The ride to the Kowie, from Bathurst, is exceedingly pretty, and I shall never forget the by-path to the sands, from the small inn at Port Frances. Such is the name of the scattered village (for it cannot be called a town), rising in the immediate neighbourhood of the little bay, or, more properly speaking, creek. On turning a corner, we entered a shrubbery, thickly planted, by the graceful hand of Nature, with a variety of flowering shrubs and trees. On each side rose tall grey rocks, relieved in shape and colour by the euphorbia, and other stately plants. The velvet turf under our feet was enamelled with flowers of various hues; wreaths of jessamine floated over our paths, and festoons of the wild cucumber, with its glorious scarlet, but poisonous fruit, hung in graceful garlands, forming natural arches above our heads. Silently our little party wound its way through these fragrant and beautiful arcades. How grand was Nature in her solitude! undisturbed, save by the occasional trill of some bird, the more valuable because the voices of birds are seldom heard in the magnificent solitudes of South Africa! Amid such fair scenes, I have often regretted the want of water, which always adds life to a picture; but here, on emerging from this green and quiet nook, our horses bounded upon firm sands, with the sea before us, dashing up its vast and glittering volumes of spray and foam in indescribable grandeur. The house built for Mr Cock, the enterprising individual who has resolved on establishing the harbour, gives evidence of great expectations of success, and, should Port Frances ever assume the character of a moderately thriving town, it will form a charming locality for the settler.