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Rh a change the Father witnesses now as he arrives in the puffing train at the city of Coolgardie! He brought two horses with him; but now, perhaps, he came to the conclusion that such luxuries should have been left behind. There were meat and drink certainly, but the cost—a shilling for a few breath-blows of chaff and water—as expensive as medicine. One night, as he was going to the Government bore for water he stumbled, fortunately, against some of his countrymen. After exchanging the usual patriotic remarks, he asked their opinion of the fields. One of the questioned replied with some "hauteur" that they were a huge swindle, and within three months every white man would be gone. If that sage still lives no doubt he will wish that he had swallowed his prophecy. The cost of keeping the horses he found out was £l each per day, so thanks to a lean purse, he had to barter one to keep the other. On one Sunday in April, 1894, he preached to forty of a congregation in Leever's Hotel, and on the Sabbath following in a store. An amusing episode occurred in connection with the latter service. An old Hebrew, who was about to become its owner, rushed in with mad haste and asked the meaning of the convention. Satisfactory explanations were quietly advanced, which served to allay the old Hebrew's excited feelings, and he retired, apologising profusely.

With his faithful horse the kindly Father set out for Perth, but whether from excess of chaff or toilsome march the beast could proceed only slowly, and six days elapsed before Southern Cross was reached. Often on the way was he forced to borrow food and water for himself and his steed to keep the last spark of life alive. At Southern Cross he deemed it advisable after cruel experiences to sell his horse and buy a safety bicycle. The advantages of the latter over the former were undoubtedly great, he thought as he pondered on the excessive charge of feeding stuff. He bought a cycle on Tuesday, practised it on Wednesday, mastered it on Thursday, and set out for Coolgardie on Friday. No doubt he was an object of interest on the fields as he proudly tore along from one place to the other. All over the fields he went on the wheel, and in one circuit he embraced Kurnalpi on to Menzies. He was the first clergyman who rode a bicycle on the fields, and men thought him possessed of great individuality. Like all cyclists he is subject to the wrath of the machine. Falls, bruises, limps, and sores formed a complete list of his accidents. He has rendered great services to all indiscriminately. His loving manner his made him a great friend with everyone on the fields. They showed tangible signs of their esteem by presenting him with an exquisite illuminated address and a purse of sovereigns. In this address there was nothing more appropriate than a little scene picturing the Father himself on the bicycle. In presenting the address, Mr. E. S. Harney spoke in eulogistic terms of the Reverend Father's kindness and sympathetic spirit. It showed in a marked degree high appreciation of and fond admiration for all his many noble traits of character. The address is worded at length, but a few appropriate quotations will serve to illustrate that stern, fearless, and upright life, surmounting the many dangers and perils that strewed his path. "You came to the field," it says, "to discharge the duties of your sacred office when no human incentive could have impelled you to undertake the perilous functions incidental to it. Your prowess as a cyclist, carrying with you on a pair of wheels, to meet the extraordinary exigencies of your calling, the robes and sacred utensils which your forefathers in times of persecution were forced to carry on their backs, has made your individuality historic. Ever ready with an encouraging word for the stranger, and always prompt in materially aiding the hopeless and helpless, you have placed hundreds under obligations that they never can redeem." These words will help to convey some idea of the many excellent phases of his character, but even words are but a poor substitute for acts. The reader can allow his mind to frame a mental image of a faithful and devoted servant, hurrying in death-like silence from the chambers of the dying perhaps to the dead. Typhoid fever—the bare mention of which chills the warmest blood—swept over the fields in pestilential robes, and breathed forth dire death from its nostrils. Everywhere was agony, wailing, and death. What could be done to relieve such awful suffering and distress. Far removed from medical skill in some parts, un-nursed, unnourished, the kindly Father, amid extreme peril, visited these and rendered all human aid. From camp to camp, from hut to hovel, he hastened, hardly waiting to partake of the bare necessaries of life, for all seemed to claim his attention. Not all; over hundreds of miles of dreary, blank, and desolate waste, he directed his weary steps to render further help to poor fever-stricken patients. The horrors of that awful plague, his undying attention to the sick, universal suffering—heart-rending and appalling—meeting him everywhere, would alone have brought to the level of the dust herculean might, but superhuman aid kept in action these vital sparks. Dramatic, and cruelly dramatic, as was his lot, such utilitarian conduct must be the more esteemed and admired. His own life was to him as valueless as straw; he was contended and happy to die in the service of others. Such an exemplary life, the ideal of nineteenth century philosophers, is here manifested beyond all conception. As such it is the noblest, yea, a thing of beauty and a joy for ever, The many recipients of his timely aid will never, and can never, repay adequately services rendered them amid such circumstances. These external manifestations of exalted character are welcomed and worshipped by the world. He went forth truly to save souls; cruel fate made him save bodies as well. He relates himself how he discharged the combined offices of priest, undertaker, and grave-digger on the same night. Such adaptability requires a stout heart and fearless mind, which he possessed in a rare degree; the majority would have reached the verge of lunacy had such a ghastly and dire necessity been forced on them.

The Reverend Father has visited every particle of land in the country ever trodden on by man. He visited Kimberley in 1885, and again was the importer of a new article. He brought the first umbrella to Derby on that journey, and people looked on it with as much curiosity as if it had been a balloon or steam engine. He travelled all along the coast before the goldfields were discovered there. The two essays he wrote on this journey were favourably received by the press. They contain valuable and accurate information of the places visited. With a lively and homely touch, couched in sweet English, they are truly enjoyable and vivacious.

In summarising such a life, the outstanding features are difficult to portray. In a life where every element is pure, rich, and exalted—where every atom is blended into a beauteous molecular whole—the description of attributes are inseparable from the mass. Still, of character resulting in conduct towards his fellow men, sympathy wedded to universal kindness is everywhere seen. The complex web of his affections is sincere and purely extra-regarding. A deep and fervent religious spirit has been his daily guide and hourly help, sustaining him in periods of physical exhaustion. His life is one huge bundle of good works towards an unrequiting mankind.