river ran in front of our hut-door, losing itself in wide marshes that marked its entrance to the sea. It was a capital natural paddock, as at a distance of five or six miles the River Hopkins ran parallel to it towards the sea. Neither river was fordable, except at certain points, easily protected. Across the upper portion was a fence, running from river to river, and some ten miles from the sea, put up by the Messrs. Bolden, when this was one of their extensive series of runs, and, indeed, known as the bullock paddock.
Warrnambool, as I before stated, was as yet unborn. There was not an allotment marked or sold, a hut built, a sod turned. No sound in those days broke upon the ear but the ceaseless surge-music; no sight met the eye but the endless forest, the sand-hills, and the long, bright plain of the Pacific Ocean, calm for the most part, but lashed to madness in winter by furious south-easterly gales. Its jetties and warehouses, mayor and municipal council, villas and cottages, fields and gardens, were still in the future. Nought to be seen but the sand-dunes and surges; little to be heard save the sea-bird's cry. But at the old whaling station of Port Fairy the town of Belfast—so named by the late Mr. James Atkinson—had arisen, and its white limestone walls afforded a pleasing contrast to the surrounding forest. It lay between the mouth of the River Moyne and the sea. An open roadstead, suspiciously garnished with wrecks, told a tale of the harbour which afforded a larger element of truth than invitation.
Chief among the pioneers were Messrs. John
