56.S 



AFTER TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 



The Review of Reviews has now appeared as a separate publication for 

 twenty-one years in Australasia. With this number we begin our twenty- 

 second year. During these long years it has had many vicissitudes, but has 

 always upheld those ideals for the realisation of which it was founded. Look- 

 ing through some old papers this week, I . happened across the manuscript m)- 

 father wrote twenty-one years ago when he started the magazine here. It is a 

 fitting document to quote from on the occasion of our coming of age, for it 

 states why he wanted to have a third Review of Reviews in being, instead of 

 trying to meet Australasian requirements with the English edition. He fol- 

 lovv-ed the announcement of his intention by a definite statement of the policy 

 of welding together the English-speaking nations, for which cause the Re- 

 view of Reviews came into existence. 



To the English-Speaking Folk under the Southern Cross. 



London, June, 1892. 



It IS nearly forty years since I was 

 roused in the early hours of the morning 

 by the blare of brazen music and the 

 cheering of many voices. I clambered 

 out of my crib, and peered timidly out 

 of the windows into the cold, fresh outer 

 world. Nearer and nearer came the 

 sound of the trumpets, and presently a 

 small procession, marching irregularly 

 with a band playing " Cheer, Boys, 

 Cheer," and accompanied by many 

 women and children, crossed the line of 

 sight. For a moment or two I saw them 

 before me, and then they passed ; the 

 music slowly died away in the distance, 

 and all wcs still once more. 



At breakfast, we were told that it was 

 a party of emigrants off for the diggings 

 in" the then newly-discovered gold field 

 of Ballarat. Their departure was the 

 great event. m our small village. Aus- 

 tralia was then almost as unknown to 

 us as the land of the golden fleece to the 

 ancient Argonauts. Forth they fared 

 into the dim darkness of the unknown, 

 full of high hopes and lusty life, for 

 the\- were the pick of our village man- 

 hood, adventurous and sanguine, leav- 

 ing behind them empty seats in the fami- 

 liar pew, great gaps in the circle by the 

 fireside, where mothers, and sisters, and 

 sweethearts waited with aching hearts 

 wondering if they would ever hear again 

 from those who had departed to the 

 underside of the world. 



I was a very small child in those days, 

 and, between that early morning of the 

 departure of the emigrants and to-day, 

 what a turmoil there has been in this old 

 world. Great wars have come and gone, 

 material civilisation has been recast, the 

 newspaper and the telephone and the 

 torpedo boat have revolutionised most 

 things, new worlds have come into being. 

 Empires have risen and have crashed 

 into ruin, but not all the tramp of the 

 marching myriads across the dusty plain 

 of contemporary history has ever for one 

 moment dulled in my ears the strain of 

 that " Cheer, Boys, Cheer," or dimmed to 

 my eye the vision of those venturous 

 ones who were off for the diggings in the 

 first rush of the gold fever. To me, as 

 probably to many millions, Charles 

 Mackay's verse was as the cradle song 

 of the new-born Commonwealth — 



" Cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle 

 sorrow, 

 Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on 

 the way ! 

 Hope pants before, and shows the bright 

 to-morrow, 

 Let us forget the darkness of to-day. 



Cheer, boys, cheer, for England, Mother 

 England ! 

 Cheer, boys, cheer, the willing, strong 

 right hand ! 

 Cheer bo)'S, cheer, there's work for honest 

 labour ! 

 Cheer, boys, cheer, in the new and 

 happy land !" 



