years was devoted to Her Majesty's service in delivering and despatching letters and newspapers. The facts above narrated clearly prove how defective the best of memories may prove betimes.
Nothing could well be more amusing than the speculations as to the identity of "Garryowen," after The Chronicles commenced their appearance, and statements were made in my presence which required much facial control to avoid self-betrayal on my part. At least half-a-dozen times I heard their merits and demerits openly discussed, the subjects of commendation and censure, and twice in my hearing two pretenders severally declared that it was all their doing, and evidently considered themselves a species of public benefactor. I laughed mentally, never signifying the slightest dissent. One worthy in West Melbourne, and another at Prahran, in frequent references to the subject, invariably adopted the phrase "My Chronicles;" whilst a third in Carlton, when complimented as the writer, nodded forth a "Silence gives consent" acquiescence, heaved his shoulders, sniggered, rubbed his hands, and bleated forth "Do you think they are very good?" But the strangest case of all was a bonâ fide hallucination, where a poor demented old fellow really fancied himself "Garryowen," and whenever an instalment appeared in the Herald he went about reciting its contents. Arriving in Melbourne early in the "forties," a person of some education, he kept a private school for some time, then passed on to a mercantile desk, with a call to the "bar" as a licensed victualler in 1853, and thence dabbling in land and gold speculations was, in course of time stranded, having the moderately good luck of saving from the wreck a humble competence for life. The "Garryowen" craze seemed to be simply a mild and harmless monomania, for in all other respects he was rational as the average of humanity. He was personally known to me, and when I heard of some of his sayings and doings, I thought I should humour the joke, for whilst the self-delusion might gratify him, it could do me no possible harm. In a few months I was one day favoured with a communication from him, in which he proclaimed himself to be "Garryowen," and expressed a hope that I would grant him an interview. He assured me that he was the author of The Chronicles of Early Melbourne, and I would render him material aid in the arduous business he had on hand. Preserving my gravity, I at once dropped into his views, and it was arranged that he could see me whenever he liked, and I would assist him to any extent I conveniently could. This farce was continued for years. Now and then he would call upon me, and showing me marked passages, of my own handiwork, would ask my opinion. When in all sincerity I could do nothing else than praise, he would get so intensely excited as to dance like a Merry Andrew round the room. He would also interrogate me about the old times, with which he was very familiar. I never wilfully misled him, because from the tenor of his conversations he had sense enough to detect imposition. And so matters proceeded between us until the day after the publication of the last of The Chronicles when I was honoured with a visit, and he eagerly inquired what I thought of the wind up. My response was, of course, highly eulogistic, whereat the poor fellow's old eyes watered. I had then some thought of writing the present narrative, and I suggested to him that he should do it as a suitable finale to his magnum opus. I explained briefly what I fancied should be its general scope, whereat he clapped his hands gleefully, and with an ejaculation of "I understand—I'll do it—I'll do it!" fled from the room, and I have not seen him since.
Two or three of my funniest reminiscences sprang from conferences held with Mr. J. B. Were. He and I, though known to each other, had little or no personal intercourse until the publication of The Chronicles was well started, when I was much gratified by hearing that such a shrewd old colonist had mentioned to a friend that he felt deeply interested in them, and eulogized the style in which they were worked out. This I regarded as a special test of their value.
In the chapter intituled "The Supreme Court and the Minor Tribunals,"[1] appeared a truthful narrative of the "eccentricities" of our firs tResident Judge, the Honourable John Walpole Willis, with whom Mr. Were was more than once at loggerheads. One day, during the currency of the early part of the sketch, I was favoured with a note from Mr. Were, expressing a strong desire to see me, and asking for an appointment. I accordingly called at his office, was at once shown into
