A few minutes’ exertion lands one at the portal of the studio, which is of the lean-to order of architecture, a granite boulder having one fairly vertical face being overshadowed by a much higher rock having a dip of about 60 degrees.

Here originally there were five exhibits.  Two have weathered away almost to nothingness, some faint streaks and blotches of red earth, in which medium all the pictures have been executed, alone remaining.  Those subjects that are readily decipherable are mutilated after the style of certain much-prized antiques.

Of those which have successfully withstood the ravages of time, two apparently represent lizards, and the third seems to portray a monstrosity—­a human being with a rudimentary tail.  A German philosopher might possibly build upon this embryonic tail a theory to prove that the Australian aboriginal is indeed and in fact the missing link, and thereby excel in ethnological venture those who merely recognise in him the relic from a prehistoric age of man.  Could it not be argued that the picture reveals an act of unconscious cerebration—­an instinctive knowledge of ancestors with tails?

However that may be, the unconscious artist took further artless liberties with the human form divine.  He had been at pains, too, to smooth down the face of the rock for the reception of the unshaded daubs of terra-cotta, using peradventure the flat stone upon which he was wont to bruise the hot and biting roots of the aroid (COLOCASIA MACRORRHIZA) which formed part of his diet.  The utensil lies there at the entrance where he left it; the plants grow in profusion close by among the rocks; but of the artist there is no record, save the crude and grotesque figures in fading red on the grey granite.

Most of the central figure is clearly discernible; but parts of the outline have become blurred and irregular.  Tradition says that all the figures once had black heads—­the only attempts at the introduction of a second colour—­but no traces of the black heads are now visible.  They must have succumbed to the tender but irresistible assaults of Time long ago.  In one case, fact seems to belie tradition, for there exist faint suggestions of a red head—­and a red-headed black is as rare as a black with a tail; but the traces are so extremely vague and indeterminate as to render any attempt at restoration hopeless.  But does not this obscurity and partial dismemberment lend an air of antiquity, much prized elsewhere, to these savage frescoes?

Of quite a different order are the works in the Upper Studio at the sign of the White Stripe.  This lies close to the backbone of the island, in the heart of a bewildering jumble of immense rocks overgrown with jungle.  Circumstantial accounts of the treasures there to be seen had determined me to persevere in attempts to discover it; but though the traditions of the blacks were strengthened by a mild sort of enthusiasm, and the exhibition of no little pride, they did but