He unburdened his mind, and made a confession to the officer who had him in charge.  He explained how he had taken the money, how he had lost it, and who had won it.  It relieved his mind, and the policeman kept the secret of confession until after the trial.  Then he broke the seal, and related to me confidentially the story of his penitent, showing that he was quite as unfit for the sacerdotal office as myself.

Mr. H. on his trial was found not guilty, but the department did not feel inclined to entrust him with the collection or custody of any more cash.  In succeeding years he again served the Government as State school teacher, having received his appointment from a minister of merciful principles.  A reclaimed poacher makes an excellent gamekeeper, and a repentant thief may be a better teacher of youth than a sanctimonious hypocrite.

SEAL ISLANDS AND SEALERS.

“Am I my brother’s keeper?”

The islands in Bass’ Straits, Hogan’s Group, Kent’s Group, the Answers, the Judgment Rocks, and others, are visited at certain seasons of the year by seals of three different kinds—­viz., the hair seals, which are not of much value except for their oil; the grey seals, whose skins are valuable; and the black seals, whose furs always command the highest price.  When these animals have not been disturbed in their resorts for some years they are comparatively tame, and it is not difficult to approach them.  Great numbers of the young ones are sometimes found on the rocks, and if pushed into the water they will presently come out again, scramble back on to the rocks, and begin crying for their dams.  But the old seals, when frequently disturbed, become shy, and, on the first alarm, take to the water.  The flesh of the young seals is good to eat, and seamen who have been cast away on the islands have been sometimes saved from starvation by eating it.

I once made the acquaintance of an old sealer.  He had formerly been very sensitive on the point of honour; would resent an insult as promptly as any knight-errant; but by making an idol of his honour his life had been a grievous burden to him.  And he was not even a gentleman, and never had been one.  He was known only as “Jack.”

It was in the year 1854, when I had been cast ashore in Corio Bay by a gale of hostile fortune, and had taken refuge for a while at the Buck’s Head Hotel, then kept by a man named McKenzie.  One evening after tea I was talking to a carpenter at the back door, who was lamenting his want of timber.  He had not brought a sufficient supply from Geelong to complete his contract, which was to construct some benches for a Presbyterian Church.  Jack was standing near listening to the conversation.

“What kind of timber do you want?” he said.  “There is a lot of planks down there in the yard, and if you’ll be outside about eleven o’clock, I’ll chuck over as many as you want.”