you could not honestly and conscientiously perform your work without giving mortal offence to individuals, and subjecting yourself and your publishers to countless criminal libel prosecutions and civil actions. The few of your published papers which I have read confirm me in that opinion. Your Chronicles, excuse me for being plain spoken, appear to me to be made up of a lot of wishy-washy inane trash, which, while on the one hand it gives no offence, on the other is not worth perusal. In steering clear of libel prosecutions and civil actions you omit all the metaphorical wheat of Melbourne history, and retain only the metaphorical chaff. For example, so far as I have heard, you have said nothing in your Chronicles of that swindler ——————; of the Catholics of Melbourne having petitioned Pope Pius the Ninth for his removal from the diocese; of his having swindled the creditors of St. Patrick's College out of their just claims; of his having swindled Father ——————'s estate, and Father ——————'s estate, and my father's estate; of his having swindled Father —————— out of two and half years' salary; of his having committed felony by obtaining from Mr. —————— through me, three hundred pounds under false pretences; of his —————— especially his cast off ——————, who afterwards lived with that fellow for about four years, &c., &c., and so of a hundred other matters. Your Chronicles, before they are worthy of perusal, must contain some of the pith and point, the ideas, the facts, of Melbourne history. The deficiency (from the supplying of which you unmanfully, cowardly, shrink), and which renders your work worthless, I intend to supply at an early date in a book on this colony.—Yours obediently,
——————
The name of the writer of this uncalled-for effusion is, for his own sake, suppressed, and I have also taken the liberty of subjecting it to a process of emasculation by the insertion of certain blanks for the names of individuals. It will give some idea of the reason why I have incurred his wrath, when I declare that the only reference made to his father in my Chronicles was, when I introduced him as an old and trusted public officer, describing him as a "good, worthy man, much and widely respected in his day."
Threat No. 2, though much more minatory and to the point, was as amusing as unpremeditated. One evening in October, 1885, thousands of Herald readers were entertained by the perusal of a romantically tragic narrative of a summer house, a lady, the shooting of an apple-stealer, and the retreat of a disappointed, though unwounded, lover. The next day in Bourke Street, meeting an old friend, who had been a "wild oats" sower in his youth, clapping me on the shoulder he declared that for years past he had not read anything half so good as my sketch headed "Crossing the Garden Wall." "From what I heard of it when it occurred," he continued, "it is a most accurate account of what happened. But why the deuce didn't you put in So-and-so's (the runaway's) name?"
"Surely," responded I, "You wouldn't have me do such a mean thing, considering the supremely edifying and sanctified life he is now leading. Suppose it was your own case, hww would you like to be pilloried, in the present improved condition of social immorality."
He reddened in the face, puffed out his cheeks and vehemently exclaimed, "Me! do you mean? How dare you even imagine that I could be in any way mixed up with such a disgraceful imbroglio. My name has been always, 'like Cæsar's wife, above suspicion,' and if you have anything to tell of me, out with it by all means, for I give you my full permission to proclaim it to the world."
I quietly smiled, and thus said:— "Exactly this time, forty years, when George Coppin was performing in Smith's Queen Street Theatre, a ludicrous melée happened one night at a small cottage temple of Aspasia, perched near the play-house. The dramatis personæ in the domestic farce consisted of the 'lady of the mansion,' a Government official some way advanced in years, and a much younger man, bearing precisely the three names you own to-day. Now, have a little patience with me. A verbal altercation was got up between the men, which rapidly advanced to a scuffle, in which the old man was half strangled by the gallantry of his more active opponent, when, just in time to avert a Coroner's inquest, the damsel, decidedly the most manly of the trio, armed herself with a sweeping-brush, and with genuine Amazonian pluck, tackled the young fellow from behind, and so 'polled' him with the brush, that he dropped as if shot to the ground. Medical treatment was promptly improvised, and the prostrate hero slowly succeeded in recovering his senses through the combined influence of brandy, vinegar, hot water and salt, internally and externally applied, and with a flannelled head-piece he left the field of battle a wiser, and as was hoped, a better man."
"And do you mean to print that stuff in the Chronicles?" hoarsely whispered he, and an answer in the affirmative was given.
"Let me put one question to you," said he. "Do you know, sir, that I am a grandfather?"
