ndstone and slate, and the
great streams of volcanic bluestone which had poured from various
points towards the deep glen in which the river flowed. Here, he would
tell us, was formerly a lofty cascade, and a lake above it, but the
river had worn through the sandstone bar, drained the lake, leaving
nothing of the waterfall but two lofty cliffs, and a rapid. There again
had come down a lava-stream from Mirngish, which, cooled by the waters
of the river, had stopped, and, accumulating, formed the lofty
overhanging cliff on which we stood. He showed us how the fern-trees
grew only in the still sheltered elbows facing northward, where the sun
raised a warm steam from the river, and the cold south wind could not
penetrate. He gathered for Mrs. Buckley a bouquet of the tender
sweetscented yellow oxalis, the winter flower of Australia, and showed
us the copper-lizard basking on the red rocks, so like the stone on
which he lay, that one could scarce see him till a metallic gleam
betrayed him, as he slipped to his lair. And we, the elder of the
party, who followed the Doctor's handsome little brown mare, kept our
ears open, and spoke little,--but gave ourselves fully up to the
enjoyment of his learning and eloquence.

But the Doctor did not absorb the whole party; far from it. He had a
rival. All the young men, and Miss Alice besides, were grouped round
Captain Desborough. Frequently we elders, deep in some Old World
history of the Doctor's, would be disturbed by a ringing peal of
laughter from the other party, and then the Doctor would laugh, and we
would all join; not that we had heard the joke, but from sheer sympathy
with the hilarity of the young folks. Desborough was making himself
agreeable, and who could do it better? He was telling the most
outrageous of Irish stories, and making, on purpose, the most
outrageous of Irish bulls. After a shout of laughter louder than the
rest, the Doctor remarked,--

"That's better for them than geology,--eh, Mrs. Buckley?"

"And so my grandmother," we heard Desborough say, "waxed mighty wrath,
and she up with her goldheaded walking stick in the middle of Sackville
Street, and says she, 'Ye villain, do ye think I don't know my own
Blenheim spannel when I see him?' 'Indeed, my lady,' says Mike, ''twas
himself tould me he belanged to Barney.' 'Who tould you?' says she.
'The dog himself tould me, my lady.' 'Ye thief of the world,' says my
aunt, 'and ye'd believe a dog before a dowager cou