than simple good nature and hospitality. The people
as a whole are sincerely possessed by guiding ideals of kindness and
justice. The means by which they endeavour to bring about realisation
of their ideals are, I believe, fundamentally wrong and mistaken in a
number of cases. Their 'ruling' class is naturally new to the task of
ruling, recruited as it is from trade union ranks. But they truly
desire, as a people, that every person in their midst should be given
a fair, sporting chance in life. 'A fair thing!' In three words one
has the national ideal, and who shall say that it is not an admirable
one, remembering that its foundation and mainspring are kindness, and
if not justice, then desire for justice?

'All this is very worthy, no doubt, but deadly dull. Does it not make
for desperate attenuation on the artistic and intellectual side?
Beautifully level and even, I dare say; like a paving stone, and about
as interesting.'

Thus, my old friend Heron in a recent letter. The dear fellow would
smile if I told him he was a member of England's privileged classes.
But it is true, of course. Well, Australia has no privileged classes--and
no submerged class. I admit that the highest artistic and
intellectual levels of the New World are greatly lower than the
highest artistic and intellectual levels of the Old World. But what of
the average level, speaking of the populace as a whole? How infinitely
higher are Australia's lowest levels than the depths, the ultimate pit
in Merry England!

I am an uneasy, restless creature, mentally and bodily. I have not
quite finished as yet the task, deliberation upon which, when it is
completed, is to bring me rest and self-understanding. Vague hungers
by the way are incidents of no more permanent importance than one's
periodical colds in the head. To complain of intellectual barrenness
in any given environment must surely be to confess intellectual
barrenness in the complainant. I am well placed here in my bush
hermitage. And, in short, _Je suis, je reste!_

IX

It is just thirteen days since I sat down before these papers, pen in
hand; thirteen days since I wrote a word. A few months ago I suppose
such delay would have worried me a good deal. To-day, for some reason,
the fact seems quite unimportant, and does not distress me in the
least. Have I then advanced so far towards self-comprehension as to
have attained content of mind? Or is this merely the mental lethargy
which follow