rst, February 11th, 1846.

In turning over the pages of my journal, to note the good fortune that
has just happened to me, I am struck by the utter desolation of my life
for the last seven years.

Can it be possible that I, James North, the college-hero, the poet, the
prizeman, the Heaven knows what else, have been content to live on at
this dreary spot--an animal, eating and drinking, for tomorrow I die?
Yet it has been so. My world, that world of which I once dreamt so much,
has been--here. My fame--which was to reach the ends of the earth--has
penetrated to the neighbouring stations. I am considered a "good
preacher" by my sheep-feeding friends. It is kind of them.

Yet, on the eve of leaving it, I confess that this solitary life has not
been without its charms. I have had my books and my thoughts--though
at times the latter were but grim companions. I have striven with my
familiar sin, and have not always been worsted. Melancholy reflection.
"Not always!" "But yet" is as a gaoler to bring forth some monstrous
malefactor. I vowed, however, that I would not cheat myself in this
diary of mine, and I will not. No evasions, no glossings over of my own
sins. This journal is my confessor, and I bare my heart to it.

It is curious the pleasure I feel in setting down here in black and
white these agonies and secret cravings of which I dare not speak. It is
for the same reason, I suppose, that murderers make confession to
dogs and cats, that people with something "on their mind" are given to
thinking aloud, that the queen of Midas must needs whisper to the sedges
the secret of her husband's infirmity. Outwardly I am a man of God,
pious and grave and softly spoken. Inwardly--what? The mean, cowardly,
weak sinner that this book knows me...Imp! I could tear you in
pieces!...One of these days I will. In the meantime, I will keep you
under lock and key, and you shall hug my secrets close. No, old friend,
with whom I have communed so long, forgive me, forgive me. You are to me
instead of wife or priest.

I tell to your cold blue pages--how much was it I bought you for in
Parramatta, rascal?--these stories, longings, remorses, which I would
fain tell to human ear could I find a human being as discreet as thou.
It has been said that a man dare not write all his thoughts and deeds;
the words would blister the paper. Yet your sheets are smooth enough,
you fat rogue! Our neighbours of Rome know human nature. A man must
confess. One