the form of a
pick, a sword, a spade, a steam-engine, or a
screw-wrench, iron is the metal which makes
a country great; it turns fallow lands into
fruit, and takes possession of foreign countries
with all their jewels and gold. As for silver
—but I don't wish to wound your feelings.
You see, William (here Waits filled himself a
bumper of port), you see, William, ours is a
great old country, where everything has gone
on in a regular way for centuries. A new
field and a fair field, my boy—a field flowing
with milk and honey, and oil and wine, and
overloaded with cattle, and wool, and copper,
and gold-dust, and nuggets from an ounce to
a pound and a half in weight—that's the field
for fellows of spirit and enterprise, like us, Bill;
and now's the time exactly for going there!"

As he said this, Isaac slapped me on one
shoulder with his great, hard, bony hand, and
filled himself another bumper of port. I
joined him in this, and though I had never
before fancied myself such a very enterprising
spirit, the words of my old schoolfellow, with
his confident air and beaming face—and he,
too, so habitually grave and indifferent a card
—did certainly produce a strong effect upon
me. I felt booked.

"Now, old chap," said Isaac, laying one
hand upon my arm in a kind way, very unlike
his usual dry manner, "now, don't let me
persuade you to do anything you don't fancy,
and can't see your way in clearly, and believe
to be for your own good. I wouldn't persuade
you by any manner of means. I only say, if I
did not believe in the thing, I would stay where
I am. But I do believe in it, and I shall go by
as early a ship as possible. You know I give
up seventy-five pounds a year now, with the
certainty of my salary being raised to a
hundred and fifty next year. Yet I go; and
I would go, if Mr. James Roundareme offered
me two hundred a year—ay, or even three
hundred a year—even four hundred a year;
ay, or even if old Abraham Roundareme himself
called me aside, and offered me a pinch of
black rappee out of his great tortoiseshell
box, and promised to make me a junior
partner when I had been ten years more
in the office. I wouldn't do it. No, nor if
he said five years. No; I wouldn't. I'm for
the Diggings."

We sat silently for some time after this,
taking wine thoughtfully—at least, I know
I was very thoughtful, and had a strange
feeling come over me, and cracked a nut now
and then, and dipped it in the salt, and looked
at it.