to attack again his fated subduer. Α few more lessons daily, or twice a day, repeated, enforce on his memory what has been taught, and he may then be restored to society.

Such is the process in a public arena. But when he operates in private, Mr. Rarey prefers to approach the horse, or let the horse approach him, alone. Such is his confidence-and no man has a larger experience on which to base his confidence in the native goodness of the horse, that he believes the most dangerous savage will not attack a man from whom he has received no wrong, who stands unarmed, and shows no fear or hostility. So, when he first saw Cruiser, he opened the door and stood alone before the animal-heavily muzzled, it is true, but loose and free to strike with his feet. With a scream, the horse sprang at his supposed enemy; but, seeing a stranger, motionless and unprepared for combat, he paused midway, and drew near quietly to examine the intruder. Let not Mr. Rarey's disciples, however, till they have had no less than his experience, and can work with his most wonderful nerve, temper, skill, and activity, so presume. An instant's wavering of heart, or the minutest failure in judgment, would fire the train. Yet we may remember, as confirmatory of Mr. Rarey's theory, that it is a known fact that many horses violent with men are tractable in a lady's hands; and that we have wellauthenticated stories in which most savage animals have suffered infants to play among their legs, and have been seen carefully lifting each foot to avoid hurting the child.

I am anxious to press a little further the consideration that in all this process, rightly conducted, and if not rightly conducted it will not succeed,— there is absolutely no pain inflicted. The horse's spirit is forced to yield; and, till he recognises the necessity, he struggles violently. But his struggles are so managed that they produce no physical suffering whatever. The muscles of the legs, which are restrained by

horse tries to disengage and straighten his legs-are so weak, that the utmost force they can exert against the straps is insufficient to produce pain. Bandage your own ancle tightly to your thigh, and you will find that it does not hurt you, however hard you may try to get loose. So, when the second leg is taken up, and the horse brought on his knees, the position, however awkward and helpless, is not unnatural, painful, nor injurious. It is, in fact, that which the horse naturally takes for a moment every time he lies down, and it is that which the ox (not the horse, however) takes in rising up. I have seen quiet horses commence to graze when brought to this position in a pasture-field. To continue it for any length of time is of course fatiguing, and this is its advantage. A countryman, I believe, of Mr. Rarey, has ingeniously remarked that the leopard can change his spots, for when he is tired of one spot he can go to another. So the horse, when he is tired of the first stage towards lying down, and has satisfied his mind that he cannot at present get up, can change his position by advancing to the second stage of lying down. This is exactly what the intelligent animal does, and in so doing he finds not merely physical rest but moral happiness.

How far the conviction of human supremacy thus wrought on the horse's mind is permanent and ineffaceable, is a question which has been debated with an unnecessary degree of warmth. The fact is, that to Mr. Rarey the most vicious horses are ever after gentle; and equally gentle to all who treat them gently. But of course Nature is not changed; and the cruelty or folly that first excited resistance and then drove it to madness, will still produce again the same results. Is Mr. Rarey's system, then, imperfect, because it is not creative, but only educational? Or is the education imperfect, because with some natures its teachings may be overpowered by the sudden recoil of unprovoked suffering? I confess, in such a

the nature to which it is applied; I blame only the guilty harshness or indiscretion which tempts a hasty nature to revolt, and forbids all hope of amnesty on submission. I think I have heard too of little boys, whom a sense of unjust treatment has made dogged little rebels or violent little savages, but whose after life has shown that in them from the first had dwelt the spirit which is breathed into heroes only. Who was to blame for these wild childhood days-the child, or the child's illjudging teachers? Perhaps they were not cruel-perhaps with another child the very same treatment would have been eminently successful. Perhaps they had only little cunning ways which a less honest child would not have noticed-perhaps they were guilty only of petty exasperations, which a duller child Iwould not have felt. Is all this the child's fault? If, taken from such charge, and placed in just and tender hands, the fierce anger and despairing recklessness are softened into submission, is it a defect of that true education that it never can bend the spirit to bear wrong with callousness, and to see fraud with indifference?

It cer

tainly seems to me that Mr. Rarey's taming of a violent horse is as little impeachable, from the fact that bad treatment will make the horse again as violent as ever.

But all rebellions have a beginning, and all mental tendencies grow more fixed with indulgence. Mr. Rarey's teaching will have this great practical benefit, that it will cut away the occasion of many a rebellion. Few men could subdue a made savage with Mr. Rarey's dexterity-but nearly all men can, and I do hope will, come to follow his teaching in its application to spirited horses, whom an opposite course might render savage. For this never did anyone better deserve the thanks of the humane-I will add of the philanthropist. This lesson of the infinite power of kindness, taught with such new and striking illustration, will go home to thousands of hearts in which

tion. As evil tendencies grow so do good. A man who is discriminatingly kind to his horse must have sympathies awakened with every living thing. It is good to be obliged even to simulate goodness. The human mind is fortunately too unelastic to avoid taking permanently something of the form which it externally puts on. Something, too, is gained on the side of goodness by simply making thoughtless men think of it.

Yet with knowledge comes, as ever, responsibility. Hitherto we have looked at the great sad problem of the sufferings of animals as if such liability were to them an inevitable condition of existence. We have laid the flattering unction to our souls that what the horse or dog might suffer at our hands was in great part a necessary concomitant of his education to our service, and certainly was less than he might have had to suffer had he been left wild. The former position is now untenable, and even the second grows uncomfortably doubtful. To animals in a state of nature disease seldom comes; when it comes it is short-often shortened by the instinct which makes the companions of a sick or wounded beast fall upon and kill it. Their main suffering, then, in the wild state, is neither more nor less than simply the final agonies of death. Their death is either placid from exhaustion, or violent, as by drowning, by the attack of carnivorous animals, or by that of their fellow-species. How much suffering is there in these modes of death? We fancy a great deal; but is it not that with ourselves "the sense of death is most in apprehension"? Of drowning we know, by the testimony of those who have recovered, that the sensation after the first momentary shock of immersion is actually one of intense pleasure. Of death by the attack of wild animals, we have a very singular testimony from the experience of Dr. Livingstone. He tells us that he was once seized by a lion, which sprang upon him, threw him down, breaking his arm, and then taking him in his mouth shook him as a terrier does a rat, or a cat a mouse.

fully conscious of his situation, all sense of either pain or terror left him. May we not believe that this is the effect of the methods by which wild animals extinguish life, whether in one of their own species or in one on which they prey; and that the cries and struggles no more indicate true suffering than the convulsive efforts of a drowning man indicate sensation? Assuredly such a thought is not inconsistent with our ideas of God's mercy; and, if we admit it, we clear

away some of the main difficulties which beset the question of animal suffering. But, if we thus can eliminate the suffering which arises from death, how little remains to be accounted for save that which flows, directly or indirectly, from man! And now Mr. Rarey teaches us how much of that residue we have inflicted needlessly, stifling conscience with the false pretext that God's gift to us is unavailing till, by our own cruelty, it has been adapted to our use. B. K.

I HAVE not had the honour of seeing the State of New York; but I am told by those who have seen both, that its feverish energy is only surpassed in one place-Melbourne. The utter ignorance of home-dwellers about this place is extraordinary; they think it is a howling wilderness. I have seen people landing in 1857 with bowie-knives in their belts, and much astonished, instead of meeting bushrangers, at being put into a comfortably padded railway carriage, and whisked up, if it so pleased them, to a first-rate hotel. I have dined at the Wellington in Piccadilly, and I have dined at the Union in Bourke Street; and I prefer the latter.

A man asked me the other day whether there were any theatres in Melbourne. I referred him to Miss Swanborough and Mr. G. V. Brooke. There is no account extant of the Melbourne of to-day; even Mr. Westgarth's admirable book is out of date. Let us have a glance at the every-day life of this terra incognita.

Day after day I and a friend of mine stayed in town, comforting one another with false excuses. Our business was well concluded, but still we lingered on, in spite of visions which occasionally arose before us of a face we knew, waiting for us, two hundred and fifty miles away on old Wimmera, and which face

triumph when it caught sight of us, "I knew you would stop for the race!"

For, the next day, Victoria and New South Wales were to meet in deadly conflict. Veno, the long-legged chestnut from Sydney, was to run the great intercolonial match with Alice Hawthorne, our plucky little grey. Both Houses were adjourned nem. con., so that the collective legislative wisdom of the colony might have an opportunity of drinking its cobblers, and making its bets on the grand stand; and you may depend upon it, that, when your honourables adjourn, there is something worth seeing; and that was why we stayed in town.

And so there was something worth seeing. His Excellency himself was worth all the money, with his blue coat and white waistcoat, and his brown, shrewd, handsome face. It was worth while to see our bishop and the Roman Catholic prelate bowing and kootooing together, and pleasanter yet to hear the Wesleyan's wife tell Father G——, the jolly Irish priest, that she and her husband had come to see the "trial of speed," and "that it was quite like a race, really," and Father G- offering her absolution. Pleasant to look at were the crowded steamers, and the swarming heights around the course, and

jacket (New South Wales) and the dark blue jacket (Victoria) lying side by side, all through the deadly three-mile struggle, till the poor little grey was just beat at the finish, and then to see every man who had won five shillings batter a guinea hat to pieces in the exuberance of his joy.

Now the reason I mentioned this was, firstly, to make some sort of excuse to my reader for what may otherwise appear to have been inexcusable dawdling; and, secondly, because in conseof this delay we were forced to do in two days what we should otherwise have taken four at.

quence

Our horses were at a station not far from the great new digging of Mount Ararat, in the Portland Bay district. Mount Ararat was two hundred miles off; for the last sixty miles there was no road; and yet we coolly said to one another at breakfast-time next morning, "We shall get in to-morrow night."

I lingered over my breakfast as one lingers on the bank of the stream, on a cold day, before plunging in. I knew that in ten minutes more I should be no longer a man with a free will, but a bale of goods ticketed and numbered, temporarily the property of the Telegraph Company, tossed from boat to rail, from rail to coach, like a portmanteau, with this difference, that if a portmanteau is injured, you can make the company pay, but if a man is damaged, they consider themselves utterly irresponsible, and, in fact, the ill-used party.

We can see from our window right down the wharf; and our little steamer is getting up her steam under the tall dark warehouses. We must be off. Good bye! "Good bye," says Jack, who aint going, puffing at his last new Vienna meerschaum; "good bye, boys, and a happy journey."

So we raced along past the Great Princes bridge (copied in dimensions from the middle arch of London bridge), and the Hobson's Bay railway station, along the broad wharfs, with all the Flinder Street warehouses towering on our right, and the clear river on our

barques, schooners, and brigs of light draught which work up the river from the bay. Here comes our little steamer, the Comet, ready to start, with the captain on the bridge-"Only just in time. Good morning, captain. Portmanteau's aboard. All right, captain. Cut away."

Ha! A little rest after that run is rather pleasant. Let us look about us; plenty to be seen here. The river is about the size of the Thames at Oxford, but deep enough to allow ships of two hundred tons and upwards to lie along the wharfs. So here we see the coasting traders in plenty, regular Australians bred and born, in all their glory. That schooner yonder is unloading cedar from the dark jungles of the Clerance far away there in the north, while her nextdoor neighbour is busy disgorging nuts and apples from Launston in Van Diemen's Land (I humbly ask pardonTasmania); and the clipper barque, whose elegant bows tower over our heads, is a timber ship from New Zealand loaded with Kauri pine, and what not. There goes the seven o'clock train across the wooden viaduct! They say that Hobson's Bay railway is paying its eighteen per cent. Ha, here we are off at last!

Here we are off at last, panting down the river. "Where to?" say you. Well, I'll tell you. We are going down the

Yarra to catch the first train from Williamstown to Geelong; from Geelong we go to Ballarat by coach, where we sleep; and to-morrow morning we mean to coach it on to Ararat, and then, picking up our horses, to get to our home on the Wimmera.

If our reader has never been in Australia, he will hardly understand what are the sensations of a man, long banished, when he first realizes to himself the fact, "I am going home." Home! No one ever says, "I am going to Europe, sir," or "I am going to England, sir." Men say, "I am thinking of taking a run home, Jim" (or Tom, as the case may be). Then you know Jim (or Tom) considers you as a sacrosanct person, and tires not in doing errands for you