You see I have contrived to escape from the region of fine clothes and prolonged meals! Oh dear, what a trial it is to be invited to luncheon at some lovely place, where you go expecting a pleasant day out of doors, and find an immense party assembled for a stiff dinner of many courses, which takes nearly the whole afternoon! The donors of the feast console themselves by a quiet evening stroll and late tea; but the poor guest has to return to undergo a second long dinner as usual. Nevertheless I have had many delightful days in the neighbourhood of Sydney. You have no notion what a size the harbour is, and how immense is the amount of shipping always coming and going! Great ships, and steamboats, and yachts, and tiny steam-launches,—sometimes I have counted eighteen or twenty steamers in sight at once. And then the out-of-the-way creeks are numberless. I think we have explored at least a score, sketching and picnicing, and I flatter myself I know the beauties of the harbour as well as the oldest Sydneyite. I learnt a good deal about it during a most enjoyable fortnight I spent with the Wentworths, whose lovely home, Greycliff, is close to the water, near the Heads, which are grand crags guarding the entrance, about six miles from the town. The Wentworths and Coopers own all the prettiest places thereabouts. We were out almost every day from morning till night, the boatmen making a fire and cooking our dinner in regular bush fashion,—fish just caught, potatoes and chops, &c.; and always bush tea, boiled with milk in a kettle,—and very good it is under the circumstances, though I do not advise you to adopt the fashion. Steaming a snapper is the summit of culinary art—a snapper being a large fish, which is cooked (cut up) with potatoes and scraps of bacon and onion. I confess I prefer the various small fish fried. One of the boatmen is Joe, a most jocular old black from Cape de Verd; the other, Jamie Lee, a true gipsy. Of course kindred spirits fraternised at once, and when he found I could pull a pretty strong oar, the conquest was complete! So we had days of gipsying and evenings of melody, Mrs Wentworth’s sister being one of the most perfect musicians I ever met. I have also spent some pleasant days with the Morts, whose lovely house, Greenoakes, is built as a dream of Alton Towers,—all gables outside, and good old carved oak inside. And such a garden of camellias, pink, red, and white—great trees of them! Amongst other things, Mr Mort owns one of the principal docks here, and an iron foundry; also a great dairy-farm on the coast, with 500 cows, all in milk! But his all-engrossing interest is a great freezing establishment for conveying meat to England. He has it killed in the mountains, brought to Sydney in iced trucks, and there received into genuine arctic regions, into which you descend shivering, and see innumerable carcases, all frozen as hard as stone. These are to be conveyed, frozen, to England, about 200 tons at a time. It is a