A curious memento of the first theatre opened in Sydney and the first performance within its walls has come down to us from the year 1796, about eight years after the establishment of the penal colony.  It was opened by permission of the governor:  all the actors were convicts who won the privilege by good behavior, and the price of admission was one shilling, payable in silver, flour, meat or wine.  The prologue, written by a cidevant pickpocket of London, illustrates the character of the times in those early days of the colony: 

    From distant climes, o’er widespread seas, we come,
    Though not with much eclat or beat of drum,
    True patriots all; for be it understood,
    We left our country for our country’s good: 
    No private views disgraced our generous zeal;
    What urged our travels was our country’s weal;
    And none will doubt but that our emigration
    Has proved most useful to the British nation. 
    But, you inquire, what could our breasts inflame
    With this new passion for theatric fame? 
    What in the practice of our former days
    Could shape our talents to exhibit plays? 
    Your patience, sirs:  some observations made,
    You’ll grant us equal to the scenic trade. 
    He who to midnight ladders is no stranger
    You’ll own will make an admirable Ranger,
    And sure in Filch I shall be quite at home: 
    Some true-bred Falstaff we may hope to start. 
    The scene to vary, we shall try in time
    To treat you with a little pantomime. 
    Here light and easy Columbines are found,
    And well-tried Harlequins with us abound. 
    From durance vile our precious selves to keep,
    We often had recourse to the flying leap,
    To a black face have sometimes owed escape,
    And Hounslow Heath has proved the worth of crape. 
    But how, you ask, can we e’er hope to soar. 
    Above these scenes, and rise to tragic lore? 
    Too oft, alas! we’ve forced the unwilling tear,
    And petrified the heart with real fear. 
    Macbeth a harvest of applause will reap,
    For some of us, I fear, have murdered sleep. 
    His lady, too, with grace will sleep and talk: 
    Our females have been used at night to walk. 
    Grant us your favor, put us to the test: 
    To gain your smiles we’ll do our very best,
    And without dread of future Turnkey Lockets,
    Thus, in an honest way, still pick your pockets!

It was by the coral-bound Straits of Torres, reckoned by navigators the most difficult in the world, that the English government determined a few years ago to send an envoy to open communication between the Australian colony and the Dutch possessions of Java and Sumatra.  The Hero was the vessel selected for this perilous mission—­a voyage of twelve hundred miles through seas studded thickly with reefs and islands of coral, many of which lay just beneath