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stoop at every door, and in his brusque, noisy way, go up to
Mrs. Tattenhall, and shaking her hand as you would shake
the handle of a pumpy congratulate her on her arrival in tha

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''A lucky hit^ madam, a most hicky, scientifie kifcl Aht
trust Tattenhall fbr kmowing what he is about/'

Mis. Tattenhall stood with a singular expression of wonder
and bewilderment on her countenance, for the condition of
the place, and the condolings of several female neighbors who
had dropped in in Uriah's absence, had induced her to believe
tiiat they had made a fatal move of it.

" Why, sir," said she, " what can you mean, for, as I hear,
ilbe place is utterly ruined, and certainly it looks like it ? "

^* Ruined ! to be sure it is, at least th^ people are, move's
tiie pity for me, and th^ like of me who have lost everything ;
but for Tattenhall who has everything to gain, and money to
win it with, why it is the golden opportunity, the very thing !
If he had watched at all the four comers of the world, and
for a hundred years, he oonid not have dropped into such a
chance. Ah t trust Tattenhall, make me believe he did not
plan it." Thrusting his knuckles into Uriah's side, and
laughing with a thunder-clap of a laugh that seemed to come *
from lungs of leather.

^ Why, look here now," he continued, drawing a chair and
seating himself on its front edge ; ^'look here now, if you had
come six months ago, you could have bought nothing except
out of the fire. Town allotments, land, houses, bread, meat,
sugar, everything ten times the natural price : and, now I
cheap, dog cheap ! of no value at all, you might have them
for asking for; nay, I could go into a dozen deserted shops,
and take any quantity for nothing. And property I wby^
three thousand pounds cash wouM almost buy all the place-^
all the colony.

" What is l^e use," asked Mrs. Tattenhall, '* of buying a
rained colony ? "

"A ruined colony!" said Eobinson, edging himself still
more forwaard in his chair, and seeming actually to sit upon
nothing, his huge figure and large ruddy face appearing still
larger. **The colony, madam, is not ruined; never was
ruined, naver can be ruined. The people are ruined, a good

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lot of ihem ; but the colony is a good and a grand colonj.
God made the colony, and let me tell yon, madam," looking
rery serions, ** Providence is no speculator, up to-day, down
to-morrow. What he does he does. Well, the peofde have
rained themselves ; but it is out of their power to ruin the
4M>lony; no, nor the town. The town and the ccdony aie
sound as a bell, never were sounder^ never had more stuff in
them ; never had so much. There is the land still, not a yard
of it is gone ; no great fellow has put that on his back and
gone off with it The land is there, and the houses, and the
qouerohandise, and the flocks, and herds, and horses; and —
what concerns you — ''

He sate and looked at Mrs. Tatienhall who stood there
intently listening, and Uriah stood just behind her listening
tiDo, and all the children with their mouths open, gajdng on
the strange man.

^ " Well, what-^what concerns ua?/^ said Mrs. TattenhaH
* '^ To get a huge, almighty iieap of something for nothing,"
said the large man, stretching out his arms in a ciicular
shape, as if he would enclose a whole globe, and in a low,
slow, deep tone, calculated to sink deep into ihe ima^nations
€f the listeners.

'* If we did but know when ikings would mend ; " said n^
brother Uriah, for the first time venturing to put in a word.

'^ When ! " said Bobinson, starting up so suddenly Uiat his
head struck against a beam in the low, one-st(M-ied house.
** Confound these low places," said he, turning fiery red^ and
rn}>bing his crown, ** there will be better anon. When ? say
ye ? Hark ye I this colony is — ^how old ? Eight years ! and
im eight years what a town I what wealth I what buildings !
what a power of sheep and cattle ! The place is knocked
down, won't it get up again ? Ay, and quickly I Here are
a pair of sturdy legs," he said, turning to Bob, who flushed
up in surprise ; " but, Mrs. Tattenhall, you did not teach him
to walk without a few tumbles, eh ? But he got up again,
and.ho^^he! what a i)twdy.ya!i|ig.^«>|pa^.i^i§j

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And what made him get up again ? Because" he was young
and strong; and the colony is young and strong, madam;
Eight years old ! What shall I give you for a three thousand
pound purchase made now, three years hence ? Just think
of that;'' said the tall man, ^< just turn that oyer a time or
two," nodding solemnly to my hrother, and then to my sister
in-laW; and then cautiously glancing at tiie menacing heam,
and with a low duck, diving out of the house.

« What a strange fellow I" said Uriah.

" Bnt how true ! " said Mrs. TattenhalL

"How true ! What true ? " asked Uriah, astemshed.

« Why," said Mrs. TattenhaD, " what he says. It is truths
Uriah f we must huy as much as we can."

" But," said Uriah, '^ only the other day he said the clean
<Kmtrary. He said eyeryhody was mined."

" And he says so still," added Mrs. Tattenhall, enthudasti -
cally, •^hut jiot the colony. We must huy ! We nrast huy,'
and waitk One d$!y we shall reap a grand harvest" ^

" Ah ! " said Uriahs " so you let youis^, my dear Maria,
he thus easily persuaded, because Bobinson wants to sell, and
thinks we haye money ? " •

"Is it not comnion sense, however? Is it not the plainest
aoise ? " asked Mrs. TattenhalL " Do you think this colony
is never to recover ? "

" Never is a long while," said Uriah. " But stOl — '^

" Well, we will think it over, and see how the town lies
apd wher« the chief points of it will be, probably, hereafter ;
and if this Mr. Bobinson has any land in such places, I would
buy of him, because he has given us the first idea of it;"

They thought and looked, and the end of it was, that veiy
soon they had bought up land and houses, chiefly from Robin-<
son, to the amount of two thousand pounds. Bobinson fain
would not have sold, but have mortgaged ; and that fact was
liie most eOnviocing proof that he was sincere in his expecia-
faxms of a revival. Time went on. Things wwe more and
more hon^leas*. Uriah, who had nothing else to do, set on

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ftnd cultiyated a -garden. He had plenty of garden gronnA,
and hk boys helped him, and enjoyed it vastly. As t^
summer went on, and melons grew ripe, and there were
plenty of green peas and vegetables, by the addition of meat,
whieh was now only one penny a-poond, they conld live
almost for nothing ; and Uriah thought tiiey eould wait and
maintain themselTes for years, if neoessaiy. So from time to
time, one tale of urgent staring distress or another Inred him
on to take fresh bargains, till he saw hhnself almost penny-
less. Things still remained as dead as the very stonee w the
stumps around them. My brother Uriah began to ^1 rexy
melanchdy ; and Mrs. Tattenhall, who had so strongly advised
the wholesale purchase of property, looked rery aerious.
Uriah often thought: ^^Ahl she would do it; bat — ^Bless
her ! I will never say so, for she did it for tiie best" Bet
his boys and girls were growing i^paoe, and made him Hiink.
^' Bless me 1 In a few years they will be shooting up int«
men and women ; and if this speeoktion should turn <mt att
moonshine I — ^if the place should never revive ! "

He sate one day on the stump of a tree on a high ground,
looking over the bay. His mind was in the most gloomy,
dejected condition. Everything looked dark and hopeless.
No evidence of returning life around ; no iiMnng in the eon-
mercial world ; and his good money gone ; as he sat thus, his
eyes fixed on the distance, his mind sunk in the lowering
present, a man came up, and asked him to take his land off
his hands : to take it, for Heaven's sake, and save his starv*
ing iamily.

^ Man ! " said Uriah, with a £eu» and a voice so savage that
it made the suppliant start even in his miseiy, ^ I have no
money! I want no land! I have too much land. Yo«
shall have it all for as much as will oany me back to Engtandy
and set me down a beggar there I ''

The man shook his head. ^If I had a single Cfown I
would not ask you : but my wife is down of the fever, and my
children are dying of dysentery. What Aall I do ? and my
lots are the very best in the place.''

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^ I tell yon ! " said my brother Uriah, with a fierce growl^
and an angry flash of the eye, '^ I have no money, and how
can I bay?"

He glanced at the man in fury; but a &ce so full of
patient suffering and of sickness — sickness of the heart, of
the soul, and, as it were, of £unine, met his gaze, that he
stopped short, felt a pang of remorse far his anger, and, point*
ing to a number of bullocks grazing in the Talky bek>w, he
Mid^ in a softened tone, *' Look there ! The other day a man
told me such a tale of horror — a sick £unily, and a Jail star-*
ing him in t^e face, that I gave him my last money — my
carefully hoarded money, and of what use are i^se cattle
to me ? None whatever. You may have them for your land,
if you like. I have nothing else."

^ I will have them," said the man. ^ On a distant atalioft
I know where I could sell them, if I could only leave my
fiunily. But they have no flour, no tea, nothing but meat^
taieat, meat"

^ Leave them to me," said Uriah, feeling the wann blood
and the spirit of humanity beginning to circulate in hia
bosom at tlie sense of what was really suffering around him.
^ Leave them to me. I will care fi>r them. Your wife and
children shall have a doctor. I will And you some provisions
for your journey, and if ever your land is wordi anything, you
shall have it again. This state of things makes monsters of
us. It turns our blood into gall, our hearts into stones^ We
must resist it or we are ruined, indeed I "

^ Nay," said the man, '^ I won't impose upon you. Take
that piece of land in ihe valley there; it will one day be

"That!" Aid Uriah, looking. "That! Why, that is a
swamp! I will take that — ^I s^iall not hurt you th^re!"
And he laughed outright, the first time for two years.

Years went on, and my brother Uriah lived on, but as it
were in the valley of the shadow of death. It was a melan-
choly and dispiriting time* The buoyancy of his soul was

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gone. That jovia], sinmy, ebuUient spirit with which he used
to oome home from the city, in England, had fled, as a thing
that had never been. He maintained himself chiefly out of
his garden. His children were springing up into long, lankj
lads and lasses. He educated them himself as well as he
could ; and as £ar dothes 1 Not a navry — not a beggar — in
the 8<a:eets of London, but could have stood a comparison with
them, to their infinite disparagement* Ah ! those good three
thousand pounds ! How will the balance stand in m j brother
Uriab's books at the end ci Ibe next twentj years.

But anon these awoke a slight motion in the atmosphere of
Hfe. It was a mere flutter of the air, that died out again.
Then again it rerived — ^it strengthened — ^it blew like a breath
of life over the whole landscape. Uriah looked around bin)
from the TOiy place where he had sat on the stump in despair.
It was bright and sunny. He heard a sound of an axe and ft
bammer. He looked, and saw a house, Ibat had stood a mere
skeleton, once more in progress. There were people passing
to and fro with a more active air. What is that ? A cart of
goods? A dray of building materials. There was life and
motion again i The discovery of converting sheep and oxen
into tallow had raised the value of stock. The shops and the
merchants were once more in action. The man to whom he
had sold tbe oxen came up smiling —

'< Things mend, sir. We shall soon be all right. And thai
piece of land in the swamp, that you were so merry over, will
you sell it? It lies near the wharves, and is wanted ht

<< Bravo!'' cried Uriah, and they descended the hill
together. Part of the land was sold ; and soon substantial
warehouses, of th^ native trapstone, were rising upon it
Uriah's old attachment to a merchant's life, came over him.
With the purchase-money he built a warehouse toa Labor
was extremely low, and he built a large and commodious one.

Another year or two, and behold Uriah busy in his ware*
house ; his two boys clerking it gravely in the counting-house^

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miiiigs grew rapidly better. Uriah and hiB &mily were once
more handsomely clad, handsomely housed, and Uriah's jolly
humor was again in the ascendant. Every now and then
Robinson came hmrrying in, a very busy man indeed he was
now, in the town council, and moreover, mayor ; and saying,
« Wen, Mrs. Tattenhall, didn't I say it, eh ? Is not this boy
of a colony on a fine sturdy pair of legs again ? Not down ?■
Kot dead ? Well, well, Tattenhall did me a kindness, then-^
by ready cash fi)r my land — ^I don't fSi^get it ; but 1 don't know
how I am to make him amends, unless I come and dine with
him some day.'^ And he was off again.

Another year or. two, and that wonderful crisis, the gold
discovery, came. Then, what a sensation — ^what a stir — ^what
a revolution I what running, and buying and bidding for landji
for prime business situations I — ^what rolling in of people — .
capital — ^goods. Heaven and earth ! — ^what a scene-^what a
place — what a people.

Ten years to a day from the last balance at the Old Jewry^
XTriah Tattenhall balanced ^ain, and his three thousand
pounds was grown to seventy thousand pounds, and was still
rolling up and on like a snow balL

There were George and Bob grown into really tall and
handsome fdlows. G^rge was an able merchant. Bob had
got a station out at ihe Dundenough-hills, and told wonderful
stories of riding after kangaroos, and wild bulls, and shooting
splendid lyre-birds — ^all of which came of reading Pringle's
Life in South Africa. There were Macy and Luqy, two
handsome girls as any in ihe colony, and wonderfrdly attract^
ire to a young Benson and a younger Eobinson. Wonders
were tiio next year to briiig forth, and amongst them was
to be a grand pic-nio at BoVs station, at the Dundenong, in
whidi they were to live out in real tents in the forest, and
cook, and bi^e, and brew, and tiie ladies were to join in a
bull hunt, and shoot with revolvers, and nobody was to .be
lnut, or throwui' or any thing to happen^ but all sorts of
toeniment and. wildrwood life.

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And really my brother's villa on the Yarra Biyer ie a jerf
fine place. The house is an Italian yill% built of real »UaSf
ample, with large, airy rooms, a broad verandah, and all in the
pnrest taste. It stands on a high bank above the valley, iu
which the Yarra winds, taking a sweep there, its eouse
marked by a dense body of aoaoia trees. In the 8|Mnng these
trees are of resplendent gold, loading the air with their per*
fhme. Kow they were thick and daik in dieir foliage, casting
their shade on the river deep between its banks. From the
house the view presented t^is deep valley witli this curring
track of trees, and beyond slopes divided into little hxnm,
with their little homesteads upon them, where Uriah had a
number of tenants making their fortimee on some iiuiij oc
forty acres each, by hay at forty pounds a ton, and potatoes
and onions at <Hie shilling a pound, and all other produce in

On this side of the river you saw extensive gardena in the
hollow blooming with roses and many tropical flowers, and
along the hill sides on either hand vineyards and froit ordiardi
of the most vigorous vegetation, and loaded with yonmg Ihiit
The party assembled at my brother Uriah's honae on that
hospitable Christmas day, descended amid a native shnibheiy,
and Uriah thrust a walking-stick to its veiy handle into the
rich black soil, and when his friends expressed their snipriM^
he told them that the soil there was fourteen feet deqp, aad
would grow any quantity of produce for ages withovt manur-
ing. Indeed, they passed through green oom of the most
luxuriant character, and^ crossing Ae bridge of a brook which
there fell into the river, they found themaelves under the
acacias ; by tiie river side there lay huge proetzate tninks of
ancient gum trees, ^e patriarchs of the forest^ which had
fidlen and given plaoe to the aoaeia, and now reminded the
spectators that they w^re still in the land of primitive woods.

<<Why, Tattenhall,'' said Bobinaon to my Im^hMr Uisah^
^ Trumpington Cottage, my dear foDow, wonld eui a poor
figure after this. I'd ask any lord or gt«tie»an to akow lae a

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fertiler or more desirable place in the tight little islaiiiL
Bigger houses there may be, and are, but not to my mind
more desirable. Do you know, very large houses always seem
to me a sort of asylums for supernumerary servants — ^the
m^viter can only occupy a corner there — ^he cuts out quite
small in the bulk. And as to fertility, this beats Battersea
Fields and Fulham hollow. Those market-gardeners might
plant and plant to all eternity, always taking out and never
putting in, and if they could grow peaches, apricots, grapes,
figs, twice a year, imd all that as fine in the open air as. they
do in hot-houses, and sell their bunches of parsley at six-pence
a piece, and water-melons — gathered from any gravel heap or
dry open field — at five shillings a piece, plentiful as pumpkins,
wouldn't they astonish themselves !

''But what makes you call this place Bowstead?" con-
&ued Kobinson, breaking off a small wattle»bough to whisk
the flies from his hce, ''Orr has named his Abbotsford —
thaf s because he's a Scotchman ; and weVe got Cremome (Jar-
dens, and Bichmond, and Hawthorne, and all sorts of English
names about here ; — ^but Bowstead ! I can't make it out"

"You can't?" said Uriah, smiling; "don't you see that
the river curves in a bow here, and stead is a place ? "

"01 thafs it," said Eobinson ; "I fiuicied it was to
lemind you of Bow Bells."

"There you have it," said Bob, laughing. "Bow Bells I
hot as there was a bow and no bells, my father put a stead to
it, that's instead of the bells, you know."

"Bless me!" said Robinson: "now I should never have
thought of that — ^how very clever ! "

And he took the joke in such perfect simplicity, that all
burst into a simultaneous laugh ; for every one else knew that
it was so called in honor of Maria Bowstead, now the univer-
sally respected Mrs. Tattenhall.

The whole party were very merry, for they had good cause
to be. Mr. and Mrs. Tattenhall, still in their prime, spread
out, enlarged every way, in body and estate, rosy, handsomely

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dressed, saw around them nothing but {prosperity. A pandise
of their own, in which they saw their children already de-
veloped into that manly and feminine beauty so conspicuoos
in our kindred of the south ; their children already taking
root in the land and twining th^ic branches amongst thoee of
other opulent :&milies, they felt the full truth of Kobinson's
rude salutation, as he exclaimed, on coming to a fresh £»id
more striking view of the house and grounds, —

"Ah I Tattenhall, Tattenhall!" giving him one of bii
jocose pokes in the side, "didn't I say you knew very well
what you were about when you came here, eh ? Mrs. Tatten-
hall, ma'am ? Who said it ? Eobinson, wasn't it, eh ? "

When they returned to the house, and had taken tea in a
large tent on the lawn, and the young people had played »
.lively game of romps or bo-peep amongst the bushes of the
shrubbery, with much laughter, the great drawing room was
iighted up, and very soon there was heard the sounds of
violins and dancing feet Jkiy brother Uriah and his wi£»
were at that moment sitting under the verandah, enjoying the
fresh evening air, the soent of tropical trees and flowers which
stole silently through the twilight, and the clear, deep blue, of
the sky, where the magnificent constellations of Orion and the
.Scorpion w^re growing momentarily into their fiill nocturnal
splendor. As the music broke out my brother Uriah affee-
:tionfltely pressed the hfmd of his wife, faithful and wise and
encouraging through the times of their d'€iculty and depres-
sion, and saying " Thank God for all this ! '' the pressure wa«
'.as affectionajtejy and gratefully returned. Then my brother
and his wife rose up, and "passed into the hl<ae of Ugb.^ which
aurroUnded the gay and youthful company within

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Shb was a pretfy, gentle girl — a farmer's oiphan daughteri
and the landlord's niece — wh<Hn I strongly snqpected of being
engaged to be married very shortly^ to the writer of the letter
that I saw her reading at least twenty times, when I passed
the bar, and which I more than believe I saw her kiss one
night. She told me a tale of that country which went so
pleasantly to the mnsio. of her voieey that I ought rather to
say it tamed itself into verse, liian was turned into verse by

A littie past the vfllage

The inn stood, low and white,
Green shady trees behind it, '

And an orchard on the right,
Where over the green paling - '

The red-dieelced apples hung;
As if to watch how wearily

The sign-board creaked and swung.

The heavy-hidened branches

Over the road hung low,
Beflecting frnit or Uossoni

In the wayside well below;
Where children, drawing water,

Looked up and paused to see,
Amid the apple branches, '

A purple Judas Tree.

The road streteh'd winding onwahl

For many a weary mile—
So dasty fbotsore wanderers

Would pause and rest awhile;'
And panthig horses halted.

And travellers loved to tefl
The quiet of the wayside inn.

The ordiard, and the well.

Here Maurice dwelt; and often
The sunburnt boy would staud

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Gazing npon the disiance,
And shading with his hand

His eyes, while watching vainly
For travellers, who might neod

His aid tx> loose th« bridle,
And tend the weary steed*

And once (the boy remembered

That morning many a day—
The dew lay on the hawthorn,

The bird sang on the spnty)
A train of horsemen, nobler

Than he had seen before,
Up ftt>m the distance gallopped,

And paused before the door.

Upon a milk-^white pony,

Fit for a foery qneen,
Was the loveliest little damsel

His eyes bad ever seen ;
A servant-man was holding

The leading rein, to guide
The pony and its mistress.

Who oantered by his vide.

Her snnny ringlets rovuniber

A golden doud bad made,
While her large bat was keepSug

Her calm blue eyes in shade:
One hand heM firm the silken nkm

To keep her steed in check,
The other pulled his tangled mane.

Or stroked his ^oisy neck.

And as the boy brought water.

And kMMed the rein, be heard
The sweetest voice, that thanked Ite

In one low, gentle word;
She turned her blue ejres flxrni htei

Looked up, and smiled to see
The hanging purple blossoms

Upon the Judas Tree.

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And ihowM It with a g«sti]r«,

Half pteadifig, half command,
TIU he broke the Atireet bloeeom,

And laid H in her hand ;
And ahe tied it to her saddle,

With a ribbon from hor h«dr,
While her happy laugh rang gftily,

Like sUrer on the air.

But the ehavnping eteede were retted—

The horsemen now spnrr'd on^
And down the dusty highway

They vanished and were gone.
Years pass'd, and many a traveller

Paused at the old hin-door,
Bat the little milk-white pony

And the chUd retom'd no more*

Years passed, the apple brmehes

A deeper shadow shed ;
And many a time the Judas Tree,

Blossom and leaf lay dead ;
When on the loitering western breeie

Came the bells' merry sound,
And flowery arches rose, and iags

And banners waved around.

And Ifanriee stood expectant.

The bridal train would stay
Some moments at the inn door.

The eager watchers si^ ;
They come — the doud of dust draws near-

MM all the state and pride.
He only tees the golden hair

And blue eyes of the bride.

Thesame^ y«t, ahl sWI ftdrer.

He knew the ihce once more
That bent above the pony's neck

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