In one of the most charming spots of Bagdad—the seat of an ancient overflow of basalt on the palæozoic floor, and, therefore, a fertile district now—was a farm belonging to Mr. Espie. One day the tribe attacked the overseer, a man of energy and tact. Quickly closing the door, and shouting loudly, he brought down one marauder with a shot. Then through holes in the slab sides of the hut he continued to fire, calling out in simulated voices, as if several were with him, and more than once letting part of his body be seen with a changed coat or cap, to impress the enemy with a sense of his strength of support. The ruse succeeded, and the discomfited warriors departed. Waiting a while, he opened his door, and saw the coast clear. He picked up the dead body which was left, and stuck it up in the hollow of a tree, with a spear in the chin to keep it upright. Years after, when Mr. Robinson was bringing some of his voluntary captives to the town, the skeleton in its hideous position was observed, and the leader, to the great satisfaction of his wild followers, took it down, and decently buried it. The disappointed foes, on leaving the overseer, had set fire to a store-hut on the farm, and destroyed a ton of flour, a thousand skins, and a quantity of butter.
Old George, whom I saw at Casterton, on the beautiful banks of the Glenelg of Victoria, is my informant for a story. In 1821 the Blacks in his neighbourhood, beyond the Norfolk Plains of the expatriated Norfolk Islanders, were very quiet and harmless. But a new overseer arriving at the station, a pretty gin was demanded. The chief, her husband, expostulated with the Englishman, but was brutally knocked down with the butt-end of a musket, and the tribe were forcibly driven off. "From that time," said George, "they became regular tigers, and speared right and left."
Three soldiers went out from their station at Fingal to spend the day kangarooing. They had only their dogs with them. Engaged in their sport, they all at once beheld an armed tribe stealthily surrounding them. Off they started, terror lending wings to flight, hotly pursued by the yelling spearsmen, who gave them a twelve miles' chase to their barracks.
Plunder was the primary object of attack. But many a hut was stripped by convict servants and others, and the offence charged upon the Aborigines. Mr. John Batman relates several instances of unfounded accusations. A letter from Ben Lomond,
