Hobart lies about seven miles from the sea, which here runs up into the land like a Norwegian fiord, and at the mouth of the river Derwent. It is built upon sloping ground, between the river and Mount Wellington, a huge mass that dwarfs every other object. Each side of this fiord are green hills, from any one of which are charming views of sea and land. The town much resembles an English country town. The streets are narrower than those of Australian towns, and though mostly at right angles are not so painfully regular. They are mostly named after past Governors, as Macquarie Street, Davey Street, Collins Street, Franklin Square, etc. Over the Town Hall a flag flies, with the proud motto "_Sic fortis Hobartia crevit_," and the arms of the city, supported by a kangaroo and an emu. Under this same roof is the Public Library, containing about 10,000 volumes. The chief English periodicals are taken here. I remember reading here Froude's "Carlyle in London," which is a biography worthy to stand beside Boswell. It is a real biography, not a mere jumble of undigested letters and diary thrown before the public, which is too much the modern notion of writing Somebody's Life. Hobart has none of the cosmopolitanism of Melbourne. Its habits are essentially provincial--what the Germans call _Kleinstaedtisch_. There is a small theatre at Hobart, to which companies sometimes come from Melbourne. I saw the "Ticket-of-Leave Man" here. The audience, which almost entirely consisted of the pit, were still in that primitive stage of criticism in which the villain (who was a good actor) was hooted, and the honest man (an indifferent actor) vehemently applauded. I remember asking the way to the theatre of a bearded individual, who turned out to be an officer of the Salvation Army. "Ah, sir!" he said, "We don't believe in theatres, we're booked for Heaven"--a most comfortable conviction to carry through this life, whatever may be the ultimate issue. Lying as it does in the midst of such beautiful scenery, Hobart is a good centre from which to make excursions. A favourite place for picnics is Brown's River, about 10 miles away, the road following the water edge along "Sandy Bay." An Antipodean picnic is nothing without tea. In fact the tea-pot is the centre round which everything revolves. The first thing to be done is to collect wood for a fire. The "billy" is then filled with water and set to boil. Meantime those not connected with these preliminaries wander through the woods or along the shore. At a picnic to Brown's River I saw the famous cherries with the stones growing outside. It certainly is a kind of fruit with the stone outside, but bears no resemblance whatever to the cherry. Near Brown's River is the Blow Hole. This is an opening at the bottom of a rock, through which at certain states of the tide the water rushes, I presume, with much noise and violence, but when I saw it all was quiet. For a two days excursion