Evening in the wild dreamland of the bush is described with unusual power and impressiveness; its weird character and overpowering vastness are brought vividly before the reader's mind. Night brings slumber to the wearied traveller, who turns to rest surrounded by "gemlike eyes of ambushed wild things" staring from hole and brake. The sequel is soon told, and the pioneer, transfixed with many spears, is left alone.

"With Night and Silence in the sobbing rains.

"There he lies and sleeps From year to year in soft Australian nights And through the furnaced noons, and in the

times

With moon-like splendors in the gardenplots,

They looked for him at home. From sun to

sun

They waited. Season after season went, And Memory wept upon the lonely moors, And Hope grew voiceless, and the watchers passed,

Like shadows, one by one away."

In this poem Kendall touches the highest point which his measure of poetic force admitted. Small spheres hold small fires, and Kendall's genius was not that of an impetuous torrent sweeping majestically along, though, like Burns, he too sang amid "rustic life and poverty." He was doubtless incapable of any very sustained effort. His muse was never long upon the wing: short swallow-flights of song" were his, but the song came from the heart of the singer! One is reminded of Béranger's lines to one cast adrift on this sphere, weakly forlorn and indigent, whose task here below was to sing for the throng:

"Une plainte touchante

De ma bouche sortit;
Le bon Dieu me dit: Chante,
Chante, pauvre petit !"

A Government appointment of considerable value, as Inspector of State Forests, came too late to restore a constitution undermined by irregularities and bitter conflicts with poverty; and after holding it scarcely a year, the first native-born singer, with any considerable claim to the poet's bays, died in August 1882.

Among prose writers Marcus Clarke, leads the field. His novel "For the Term of his Natural Life," reprinted by Bentley in his "Standard" series, gave its author a permanent position in the ranks of men of letters. Much of his best work appeared in the pages of the Australasian, the "weekly" of the Melbourne Argus. Some of his best stories, reprinted from these journals, will live-at any rate in Australian literature; though there is, besides, a good deal of purely ephemeral interest which must inevitably be soon forgotten. is, however, of great moment to the colonies, apart from the merit of his writings, that some one should have arisen to soar above the dead level of dull mediocrity, and fan into fresh flame the torch of literary art.

It

Born at Kensington in 1847-the son of a barrister-Marcus Clarke arrived in Victoria at the age of seventeen, and after some attempts at following the career of a bank clerk, passed two or three years on an up-country station in the Wimmera district. Later he held an appointment at the Public Library and Museum at Melbourne, until his death at the early age of thirty-four. Station-life furnished him with that close contact with the materials of some of his subjects, and those opportunities of painting direct from Nature invaluable to the literary artist, though reflection must always play as great a part as observation, and the power of generalizing be at least equal to that of the observation of minute facts.

It has been said that no one has yet succeeded in describing the Australian bush-that vast interminable sea of unchanging gum-trees and illimitable distances. In Kendall's verse and certain passages of Marcus Clarke we come nearer to that achievement than in the writings of any others.

In another department of literature the works of Dr. Hearn claim a niche to themselves, as by far the greatest achievement in philosophic writing which the colonies have produced, and they are of such a character as would alone suffice to rescue their place of birth from total effacement in the world of letters." The Aryan Household is a permanent contribution to literature." The Government of England and "Plutology' are works of which the colony of Victoria is justly proud.

"

After twenty years in Australia, Mr. J. Brunton Stephens is, perhaps not unfairly, seeing that his works have been produced under the Southern Cross, claimed as an Australian poet. The first place there among living men of letters he indisputably holds. A graduate of Edinburgh University, on his arrival in Queensland he became tutor in the family of a squatter in that semitropical portion of Australia, and thus acquired familiarity with the scenes and scenery reproduced with so much power in his verse.

His fine poem, "Convict Once," filling an octavo volume, is far and away the most sustained effort the colonies

have yet seen. It is written in hexam

eters. Scholarly, well-conceived, unflagging in interest, and perfect in execution, it has not, however, caught the popular ear; as was perhaps to be expected. It does not touch the multitude

neither the theme nor the manner. To more refined ears it also labors under the disadvantage of a most repulsive title. The poem is full of life and color, and that vivid presentment which marks the possession of no ordinary share of the divine afflatus, and alone suffices to carry the reader through a work of such length.

A tale of love and passion and darkest treachery, its pages are lighted throughout with the intense palpitating light of a glowing Australian sun. There are passages which seem flooded with the fervid heat and tropical life of Northern Queensland:

"Linger, O Sun! for a little, nor close yet this day of a million!

Is there not glory enough in the rosecurtained halls of the West?

Hast thou no joy in the passion-hued folds of thy kingly pavilion ?

Why shouldst thou only pass through it?
Oh, rest thee a little while-rest !

Why should the Night come and take it, the
wan Night that cannot enjoy it,
Bringing pale argent for golden, and
changing vermilion to gray?
Why should the Night come and shadow it,
entering but to destroy it?

Rest 'mid thy ruby-trailed splendors!
Oh, stay thee a little while-stay!"'

The beauty of an Australian summer night, where the intensity of the moonlight is estimated at one-half that of sunlight, has never before been mirrored in such luminous verse as the following:

"Peace-speaking night of the South! will thine influence last through my sleeping, Dream with my dreaming, awake with my waking, and blend with the morn? Or shall I start as of old, and my pillow be wet with my weeping,

Victim alternate of self-accusation and impious scorn?"

Those who have struggled through the furnaced noons of a fiery Queensland summer will best appreciate the suggestive beauty of the following passage: "Die then, sad memories, leaving behind you no token nor relic!

Hark how the tremulous night-wind is passing in joy-laden sighs!

Soft through my windows it comes, like the fanning of pinions angelic,

Whispering to cease from myself, and look out on the infinite skies.

"Out on the orb-studded night, and the crescent effulgence of Dian;

Out on the far-gleaming star-dust that marks where the angels have trod ; Out on the gem-pointed cross, and the glit tering pomp of Orion,

Flaming in measureless azure, the coronal jewels of God."

Brunton Stephens has published a volume of minor performances in the style of Bret Harte, but the greater portion of them are only adapted for home consumption. Most of the allusions or illustrations are purely local, and if transplanted, like translations from one language to another, the bouquet is lost. A few of them, however, take an altogether higher standpoint: "The Story of a Soul," Mute Discourse," and "Spirit and Star" are the most remarkable.

64

A favorite theme with Mr. Brunton Stephens has been the dominion of the Australian colonies. That dream has

Brave hearts have clung, while lips of

scorn

Made mock of thee as but a dream-
Already on the heights of morn

We see thy golden sandals gleam, And, glimmering through the clouds that wrap thee yet,

The seven stars that are thy coronet." Long before "federation" was in the air-to use a popular expression-as far back as 1877, Mr. Brunton Stephens wrote the poem we give below, which has a peculiar significance at this time:

THE DOMINION OF AUSTRALIA.
"She is not yet; but he whose ear
Thrills to that finer atmosphere

Where footfalls of appointed things,
Reverberant of days to be,
Are heard in forecast echoings,

Like wave-beats from a viewless sea, Hears in the voiceful tremors of the sky Auroral heralds whispering, 'She is nigh.'

"She is not yet; but he whose sight Foreknows the advent of the light,

Whose soul to morning radiance turns Ere night her curtain hath withdrawn,

And in its quivering folds discerns The mute munitions of the dawn, With urgent sense strained onward to descry Her distant tokens, starts to find Her nigh.

"So flows beneath our good and ill
A viewless stream of Common Will,
A gathering force, a present might,
That from its silent depths of gloom
At Wisdom's voice shall leap to light,
And hide our barren feuds in bloom,

"Oh, fair Ideal, unto whom Through days of doubt and nights of gloom,

grown,

Our bounds shall be the girdling seas alone.” -Contemporary Review.

MASANIELLO was born at Amalfi in the year 1622. His father was a fisherman, and the child first saw the light among the nets and baskets of a little hut on the sea-coast. His birth was attended by an augury. It is said that

an ancient monk, whose glittering eyes and snowy beard had gained for him, among the village folk, the reputation of a prophet, once visited the cottage, and having looked long upon the child as it lay asleep in its poor cradle, broke

forth into a prediction that the boy would some day rise to more than kingly power, but that his empire would be brief and his fall sudden. The seer who uttered such a prophecy deserved his fame. The story of Masaniello-the most romantic story in the history of mankind-fulfilled the oracle; with what exactness, and by what events, we propose to call to mind.

The boy was brought up to his father's trade. When he was about his twentieth year he left Amalfi and crossed the bay to Naples. There he took a garret in a house which overhung a corner of the great market square; married a girl no richer than himself; and thenceforward every morning, as soon as the sun rose up behind the black peaks of Vesuvius, his boat was to be seen dancing over the blue waters of the bay.

The life of a fisherman is hard and poor. Masaniello went barefooted. His dress was the common dress of the fishermen of Naples, loose linen trousers, a blue blouse, and a red cap. But his figure, though not tall, was striking; his face was handsome; his eyes black, large, and glittering; and there was about him a peculiar air of selfreliance, the index of a bold, capable, and fiery mind.

For about four years he lived quietly; in poverty, yet not perhaps in discontent. But the Spanish Viceroys who ruled Naples, and who had long waxed fat upon the taxes, were yearly sucking deeper of the people's blood. A tax was set on fish, a tax on flour, a tax on poultry, wine, milk, cheese, salt. At last a tax on fruit, the fare on which the lower classes chiefly lived, brought the city to the brink of a revolt. Yet it is probable that, even then, without a leader, the popular excitement would have died away in empty threats and mutterings. At this crisis, the agents of the Government happened to fall foul of Masaniello. A basket of his fish which had not paid the tax was seized and carried to the castle. The same day his wife was stopped as she was carrying in her apron a small quantity of flour, was dragged to the receipt of custom, and being found to have no money, either to pay the duty or to bribe the agents, was locked up in a cell.

They had better have hanged a hundred lazzaroni on the gibbet in the market-place. Masaniello was stung to madness. From that moment his sole thought was of revenge.

The most tremendous weapon known to man was ready to his hand-a city on the verge of riot. His measures were soon taken. In appearance they were harmless, even trifling; but in truth they were most dexterously planned. He began by collecting in the marketplace a knot of boys. To each of these he taught a phrase of words, and gave a little cane, bearing on the top a streamer of black linen, like a flag. Soon five hundred, and at last two thousand, of these volunteers, were going up and down the city. In the hovels of the lazzaroni, among the stalls of the fruitsellers, before the gates of the tollhouses, under the windows of the Spanish nobles, everywhere their slender ensigns fluttered, and the pregnant words were heard: "God be with us, and Our Lady, and the King of Spain! But down with the Government, the fruittax, and the devil!"

Masaniello's scholars made a vast sensation. A few of the spectators mocked and jeered; but the seed was scattered in no stony soil. It sprang up and flourished; and in three days it was ready to bear fruit.

It was Sunday, July 7th, in the year 1647. The day was the festival of Our Lady of the Carmes, a day which had for centuries been held in celebration of an ancient victory achieved against the Moors. It was the custom on that day to erect in the market-place a wooden castle, which was defended by a company of boys, while another company, halfnaked and painted red, with turbans on their heads, in imitation of the Moors, assailed its battlements with a storm of apples, melons, cucumbers, and figs. This spectacle, which usually ended in a free fight and uproar, was, as might have been expected, excessively popular among the lower classes; and that morning, at the hour at which the fruit-growers from the villages began, as usual, to pour into the city, the square was already thronged with thousands of spec

tators.

The performance had not yet begun ; the crowd was waiting, idle and unem

ployed, ready to welcome any manner of excitement; when suddenly a startling cry was heard. One of the fruitsellers had refused to pay the tax !

The man was Arpaja of Pozzuoli, Masaniello's cousin. The plot had been arranged between them. On being called upon to pay the duty, Arpaja flew into a rage. "God gives us plenty," he exclaimed in a loud voice, and our cursed Government a famine. The fruit is not worth selling; let it go !" And with the words he kicked over his baskets, and sent the gourds and oranges rolling on the ground.

At that instant, as the crowd stood breathless in excitement, a voice sent forth a cry of "No more taxes!" The voice was Masaniello's. The crowd caught up the words; they swelled into a thunder. In an instant the rebellion was afoot.

Andrea Anaclerio, the elect of the people, rushed out of his palace, and threatened Arpaja with the whip. But a storm of sticks and melons flew about his ears; a large stone struck him on the breast; and he was glad to fly for refuge into the chapel of Our Lady.

Masaniello sprang upon a fruiterer's table. The crowd already recognized their leader. He began to speak; and he spoke with a certain rude and fiery oratory which moved his hearers more than eloquence. He bade them rejoice, for the hour of their deliverance was at hand. St. Peter, once a fisherman, had beaten down the pride of Satan and released the world from bondage; so likewise would he, Masaniello, another fisherman, strike off the bonds of the most faithful people. Let them pay no more taxes; let them win back with fire and sword the ancient Privilege of Naples, the right of freedom from all taxes which the Spaniards had infringed. His own life might fall; his head might ride aloft upon a pole. But to die in such a cause would be his glory.

There is no rhetoric which thrills its hearers like that which gives the echo to their passions. The crowd broke into a fierce shout, and turned with exultation to the work of ravage. The first object was the toll-house in the square. Fagots drenched with pitch were hurled in at the windows; a lighted torch was added; and the building in a few min

utes was a pile of raging flames. Then there was a cry for arms. A ponderous beam was brought and wielded by strong men, the gates of the Carmine Tower were beaten in, and the crowd rushed eagerly upon the pikes and halberds. Clubs, knives, and bars of iron were pressed into the service; and the mob, thus armed, preceded by the banner-boys of Masaniello, turned in their wild justice toward the palace of the Viceroy.

Their way lay past the prison of St. James. They halted there to burst the doors and to add the prisoners to their number.

At length they reached the palace. The guards who stood at arms before the gates were swept away. The Viceroy, Ponce de Leon, Duke of Arcos, and those about him, strove to secure themselves behind the inner doors. But the barricades were broken in. The Duke was hunted like a thief from room to room, and forced at last, at the peril of his life, to drop from a back window by a rope, and to fly in a close carriage to the castle of St. Elmo.

ings,

Then the palace was sacked from floor to roof. A great fire was kindled in the street. Rare and costly furniture, hangpictures, jewels, golden dishes, goblets stamped with the proud arms of Ponce de Leon, were hurled out of the windows, and piled into the flames. Yet in all this, and throughout the whole revolt, there was no private theft. These riches were held as things accursed, as treasures purchased by the people's blood, and worthy only to be sacrificed in the hour of their revenge.

And now the people, drunk with the giddy wine of vengeance, required no further rousing. The time had come for discipline, for order, and restraint; and Masaniello turned with all his vigor to the work. Then was seen the power of a commanding mind. In a marvellously short space of time, the mob became an army. Parties, each led by its own captain, and missioned to its separate duty, began to go forth through the city; searching the armorers' shops for weapons; tearing down the Spanish standard from the Carmine Tower, and planting in its place the ancient flag of Naples; marching through the streets, with trumpets singing and drums rolling,