The precocity of the Australian youth, to be properly understood and believed, can only be fully appreciated by being an eye-witness to some of these very extraordinary young creatures. I have seen a girl of ten years of age possess all the manner of an old lady of sixty: she would flirt with three men at a time, and have a ready answer for them when teasing her; would move like an accomplished actress, manipulate gracefully, play whist, chess, and other games, and talk about getting married. This child, for such I must call her, was a greater mental giant than O'Brien, with his moving mountain of flesh, and far more entertaining than twenty Tom Thumbs.—Shaw's Tramp to the Diggings.
THE DAY OF REST.
Rest, rest! it is the Day of Rest—there needs no book to tell
The truth that every thoughtful eye, each heart can read so well;
Rest, rest! it is the Sabbath morn, a quiet fills the air,
Whose whispered voice of peace repeats that rest is everywhere.
O weary heart! O heart of wo! raise up thy toil-worn brow;
The fields, the trees, the very breeze—they all are resting now:
The air is still, there is no sound, save that unceasing hum,
That insect song of summer-time that from the woods doth come.
And even that seems fainter now, like voices far away,
As though they only sang of rest, and laboured not to-day;
The hum of bees seems softer, too, from out the clear blue heaven,
As if the lowliest creatures knew this day for rest was given.
The spacious tracts of meadow-land, of bean-fields, and of wheat,
And all the glebe, are undisturbed by sound of Labour's feet;
The cotter in his Sunday garb, with peace within his breast,
Roams idly by the garden-side, and feels himself at rest.
The streams, the trees, the woods, the breeze, the bird, and roving bee,
Seem all to breathe a softer sound, a holier melody;
Yon little church, too, tells of rest, to all the summer air,
For the bell long since has ceased to peal that called to praise and prayer.