sidering the heat we would rather ride.' This latter remark seemed so good a joke to our informant, that he laughed outright. 'Would we prefer a carriage and pair, a buggy,'or a wheelbarrow?' The joke became apparent to us also now, and we awoke to the fact that the last named conveyance was of all others the most likely to begot. On this we ' smiled a sort of sickly smile' as Bret Harte says, and contented ourselves with picturing the township of Broadsound in our mind's eye, and a pleasant picture we made ot it, after the port. We were not altogether surprised to hear that fever and ague prevailed there largely. So we hung about till lunch time, and then dozed resignedly on the saloon cushions. Shortly we became conscious of some thing wrong about the ship, everything seemed lop-sided.—table, seats, flooring, everything but the lamps and swing trays —there was such a general absence of equilibrium below that we we at on deck. One glance revealed it all, the tide was out and we were aground—the river had dwindled into a narrow stream, and we lay over on our beam ends many feet below the river's banks. All around was mud. thick slimy black mud, with a few rushes cropoing up here and there that only saw cUylight at low water. Yet by some skilful process of fixing, the opera tion of discharging was still going on, as though the vessel remained flush with the shore. By the return of the tide the requisite quantity of cargo was landed, and we were at liberty to depart. We did so, right glad to say ' Good bye 'to such an inhospitable region. Two more days pleasant cruising among the islands, during which we experienced a real tropical thunderstorm, and then we sight the light of Flat-top Island, where we anchor for the night before entering the Mackay river. An hour after weigh ing anchor next morning, brings us in view of the town of Mackay, the unpre tentious appearance of which presents an unfavourable contrast with that of the approach co Rockhampton. Nor are we more impressed on landing. There is no solidity about the place. The houses are mostly of wood, one story, and void of anything approaching external ornamen tation, indeed a coat of paint would not have been amisn in many cases. It is difficult to realise the fact that we are in the business part of so wealthy a district —there is nothing to show for it, so far. The inhabitants look rough enough, and appear an easy-going lot of people. We are invited to enter a hotel—we respond —mutual introductions follow—we acquire some insight into the male portion of Mackay society, and leave with such errors corrected as a deficiency of judg ment had led us into on landing. Like other Queensland towns the hotels are an institution. Business men meet there, smoke there, drink there and trade there. They are alike a rendezvous for planters, squatters, bankers and merchants —a sort of exchange or hall of commerce, where the current topics of the day are in everybody's mouth. The Mackay people are a people who improve on acquaintance, and a few days amongst them subdues any unfavourable opinion you may have formed of their town. You find the gen tleman under the rough exterior, and hospitality under the humble roof. On fine afternoons the town is rendered almost gay by the presence of many fair equestriennes who visit it in parties from neighbouring plantations. By degrees you discover the existence of an excellent theatre and a most creditable amateur dramatic society. Then a large and substantial Oddfellows' Hall attracts your notice, and subsequently a polite invitation makes you aware that a series of private assembly balls takes place during the winter months. Perhaps to anyone making a very limited stay in Mackay, no better opportunity of judging of the society of the place is afforded than by attending one of those little reunions. Select, sociable and recherche in the extreme, they are a reflex jf the homes of the better class of the residents ; while beauty and fashion dazzle the eye, uncon strained self-posession and brilliant con versational powers charm the snses to admiration. Judging from the attendance at one of these assembly balls I should imagine that the line of demarcation between the upper and lower circles was very defined. The planters have their homes mostly on the plantations, and it is here that wealth and comfort are con spicuous. Many of the plantations are but a short distance from town, and consequently easy of access to visitors. The culture of the sugar cane can there be seen to perfection, as also the elaborate machinery which accomplishes the process of manufacture. The operation of sugar making, from the crushing mills to the refinery, is throughout one of great inter est to the uninitiated, and the opportunity of witnessing it should not be lost. The amount of capital involved in it in this district is something enormous, but for tunately the return is proportionate—so I am informed. The necessary labour is found by Polynesians, who are imp rted from the South Sea islands for terms of three years at wages of £6 per annum and their keep, which is trifling, the cost of each Polynesian to the planter amounts on the average to about £75 for the full term of 3 years. The well-to-do planters do not'eonfine their operations solely to the sugar cane. Portions of tbeir estates are allotted to garden and recreation grounds, and in some instances these are laid out in princely style—lawns, terraces, lakes, conservatories, and such like adorn such portions as are not under cultivatwnj

whilst fruit and flower gardens of no mean order add to the general beauty and luxury which predominates. Beyond Port Mackay there are no settled districts of much interest to the traveller. Bowen and Townsville are less pretentious and less important,, but the former fan boast of a really beautiful harbour, where the largest ships can ride at the safest anchor age. Beyond this is Cooktown. 1050 miles from Brisbane, a rapidly rising sea port of some three years growth. This receives its sole business from the gold regions of the Palmer river, about one hundred miles inland. Everything at present is in a very primitive state, but there is the making of a large town in its steady progress and continued influx of emigrants. A very large portion of these latter are Chinese, who migrate from Hong Kong in whole shiploads, and whose countrymen have extensive stores in Cooktown and at the Palmer. But wealth is obtained at great personal risk so far north as this. Not alone is there the dreadful heat of summer, but the prevalence of fever and ague in its worst form, from the ravages of which numbers die daily. Then the natives are very hostile and numerous, frequently attack ing travellers, and spearing indiscrimin ately horses and men. Large vessels trade between here and Sydney, calling at all intervening ports of importance, with an increasing traffic. On embarking for my return to New South Wales it became necessary in accordance with the steamboat company's arrangements to proceed to the island of Flat-top in a small steam tender, then to await the steamer's arrival. The accommodation provided on this island proved to be of the very meanest description, consisting simply of a large-sized shed upon the beach, perfectly destitute of furniture or fittings of any kind. Here the passengers are left for hours or days, (the latter being the time when bad weather prevails). They are supposed to provide their own food, and to cook it, and to find comfortable sleeping quarters on th 3 bare floor. On the top of the hill is a signal station, and at night the man in charge comes down to the shed, lights a lamp therein, and departs, leaving occu pants to shift for themselves as best they may. Perhaps the expected steamer arrives during the night, in which case your misery is short, but failing this your provisions run low, and a foraging expe dition around the island is necessary for such food in the shape of oysters or other fish as may be obtainable. If you are fortunate enough to possess a gun you can indulge in the luxury of a wild pig, of which there are many about. Or the weapon may be useful in the cvont of an attack from hostile natives who sometimes come across from the othpr islands, and have to be dislodged by very summary measures. In any case your night's rest (?) is not improved by an imaginary picture of one of these savages taking stock of you through the exposed vindow. Fortunately, in my case, the steamer arrived during the night, when we ware at once taken aboard. After a short detention we were again under weigh, en route to Sydney, which was reached in about a week, not however without encountering a very severe gale which placed us for a time in considerable danger

The producing capabilities of Queens land are very great. In addition to gold, copper, tin, wood, tallow, timber, sugar, rum, cotton and preserved meats, which are articles of export, there are grown in more or less quantities tea, coffee, hemp, tobacco, arrowroot, tapioca, ginger, liquor ice, indigo, tumeric, vacona, madder, &c, whilst its fruits include bananas, oranges, pineapples, cumquots, plaintains, dates, mangos, olives, guavas, limes, Cape gooseberries, custard apples, tamarinds, Brazillian cherries, and jack fruit. In farm produce is raised wheat, oats, pota toes, maize, yams and sweet potatoes. Land is obtainable under the homestead regulations, whereby selectors are allowed 80 acres agricultural or 160 acres pastoral land at a yearly rental of 9d. per acre for the former, and 6d. for the latter, with personal residence thereon ; after 5 years a title is issued, without further payment, A large quantity of land is allowed in the case of sugar and coffee growers, the regulations compelling the selector to put one tenth under cultivation within 3 years. The total extent of country in Queensland is 434,370,000 acres, or 676,000 square miles.

Sunlight at Last.

Why did this woman live ? ' ad life one charm for her ? Perhaps she asked herself these questions as she sat with her face in her hands and looked out upon the cold, cheerless day. There were no tears in her great black eyes — only such a look of woe and despair, that the world should have been there to see it and to have it painted on their hearts.

' Mother!'

A little wasted form on the wretched bed—a bony hand on the ragged qutlt —a voice whica told of hunger and pain and weary waiting.

She bent over him, and for a moment a mother's love shone in hei eyes, and her wrinkled hand rested on his pale face with such tenderness as only a mother has.

'Lift me up and let me see the

sunshine,' he whispered, trying to put his arms around her neck.

' There is no sunshine,' she whis pered in reply, a sob in her throat. ' Kiss me, mother, and call me when the sunlight comes again,' he said. She knew that he had been dying for a week—sinking slowly and surely in co eternity, but she had no friends to call in—she could only weep over him and pray God that she might soon fol low. With a gasp and a sob she pressed her lips to his forehead, then turned away to struggle with her despair and her great sorrow. The cloudy, cheerless day faded into dusk. She roused herself for a mo ment and peered thiough tbe gloom to see if her boy still slept, and then she whispered with her thoughts again. And such thoughts!

When the darkness covered the bare floor as with a mantle, and when she could no longer see her own poverty, the boy suddenly cried out: ' Mother! mother! The sunlight has come!'

' Not yet, dear Ned—not yet! It is night now,' ' But I see the Bun —it lights all the room—it blazes into my face! he called.

' There is no sun—it is cold and dark!' she sobbed.

' And it grows brighter ! and I hear such sweet music! and I see little ''ommy 1' he whispered, while through the darkness she saw his white face grow radiant. 'You are dreaming!' she sobbed. 'It was such a bright sun! The music is so sweet!' he whiipered, clasping her hand. 'It is dark —it is night!' she gasped, but he did not hear. The sunlight had truly come, but it was the sunlight -the golden rays reflected from the gates of heaven — and not the sunlight of earth. The mysterious curtain hiding the valley of death had lifteo for his spirit to pass ander, and woe had been left behind.

And of her? \sk the shadows of night -ask the river. When they found his little dead body she was not there. They cannot find her. If she is dead God did not judge her harshly. — Detroit Free Press.

Wife-beating in 1580.

In these wife-beating days, when there are so many disputes about the remedy for the evil, it may be of interest, says Notes and Queries, to reprint Thomas Lipton's cure as practiced in the Island of Mauqsun (Nusquam), and reported by Omen (Nemo) in the dialogue between him and Sivquila (^liuqvis) in 1580. This wife-beater is brought before the Judge, who, after reproach ing him, proceeds thus: ' And because thou has followed (Jhristes saying and the King's commandment so wel (which is, Doe as you rooulde be done unto), it is meete to do vnto thee as thou has done. Therefore, I decree and judge here, that as thou haste vsed thy wife, «o shalte thou be vsed, that is, thou shalte by tyed faste to a poste, and foure of the stoutest wyues that dwell next vnto thee, heare hir saying : Is it good beating ?' and are m iste angrye wyth thee for gyving suche euell example to their husbands to vse them so, shal beate thee with foreu good cudgelles, vntill thou be as well beaten as thou haste beaten thy wyfe. Vnd theys shall be done immediately in my presence, for I will not departe hence vntil 1 see this my judgment fully executed.' And then presently there was a poste sette yppe purposely therefore, and the cruell husband was faste tyed thereto, and four of the said stowtest wives came with strong cudgels, by the Rulers commandment, and did beate him lustily, that he cried out again. And one of the wives said to him : ' Sirra, do as you would be done vnto/ and therewith reacht him such a blow that made him to shrinke; another of them saide, 'If strokes be good for your wife they are good for you,' and then she gave him sauch a stroke that she made hys side ake; the thirde woman (not forgetting her turne) spake not so lowe but that one might and then she reached him such a remnant that he had a cause to remember her; and the fourth woman for feare of forgetting, so swinged him about the shoulders that he conned hir little thanke, saying: ' *s you like this, my friend, beate your wife againe.' And when the Ruler saw that he was thoroughly and wel beaten, he caused him to be lewsed from the poste and saide vnto him: 'J\ ow go your wayes home and see that you suffer the rest of oure judgment to be performed vntill you have let rued what is the duty of a

husband andhowe "to behave your selfe, and vse youre wife ; and I^trvste you will remember this lesson ; 5,1)0 as you would be done vnto.'

Robert Buchanan's Latest Poem.

Thb Changeling - A Legend of the MOO.M LIGHT. The Asrai were spirits of the moonlight, without soul or shadow in the sun, created before 'of the earth, and the air, and the dew, And the fire that fuaeth all three to one, Bright wan was fasaioued and lived and grew, And walaed eroct in the shLitng snn.' An Asrai mother, surviving the creation of man, knelt in the moonlight with her soulless shadowless babe upon her breast, and prayed: 0 let him smile as Mortals may, An 4be lifte Mortils fair, And let him tread the wondrous way Of golden earth and air: Let the glory of thy ray Shine on his senses from day to day, Far from these waters wan, Strew flowers and fruits upon his way And make him blest, like Man ! ******* Then ont of the air, There came in answer umo her prayer A mystic Voice ; and it whispered, ' Rise! Steal from the water, and under the skies Find a dead mother, and on her bed A new-born babe that is also dead, Blend thy babe with the mortal clay. And the thing sh*ll be as thou hast prayed— Thy child shall walk in she golden day, ShaU find a soul, and cast a shade 1 The mother obeys and finds the dead wife and child of a shepherd. Blending her babe with the mo"t?' "'*y she sees her child a living human boiug, chat has 'found a soul.' Weary to tell and weary to hear Were the mortal life for many a year Of that changeling caild ; but he grew on earth, Knowing nought of his mystic birth; *nd ever waxed more stroag aud fair, With the glory of daylight on eye 3 and hair. And th-) poor pale Motaer Spirit smiled From far aw*y n her happy child. Thinking ' He thrives, and tha golden hours Fill his cap with their fruit* and flowers, And he feels tbe *ua and he drinks its light, Growing on to a mortal s height' And ever nightly uasaen she came •Vnd kissed his sleep, to her heart's desire. Tho' hie bream met her's with the fevdred flams Of a fatal fire. But there came an hour When the shepherd, who called him son, lay dead And when he was bwi-id the Changeling said— ' I will take my staff and leave the place, V.nd seek new fortunes —God give me grace. That I prosper well I* And away he went, Humming an old tune well-content, Beyond the night and acrißs the day, Over the hilla. and far away; And aU alone!

Yet not alone, F >r step by step, anrt stone by stone, Where'er he rested—fleet a-t wind His Spirit Mother came behind; Creeping to da k.jess all he day, But evrtr in the cold moonray Fin-ting his fo itprint*, kissing them, And whe c h s mortal raiment ham Had bmshe I the warm dew from the grass, Htrewiugpile fljw->rs. Thus did she pass The brazen city gates by night, She saw him enter ; stiU and white, She foUowed.

Weary to tell and hear Were the Changeling's doings for many a year, Bat the Spirit saw, as the yoars grew on, That his cheeks grew wanner, his bright eyes shone Lew happy and bright: for he dwelt, behold I Where men and women were heaping gold And counting gem <, and a yellow gleam Shtdowj 1 ihe ti.ht and darkened the dream Of his gentl* face ; and by lamplight now He read and pondered with p»Uid brow o'er mighty tomes, and dark tome told Of my itic manaers of finding gold. He loved, wa3 disappointed, and 'kept hideons orgies,' and after a time became a warrior. Weary to till and waary to hear Were the Changeling's doing's for many a year ! Weary to tell hew the spirit dim Moaningin misery followed him, For whoe'er she gazed on his features now, On the bearded chin and brutal brow. She shuddered, and ever w iene'nr she crept, Into the tent, Where th* warrior slept, She saw on hh h«id a blool-red stain. *nd sue kissed '.he stain again and again With har m<\d, old lips—but it would not go. One night she walked with a foot of snow Thro, a battle field; and the moon on high Roamed tnrouuh the film of a starry sky, And the breath of the mo >n, lit. hoarfrost shed, Ole^med on the dreadful drifts of dead, And she saw hlno standing ami! it aU, Living -n.l blond'- giistly and tall With a hand n Li moaoi"g horse's mane! And his f*e* w m awful with hate and pain, And his eyes wer* mad- for beneath him lay, Qiivnrlng there in the pale moonray, a wounded foe—while with dexter hand He held atof« a bloody brand To cleave Mm down! „ Before his look One moment th 9 Spirit mothei shook; He could not hear her, he could not see, But she shrieked aloud in her agony I Heglared all round him like one in dread (if a voice from heaven or a ghost from the dead, And he sheathed his sword with a shudder soon, Alone in the Ugh', of the lonely Moon. O Moon! white Moon! We see him next at four-score years of age, the sorrowful and repentant Abbot Paul. He sits in tbe open air reading his scroll and longing for death. ___~ . The air is chill, The hght is low but he readeth still, Mumbling the sacred woi-ds aloud; And eve- his weary neck is bowed At the name of Mary and every saint: While ever fainter and more faint His voice doth grow as he murmureth: ' Holy of Holies, drink mv breath ! For lam sick of the sinful light!' The sun hath sunken out of s'gbt In the cloudy west -ifar aw*y— Chilly it groweth. chilly and gray- But who Is this with step so still Coming yonder beyond the hill ? Over the petks with a silver thread FlaHhiog, then rising overhead. In the open heaven of golden June? O Moon, white Moon. Down the mountain and Into the Mere The pale ray f alleth so silvery clear, And it creepeth silently over aU, Till it shinothfull o > ihe Abb it Paul, \fc fece h) sua so still. O see 1 O see*! P ler, still -r, groweth he; Bui hii eyes still hum with a dyi g gleam • Whil faint, a'ar off. as in a dream, He hears a murmur, he se*s a ;ight. Silently. >Tilly, marble white. Soft and pure as tbe moonray dim, Bmilin< outstretching her arms to him His Spirit Mother upriseth now. ' A light not human n hi? brow, A light not human in his ryes— Fold by fold Hkn a dars disguise, The moitaldres3 is drooping away; Silently, slowly, sinks the clay , His eyes see clear by some mystic spell, And he anoweth the gentle presence well, •O Mother, Mother!' Sho answareth low: • Come from the gleam of golden glow, From the wicked flush of tho fevered strife. B»ttt W Ifoe mystical moonlight ttfe»

Thy heart Is heavy and sense is drear^* Weary with wandering many a yew Come from the sorrows of the sun! [1 My own pale darUng, my little one 1* ' O Mother, Mother I' Her arms so dim Are around his neck, and she kisseth laJS? She smooths his hair with a gentle haffiHH And she sings a song of the moonlight? 1 He listens and listens, but still in a di» *i Lo king afar off his dark eyes gleam * Bayond har. thro- her, at some strand «.? There oo the hilltops beckoning 1 [\ Dead in his chair lies the Abbot Paul But a shape stands by him, stately jmJt.ii And another shape upon her knee ™' Is looking up in her agony ' ■ • mother, mother,' the dark shaps cri« Gazing on her with gentle eyes— ™ ' O mother, mother, I cannot stay— A voice is calling afar away- TTp the shining track of the sun. Past the track of the silver moon Further, higher, my path must run— I have found a soul, and thou hast _tr'i_. And the sonl is a scourge and the sconi£i!*!ffl And It shoots me onward to strive andiiiMll For this is the end of thy heart's deifo^ ffl I test not, stay not, for evermore, O ki.-s me, Mother, before I go.' They kiss each «ther, those shapes of __*J \ They cling in the moonlight, they MsssJL I ' Child my child,' and ' Mother, moth«j>?;''*fi Silently, swiftly, through the air Biseth one like a meteor fair, Itiseth one with a last wUd cry; While one sinks down in a silent sworn, I And whiter, brighter over the sky, ™ § Burneth the light of that night of !__"_■■ I O Moon! sad mooon! sad moon, •&__] I

Brain and Intellect.

lufthe' current number of the % remarks the Pall Mall Gazetted is an interesting paper by _%___* pathologist to the West Riding]!! tie ABylum, on the relatione^ between the weight of the braij,, the extent of the intellectual |ffi| human beings It appears from iavestigation of the writer andj§f leagues that not only persons of | mental capacity, but also \_m oecasionlly possess brains wS considerably heavier than thejiree brains of ordinary save people.^ average weight of the brain, accol to Dr Lawson, is commonly acca) to be 49 ounces in men and mm in women. If we remember WM is placed an ounce higher for either] in Quain's Anatomy. Butthepoijj unimportant as regards the condiaj at which Dr, Lawson has arrive! 1 of the heaviest brains, the wew which has been accurately ascerhyj were those Cuvier, 64 ounces Al crombie, 63 ounces; G-oodirijji onnces; Sir J. Simpson, 54 oiffi Daniel Webster, 53.5 ounces^. Dr. Chalmers, 53 ounces. i$ these six names of more or less; tinction, Dr. Lawson gives the m of the brainß of six lunatics, who] in the West Riding Luuatic M They were 56 ounces in two?fl 58.5 ounces, 59.5 ounces, 60 ounca 61 ounces. JNone of these eqju weight the brains of either Cava bercrombie. But Dr. Lawson serves that perhaps if all the ments of the case were to considered, the heaviest adult I on -ecord might be found to be I a senile dement who died inthe^l Hiding Asylum at the age of sejl His brain was found to weigl ounces. Following tbe generaHj cepted principle that the brim I weight to the extent of an ounj each decennil period, rhis man's It after allowance has been made physiological diminution, may be sumed to have weighed when he in the age of forty no , fewer __ ounces. But in this case, patholoj supplemented physiological f elm and the more rapid atrophy If accompanies senile dementia ni the conclusion that at the time of maturity this man's brain niaji out-weighed that of Cuvier. Siml with regard to the criminal lurni though the average weight of i among a single dozen of thes amined by Dr. Orange, of Brodi is an ounce and a half under the ge ai male average, there is in thatli number two brains which exceed! of Chalmers in weight, and one il outweighs those of Chalmers,'.ft Webster and Sir J. Simpson, | within half an ounce of-beihg eqii that of Gtoodsir. Small-headed jj» may take comfort from these state But assuming equal quality, soj« quantity of brain would, as it is| ral to assume on grounds of ph|s gical analogy, unmistakably telli result. ' .m

'I never get mad at a,fool,' m cutting remark of a man who fancied"1 affronted by another. 'That acpntfl your always being on such amioW*! with yourself,' was the rejoinder. . ;. And now it appears that milk is espi A t all events two cans blew up iai»| man's shop, the other day. Mwtfaj thinks this it owing to the progress of ** and that if it goes on we shall read while of infants blown to atoms;! untimely explosion of maternal foa»; blush from M. J.)

Printed and published by the propletoftS McCullagh Reed;, of St George's Bay, i»J Brett, of Parnell, st their General Steam M Office, Wyndham-E^eet, in the CHy of AW New Zealand:— _, Saturday, Jm~tj 15, W% j

Evening Star Supplement, Jannary IS, JJJZS*