do not form any essential part of the story of Hereward Pole and
Ruth Allerton--the vindication of a man's honour and the triumph of a
woman's invincible devotion--they are told with so much intimate
knowledge and strength of colouring as almost to supply the absence of a
plot, and to make the story, apart from artistic considerations, a
really fine piece of work.

It has a popularity in the English libraries which is itself a proof of
the service done by the author to those who would know something of the
careers of varying success and bitter failure, of hardship and romantic
adventure, upon which so many of their kinsmen set out forty years ago.
_Nevermore_ and _The Sphinx of Eaglehawk_ give other views of the
gold-digging days, chiefly of their seamy side, but these stories offer
nothing that equals in interest the splendid panorama of pioneer life
revealed in _The Miner's Right_.

Boldrewood has more than once insisted with evident pleasure upon the
general good behaviour and manliness of the miners, and, having been one
of those all-seeing autocrats, the gold-fields commissioners, he is an
authority to be believed on the subject. In _Robbery under Arms_ the
names are given of thirty races represented on the Turon field, and
Hereward Pole, recounting his early impressions of Yatala, says: 'I was
never done wondering of what struck me as the chief characteristic of
this great army of adventurers suddenly gathered together from all seas
and lands, namely, its outward propriety and submission to the law.'
Elsewhere he likens the sensible reticence which they observed
respecting their own affairs and those of their neighbours to the
demeanour and mode of thought which prevails in club life.

A passage from Dick Marston's account of what he saw at Turon is worth
reproducing here as characteristic of the author's representation of a
gold-fields community and as a sample of his humour. The 'three
honourables,' of whom the disguised bushranger captain is one, are
together in a hotel.

'The last time I drank wine as good as this,' says Starlight, 'was
at the Caffy Troy, something or other, in Paris. I wouldn't mind
being there again, with the Variety Opera to follow--would you,
Clifford?'

'Well, I don't know,' says the other swell. 'I find this amazing
good fun for a bit. I never was in such grand condition since I left
Oxford. This eight hours' shift business is just the right thing for