DEAR EISA,—Here I am really in the Australian bush, though I find it hard to reconcile the term with living in a fine large house, with every appliance of the most advanced civilisation. I can assure you we were glad to find such comfort at the end of a long and very cold journey. The last detachment of our Fijian party started about three weeks ago—namely, the Havelocks and Sir William and Lady Hackett. Since their departure, Lady Gordon and the children have been living at Government House with the Robinsons; and Mr Maudslay and I have improved our time, first by exploring the Blue Mountains, where there is some grand scenery; and then we joined the Bishop of Grafton and Armadale and Mr Turner, and we came about two hundred miles, half by rail and half posting, to this place to see a true station. It is the property of the sole descendants of the old Campbells of Duntroon, on the Crinan Canal—most hospitable Scots. There are about 30,000 sheep, 500 horses, and 1000 head of cattle on the station; a most comfortable house, and everything most luxurious; lots of horses for riding or driving; and I am getting over my belief that all Australian horses are buck-jumpers. Yesterday we had a great picnic to a waterfall eighteen miles off. I drove there, sketched, and rode back over fine grassy country. It was characteristic; for, as we went along, we picked up recruits till we numbered in all seventeen riders—the brake with four horses, a dogcart, a buggie, and a cart. As to roads, no one here thinks of them. Without the slightest hesitation about springs, the brake and four will turn off into the bush, drive in and out among the trees, grazing the old stumps which stick up in every direction, and the felled or half-burnt timbers with which the ground is everywhere strewn, dodging morasses, and choosing the easiest bits of creeks (where you think you _must_ overturn), through fords, &c., &c., for mile after mile. In short, I shall never again believe in the possibility of breaking springs; for all carriages out here do the same thing, and they are all English built. An English coachman would utterly refuse to take the same carriage over a cart-road. A good deal of the country here is open, rolling downs, which afford very pleasant riding—miles and miles without a fence. We have just been to a ploughing match, at which the chief noteworthy fact was seeing all the farm lasses riding. Every lass has her pony; and a good many household servants arrive at their new situation on their own horse, just turn it out in their master’s paddock, and catch and saddle it whenever they want to ride to the town. (This is necessary for fords rather than distance.) The country is moderately pretty; but the weather is so bitterly cold that I have been driven in almost every time I have tried to get a sketch, generally by sleet, one day by downright snow. Doesn’t that sound strange to you, who are basking on heathery hills? One great charm