MYSTERIES OF MELBOURNE LIFE.
PROLOGUE.
The moon had risen over the distant mountains of Gippsland, and was shedding her glorious light on hill and valley, river and pool, city and suburb—mellowing into beauty the harsher features of the landscape, casting over all that wonderful glamour which has enthralled every race of man, from the grand Chaldeans, who worshipped her as Astarté, to our British forefathers, who held mystic rites in her honor in the deep oak forests that then covered what is now smoke-begrimed, railway-ridden England. Gliding over the sky like a spirit of light, and peace, and beauty, it seemed as if she heeded not the weary turmoil that went on beneath—the great city with its sin and shame, the country with its toil and wretchedness, the sea with its numberless little floating worlds, having so much in common with the greater;—no, the Queen of Heaven moved on majestically across the cold blue skies, emblem of peace and Eternity. She had looked upon scene after scene like this for thousands of years—she had met the gaze of millions and millions yearning to know what she was, worshipping her as a deity, drawing strength and poetry from her beauty. The scenes had changed, the earnest eyes were dust and ashes long ago, and still she pursued her midnight path, sweet and gentle as of yore, when she blessed the gaze of weary Sappho on the Lesbian isle.
Little Billy Dawson might have had some thoughts like the above floating through his dwarfed mind—dwarfed through no fault of his own—but certainly he could not have put them on paper. He knew the moon was beautiful—he knew, when he looked up into the sky and saw her he felt better, his soul seemed to rise out of its narrow prison-house, but he could give no explanation of this to the philosopher. Keenly as he felt the glorious influence, it is very probable he would make a reply to an enquiry more emphatic than poetical. But Billy, poor fellow! was only the roughest of the genus "larrikin." His apology for clothes, his shrunken form, attenuated face, and sharp eyes, told easily that he lived upon his wits, and a scanty living they had afforded; still, notwithstanding all this, there was a merry twinkle in his eyes, which hinted of a fund of joviality. But poor, crushed-down, policeman-fearing fellow, he had few opportunities to be merry. And on this occasion, as be was wandering amongst the wattles by the banks of the Yarra, where the moon created fantastic lights and shadows, fun was far from him; for he was "in trouble," to use his own expression, and did not exactly know what to do. Still Billy, like all colonial youths, took matters coolly, and debated with himself as to the best manner of getting over his little embarrassment, a visit to the country appearing the most natural, being preferable to a visit to the lock-up.
The boy had advanced into a thick part of the scrub when he suddenly became transfixed, and stood in the shadow of a large wattle, still as a statue, his eyes and mouth opening wide as with terror, his whole aspect one of horror and apprehension. The perspiration burst from every pore. Standing there in the shadow, he was a perfect personification of surprise and fear. Gradually these feelings wore away; he recovered the use of his limbs, and took a few uneasy steps, appearing indecisive as to what he should do. Curiosity was very powerful in Billy's organization, and what he had witnessed was so strange, so terrible, that he could not resist the impulse which drew him, as by some invisible agency, towards the spot. He stopped several times and listened, then, hearing nothing, went on until he reached the place where the tragedy had been consummated. Clinging to a wattle, he gazed with starting eyes on the scene.
In a spot on which the moonlight shone in patches, the shadows of the wattles moving to and fro as the wind stirred the trees, lay the dead body of a woman. Evidences there
