How strange a Melbourne would the picture--still distinctly photographed on memory's wondrous "negative"--present to the inhabitant of 1884. A solitary wood cart is struggling down from the direction of Brighton along the unmade sandy track, patiently to await the convenience of the puntman. Frank Liardet is driving his unicorn omnibus team from the lonely beach, where now the sailors revel in many a glittering bar, and the tall sugar-refinery chimney "lifts its head" and smokes--or, at any rate, did recently. The squatter's wool-freighted bullock-teams lumber along the deep ruts of Flinders Lane. John Pascoe Fawkner bustles up and down the western end, at that time the fashionable part, of Collins Street. The eastern portion of that street--now decorated with palatial clubs and treasuries, and dominated by doctors--was then principally known as "the way to the Plenty," a rivulet on the banks of which still abode certain cheerful young agricultural aristocrats, who had not had time quite to ruin themselves. Now a whole tribe of blacks--wondering and frightened, young and old, warriors and greybeards, women and children--is being driven along Collins Street by troopers, on their way to the temporary gaol, there to be incarcerated for real or fancied violence. The philanthropist may console himself with the knowledge that they burrowed under their dungeon slabs and, I think, escaped. If not, they were released next day. Mr. Latrobe, successor of Captain Lonsdale, on a state day--not styled Governor, but his Honour the Superintendent--is riding towards Batman's Hill on a crop-eared hog-maned cob, yclept Knockercroghery, attired in uniform, escorted by Captain Smyth and his terrible mounted police, the only military force of the day. The great plains, the wide forest-parks, shut closely in the little town on every side. Countless swans and ducks are disporting themselves in unscared freedom upon the great West Melbourne marsh. The travel-stained squatter rides wearily up to the livery stable, as yet unable to shorten by coach or rail a mile of his journey. CHAPTER II THE FAR WEST It seems only the other day--but surely it must be a long time ago--that January evening of 1844, when I camped my cattle near the old burying-ground at North Melbourne. I was bound for the Western district, where I proposed to "take up a run." And towards this pastoral paradise the dawn saw my "following" winding its way next morning.