was no canal in 1864—­to relieve a weary mother.  The child had smallpox, and my friend took it and died of it.  He was being buried beside his first wife at Brighton when the Goolwa sailed up the Channel after a passage of 14 weeks—­as long as that of the Palmyra 25 years before—­and the first news we heard was that Miss Taylor had lost a brother, the children a favourite uncle, and I, a friend.  It was a sad household, but the Bakewells were in London on business connected with some claims of discovery of the Moonta Mines, and they took me to their house in Palace Gardens.  Kensington, till I could arrange to go to my aunt’s in Scotland.  All our plans about seeing people and places together were, of course, at an end.  I was to go “a lone hand.”  Mrs. Taylor had a posthumous son, who never has set foot in Australia.  She married a second time, an English clergyman named Knight, and had several sons, but she has never revisited Adelaide, although she has many relatives here.  So the friend who loved Australia, and was eager to do his duty by it—­who thoroughly approved of the Hare system of representation, and thought I did well to take it up, was snatched away in the prime of life.  I wonder if there is any one alive now to whom his memory is as precious.  The Register files may preserve some of his work.

At Palace Gardens the Bakewell family were settled in a furnished house belonging to Col.  Palmer, one of the founders of South Australia, though never a resident.  Palmer place, North Adelaide, bears his name.  Thackeray’s house we had to pass when we went out of the street in the direction of the city.  His death had occurred in the previous year.  I had an engagement with Miss Julia Wedgwood, through an introduction given by Miss Sophia Sinnett, an artist sister of Frederick Sinnett’s.  I was called for and sent home.  I was not introduced to the family.  It was a fine large house with men servants and much style.  Miss Wedgwood, who was deaf, used an ear trumpet very cleverly.  I found her as delightful as Miss Sinnett had represented her to be, and I discovered that Miss Sinnett had been governess to her younger sisters, but that there was real regard for her.  I don’t know that I ever spent a more delightful evening.  She had just had Browning’s “Dramatis Personae,” and we read together “Rabbi Ben Ezira” and “Prospice.”  She knew about the Hare scheme of representation, supported by Mill and Fawcett and Craik.  She was a good writer, with a fine critical faculty.  Everything signed by her name in magazines or reviews was thenceforward interesting to me.  I promised her a copy of my “Plea for Pure Democracy,” which she accepted and appreciated.  By the father’s side she was a granddaughter of Josiah Wedgwood, the founder of British pottery as a fine art.  Her mother was a daughter of Sir James Mackintosh.  Mrs. Wedgwood was so much pleased with my pamphlet that she wanted to be introduced to me, and when I returned to London I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.  Miss Wedgwood gave me a beautifully bound copy of “Men and Women,” of which she had a duplicate, which I cherish in remembrance of her.