Lewis called, and I received him in the breakfast
parlour, and answered all the questions
he put to me, "Did Charles James Fox
drink? Could he read and write? Was he
a talkative or a silent sort of a man?" I
answered that Charles James Fox did not
drink; he could not read or write, and that
he was a silent sort of a person. "Burke can
read," said Mr. Lewis, "but he is not much
of a hand at writing; and as for Billy Pitt he
doesn't know a pothook from a hanger." He
then went on to say that he had had great
hopes of taking, or bringing in dead, two out
of the three lately, but that such hopes had
been blighted; that he had hired a horse
and cart and had gone up the Paramatta
Road dressed as a farmer, in an old white top-
coat, leather leggings, and a round hat;
that, on the first occasion, he went and
returned unmolested; but that, on the second
occasion, he was stopped by two men armed
with fowling-pieces, near the Iron Cove Creek,
Ashfield; that they demanded his money or
his life; that he said they should have it;
that dropping the reins, and putting his hands
into the hind pockets of the old
topcoat, he discharged, through the pockets, a
brace of loaded pistols, within a yard of each
man's breast, and brought them both down
as dead as hammers; that what with the
five pounds ten shillings ready money that he
paid for the top-coat, the hire of the horse
and cart at one pound a-day, the bother and
trouble of bringing the corpses to Sydney,
and the loss of time, the job did not pay him,
for they had only been at large three weeks,
and the reward for them was a paltry ten
pounds a-head: that he felt quite sure at the
time that they were two of the three he was
angling after; and that he never felt so
disgusted in the whole course of his life as when
he had them looked at, at Hyde Park
Barracks, and found out his mistake. Mr.
Lewis spoke so very feelingly on the subject,
that, horrible as was the theme, I could not
help pitying him, albeit I was constrained to
smile—especially when he remarked quietly
and seriously, "It was a thousand pities
that I shot them, mum; for in six or seven
months from this time they would have been
really worth having."

One beautiful afternoon, in the month of
October, I was on my way to the factory at
Paramatta to select a female (convict)
servant. I had a friend, a Mrs. Stellman,
with me in the phaeton; and on the box was
a groom as well as the coachman. My friend
and myself were chatting away very cozily,
and were approaching Homebush—an estate
some ten or twelve miles from Sydney—
when three voices called out "Stop!" and
presently, from the thick brushwood that
skirted the road, there emerged three men,
one of whom I immediately recognised as
our late servant, Charles James Fox, who,
at the same moment, recognised my features.
The three men were all armed, and Pitt and
Burke had their fowling-pieces levelled at
the men on the box. At first, Fox was
startled, and I fancied I saw the man blush;
but, speedily recovering himself, he hoped I
was quite well, and that the Major and the
children also had their health. Had I been
alone I should certainly have read Mr. Fox
a lecture, and have advised him to throw
down his gun, and to give himself up to me.
But as Mrs. Stellman was a good deal alarmed,
I deemed it prudent to get away from the
trio as quickly as possible. Touching his
straw hat, in the most respectful manner
imaginable, Mr. Fox said, "I didn't know
this turn-out, mum. It is new since I left,
or I should never have thought of stopping
you, mum. Be so good, mum, as to assure
the Major that he has nothing to fear from
me and my companions here." This speech
was very pleasing to my ears; and, with a
slight inclination of my head towards Mr.
Fox, I ordered the coachman to proceed. Fox
had then been a bushranger for upwards of
twelve months. As soon as I arrived at
Paramatta, I reported to Mr. Kherwin, the
chief constable, all that had taken place, and
he at once took horse, accompanied by several
of his myrmidons, and went in pursuit of
Fox, Pitt, and Burke. But, to no purpose.
They had such secure hiding-places in the
various localities they frequented, that they
baffled every effort to discover them. And
they were so cunning in their movements,
that even the aborigines—the blacks—could
not track them down. These strangely-
gifted people—so far as sight is concerned—
discovered several of their dens; but the
birds had always flown. After a while, by
the way, the blacks declined to track
bushrangers; and, if pressed to do so, would put
the police on a wrong scent. The tribes in
the vicinity of Sydney, Paramatta, and the
other infant towns, had been intimidated,
and several of their numbers shot by those
lawless men.

As you appeared to take some interest in
my friend, Mr. Barrington, I may mention
that I met that illustrious personage on that
afternoon at the factory in Paramatta, where
he then held the situation of under-
superintendent of convicts. He seemed very much
amused when I recounted my adventure on
the road, and observed, with his wonted
humour and quaintness: "Well, madam, it
was an act of gallantry and of generosity—
considering how often the Major had caused
him to be flogged—which could scarcely have
been expected at the hands of a plebeian
thief—a contemptible London pickpocket."
Mr. Barrington did not even smile when he
said this; but assumed an air of extreme
seriousness—emphasising the words plebeian
and contemptible with marvellous dexterity,
so as to convey to me that he did not, at that
moment, intend to allude to the eminent and
aristocratic position which he had formerly
held in his profession. Unintentionally, I