man and an experienced rough-and-ready bushman. Strictly honest, also, I think—only for his d—nable disposition."
"Doctor Johnson liked a good hater," I suggested sadly, for it was evident that my unfortunate protégé had already, in his own peculiar way, recommended himself to Stewart.
You can imagine, by that circumstance alone, what a strong tincture of venom was held in solution by this feeble tenant of an hour. Indeed, if the matter had rested with the squatters, they would have starved him out of Riverina by industrial boycott. But the in-transport of wool, and the outtransport of goods, are cares that, as a rule, fall to the lot of the forwarding firms; and these resemble George IV., in having no predilections (though, let us hope, the similarity ceases here). Hence, the jolly good soul of a carrier, with lots of spring in him—the man who seldom buys any groceries, whose breath often smells like broached grog-cargo, and who makes a joke of camping for a few weeks with a load on his wagon—is very naturally passed over in favour of the misanthrope who neither asks nor gives quarter. And the personal popularity of the latter with his own guild is not enhanced by this preference.
"Doctor Johnson be d—d!" replied the squatter warmly. "What is his dictum worth? What the (sheol) entitled him, for instance, to sneer at the very element of population that has made Britain a nation? You know what I allude to? Now, speaking with strict impartiality, it strikes me d—d forcibly that the finest prospect England ever saw is the road that leads from Scotland." He checked himself, and continued in a gentler tone. "That just reminds me of a very able article I read some time ago—I think it was in Blackwood's. The writer proves that your Shakespear must have imbibed his genius, to a great extent, in Scotland. He grounds his argument partly—and I think, justly—on the fact that the best play in the collection is a purely Scottish one. He makes a d—d strong point, I remember, of the expression, 'blasted heath.' 'Say from whence, upon this blasted heath you stop our way, making night hideous?'and so forth."
"Yes," I replied mechanically. And then, avoiding the eye of the grand old saint, and hating myself as a buffoon, I continued, "My own conjecture is that something must have occurred to irritate the dramatist whilst he was writing that passage, and the expression slipped from his pen unawares."
"Never!" replied Stewart. "No man under the influence of petty irritation ever wrote anything like the passage where that expression occurs. Criticism is not your forte, Collins. The writer I'm speaking of sees a landscape photographed in those two words. Pardon me for saying that your talent seems to run more in the line of low-comedy acting. I don't like referring to it again, but d—n it all, my interest in you personally makes me feel very strongly over your interview with this Tom Armstrong."
"Indeed, Mr. Stewart, I can't tell you how sorry I am to have fallen in your estimation. But you were speaking of Alf Morris is when I unfortunately drew you from the subject."
