For records of rascality and crime, for tales of youth's fair promise blighted, for sights and sounds suggestive of the white man turned savage, and the free man slave, for a glimpse, from the "Bridge of Sighs," at a stream of weird, wasted life, flowing perennial from station to homestead, forest to plain, from north to south of the vast continent—streams of humanity uncared for, unthought of—men of promise of yore, who work and drink and trudge again, to beg at last and to die, with crow to caw the funeral obsequies, and ant to compete for the last legacy of flesh—for a peep into this world unique, stand for one moment, as Gwyneth did, upon the bridge that spans the sapling-shrouded stream, ere you cross the tarred timbers and find yourself in Great Gumford.
Gwyneth made for the railway-station, as the benighted traveller on the illimitable plains for the light in the window, the scrambler in the dark forest for the barking of the dog.
The straight, level line of rail that connects Gumford with the outer world, divides the township and countryside into two hemispheres. On that side, plain for hundreds of miles; on this, forest: there, they drink squash and shandygaff; here, whisky and strong beer: there, they wear silk dust-coats, affect tray-buggies, and shave; here, the bullock-team holds its own, German wagon and lumbering dray, the beard is thick and tangled: here English Churchman, who swears by his own, Scotch Kirkman, sinewy "Holy Roman"; there, smooth "Bible-Christian" Primitive Methodist, with light dash of mild "Salvation Army." Speedily climate and physical conformation of country affect the habits and character of the population.
The plan of Gumford is simple. Facing the all-important railway-line run two rows of opposing public
