a prize in the clerical lottery.

"There is to be an investigation into affairs down there. Poor old
Pratt--who went down, as you know, at the earnest solicitation of the
Government--seems to have become absurdly lenient with the prisoners,
and it is reported that the island is in a frightful state. Sir Eardley
is looking out for some disciplinarian to take the place in hand.

"In the meantime, the chaplaincy is vacant, and I thought of you."

I must consider this seeming good fortune further.

February 19th.--I accept. There is work to be done among those unhappy
men that may be my purgation. The authorities shall hear me yet--though
inquiry was stifled at Port Arthur. By the way, a Pharaoh had arisen
who knows not Joseph. It is evident that the meddlesome parson, who
complained of men being flogged to death, is forgotten, as the men are!
How many ghosts must haunt the dismal loneliness of that prison shore!
Poor Burgess is gone the way of all flesh. I wonder if his spirit
revisits the scenes of its violences? I have written "poor" Burgess.

It is strange how we pity a man gone out of this life. Enmity is
extinguished when one can but remember injuries. If a man had injured
me, the fact of his living at all would be sufficient grounds for me to
hate him; if I had injured him, I should hate him still more. Is that
the reason I hate myself at times--my greatest enemy, and one whom I
have injured beyond forgiveness? There are offences against one's own
nature that are not to be forgiven. Isn't it Tacitus who says "the
hatred of those most nearly related is most inveterate"? But--I am
taking flight again.

February 27th, 11.30 p.m.--Nine Creeks Station. I do like to be accurate
in names, dates, etc. Accuracy is a virtue. To exercise it, then.
Station ninety miles from Bathurst. I should say about 4,000 head of
cattle. Luxury without refinement. Plenty to eat, drink, and read.
Hostess's name--Carr. She is a well-preserved creature, about
thirty-four years of age, and a clever woman--not in a poetical sense,
but in the widest worldly acceptation of the term. At the same time, I
should be sorry to be her husband. Women have no business with a brain
like hers--that is, if they wish to be women and not sexual monsters.
Mrs. Carr is not a lady, though she might have been one. I don't think
she is a good woman either. It is possible, indeed, that she has known
the factory before now. There is a mystery about her, for I wa