Though his skin may be black as a crow.”
“Bacca.”
From the “Lantern,” South Australia, 1889.
“Mount Silver,
“August 8th, 1889.
“Mr. Richard Shaw, Te Renga-renga, Drury, New Zealand.
EAR DICK,—In my letter to the ‘Mater’ I have set forth all those of my experiences, up to date, that I consider of most interest to the gentle female mind, and have omitted certain others of a more painful character. For you, old man, I preserve the honour of participating in the ‘noble indignation’ which at present suffuses the soul of ‘yours regardfully,’—the outcome of my present surroundings of many most un-English institutions. For my pericardiac region is sickened and disgusted with certain ‘goings on’ in this fair colony of the British Crown, and I would fain burst into poetry—after the Whittier style—only that I am well aware that my knowledge of the properties of the hexameter is considerably less than my acquaintance with those of the lactometer.
“But ere I launch into these matters, I will roughly sketch out my doings since I posted my last letter, which I wrote at the pretty, sand-surrounded, and ‘quite too awfully’ tropical little port of Cairns.
“Australian hospitality is proverbial, but I have to withdraw myself as much as possible from the ‘here’s-a-hand-me-trusty-fren’ kind of thing, as I find it means participating in an unlimited number of ‘nips’ of ‘stringy bark,’—a curious combination of fusil oil and turpentine, labelled ‘whisky,’ or of a decoction of new and exceedingly virulent rum, much patronised by the inhabitants of these sugar-cane districts. However, whilst arranging the necessary preliminaries for my journey at this little inland township, I have made several acquaintances. One, a Mr. Feder,—the manager of a German-Lutheran mission station about fifty miles from here,—who, it appears, knew my Uncle Dyesart some few years back, and may prove useful to me in my search after Billy. I have also come across an Inspector of Police, by name John Bigger, who, although I have certainly not returned his advances with much warmth, for I think him a silly old swiper, is everlastingly thrusting his companionship, upon me; and, although he is apparently doing his best to make my stay here agreeable, one can have too much of a good thing, especially when the said good thing suffers rather from ‘furor loquendi,’ in other words, is a confounded old bore.