The country we passed through, the quickset hedges, turnpikes, farmhouses, stacks of corn and hay; the roadside inns, at which the coach changed horses or stopped a few minutes to dine; the good roast leg of mutton, potatoes _and_ onions, hot and ready; the “coming” waiter, with bad brandy and worse cigars, all reminded us of home. The arrival of the _Mæander_ was scarcely known in the country. It was the hunting season. The Governor, Sir William Denison, who was a lover of the sport, kindly mounted me, he himself an invalid and confined to his bed. My first meet was at Oatlands. I was carefully got up in leathers and boots, my pink rather stained below the pockets. Quickset hedges had not reached far into the interior; their substitutes were the upper branches of large trees, with bark off, supposed to be impossible for cattle, but not for kangaroo. When I arrived, the hounds had gone; horns were blowing. On nearing the hunters, my inexperienced eye saw an opening which I considered big enough. The tip of a stiff snag caught the Governor’s mare on the shoulder; we came a stunning fall into the next field, where we lay for, I suppose, a minute. I was first up, patted, and spoke kindly to the mare; she then got up. I told her, seeing nothing else, we must go back the same way we came. She understood. We walked a few yards back for room, and then turned. She landed safely among the hunting men. Never was a more sincere and hearty cheer raised. Striking the pipeclay out of his leathers with his fist, the master, whose name was Long, roared out, “By Jove! That fellow ought to be King of England.” I soon made acquaintance with as nice a set as I ever met. Rode quietly to the Governor’s stables, mounted my hack, and from my room wrote the kind Governor the sad news that I had lamed his favourite mare! Besides hounds, there were in the neighbourhood a first-rate pack of beagles. Just before we sailed from Hobart Town, I received a letter which I much prized--from Mr. William Allison, one of the young men with whom I had crossed the country. His father was a squatter, who had been an officer in the Navy, and had served his country throughout the eventful period of the late war--one of the finest specimens I ever saw of an old mariner. His son had the management of 40,000 acres, with a flock of 20,000 sheep, and was deeply interested in the welfare of the colony. Speaking of sport, in which he knew I should be interested, he says: “We had the most glorious run on Saturday I ever saw, or perhaps shall ever see, with my brother’s beagles. After a run of 12 miles, the kangaroo, a forester, jumped dead, 10 yards in front of the hounds. We had no check, and during the last 4 miles we frequently viewed him. There were only Nat, myself, a younger brother, and a Mr. Difrose in at the death. Had you been with us, as we have often wished, you would have been there too. Mrs. Lord sent you the kangaroo, which we hope reached safely.”