But here it is different; the souls of the dead are all away in the primal forests or Bush that they loved, while the living are off to the mountains or sea—train-load upon train-load, many of them away at the first streak of dawn, leaving the parsons lamenting from their pulpits over an array of empty pews. I once went to Sunday morning service in St. James’s Church, which is known as the “Old Cathedral,” and found eleven fellow-worshippers there. And yet I believe the instincts of the people are true; that the sea, with its white sands, its cliffs, its rocks, and wonder of virgin Ti-tree, teach them more than any number of sermons could do. What thoughts the Ti-tree alone gives rise to! Pagan perhaps, yet all sublime. With the wild forest-myrtle it is the most human tree that could well be imagined. Such twisted trunks, such curious entwined limbs, such delicate flowing foliage! It is as if Pan, the great god Pan, still real and vital in this wide world, had chanced on a flock of nymphs at play along the shore, and embodied them thus as they turned to fly with outstretched arms and flowing tresses; or Neptune himself translated them to trees as they slipped from his embrace. [Picture: A bird’s-eye view of Melbourne] [Picture: On the Yarra] When the sea is so near and the wonder of the Ti-tree and the mountains, and the forests, with their giant gum-trees, and the deep gullies of ferns, cool and fragrant on the hottest days, perhaps, after all, one may consider that God has built temples to His own liking, and that the dreary little brick churches and tin tabernacles of the country districts are as little wanted as the more imposing structures of the town; while the crowds who flock each Sunday and holiday away from the dusty city into the open country have indeed chosen the better part. That the young people make love openly and shamelessly in the railway-carriages or on the beach; that they are loud and larky and irreverent, does not matter at all; there is really less room for shame where there is shamelessness: and then as a living proof of what these rowdy boys and girls develop into there are the uncounted young families, father, mother and children, clean and smiling and prosperous, scattered in intimate little groups over every holiday resort within an hour’s reach of town. After all, in spite of “certain writers of our own day,” there is nothing very wrong with a country where the artisan—who, after all, is its backbone—can afford so much fresh air and freedom, so many health-giving holidays; and, in addition, can show such a cheerful helpmate, such a well-nourished, well-dressed little brood, as can the Australian artisan. There is rather an apt old saying, which it might not be amiss for some of us older people to lay to heart in discussing a State that is mainly the work of three generations, such as Victoria, and that is:—“They that can _do_, and they that can’t criticize.”